We shall not be moved: Who do you rely on?

9/20/15

Jeremy and I had just led the congregation in  We shall not be moved, as a movement song. Thne we read the 1^st Psalm,  peoples’ mic style which we hadn’t done in a long time.

Happy are those
    who do not follow the advice of the wicked,
or take the path that sinners tread,
    or sit in the seat of scoffers;
² but their delight is in the law of the Lord,
    and on his law they meditate day and night.
³ They are like trees
    planted by streams of water,
which yield their fruit in its season,
    and their leaves do not wither.
In all that they do, they prosper.

⁴ The wicked are not so,
    but are like chaff that the wind drives away.
⁵ Therefore the wicked will not stand in the judgment,
    nor sinners in the congregation of the righteous;
⁶ for the Lord watches over the way of the righteous,
    but the way of the wicked will perish.

Then Jeremy picked up the guitar and we did it spiritual style, like Johnny Cash. 

Glory hallelujah, I shall not be moved
Anchored in Jehovah, I shall not be moved
Just like a tree that's planted by the waters
I shall not be moved

In His love abiding, I shall not be moved
And in Him confiding, I shall not be moved
Just like the tree that's planted by the water
I shall not be moved

I shall not be, I shall not be moved
I shall not be, I shall not be moved
Just like a tree that's planted by the water
I shall not be moved

Though all hell assail me, I shall not be moved
Jesus will not fail me, I shall not be moved
Just like the tree that's planted by the water
I shall not be moved

Though the tempest rages, I shall not be moved
On the rock of ages, I shall not be moved
Just like the tree that's planted by the water
I shall not be moved

I shall not be, I shall not be moved
I shall not be, I shall not be moved
Just like the tree that's planted by the water
I shall not be moved

I learned this song as a movement song. As an organizing song.  But like so many movement songs, it has its roots in  the African American religious tradition.  So you can find Seeger and Springsteen and Mavis Staples and the Seekers and Irish versions and Joan Baez in the farmworkers’ version, No Nos Moveran…

…and I just found the religious versions by Johnny Cash and Mississippi John Hurt  accompanied by his classic Travis picking…(and with this Jeremy starts Travis picking  This song has DEEP roots…roots as deep as, well, a tree planted by the river…

So today we read the very first psalm. Along with the 2^nd, it serves as an into to all that follows. Telling us it’s a whole book about a way, not a theology, not a doctrine, a way of doing things…the righteous way of doing things…

¹ Happy are those
    who do not follow the advice of the wicked,
or take the path that sinners tread,
    or sit in the seat of scoffers;
² but their delight is in the law of the Lord,
    and on his law they meditate day and night.
³ They are like trees
    planted by streams of water,
which yield their fruit in its season,
    and their leaves do not wither.
In all that they do, they prosper.

⁴ The wicked are not so,
    but are like chaff that the wind drives away.
⁵ Therefore the wicked will not stand in the judgment,
    nor sinners in the congregation of the righteous;
⁶ for the Lord watches over the way of the righteous,
    but the way of the wicked will perish.

It says to go the way of the righteous is to be happy…It’s first explicit message is ….don’t sit in the seat of scoffers, or as it says in the King James Version, the seat of the scornful….

It’s not easy is it? Especially when watching a debate like we had the other night….this continues our conversation  about sticks and stones….it is so easy to scoff, to be scornful, to be cynical (Sharon Welch says cynicism is the prerogative of the privileged…) So easy. And so destructive.  It is so much harder to say something  constructive.

Back to those trees….those who delight in the law…think about that word delight…what does that feel like? 9Jeremy thinks immediately of the taste of ice cream. And Dion smiles..)

Meditate day and night…what might that feel like?  Maybe take one commandment and just reflect on it, just meditate….it’s that internal life that gives the tree its deep roots, it’s strength…and it is such trees that bear fruit…

That which is wicked…(no quick definition here, but you can  feel it in the scoffing…) has no substance, bears no fruit, withers , is easily blown away…..and they will not win in the end..

(Sometimes I believe that…and sometimes I don’t…)

Sometimes that river is a raging flood picking up everything in it's a path…a literal Katrina or Sandy….sometimes it feels like we’ll get swept away…even drown….

