The Old Man Down The Road
Blackie the dog was a weary old mutt with mournful brown eyes and a cold wet nose. He was my pet dog as far as I was concerned but he actually belonged to our neighbor Mrs. White who lived upstairs from my family in an old tenement building that we inhabited briefly when I was very young. Mrs. White also happened to have a huge black cat named Smokey that I was convinced was the real life model for the old electric Black Cat cigarette sign that swung uneasily in the wind above the barbershop on the corner and which loomed eerily large like the Cheshire Cat of Wonderland below our living room window.
Despite such haunting images I loved dogs and cats of all animals and had once expressed my concern about Blackie’s very cold wet nose to Mrs. White on one of her regular visits with our family. I felt this meant that Blackie must have been sick. Mrs. White laughed and told me that it was actually a sign of good health for a dogs nose to be cold and wet and that in fact if it ever were to go dry it might mean he was indeed actually sick. I loved old Blackie and didn't want him to be sick so it became routine for me to check to ensure that his nose was always cold and wet whenever we met as a sign between us that I really cared for him and wanted him to be healthy and well.
He'd wag his tail and bark his approval before licking my face off.
Good old Blackie.
One day his nose felt very dry on my skin as I threw my arms around his huge neck to give him a hug. Mrs. White was much quieter than her usual self that day and soon took Blackie back home but I knew something was wrong. I knew he must be very sick and that it likely wouldn't be too long before our visits would be coming to an end. My gut instinct told me it was the end of the road for dear old Blackie.
He take the thunder from the mountain
He take the lightning from the sky
He bring the strong man to his begging knee
He make the young girls mama cry
You got to hidey-hide, you got to jump and run;
You got to hidey-hidey-hide, the old man is down the road.
He got the voices speak in riddles
He got the eye as black as coal
He got a suitcase covered with rattlesnake hide
He stands right in the road
You got to hidey-hide, you got to jump up run away;
You got to hidey-hidey-hide, the old man is down the road.
He make the river call your lover
He make the barking of the hound
Put a shadow cross the window
When the old man comes around
You got to hidey-hide, you got to jump and run again;
You got to hidey-hidey-hide, the old man is down the road.
Coast To Coast Fever
Wanderlust finally consumed me for good by the age of 17. Rolling down the highway on a Greyhound bus bound for every terminal stop along the industrial rust belt line toward the Bible belt and liberation was the epitome of pure adventure and joy to my wayfaring sense.
I'd wanted to set out many times to discover the world beyond my little down east doorstep but life was beckoning more urgently now to feel the asphalt surrender beneath the steady hum of freedom's belted wheels with the smell of Detroit diesel filling my nostrils.
Before my nose dried up it would be my purpose in life to dedicate myself to my ever-deepening love and appreciation for an American hearts quest beyond a burning dream wish vision for my restless soul.
So, I hit the road Jack and I never came back no more.
Somewhere along the way my truest dreams became reality and I learned exactly what it means to follow where the heart leads. A man must be brave. His mind must be informed by reason and by revelation as to how you get from there to here and home again.
It's a narrow path and must be freely chosen as whom but a fool would venture toward a far horizon without knowing first the way.
I’m passing sleeping cities
Fading by degrees
Not believing all I see to be so
I’m flyin’ over backyards
Country homes and ranches
Watching life between the branches below
And it’s hard to say
Who you are these days
But you run on anyway
Don’t you baby?
You keep running for another place
To find that saving grace
I’m moving on alone over ground that no one owns
Past statues that atone for my sins
There’s a guard on every door
And a drink on every floor
Overflowing with a thousand amens
And it’s hard to say
Who you are these days
But you run on anyway
Don’t you baby?
You keep running for another place
To find that saving grace
Don’t you baby?
You’re rolling up the carpet
Of your father’s two-room mansion
No headroom for expansion no more
And there’s a corner of the floor
They’re telling you is yours
You’re confident but not really sure
And it’s hard to say
Who you are these days
But you run on anyway
Don’t you baby?
You keep running for another place
To find that saving grace
Don’t you baby?
Despite such haunting images I loved dogs and cats of all animals and had once expressed my concern about Blackie’s very cold wet nose to Mrs. White on one of her regular visits with our family. I felt this meant that Blackie must have been sick. Mrs. White laughed and told me that it was actually a sign of good health for a dogs nose to be cold and wet and that in fact if it ever were to go dry it might mean he was indeed actually sick. I loved old Blackie and didn't want him to be sick so it became routine for me to check to ensure that his nose was always cold and wet whenever we met as a sign between us that I really cared for him and wanted him to be healthy and well.
He'd wag his tail and bark his approval before licking my face off.
Good old Blackie.
One day his nose felt very dry on my skin as I threw my arms around his huge neck to give him a hug. Mrs. White was much quieter than her usual self that day and soon took Blackie back home but I knew something was wrong. I knew he must be very sick and that it likely wouldn't be too long before our visits would be coming to an end. My gut instinct told me it was the end of the road for dear old Blackie.
He take the thunder from the mountain
He take the lightning from the sky
He bring the strong man to his begging knee
He make the young girls mama cry
You got to hidey-hide, you got to jump and run;
You got to hidey-hidey-hide, the old man is down the road.
He got the voices speak in riddles
He got the eye as black as coal
He got a suitcase covered with rattlesnake hide
He stands right in the road
You got to hidey-hide, you got to jump up run away;
You got to hidey-hidey-hide, the old man is down the road.
He make the river call your lover
He make the barking of the hound
Put a shadow cross the window
When the old man comes around
You got to hidey-hide, you got to jump and run again;
You got to hidey-hidey-hide, the old man is down the road.
Coast To Coast Fever
Wanderlust finally consumed me for good by the age of 17. Rolling down the highway on a Greyhound bus bound for every terminal stop along the industrial rust belt line toward the Bible belt and liberation was the epitome of pure adventure and joy to my wayfaring sense.
I'd wanted to set out many times to discover the world beyond my little down east doorstep but life was beckoning more urgently now to feel the asphalt surrender beneath the steady hum of freedom's belted wheels with the smell of Detroit diesel filling my nostrils.
Before my nose dried up it would be my purpose in life to dedicate myself to my ever-deepening love and appreciation for an American hearts quest beyond a burning dream wish vision for my restless soul.
So, I hit the road Jack and I never came back no more.
Somewhere along the way my truest dreams became reality and I learned exactly what it means to follow where the heart leads. A man must be brave. His mind must be informed by reason and by revelation as to how you get from there to here and home again.
It's a narrow path and must be freely chosen as whom but a fool would venture toward a far horizon without knowing first the way.
I’m passing sleeping cities
Fading by degrees
Not believing all I see to be so
I’m flyin’ over backyards
Country homes and ranches
Watching life between the branches below
And it’s hard to say
Who you are these days
But you run on anyway
Don’t you baby?
You keep running for another place
To find that saving grace
I’m moving on alone over ground that no one owns
Past statues that atone for my sins
There’s a guard on every door
And a drink on every floor
Overflowing with a thousand amens
And it’s hard to say
Who you are these days
But you run on anyway
Don’t you baby?
You keep running for another place
To find that saving grace
Don’t you baby?
You’re rolling up the carpet
Of your father’s two-room mansion
No headroom for expansion no more
And there’s a corner of the floor
They’re telling you is yours
You’re confident but not really sure
And it’s hard to say
Who you are these days
But you run on anyway
Don’t you baby?
You keep running for another place
To find that saving grace
Don’t you baby?
posted by Frank Trainor at 11:20 p.m. Permalink
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