Going to See The Boss

Over the weekend, my bride wanted to investigate some nearby roads. Her stated purpose was "to see the river." We've seen the river, which despite its claims is not white. But we were looking for context. Our new home is much closer to the East Fork of the White River. In fact, one can get there within a couple of turns and short drives from the road where we live.

I've been married just long enough to know when to give in, but not long enough to do it often enough. This time I did it right. We drove down our driveway, took two left turns, crossed the railroad tracks, and found our road had skipped the gravel phase and gone from paved directly to dirt. And ruts. And a little bit of mud. We saw fields, tree lines marking the course of streams, and the edge of the river. This was the bottoms, but not the section where I'd spent some formative hours in my youth. Our course took us back across the tracks and ended at the nearest highway, beyond which were the roads I knew. And there we went.

My bride has a thing for solitary trees. In more pensive moods, the deader the better for her. She likes the stark image of bare branches against the sky. At one spot during our drive she saw a tree that nearly fit the bill. It wasn't dead, but it would do. We got close enough for photos. In truth, we got too close for a photo, turned round, and came back as I looked for the best angle. She's a passionate woman, so we had a brief discussion of my auditory capabilities and aptitude for directed activities (specifically within the context of her direction). My limitations in both areas keep things lively for us. However, I successfully reversed direction and there it was.

The boss meets The Boss

There has always been something special about this tree to me. I'm sure there are larger, more formidable trees elsewhere along the course of the White River's East Fork. They probably are within a very short distance of this tree. But this one draws attention by its separation.

You can see trees at a distance all around it, but it stands alone. Its crown is a gnarled knot of branches--some healthy, some feeble, and others long dead but remaining in place. I don't know how long it's been here, but can imagine that this tree has borne witness to at least a few generations of farmers, floods, droughts, and years of abundance. And during that time, I am certain that it has performed its role in nature right on cue year after year.

We got out of the car to take a few pictures. Vines have embedded themselves in the bole of the tree. Scraggly growth labors to survive at its foot. Birds flitted among its branches, calling to one another.

One of my favorite pictures was of the leaves at the base of the tree.

Later, that image lingered with me and I thought about the relationship between leaves and trees. The result follows:





The Boss of East Fork


There is a hillock on the plain
of the White River bottoms.
It’s an anomaly. A freak.
A question defying answer,
serving only as a landmark.

A tree grows apart on that plain.
It is wide of girth. Tall and worn.
Its crown is splintered, but serviceable.
It, too is a landmark.
This is the Boss of East Fork.

In Spring, the Boss sent out his minions
to search for light,
to slake his thirst,
to dress him in glorious new finery
befitting the Boss of East Fork.

The minions stretched, unfurled and spread.
They embraced the sun and imbibed the rain.
They created a new ring as a gift. He accepted it.
He was determined to thrive,
was the Boss of East Fork.

Soon, the company of courtiers created
song and shade. They rustled, they whispered,
they hinted of change.
Time would come to paint them all and to
paint the Boss of East Fork.

The rumors were true. Time was
lavish with its dripping brush.
For a season all around were amazed
by the color, the splendor, and the
bold beauty of the Boss of East Fork.

But Time took as it gave.
The vibrant life that suffused the cohort
dried. It withered. It faded. They let go,
pale shades of themselves, and dropped into sleep
at the feet of the Boss of East Fork.

© 2015 David L. Colbert

Finding Community in a Coffee House

Caffeination for relaxation sounds counter-intuitive, but it’s not just a concept. It’s real and happens six days a week at Cherry Ghost Coffee House. As you turn west onto Washington’s Main Street from Highway 57, Cherry Ghost Coffee House is the first building on the right. Folks here love their coffee, but they feel even stronger about their community.

In October of 2008, Vickie and Brian Sherman launched their dream business. It was a coffee house with a conscience, serving organic, free-trade coffees freshly roasted in Brown County and brought regularly to Washington; a high-quality product people could feel good about consuming. They served it in an environment that is difficult to describe. It’s funky. It’s hodge-podge. It’s eclectic. It’s … well, it’s home to a number of people, if only for a few moments each day.