It’s not surprising that movement songs came from the African -American community because that is a community of struggle…of  survival…in the religious version, it’s Jehovah, it's Jesus who is the tree to hold onto. In the movement songs, it is in our collective shared humanity….in our solidarity…our mutual commitment to one another…and in the end, I’m not sure how different those two realities are…

So let’s think a minute… when the storm comes, the waters raging, who are our trees?  Who can we rely on? If you had one phone call to make, who would  it be? Relative? Friend? Who? 

(For some it’s a parent, for another her sister, for another his fiancé…for others, friends…we bring their faces to mind..

Can we see them? Can we give thanks for them? Name them?

With them in mind, let us sing….

And we sing once more with full voice, We shall not be moved…

One of the sisters was with us today, fully participating. And some one who feels very but not quite familiar at the same time until I realize that it’s James from open mic, shorn of his Elizabethan hair, shaved of his beard.

After the service, he wants to marry his fiancee Hannah from Michigan who seems young. I ask if he has a license. A driver’s license? He asks. No, a marriage license.  He asks if they can run down town right now and get one. Well actually no, closed on Sundays.

I’m very uncertain here. Ask them to meet me in my office.

I think this through.  I can meet a pastoral need (which would take some serious exploration to understand..) which will have no legal implications whatsoever. James seems to be living in a very dramatic world at the moment. In which he leads a theatre company called Lord Essex’ men…

At his request, we go back to the chapel. I do a very traditional service. They seem happy.  I so want to know what Hannah sees, thinks, feels. I pray for them. Tell them if they want to to count, they’ll need to bring me back a license…What is the story?

We shall see. You just never know….. on any given day…

I leave them. Wait for the 7 bus to take me home. The African-American day parade will be in full swing marching up Adam Clayton Powell, Jr. Boulevard.  And  will continue all day long into the night….

I was there: Hannah Logan's report of a night at Ground Zero with West-Park in October, 2001

October 2001

I see the sun rise in Manhatten for the first time in the two days I’ve been here. The sky is bright, sun cutting my into my stinging eyes. I keep forgetting where I am coming from, why my whole being is exhausted and it’s only a few hours after dawn. I think, Is it bedtime yet? And what’s for dinner? And then I remember again, that it is only 9am. 

I have to keep reminding myself, I was there.

*

I had the privilege this fall break to spend 12 hours of one night of my life volunteering at Ground Zero. Bob, a friend of my parents from seminary, is the pastor of a church on West 86^th Street. His wife Andrea is a former Obie. They offered their sofa to me for a few days over fall break so I could wander the city and go to art museums. A few weeks ago, Andrea had emailed me to let me know things going on in their schedule the week of my break, including a group of volunteers through Bob’s church going to serve food at the World Trade Center site to rescue workers.

I said I’d be there. I didn’t stop to think about it, because I hadn’t stopped to think about any of it much since September 11^th. I went because I wanted to wake up and realize this whole political mess is happening. It is real, and I was just there.

*

We go downtown at 8pm with bags of food, chips and candy bars and fruit. I have only been to New York City once before, so when we get off the subway in a deserted ally called Fulton Street, I have no idea where we are. I look up to get my bearings– maybe from the stars?– but I can’t see even the tops of the buildings. A glowing white fog is rolling up the street above us, covering the sky and the outlines of buildings. It looks like the fog that crept up the train tracks in Elyria two nights ago before I left. But I realize it’s not fog, it’s smoke.

The night shift volunteer coordinator meets us at CVS, gives us a speech about patience, flexibility, and a sense of humor. She says, “Don’t go west of Broadway,” and makes us repeat it. I assume west of Broadway is the restricted area. Then she leads us down the street, through a guarded police barricade and then another onto the porch of St. Paul’s church, where we will be working all night. She takes us inside, sits us in the back of the dimly-lit sanctuary plastered with posters and thank-you cards from all over the country. She tells us, “This is a quiet space. The rescue workers come here to sleep, or to pray, or just to sit, or to get food.” I look around. People are wrapped up in blankets on the pews. Some are praying. In the back, a massage therapist, two chiropractors, and a podiatrist are digging into tired backs and feet. The walls are stacked with boxes of food and toiletries. We are given the phone number and address of a meeting place in case we have to evacuate, and the volunteer coordinator tells us, “I don’t care if you actually go there, but at least call, so we know you’re alive.”

I am put to work serving food on the porch of the church. Tonight there is jambalaya, cooked on propane stoves by some guys who drove up from New Orleans to feed whoever of the some 20,000 workers might come through. They cooked all day so we could serve it all night.

