I wrote another song. This one is a bit more up-tempo.
I’m sure the critics (who don’t write songs) will tell me that my recording process sucks, or that my chord changes are awkward, or that there’s too much fret buzz, or whatever the fuck that haters always manage to inject into everything.
No worries—I’ll just keep on playing!
Building a list of songs.
I’ve been fascinated by the concept of community for a long time.
Communitarianism, sometimes called “community,” is a concept I’ve been captivated with and have read widely about for the past 25 years. I even got to play in the “laboratory” and forge elements of this concept in various places around the state of Maine. I think the germ for me was first planted by Wendell Berry’s writing on the subject.
When I was directly engaged in community-building and nonprofit work during the first decade of this century, Berry’s foundational values: place (it matters), community, good work, and simple pleasures resonated with the side of me that tended towards seeing what was ideal, if not always practical. The best part of the time I spent engaged in what I found to be “good work” however, was that it taught me that people working together could produce positive results that benefited many and rippled outward long after I was no longer around doing that work.
My son embodied these values. He saw the good in people. Mark also had the capacity and the drive to move beyond mere words and playing around the fringes of social justice. He actually took action.
Friday, as youth around the world came together in a global chain of voices and actions around protesting climate change, I was reminded of the ultimate sacrifice that Mark made for what he believed in. His death profoundly altered my life and the life of his mom in ways that we’ll never be able to step away from. Loss is forever. Continue reading
I wrote this song a few weeks ago. The first verse came to me just before leaving for work. I came home and wrote the rest of it that afternoon. It’s about Mark and the epic journey he attempted, crossing America.
I recorded it using Audacity, an open source platform that approximates what I remember four-track recording used to be like using a Tascam Porta 02 I once owned back in the mid-1990s. This was what was referred to as a portastudio and was similar to the kind of recording equipment lo-fi bands like Guided by Voices were using at the time.
The recording isn’t perfect, but it’s a start. Next, I’ll probably hit some open mics this fall. I’ll also continue to write and record additional songs. I opened an account on SoundCloud, also.
Here are the lyrics:
Walking Down the Road
Verse 1
Walking down the road alone, I saw a country lost at home
A mission of hope carried me forth, I lived each day for all it was worth
A president came while I was away, I planned to counter him every day
Hate and division won’t carry us forth, come together and be a force
Chorus:
I wish I had just one more day, I know I had so much more to say.
I love my dad, I love my mom. I’ll miss my friends forever yon
Verse 2
My family back home sent me their love, I wished I got back to give them a hug
We all know what we think we know, but can we strive for a greater hope
Friends I lost along the way, but still I walked another day
Saving earth was what it’s about, some of the haters would jump and shout
Chorus:
I wish I had just one more day, I know I had so much more to say.
I love my dad, I love my mom. I’ll miss my friends forever yon
Verse 3
One hundred days of joy and pain, my feet moved ‘cross the fruited plain
A dirty hippy or something more, why can’t they see my higher road
My face and words live on today, I often wonder what people say
I gave it all held nothing back, but in the end was it done in vain
Chorus:
I wish I had just one more day, I know I had so much more to say.
I love my dad, I love my mom. I’ll miss my friends forever yon
[Instrumental break]
Verse 4
Walking down the road alone, I saw a country lost at home
A mission of hope carried me forth, I lived each day for all it was worth
My family back home sent me their love, I wish I got back to give them a hug
We all know what we know, but can we strive for a greater scope
Chorus:
If I had just one more day, I often wonder what I’d say
It hurts my dad, it hurts my mom. Please remember them from where you roam
I wish I had just one more day, I know I had so much more to say.
I love my dad, I love my mom. I’ll miss my friends forever yon
[Fade]
Moving is a lot of work. Transitioning stuff 50 miles might not seem like much, but it is.
The last time we made a major move, we sold a house we’d been in for 26 years. We found a place we thought would be a good placeholder until we figured out whether we wanted to own another home.
Then, less than two months later, the floor of our lives opened-up: Mark was killed.
Living in Brunswick was tarnished. It became a place where we experienced the horror of losing our son. I guess the house by the cove was as good a place as any to grieve and deal with our loss.
Brunswick is a nice community. Mary always loved their farmers’ market. Curtis Memorial is a terrific library. I enjoyed downtown, visits to Wild Oats, and walking around town with my friend, Paul.
I also found living outside of town lonely and isolating—not as much as Durham, but Brunswick never felt like home for me.
In 2015, I stumbled upon what was beginning to ripple in downtown Biddeford. I ended up pitching a story and ultimately writing one about city’s mills and their redevelopment for the Boston Globe. I was proud of my work.
When we began actively looking to buy a house, Portland was too expensive. There were also things about Portland that I’ve never loved. We broadened our geographic horizons and began in earnest to look in Westbrook, then Saco, and eventually, Biddeford. Westbrook did nothing for either of us. Saco is a nice community, but we found a place we both liked in Biddeford.
Biddeford’s downtown has really blossomed. Some have taken to calling it, “the Biddessance.” I like that. Continue reading
I’m going to miss swimming at the Bath Y. For more than three years, I’ve driven north on Route 1 to Bath to swim. Swimming has been one of a few things that kept me centered during the most difficult period of my life, both emotionally, and a year ago, when my SI joint flared-up.
For the past year, I’ve tried to swim three mornings a week. I’m usually there Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. I tend to arrive after 6:00 (the pool opens at 5:00 a.m.), which allows me to get up at 4:45, have a cup of coffee, watch the weather with Mary, and then throw my bag in the backseat and make the 12-minute drive from where we’ve been living in Brunswick.
My arrival usually corresponds with a “shift change” of sorts. The group that arrives when the facility opens is usually wrapping up and the locker room most mornings is full of talk and camaraderie. Having played team sports throughout high school as well as coaching, the energy in a locker room is a special kind of thing.
Auto workers leaving the General Motors Powertrain plant in Warren, Michigan (2008)
For a time, guitarist Matt Sweeney had an awesome job—traveling around and gigging with other guitar players for Noisey. Apparently, the spots are no longer being made: the last one was posted on the “Guitar Moves” site late in 2017. If you dig these like me, check out the rest of them. This one was with Josh Homme of Queens of the Stone Age.
When we went out to California the spring following Mark’s death, we spent time near Joshua Tree National Park. We weren’t far from Rancho De La Luna, where Homme and a host of other musicians have recorded. This studio shows up in the episode with the late Anthony Bourdain filming his No Reservations show with Homme. The desert is where Homme’s roots run deep. Bourdain talked about the mystical elements of the California high desert. I clearly felt that energy when we were there.
While we were staying in the town of Joshua Tree, I thought of heading over to Pappy & Harriet’s to catch a show, but at that point in my life—being overwhelmed by grief and loss—keeping it simple was the plan. Being able to make it through another day and making it back to our rental in the desert after spending the day out in the natural world was the best Mary and I could do at the time..
I’m enjoying learning how guitarists do what they do. I’ve heard the pentatonic riffs Homme is talking about with Sweeney countless times over my life loving rock and roll. I recognize them whenever I hear them, but now I’m thinking about how to play them, as I continue my journey with the guitar.
I love how Homme talks about how much fun he has playing the guitar, too. It’s nice to know that a professional musician still finds joy from doing something he dreamed of doing and that the “bidness” of rock and roll hasn’t stolen it. Because in the end, for me, finding a little joy in life is what it’s all about right now.
Spring speaks to certain sense of rebirth—at least in places like Maine where inhabitants are forced to endure the bleakness that inevitably comes during winter. When life gets reduced to finding a way forward post-tragedy, then any extension of hope can serve as a stand-in for a talisman.
Writing as a central element dates back to 2002 for me. That’s when, in a job that I hated, I latched onto cultivating my craft as a writer. I wanted to become a writer and I was willing to put the work in.
