Ode to the Avatar

Ah, Raggedy. You showboatin' again?

From that show:

I used to think that I would discover,
The perfect lover someday,
I knew that I would find him,
If ever he came by my way

(can't quite recall the complete verse)

along came Bill who's not the type at all
Never had a thing that I could brag about,
And yet to be,
Upon his knee,
So comfy and cozy,
Means everything to me,
No I can explain,
It's surely not his brain
That makes me thrill.

I love him, because he's I don't know,
Because he's just my Bill...

A tiny tear because we miss our friend Bill who is now dead.

Used to be one of my favorite songs, Letty:

I always used to fancy then
He'd be one of those Godlike kind of men
With a giant brain and a noble head
Like the heroes bold in the books I read.

Then along came Bill

Letty is the Bill you're referring to someone from A2K?

No, Raggedy. the Bill that I mean was a marvelous musician and fantastic writer. He died of pancreatic cancer some time back.


He first introduced me to Clifford Brown who is the most fantastic trumpet player...........................................

Damn. I use to play and sing that song and awe my sorority sisters. (what a crock sororities were/are)

Aaah, Letty, the truth is that those sorority sisters recognized talent when they saw it. Did you sit atop the piano like Helen Morgan (before our time, I know, but she did make a famous recording of Bill), or give it the Ava Gardner (dubbed by Annette Warren) treatment? Oh, I see you played the piano, not sat on top of it.

Sorry, for buttin' in, but I couldn't resist the taters and can never resist the music.

West "by god" Virginia. "Wild and wonderful" West Virginia. It's an amazing place, drom, so isolated for so long due to its geography despite it being within hours of the sophistication of DC.
Rugged mountains and narrow valleys where strangers weren't and perhaps still aren't all that welcome.
Outhouses, moonshine stills and jokes about so much inbreeding amongst cousins abound. Some of my oldest neigbors still recall their parents calling West Virginia, bitterly rather than humorously, the Bastard State.
Is it the "Idiot Factory" of the US? Johnboy bites his tongue. Check out the Politics threads. -rjb-

Raggedy, No. (laughin) never sat atop a piano, just in front of it. Hey, honey, you never interrupt, just erupt.

RJB understands the transmontane section, almost as well as John Denver.

Montani Semper liberi.

As I once told Panz, White Sulphur Springs, home of the Greenbrier Hotel, is quite la te da. Did a lot of gigs there. Referred to as THE SPA, LA-TE-DA.

Pity West Virginia sided with the Yanks.....

Goodnight and may we always remain Semper.

I'm writing something now; I'll post it tomorrow.

Would you ever consider doing a come-back gig, Letty?

Morning drom, et.al.

When I retired from teaching, drom, I retired from gigs. The last time that I sang was a "sit-in" type thing at a piano bar. Now, I simply sing for my own amusement, and play some stuff with my husband, who plays acoustic bass. Even though he is ill, he can still plunk that upright and even bow a little. He's forever saying, "Watch your intonation, Letty."

I do believe that Cher is Armenian, and I know that William Saroyan is.
(from Sophia's thread) Please tell the rabbit about your Bronte avatar.

Letty, you are full of delightful surprises!

Ah, Olga. Surprises to everyone but me, I expect.

I did; at about 9 pm GMT last night, actually On the Sofia thread. But, I've written it again.

I hope that your husband is not seriously ill, Letty; is this a continuing thing? Either way, all my thoughts are with him: and I am delighted to hear that you still jam together.

Wow! I never knew that Cher was; I had always thought that no one famous had come from Armenia...

Well, drom. He had a coronary some time back; then by-pass surgery; then a pace maker. Typical musician--survives everything.

When I taught Humanities, we always had International Food Day and the kids had to do a lot of research on the cultures of various places. Found out that the Armenians had introduced the casaba melon to America. Seems that I recall Fresno, Ca. as being the place where many Armenians settled. All this is from memory, so if I'm wrong, then I'm wrong. Wow! what a diverse nation America is.