The air on the porch is bitter. I can see the smoke curling around the edges of the church. Things that sit still too long become coated in a fine white ash. Burning concrete, glass and steel, office papers, latex paint, asbestos. “And human bodies,” someone else says to me, when I mention the smell.

I am breathing in human ashes. No matter how small the proportion. I am part of this now, ghosts sucked in and out of my unmasked mouth and nostrils. I wish I could stop breathing. I know we should be wearing masks, but our smiles and clear communication with people is more important. I finger my asthma inhaler in my pocket.

Standing behind the jambalaya, smells of hot grease and sausage rising and masking the smell every time I lift the aluminum covers to serve someone, I forget about the smoke.

I ask questions. Bob and his neighbor Rick are serving in the line next to me. “How big is the– was the World Trade Center?” I know I am naive. I haven’t been reading the papers, haven’t been watching the news because mass media infuriates me. I have listened to NPR, but even they have selective reporting.

Rick gives me an answer in city blocks, but I shake my head. I am not a New Yorker, I don’t think in city blocks. 

“Almost a mile by a mile,” Rick tells me. “A little over three quarters.”

I think of a mile. I say, “That’s the size of Oberlin. The campus.” Imagine Wilder Bowl, North and South campus to J-house, Tappan Square and the art museum, full of rubble twice the height of Peters.

“And how many weeks will it take for them to finish cleaning it up?” I ask. 

“Weeks?” Rick says. “Weeks? Try years. Or, 70 to 80 weeks, at least.”

A few minutes pass. I am trying to comprehend, and I can’t. 

“Is there a place you can go see it?” I ask. “The rubble?”

“If you look down the side streets,” Bob says, “You can see some of it. Take a walk down Broadway.” To look west, where we have been instructed not to go.

For the first half hour, the NYPD and NYFD logos, the army-fatigued men, all the uniforms make me nervous. You know, if you see a cop, you wonder what you’ve done wrong. I keep checking myself, looking around for something out of place or speeding. But they keep coming, mostly men, some women, and I cannot keep it up. Construction workers, plumbers, electricians, medics, police and fire departments from other cities and states. They eye the jambalaya skeptically, and I give them my most charming smile and assure them the cajun food is real good and not too spicy. I notice my southern accent coming out, just a little, contrasting their thick New York accents. They take the food and coffee or coke and sit down on the porch, usually for just 15 minutes but some for hours. Like they can’t bear to move.

*

I was there.

For a moment I know why I came. Serving these people is the one of the best things I have ever done in my life. I am privileged to stand up all night on a church porch lit with fake daylight giving out food and whatever these people need to keep going.

The American flags and words “You’re our heros” that have been accosting me from the walls take on a new meaning. These people I am serving and giving my smile and energy to are heros. They are setting aside their lives and physical limitations for 12, 24, 36 hour shifts to salvage the wreckage of thousands of other people’s lives.

This is real.

I have to put myself aside, forget that uniforms stand for something I cannot agree with, that this whole thing happened, in part, because of symbols I don’t believe in. Forget America, forget borders and politics and policies. These are people, real people eating, sleeping, praying, exhausted from the tragedy that really happened.

I was there.

*

A few hours later, Bob takes off his gloves and says he’ll take me on a coffee run. (“Caffeine is our best friend here at ground zero,” the volunteer coordinator said. “No one is denied coffee, even if they can’t come inside the fence.”) We grab a pot, cups and sugar and milk to take down Broadway to the police stationed as guards. We walk along the inner barricade, coated like the church with posters and banners. I peer down the side streets at smoke and the bright lights of forced day for round-the-clock work. The buildings close enough to see are burnt out, windows gone and sides charred black. The streets are gone, too, full of holes, chunks of asphalt misplaced or crumbled away. I see a fire hose jet of water aimed at a smoldering pile.

I think maybe I am back at Universal Studios on the Earthquake! ride, and in a few minutes the crumbled buildings and torn up streets will be mechanically pulled back into place, good as new.

We walk down several blocks, pouring coffee for the policemen, and then we are at the end. Our coffee is almost gone anyway, so we turn back, smiling and chatting with the police. Bob slows at the fence so he can read the signs and cards plastered there. There are flowers, too, and other memorabilia. One continuous shrine encircling the site. I ask Bob if the big gap in sky scrapers was the World Trade Center. I don’t know what it looked like before. He says yes. 