Fortunately, in late 2014 when the Shermans decided to pursue other dreams, their vision of a home for the community was too deeply entrenched to cease. Their friends Julie and Eric Bassler purchased the business and it continues today much as it has been since it began, because that’s what people love about it.

When you stop in, what will be the first thing to catch your eye? Will it be the posters of bygone concerts by folk, blues, and Americana icons? Folks here love all types of music. Will it be the strings of colored lights or the challenge of finding two identical chairs? Nearly every item on display is unique. Or will it perhaps be the organic teas, the espresso machine, or the freshly prepared baked goods, delivered that morning and proudly displayed on the counter beneath a glass dome on a cake plate? Maybe, but I don’t think so.

Those things surprised me, but what really captured me was how the décor reflects the clientele. Older patrons gather around a table near the front window, chatting and crocheting and greeting each person who comes in. High school students pop in during a break in their day, laughing and enthusiastic. People of any age come in, sit down, and visit with their friends. This exchange is natural. Historically, coffee houses and tea houses have been places where ideas are shared, news is exchanged, and patrons find a home outside their own walls. It’s that way at the Cherry Ghost. People aren’t rushed and they’re happy to see one another.

From 7:30 a.m. to 2:00 p.m. Monday through Friday and from 7:30 a.m. to noon on Saturday, Cherry Ghost Coffee House is open for business. They re-open Wednesday and Friday evenings from 7:00 to 9:00 p.m. On Wednesdays, musicians drop in and play together while guests chat, listen, or both. On Fridays, special guest musicians come in and entertain. The Cherry Ghost has also hosted game nights, fund-raisers, and book signings.

If you are looking for a chance to meet new people, a place to relax, and a spot to appreciate for its character and for the characters who congregate there, try the Cherry Ghost Coffee House. Don’t be surprised if you want to sit for a while. New visitors are welcomed, continually, eventually becoming regulars and sharing this spot with their friends. Ask anyone there and they’ll tell you it’s an easy place to be and a hard place to leave.

Cherry Ghost Coffee House

424 East Main Street

Washington, Indiana 47501

(812) 259-2944

Published in November 2015 edition of Striving for Success magazine

Road Time

This is an article written for Striving for Success magazine in our November 2015 issue. 

One of the areas we enjoy producing in Striving for Success is a feature on a Daviess Countian. This issue I’m bending the rules to introduce you to a couple of people I met who were just passing through. – Ed.

GLENDALE, Indiana -- On a splendid October afternoon I pulled off the road near Glendale taking pictures and I heard the distinctive throb, growl and percussive exhaust note of two Harley Davidson motorcycles. They turned onto the same road and I waved as they passed. The riders were in full road gear and wore leather vests emblazoned with their club colors. One was wearing a camouflage cap with furry ear flaps. The other was suspended from a tall set of “ape hanger” handlebars.  Their bikes were gorgeous.

When I pulled into the parking lot at the Glendale Fish and Wildlife Area campground, they were there. I saw them taking pictures of one another and realized it was my civic duty to get them into the same shot. So we met, I photographed, and we talked.

Bobby “Flying Boy” McClish and Jason McClish are father and son. Friday night they rode from Peru, Indiana to McCormick’s Creek State Park with several other bikers and overnighted. Saturday, their friends wanted to go one way but Bobby and Jason wanted to revisit some good memories made here in Daviess County.

Bobby started working for Chrysler in 1976. He weathered the layoffs in the late 1970s, doing whatever came to hand to keep his family together. In the early 1980s he was called back. He continued with Chrysler until his retirement—with a pension, as Jason pointed out. Along the way he created a legacy, putting in a good word for his two sons, who now work there too.

There are other legacies. For instance, the club colors both men were wearing were for ARM, the Association of Recovering Motorcyclists. The business card Bobby handed me reads, “At ARM International we are continually asked, what is ARM about? This is simple. Before the motorcycles come out of the garage, before the bikes are fired up, we are here to support one another in our programs of recovery and abstinence. Simple, ain’t it?”

