Monday, May 11, 2015

my local librarian



She recommended and gave me The Ballad of Jessie Pearl by Shannon Hitchcock.

Chapter 9, Page 33: It is tragic with a sweet scent of hope. I want things to work out for Jessie and her family, but I fear that it won't. And I'm hoping that JT is alright 'cause he is her little bit of light.

Oh Romeo. Oh Juliet. Please don't tell me that life is so tragic.

(but it is, I know)
So tonight I read on.


Many people offer me books. I share intimate spaces with readers at home and at work. People who have ideas and passions and love of the written word. The guitar player in my life has found her solace in Greek mythology.

I am fortunate enough to get books and article recommendations from friends because many of my friends have similar interests. Of course they do, though it's pressure to give someone a book you think they will love, and it is pressure to love it.


Until you let go and think to yourself, "I am going to give this book an honest read, because that's what friends do."

(and I haven't done enough of that)


Today I am grateful that Jess and I ended up laughing about how ill we were that we had to practice guitar and how sleepy we were and we had to go get the guitar because I forgot it and she needed a banana and four chocolate chip cookies and she almost got on that bus, but when we finally sat on her Mama's front porch and played she was playing at me with her guitar.

"Three easy chords."

The first one is beautiful and strong, and she gets that sly smile from her Pop. I never realized that till now. The rest of the three easy chords tells a story.

Then six four. She speeds them up not watching her wrist.  She makes faces with her eyes and complains of the flies.

"Now five three."

"Five what?"

"Five four, is that it?"

"Yes," she almost pouts and plays the guitar as if she's telling a story with it.



She does not like guitar practice today. She doesn't want to work at this after work, and her fingers and that one hard chord. Last week she talked to a nurse who told her, "Yep. The F chord. I remember learning that," and that woman sat in a chair and played Jess's guitar without a pick.

Later in the car.

"I don't see how those people do it."

"Do what?"

"Play without a pick. Imagine what her fingers felt like."

"I know, but wasn't that great listening to her and watching her play?"

She nodded and smiled a "you ain't lying" grin of a child.
That little nugget keeps me making her practice.

Because for me and her, even on bad days and I hate having bad days, a bad day being you didn't do your job as well as you should. Well with my soul, remember.


Then Jessie (of the book) reminds me that life is our little practices. Whether it be reading or writing or photography or guitar or softball or school or gardening or walking or swimming or hunting or fishing, it is the way we walk in this world.

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