We take the empty coffee pot back to the church, and I tell myself, I am here.

For 8 hours I serve jambalaya. Bob comes back from a break and tells us he was taken west of Broadway. He just asked a policeman, and they took him in on a Gator, a little motorized vehicle. Rick takes off his gloves and hat and tells me to come with him. We walk down the street and hang around two policemen until Rick gets a chance to explain what we want. The policemen says, “Yeah, sure, just give us a minute.” Another policeman standing there says we should take in coffee, if we want to get further without questions. Even though another policemen tells us that isn’t necessary, we go back to get a pot. We climb in the back bed of the Gator with another volunteer, Amy. I put on a hospital mask, but no one else does, and we pass through the fence.

We drive through the rubble on decimated streets, past a black building with hundreds of vacant eyes. The back side of it facing the WTC is melted away. A Borders sign is the only thing left from before.

I am horrified. My eyes wide and my legs paralyzed, all I can do is silently stare and grip the cardboard box with sugar and milk and stir-sticks. My companions do the serving. Amy praises and thanks every person we run into, tells them that hot breakfast is being served starting at 4am. She shouts “God bless you,” as we drive away.

I could be anywhere in the world. I am not in New York, not even in America. I am in Afghanistan, I am in Kashmir, in Palestine and Israel, in Korea, Vietnam, Germany and London. For a second I presume I know what it is like to be in a war. I am in a war zone, breathing in the ashes of victims all over the world.

I know what I am looking at at one point is the WTC pile. But it can’t be. It is cranes and dump trucks and only a hole in a sky of buildings. 

Our coffee is out so we leave. The policemen race the Gator over the streets and I am afraid I will fall out. Watching the scene recede behind us, I am terrified maybe we won’t get out, and then we are on the other side of the fence, climbing out of the Gator. I take off my mask. Go back to the church and think I am going to take my place in the serving line. Bob looks at me and says, “Pretty incredible, huh?” I say yeah, already forgetting.

I was there.

I stand by the food. My replacement isn’t leaving. Maybe it is a set-up– I’m not supposed to be there yet. I just saw the wreckage of a war and I think I will just keep on without stopping? I am exhausted, drained. My lungs are hurting.

I was there.

I cannot forget but already I am.

I go inside the church. To the dim lights and candles. I sit and breathe, try to keep from having to do my inhaler.

Who can reduce 5000 people and a square mile a hundred stories high to a nightmare moonscape of rubble? I am thankful I have already forgiven the people who caused this terror. After September 11^th, in my shock, it was one of the only things I could do besides study. I am glad that their bodies and misguided minds are at rest because otherwise I would hate them. I feel my body clenched with grief, replacing the terror of my few minutes inside ground zero. Where does this kind of rage go? How do we make it dissipate without more harm?

I close my eyes and prayer pours forth in whispers from my soul. For a moment my mind is clear. I know everything to thank for and everything to ask for. And then I begin to cry, to sob quietly into the silent sanctuary.

*

This is real.

I was there.

I am here.

*

My nose is running, and my breath still hurts. I stand up and go to find the bathroom, blow my nose and wash my face. I do my inhaler, hold my breath and then let it out slowly. I am ready to go back out. I look at my watch. 4am. 4 hours to go.

When I open the doors outside, the smell of the smoke hits my nostrils. I gag. How have I been out in this all night? 

No one asks me where I’ve been. I take over in the serving line, put on my smile and try to push of the rest of the jambalaya on people before breakfast arrives.

I was there. I am here.

We change over the food. For several hours I serve bacon and sausage and eggs. Some still want the jambalaya. For some it is dinner time, not breakfast. We are all a little off. I drink some coffee myself, something I never do. We are all getting early-morning silly. Punchy, someone says, and we wipe tears from our eyes. We have mundane conversations, forgetting what is behind the church. Smoke is masked again by apple crisp and french toast.

“It’s light,” the guy working next to me says.

I look up at the sky and feel cheated. The morning after. Daylight comes and all the fear and emotion from the night before seems unfounded. I love watching the sunrise but the buildings block the ascent of the sun. It is morning too quickly, and day has replaced the night.