What lovely pictures of your future residence.(on Sophia's thread, I think)

Now it's time for me to eat cereal with blueberries.

Later all.

Clifford Brown was a giant.

And with a lovely tone.

...and yet he died so young
And all alone.

To all within the sound of voice,
A choice...

Especially to my British friends,
Atonement does not make amends
But may our touching never end
Rejoice.

The tears of beauty
Never dry....
Nor cry,
But die.

McTag, It has been my pleasure to know you and all who herein dwell.

Good morning, everyone!

I am glad to hear that your husband is a survivor, unlike Clifford Brown, whose music I adore. I wonder what it is about fame that brings the most talented to their early deaths; what do you think? It really just goes to show that we have to make the most of life, as your beautiful poem shows.

Whenever I think of the worldless expression of jazz, I think of this poem by Larkin:

That note you hold, narrowing and rising, shakes
Like New Orleans reflected on the water,
And in all ears appropriate falsehood wakes,

Building for some a legendary Quarter
Of balconies, flower-baskets and quadrilles,
Everyone making love and going shares--

Oh, play that thing! Mute glorious Storyvilles
Others may license, grouping around their chairs
Sporting-house girls like circus tigers (priced

Far above rubies) to pretend their fads,
While scholars manqués nod around unnoticed
Wrapped up in personnels like old plaids.

On me your voice falls as they say love should,
Like an enormous yes. My Crescent City
Is where your speech alone is understood,

And greeted as the natural noise of good,
Scattering long-haired grief and scored pity.

hmmmm, I've thought about jazz quite a bit and never, not once, has the poem entered my mind.

Funny.

drom, I have never read that poem before....fantastic. The only poem that Sandburg wrote that I didn't identify with was his "Jazz Men". I'll have to look that one up.

Gus, stay on pitch or you might get forked

That's a beautiful poem, Drom.

Letty,I know you won't mind if I showboat to the country here. Just curious as to whether anyone here has ever heard this song. I heard country singer Gene Watson's version, but was disappointed. I first heard it when a friend of mine who passed away two years ago, sang it to me. I got him to sing it on a tape for me, no accompaniment, and later played it for some co-workers. Not a dry eye in the office.

The old man told his story
About the years gone by
How he played his horn down in New Orleans
In some old dingy dive
"I knew 'em all back then." he said
As he reached out for his horn
He closed his eyes - and wet his lips
Then the blues were born.

He played with so much feelin'
Tears came from his eyes
He stopped and reminisced a bit
And then he gave a sigh!
Said, "You know, I almost made it
But that was before your time
Dixieland, Po' Folks Blues
ScatMan Jack and wine."

Slapped his knee and gave a grin
It sure was good back then
Reaching for his horn on the floor
Placed it in an old towsack
That hung across his back
He said "Goodbye!"
And shuffled out the door.

Enthused by what he told me
I never got his name
So, I called the waitress over
And started to explain
A tired old man - his tarnished horn
Mem'ries of years gone by
How he played his horn and reminisced
Smiled with tear-dimmed eyes.

She said you are mistaken
There's been no one but you
But I know who you're talkin' 'bout
I used to know him, too
You'll find him down on Basin Street
In back of an old churchyard
A stone that reads, "Rest in Peace
I tried but it sure was hard."

He said, "Goodbye" then shuffled out the door.

(No comments Gus. I thrive on sentimentality. )

Ah, Raggedy. I love that! It sounds vaguely familiar to me. Don't mind gus. He's probably wiping his eyes with a red bandana as we write. Here him snuffle?

And there is Gus a sniffling,
In his cover alls.
He'll blame it on hay fever,
And shovelin' out the stalls.
But we all know that swamp man,
We know his heart is true.
Just drinking sweet, sweet cider,
Instead of mountain dew.