Some of the things we pass on to our kids are things we wish they’d never learned. Fortunately, Bobby has humbly been clean and sober for 24 years and Jason for 3 years. And now they enjoy time on the road together, here and at Sturgis, South Dakota. At Bike Week and Biketoberfest in Daytona Beach, and at so many points in between. Jason doesn’t get as many opportunities to ride, but they had this one. And it was to enjoy another legacy.

Glendale Fish and Wildlife Area is where Bobby’s dad came when he retired. They told me about spending time with him fishing here in the summers, talked about where he had his tree stand, and shared how much they enjoyed being outdoors with him. Just looking around while I was with them, I can imagine what a powerful impression that made. Glendale is a gorgeous gem tucked away in Daviess County and it continues to draw and shape people who spend time there.

I found wonderful hope in this meeting. If you’ve given your kids something that’s not good for them, you can still give them something better. Bobby and Jason are good, strong men. I’m thankful too for their family connection to Glendale that brought us together to see sparkling water, turning leaves, and each other. Of course, now I think I want a Harley.

Natural Beauty and Where We Find It

Beauty is not intended to be viewed in abundance. It’s too much. Less is more.

(Who am I kidding? Even I don’t believe that completely.) Can we agree that beauty in small doses and in unexpected places is more available to us than grandeur and spectacle?

The Antidote to Pristine

Think of the closest cluster of people to your home. It may be a crossroads, a commune, a village, or a city. It is a place of inherently messy people. We people are the antidote to a pristine condition. Here’s how we function.

People—in small groups or large—come into an area, tear up the earth, create artificial walls and a roof to block out the elements, and call it improvement. We don’t often work with nature. Rather we recreate it to our liking. That’s what I meant about being the antidote to pristine-ness. We don’t stop there.

When we are warm and dry, we install sidewalks. We plant trees. Beside the sidewalks. We scratch our heads when that results in crooked, cracked, ankle-twisting trails past our improvements. Improvements which now need a new coat of paint, at the very least, and have you seen those weeds? The ones in the areas around the house where we recreated our own miniaturized versions of prairies and pastures? What are we going to do about those? 

Stewards and Others

Wait! This was not about maintenance; it was about beauty. But, since we’re here …

Some people are gifted stewards. They have a vision to create order, or even ordered disorder, in planting beds. They wisely choose their plantings and we feel good each time we pass their homes. Their lawns are well tended. Their driveways are sealed and swept. Their vehicles are in the garage. All we see is in good repair. The overall effect is one of beauty.

We don’t all fit that mold. Some of us, based either on necessity or inclination, focus on other things. We are okay with the fungus slowly spreading on the shady side of the house. If we roll up the hose it will be that much heavier to drag out the next time we use it. We are disinclined to infringe upon the right of weeds to flourish.

Before passing judgment, consider that we may not share the same perceptions. You see peeling paint. We see the way the house was when we moved into it. Memory trumps reality. This explains why we still think some clothes look good on us. Oddly, if we believe strongly enough it doesn’t become true, but we are much more successful in carrying out the notion. That’s why bib overalls, a kilt, silk shirts, and a cowboy hat are still in my wardrobe. Easy now. That’s a selection, not an ensemble.

Coexistence

Beauty and weeds can coexist and both can thrive. And that’s my point. You thought I’d forgotten, didn’t you? In this mess that surrounds any congregation of people, splashes of beauty happen. Some are intentional and others are spontaneous. They are remarkable because they are least expected where we find them. A volunteer rose can sinuously wind its way through a rusting chain link fence. Sunlight and clouds can reflect from a puddle atop an abandoned fuel drum. Even the weeds have seed pods bursting open and sending a burst of fluffy missionaries abroad on the next gust of wind.

One thing(s)

I suggest that these glimpses of beauty would be just another member of the choir if we didn’t find them in solitude. It is their very singularity we find most attractive. I find this true of people as well. I don’t know anybody who truly has it all. But everybody I know has at least one trait that I find winsome. Their laugh, their loyalty, or their intense attention to a duty or a cause is their rose in the fencerow for me. Their kindness, their intellect, or even their fashion sense attracts me. They may have more than one excellent aspect, and that’s a bonus. But just one will keep me coming back to them like one good golf shot will lure me back to the links. I love the unexpected.