*

I am going back uptown to Bob and Andrea’s apartment, hopefully to sleep a few hours before I leave town. I’m not ready to go. I want to stay, to sleep all day and return to ground zero tonight, every night and then move on to wherever I am needed to serve. 

I am opened. What is important is not theoretical concepts, research, sitting in a remote sterile office writing policies and debating. What is important is basic human interactions, smiling at someone to help them smile back, giving people our energy when they need it, and helping everyone to stay alive.

I was there.

I am here.

We are here.

Sticks and stones may break my bones...

9/13/15

It’s a great relief to have Dion there , helping to get everything ready. I couldn’t do it otherwise.  Jeremy is upstate on a recording project, so I’m on my own today.

Our main scripture today is James 3: 1-12:

¹Not many of you should become teachers, my brothers and sisters, for you know that we who teach will be judged with greater strictness. ²For all of us make many mistakes. Anyone who makes no mistakes in speaking is perfect, able to keep the whole body in check with a bridle. ³If we put bits into the mouths of horses to make them obey us, we guide their whole bodies. ⁴Or look at ships: though they are so large that it takes strong winds to drive them, yet they are guided by a very small rudder wherever the will of the pilot directs. ⁵So also the tongue is a small member, yet it boasts of great exploits.

How great a forest is set ablaze by a small fire! ⁶And the tongue is a fire. The tongue is placed among our members as a world of iniquity; it stains the whole body, sets on fire the cycle of nature, and is itself set on fire by hell. ⁷For every species of beast and bird, of reptile and sea creature, can be tamed and has been tamed by the human species, ⁸but no one can tame the tongue-a restless evil, full of deadly poison. ⁹With it we bless the Lord and Father, and with it we curse those who are made in the likeness of God. ¹⁰From the same mouth come blessing and cursing. My brothers and sisters, this ought not to be so. ¹¹Does a spring pour forth from the same opening both fresh and brackish water? ¹²Can a fig tree, my brothers and sisters, yield olives, or a grapevine figs? No more can salt water yield fresh.

This is the weekend of 9/11….perhaps the first one where I didn’t feel very reflective…or even much AWARE….what made me think about it was the two days of events held here  at the church  by groups demanding that the truth be declassified… apparently 28 pages of Bush’s investigation report are classified…  there are architects and engineers with those skills and other specified  group and still others …who live for conspiracy theories….they seem to believe that 9/11 was an inside job.

I just can’t go there.

But I remember who we were…

The first day…the session members calling every church member to make sure everyone was accounted for.  The open sanctuary we held for the community who came in and gathered here, just to be here. The journalist from France who joined in with us and then  filed a story back home…

The first Sunday after…when I asked each musician to do what meant the most to them. And Andre brought his Muslim friend to play the flute, as a sign that we would refuse to label or other anyone…

Our night there….at ground zero…serving food all night….the hundreds of faces of grim workers passing by us…

All the groups who came from around the country to do volunteer work at Ground  Zero and stay with us..

Our 18 months of  Hub Church activity directed by Angela Willey, meeting the needs of those who fell between the cracks…

Receiving the Angle of 9-11 award from New York City Presbytery

We were exactly who we were supposed to be…

OK…..let’s talk about WORDS..Do you remember the old saying, from when you were a child? Sticks and stones may break my bones ….but names can never hurt me?.remember that? But words can hurt too. Maybe even worse than sticks and stones. They can break spirits. Break hearts. It’s surprising that WORD  is so important Biblically ….in Genesis, God speaks and it is….in John, in the beginning was what, THE WORD was with God and was GOD.

Think now of words you can’t say aloud. Think of Lenny Bruce. Or George Carlin’s 7 words you can’t say on TV.  Or now all the categories of words we don’t use so as to not offend people. PC.

The school year’s begun again and I’m thinking about bullying…and

what we pass on to our  kids…the language of hatred, the language of  condescension, of disrespect…

That words can inspire…they can also deflate….and destroy…

I was struck by the story of the Baptist minister from Louisiana whose name was revealed in the Ashley Madison hacking attack….it’s not evident that he ever did anything more than sign up…his shame was so great, he committed suicide…

I’ve been watching the new HBO series, In search of a hero….the story of the court ordered housing desegregation of Yonkers in the 1980’s.  The main character is   Nick Wasicsko, mayor of Yonkers, youngest mayor in the US at that time.  He’d run on a campaign to resist the desegregation but faced with reality, he became it’s champion. And came to truly believe in it. It cost him his job. He already  felt that  he’d lost everything. Then the  one who succeeded him as mayor kept launching “investigations”…in which hardly anything was ever found…. When Nick heard he was under investigation, he gave up.  He’d done nothing wrong but believed the mere accusation would take away his integrity.  I had a long talk with a friend, a priest who had long known Nick’s wife, who did their wedding, and Nick’s  funeral. Nick had come to see my friend earlier in the  day. Said that he could stand losing everything but his name and his integrity. And then he went and shot himself on his father’s grave.

