The Beatles arrived in NYC for the first time 61 years ago. I’ve been a big fan since I was a young person in rural South Carolina, intent on making my southern accent disappear by listening to too much of their music (along with David Bowie, Led Zeppelin, and Tom Petty’s Florida / California twang). I miss that accent now and wonder what I would sound like had I not tried to match McCartney’s pitch or Lennon’s subtle phrases all those hours in my bedroom with a ceiling that I painted black (thanks to the Stones).
It’s also the re-release of Wilco’s album a ghost is born. I was 25 (almost 26) when the album was released in 2004. The songs sound much different now than they did in my hazy memories of 25. Now, as the dad of five young people and after a 20 or so year stint in the classroom as a Middle and High School Teacher scattered with some adjunct university teaching, there’s an earnestness of trying to preserve something that comes through. Tweedy called the album an “ark” (in the Noah or Utnapishtim or Atrahasis sense) of such as he was in a bad spot at the time and thought it might be his goodbye. He wanted to preserve some of his better parts for his children. There are panthers, hummingbirds, a muzzle of bees, spiders, a fly (and he re-explores Noah’s ark in his future as well),
I didn’t pick up on that as a 25 or 26 year old. I get it now as a 46 year old.
I like to stand outside with a black walnut tree on the property we share and reflect on things after getting the little ones off to school. I’m thinking of ark moments this morning and wondering what the black walnut will take with it after our human family here has moved along down the paths of life and death. I wonder why or when it had a few of its limbs chopped off to afford a powerline that runs adjacent to our property. I wonder if any other children have ever climbed the walnut or hung a tire swing on its limbs before. I wonder what it thought of Helene or if it even did.
All of these ark moments that we hold dear ebb and flow with time and yet we say that our souls remain.
Or as Tweedy sang, “theologians, they don’t know nothing about my soul…”