If you don’t know what your one thing is, ask somebody. You may be surprised. Once you find it, learn how to nourish it. While you’re at it, why not make a list of the ‘one thing’ in other people? After all, they may ask you what theirs is.

Michael Angelo Caruso tells his audiences to practice shallow compliments and deep compliments. Shallow compliments are still valuable. They’re just more about the surface of a person. “I love that scarf. What a good color for you! You have pretty eyes.” Hearing those compliments may quickly boost a person’s mood. How much more would a deep compliment accomplish? “You are such a kind person. I never doubt your integrity. You are a terrific example of faithfulness.”

I believe ‘one things’ are like rainbows. Sometimes they will catch our attention and make us stop in wonder. Other times we’ll miss them entirely. If we want to be an accomplished spotter we need to be intentional about looking for them. Let’s compliment the people around us and look for their deeper gifts. Let’s let them know we notice. Let’s become stewards of encouragement, attracting people to ‘drive past our yards’ because that’s where they feel affirmed and valued. By the way, I really like that you read this all the way to the end. Thank you for persevering.

The Dark Ages

It is Fall here in God’s Country, roughly defined as that area bounded by Michigan, Ohio, Kentucky, and Illinois, but excluding a few independent-minded counties in the southwest of the state. Yes, it's Autumn, or as we prefer to call it, The Dark Ages.

At issue is who we want to be. Growing up in the Midwest we were seldom on the cutting edge of anything. We got our fashion and our culture second-hand. When the cool kids on either coast were done with them, we were next. If we were one up on anybody, it might have been the kids living in the Great Plains, but we’ll never know since we didn’t get out much.

Despite the privileges of being raised in tightly knit communities and having the advantage of good, healthy living, we wanted more. And that more was at either extreme of the country. California was a bit too extreme, but we could do New York. That was the ticket. When the New York Stock Exchange opened, we wanted to be waiting at the door. When the ball dropped in Times Square at the first second of the New Year, we just knew it was meant for us, too. The only way to make that happen was to share something we all had. Time.

So today when it is 5 a.m. in Washington (the one on the Potomac) you can just bet it is 5 a.m. in Lafayette (the one here, for Pete’s sake), because Washington and Lafayette were tightly bonded when this country was in labor. When it is noon in An-napolis, it is noon in India-napolis, because the ‘napolises notoriously stick together. And when it is 9 p.m. in Princeton, New Jersey, well it is only 8 p.m. in Princeton, Indiana because they’re part of the independent bunch that thinks Chicago does a better job of telling time.

You know, those feisty people in the lower left-hand corner of the state may have it right. As in correct. I rose early this morning and decided to make the most of the extra time. I gathered my photography gear and headed to a local park to capture the sunrise. Here is what I got.

It should have been there, or at least close. Just look at the time!

Aren’t such things on a schedule? In Spring of this year, it all worked as it should. I was living between Baltimore, Maryland and Washington, DC at the time. When the Standard Time, as defined by The People of the East (with whom I identified), called for a sunrise then it was so. When we were done with that day and the local almanac said “so long, Sunshine,” that was so as well. Meanwhile, in the Midwest, I expect we had buyer’s remorse because neither event was true. We couldn’t raise the sun on time in the morning and putting it to bed was just as difficult.

Look here. Would you want to sell mukluks in Miami, Florida? Probably not. It might be the right product, but the wrong place. I contend that we are in the right place, but the wrong time.

Hmm. Right Place, Wrong Time.
(Perhaps not precisely the same message, but it grooves, doesn’t it?)

We’re asking quite a bit of the burning orb, aren’t we? “Emerge over the horizon and illuminate everything from Maine to Key West and all the way to the Illinois line. But don’t shine over there. Got it? Okay, go!” That even felt silly to type. I can only imagine what it felt like to write it into a resolution.

Now we ask the majority of the state’s citizens to change their processes and lifestyles to accommodate a decision rather than changing the decision to accommodate Nature—which shows little inclination to change on our behalf. I’m not saying it’s right and I’m not saying it’s wrong, but I am saying it’s silly and fairly easily remedied, should we decide to. Meanwhile, would you turn on that light, please?