(This makes Marsha very upset. So why doesn’t our side ever have any resilience? What are we so afraid of? Why can’t we fight back? They should take that off  the TV….

I explain that the real point is about desegregation, not suicide. But I hear her. She references an Atlantic article  about extremes in sensitivity on college campuses. (http://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2015/09/the-coddling-of-the-american-mind/399356/)

Yes, words are important…what we say matters….And yes, words …they bless…and curse..

Scripture says, we who teach will be judged with greater strictness…and all of us in what we say and do, are teachers…in one way or another…so let’s take care of the power of words…

I leave thankful for Marsha’s challenges, the way she makes me rethink my thoughts and ideas, go deeper…that’s what these Sunday times are for.

On any given Friday....

9/11

RL, Michael on pedal steel and blues man Mike

For the first time, it’s a 9/11 and I’m not even thinking about it.

Jason drops by late afternoon, He continues to have regular meetings with people who can be potentially involved in the project. People with anger. And creativity. And passion. Who have  been living at the margins. We must keep enough room for them to have space here.

I stick around, feeling  good enough to give Open Mic a try.

The pedal steel guitar player Michael Pfeiffer  is back again.

Michael P on the pedal steel

 Josh on the guitar, Kate on fiddle and Eric on sax make up a trio for bot originals and covers including “Free falling” and a very long sea epic.

Eric, Josh and Kate

Mike Handelman is back again with his blues. 

Blues man Mike

And James does dramatic declamations of Dire Straits Bonaparte and Stan Rogers’ Mary Ellen Carter. We have a great conversation about Stan Rogers, a great Canadian folk song writer and singer who died much too young. (http://stanrogers.net/about/stan-rogers/) 

James and the Mary Ellen Carter

David Lyons did 3 country songs again, backed by Michael P on the pedal steel.

David L and Michael P

Michael also backed me on all 3 of my songs, adding my Queen of the factory Town this time.

Bob and Michael P

Dion has one of his best stand up nights yet.

Dion rocks

And Michael and Mike joined RL for the final Stay Awhile….

9/18

A long day. Andrea, a sad and honest woman shares her story. There is ultimately nothing I can offer but prayer. The two sisters have an ever expanding presence outside. There’s no one  at Project Reachout to help me as they’re  all on a  staff retreat. They relate well to Dion, who’s filling in for Leila while she’s in Japan., showing her art. Melissa, the friendlier one, takes on little projects for Dion. I’m  glad they feel safe, but ultimately, we are not helping. Sitting in and around the church all day is not a life.

I actually felt awhile like the knife blade had been removed from my back.

An interesting crowd tonight. Soundman/handyman David Smythe takes the stage for a set.

David S

David Lyons has his country set again.

David L

Alex plays some originals completely unplugged,

Alex unplugged

as does Jay Mark who goes with blues by Bessie Smith and Dave Van Ronk. (Another personal favorite there… https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dave_Van_Ronk  )

Jay Mark

Dion has another strong positive set. 

Dion rides again

One of the sisters, Melissa,

Melissa

plays a simple religious song on the piano. Young Constantine has a piano solo. And some strong early Dylan, Gypsy Girl. 

Constantine

It’s good to have young Jeremy back with his new singing and writing partner Jesse. They’re turning out some good tunes and some good harmonies.

Jeremy and Jesse

Carol, from French West Africa has a romantic song in French

Carol en francais

and Steven Bea

Steven Bea

has returned for another set of stand up. Which only leaves time for RL to close us out.

RL

Hang outside awhile talking music with Constantine and Jesse and young Jeremy. David L actually grew up with Dylan as  a father of one of his friends. Biggest memory being his own personal pin ball machine in the house.  As the younger ones leave  and David and I walk down the street, we agree on any given Friday….you just never know…