Untotaled: Stepping 42 (August 27th, 1967) Driven… November 29, 2014

 Jonathots Daily Blog

(2428)

(Transcript)

I woke up in one of those adolescent grumpy moods, staring at the ceiling, disgusted with my life.

It was nearly time for school to start again and I felt like I had squandered my entire summer, worrying about how little summer I had left.

Even the things I had done which seemed enjoyable had passed too quickly, and now it was time to go back to school–to pretend to be a student and memorize a bunch of information which would give me a good grade on a test, knowing in my heart that I would soon forget the knowledge, yet knowing that somewhere in the future, I would be expected to remember it.

I had acquired three dollars yesterday by finally mowing the lawn, which had grown so high that one of the neighbors had complained to my parents, fearing that varmaints or snakes might dwell within. I reluctantly did the job and was rewarded with the remuneration.

So I woke up with a scratch I needed to itch. That’s the way it is when you’re a teenager–it’s not really an itch you need to scratch, but rather, an ongoing scratching sensation and needing an itch to justify it.

I got in my car and headed over to Katie’s house. She was the highlight of my summer. We had come together to search for pop bottles we could turn in for deposit to get gas money so we could drive around, talk and be silly.

There was nothing romantic involved, though candidly, I would have jumped her at the slightest invitation. She just thought I was funny.

When I picked her up that day, she had two dollars she had earned by picking blackberries on her grandma’s farm. Between us we had five dollars, three candy bars and some leftover tuna sandwiches her mother had foisted on her as she departed.

Katie explained that she needed to be home by three o’clock in the afternoon, and since it was already ten-thirty, our time would be shortened.

I told her that since we had enough money to buy fifteen gallons of gasoline, that we should drive three hours somewhere, talk, laugh and turn around to drive three hours back.

She was cool with it so we took off for Columbus.

Driving on I-71, we reached the south end of Columbus. Then that scratch that needed an itch suddenly raised its head. So I said, “Let’s keep going.”

She was nervous but agreed–and before too long we passed through Washington Court House, Wilmington and suddenly found ourselves on the outskirts of Cincinnati. It was deliciously naughty, filled with wild abandon and irresponsibility.

A sign read that the Ohio River was four miles ahead. I had never seen the Ohio River, and Katie had only passed over it in a car with her parents while being sound asleep in the back seat. So I said, let’s do it.

We crossed the river into Kentucky.

We felt like fugitives. It was similar to trying to make our way into the Soviet Union through the Iron Curtain (they had that back then).

Everything on the other side of the river, including a town named Covington, looked so different. We felt like Christopher Columbus eyeballing the New World.

Suddenly, Katie looked down at her watch and it was two o’clock in the afternoon, and she realized there was no way she would be able to get back in time. There also were no cell phones or texting, and pay phones were out of the question because we had used all of our money for petrol.

So knowing we were going to get in trouble, we turned the car around and headed back the way we came. It was the strangest combination of fear, jubilance, independence, anxiety and nervous bowel twinges that I’ve ever experienced in my life.

Strangely enough, when we arrived home, people really didn’t say much about us being late–just that we should never do it again.

Katie and I knew that was impossible.

Something changed that day.

I no longer felt bound to a small home on a tiny street in a little village. I realized there was a big world out there–and the only way I would ever get to it and be myself was to survive a couple more years of provincial schooling … to finally be able to point my life in my own direction.

Donate Button

The producers of jonathots would humbly request a yearly subscription donation of $10 for this wonderful, inspirational opportunity

Please contact Jonathan’s agent, Jackie Barnett, at (615) 481-1474, for information about scheduling.

*****

Check out Mr. Kringle’s Tales…26 Stories’Til Christmas

The Best Christmas Stories You’ll Ever Read!

Click on Santa to browse "Mr. Kringle's Tales ... 26 Stories Til Christmas"

Click on Santa to browse “Mr. Kringle’s Tales … 26 Stories Til Christmas”

Leotarded … May 30, 2013

(1,897)

fairgroundsWe called it “Artist’s Haven.”

It was a gathering of local people in the Shreveport, Louisiana, area who deeply believed they had a creative itch to scratch and wanted to get together, if for no other reason, to have someone else listen to their poem, song–or just general speak-easy.

We met in a museum which had a small art gallery in it (see above picture). We were surrounded by lovely oil paintings and sat around a huge wooden table with large red-velvet chairs, which tried to insist they were still elegant, although age had taken its toll.

The weekly event lasted about an hour and consisted of me sharing some thoughts, followed by an open air to the entire room, allowing anyone to take three minutes to present an offering of inspiration. Considering how unorganized it was and how many of the community’s misfits found their way through the doors, it was really a magnificent melee.

Amazingly, we had only been meeting for about two months when I received a phone call from a young woman from the Arts Council telling me about a ballet troupe which had traveled to Shreveport from New York City. She took a moment to promo them to me –with their resume and accomplishments. I wasn’t sure why she was selling them so hard. Then came the closer.

The ballet troupe had received a grant to travel around the US to about thirty cities. It was required that they perform three times in each town in order to fulfill their obligation. Bottom line was that the agent had been unsuccessful in finding three different places in Shreveport willing to let people come in and “toe dance.” They had located one high school and a retirement center, which reluctantly allowed them thirty minutes of cavorting between tapioca and bingo.

The agent had gotten word that we were meeting at the art gallery and wondered if we would be willing to let the troupe come in and share during our meeting.

I couldn’t help myself. I giggled. I was trying to envision our group of human specimens being invaded by an avant-garde troupe from New York City. But on the other hand, it seemed rude to say no to such talent–AND I have enough of an ornery nature that I decided it would be wonderful to shake things up.

So I told her I would try to get at least forty people there–up from our usual twenty–and immediately launched on a phone campaign. It was rather successful. A couple of our young girls knew some fellows from the university who were involved in dance, and leaped at the opportunity to see these professionals.

All in all, we ended up with forty-two people gathered around six gorgeous. professional vessels of movement, watching them perform things that none of us understood. For me, it was just fun to look around the room–especially at the young girls who had never seen that much leotard live in concert. Also, the young men were quite enamored with the female form and balance.

Our Artist’s Haven was a rowdy group, so the dancers were overjoyed to be regaled with applause and hoots on every single maneuver. Just imagine if you blended an opera with a cock-fight–you pretty much have the atmosphere. The artists answered questions, accepted hugs, had conversation and a little refreshment followed.

I will never forget that night. It showed me that people do not have to be sophisticated to be willing. People do not have to be well-versed to be present. And people do not have to be liberal to avoid being conservative.

What you have to do is just love people–even if they’re leaping in the air in front of you and you don’t quite get it.

It was a wonderful time in my life. And from the Artist’s Haven, I learned that the reason we need art is that it reminds us that we are not yet whole.

The producers of jonathots would humbly request a yearly subscription donation of $10 for this wonderful, inspirational opportunity

******

Jonathan’s thinking–every day–in a sentence or two …

 Jonathots, Jr.!

Click below

https://jonathots.wordpress.com/jonathots-jr/

******

Please contact Jonathan’s agent, Jackie Barnett, at (615) 481-1474, for information about personal appearances or scheduling an event

%d bloggers like this: