An old guy needs lyrics and a backseat chorus

As I sit here, heating pad on my back cranked up, a jazz station out of Scotland is playing in the background, a classic from the 1930s many will remember, “It’s Only a Paper Moon.” It’s an odd version, played by the brilliant violinist Stephane Grappelli, and it’s not for me. Some of us old guys need lyrics, lyrics from the likes of Nat or Ella. Lyrics like “You say it’s only a paper moon, sailing over a cardboard sea.” So, the mind drifts, and those words take me back to yet another time, when I was very young, and my mom introduced me to the words of St. Louis poet Eugene Field, and his classic children’s poem, “Wynken, Blynken, and Nod,” about three fishermen who sail off in a wooden shoe, encountering the moon. Later, I would tour the Field House Museum in St. Louis, where Eugene grew up, a single row house that was once just one of twelve connected row houses. It was, and is, a wonderful place, welcoming those who need to spend a few moments looking away from our current world. There is so much more to St. Louis than the Cardinals, Budweiser, and very large horses.

National Football League playoffs continue unabated, and, heading into television breaks during the wild card games, networks played “Born to be Wild,” by the American rock 'n' roll band Steppenwolf. The song came out during an interesting and challenging time in America. Vietnam was escalating, people were demonstrating in the streets of our cities, and angst and anger were pervasive. Some things never change. I mentioned Field House Museum and, on Dec. 26, 1969, my college girlfriend (I was in high school) and I were at another field house, Wharton Field House in Moline, Illinois, where we attended a concert by the aforementioned Steppenwolf. My mother worked at a newspaper, one that received two free tickets and voila, I found myself sitting with a beautiful young woman, getting hooked on serious rock 'n' roll.

In one of my high school English classes, we studied the lyrics of Steppenwolf, fully realizing that well-written lyrics can be considered art and literature. I don’t think it went over well with others, particularly the old-time teachers on staff, but I loved it. Thus, when Bob Dylan won the Nobel Prize in literature, I had no complaints.

Deer continue to hang around, in groups of three mostly. Yesterday, a doe and her twin daughters stepped gingerly and slowly from the hollow, making their way across the field out front, not noticing the old guy admiring their every step. It has been an OK winter for the wild things out here. Food seems plentiful. The other day, an American bald eagle kept pace with my car as I was heading up my graveled road toward the two-lane highway that leads to a town, her massive wings lifting her up and away toward the north after a while, away from me.

It’s halfway through January, and another small, stuffed animal has presented itself in a ditch up the road, this one a slightly soiled, damp white cow. Clean now, he has joined the chorus in the back seat of my car, a chorus like those the Greeks once employed in theatre, a very long time ago, characters on stage offering a spoken narrative, helping audiences understand what was unfolding in front of them when it wasn’t always clear. My little stuffed friends do exactly that for me, though unspoken. Yes, I talk to them, little creatures lined up; quiet and cute, a wholly captive audience, one that wouldn’t know whether or not, in fact, I was a nut-job. It’s a chorus of five, capable of making me do something I’ve been told over the years was something I don’t do nearly often enough, and that is smile. It’s not a big thing, but these days, as I enter my 75th year, it feels big.

Kurt Ullrich lives in rural Jackson County and hosts the “Rural America” podcast. It can be found at https://www.ullrichruralamerica.com