After Mark was killed, writing was all I had to sort through the randomness and pain that a tragic death like his delivers to the father left behind. I initiated the process of using narrative as a tool to find a few shards of meaning from the randomness of what I’d been dealt.
For two years I’ve written and rearranged words in an effort to craft a story centered in grief and loss. I recognize that none of it provided much solace for the emotional agony I’ve been feeling. In fact, like has happened countless times over the past 17 years of writing, editorial arbiters either ignored my writing, or sent back notes that served as the publishing world’s version of the “thanks but no thanks” notice of rejection. Continue reading
A rainy spring it’s been. Everyone knows the adage that “April showers bring May flowers.” But weeks of rain and little or no sun drags down one’s spirit, no matter how hopeful your view of the future remains.
Early last week, Mary and I began counting down the days. We were anticipating yet another trip south related to our son’s death. We watched local weather and even Boston-area weather (via NECN) to determine—would it rain on Sunday?
It rained and the day was cold and raw. Nearly 50 people—all members of Team Every Mile Yeah—turned out for the Providence Rhode Races. They ran and some walked. Our group was arrayed in green t-shirts that Mary arranged to have produced for the event.
Mary and cape prior to the start of the Providence Rhode Race 5K.
Green shirt drying out from the rain
Family drove down from Maine. Friends from the earliest days of Mary’s life rode buses and trains to Providence. Ironmen from Minnesota who had let Mark into their world of localized competition came from Boston, New York City, Washington, DC, and San Antonio to run in Mark’s memory and support our efforts to hold an event that also connected with the foundation we began: The Mark Baumer Sustainability Fund.
As I was walking a sort of rear guard action during the 5K walk that our small family contingent made together, I was flooded with memories of Mark and me in the place he’d adopted as his home. Not only did he find his niche in the city, Providence welcomed him and adopted him, too. One thing the two of us never got to do was walk down the middle of Memorial Boulevard, sans traffic.
These streets were made for walking.
Mary and I spent Saturday with a special group of people who joined us first at Mark’s garden in front of the John D. Rockefeller Jr. Library at Brown. That’s where the Eastern Redbud was planted in Mark’s memory during the fall of 2017. There’s also a plaque commemorating his life. The group then walked, drove, or Ubered to Federal Hill and dinner at Trattoria Zooma. Somehow, they managed to accommodate our crowd just like they told Mary that they would.
Most of Team Every Mile Yeah (Mark’s Garden-Brown University)
Marching for Mark (heading to Trattoria Zooma)
We’re 10 days into National Poetry Month and I’ve not made one mention of it. That’s a damn shame!
I never paid much attention to poets as I’ve alluded to before. Then, Mark was killed and I wanted to know more about why he was attracted to poetry and certain kinds of poets.
Someone wrote me that he thought poetry was “a thing” and maybe I should glom onto that. He didn’t think much of my “diary of grief” style.
I’m not a poet and never will be.
Did you know Herman Melville wrote more poetry than fiction? I didn’t until this afternoon when, after spending most of the day on my writing-for-hire, I employed my speed-reading prowess I first learned back in the day at LHS, from Mr. Barton. I managed to tear through three books on Melville, Ambrose Bierce, and Walt Whitman.
Melville was a poet: “Melville His World and Work,” by Andrew Delbanco
I’ll be on calls for the rest of the day. I’m on deadline for articles, and I’ve been hired as a writer for a national marketing campaign. Why bother putting a blog post up on the JBE? I don’t know—maybe because I think having a blog and updating content is important. I’ve been doing that for as long as I’ve been writing. Why stop now?
Then, for some reason, I’ve gotten emails from writers soliciting advice. I guess they thought I might have a “magic bullet” related to writing, or something. I hate to disappoint, but I don’t consider myself the model of success, at least in terms of the usual way the term is sliced and diced. It’s possible they had me confused with someone else.
Since people are asking, let me briefly hold court on the topic.
One of the writers has had success, at least I consider having a book published, “success.” But like happens to many writers, things change, sometimes overnight. If you’re not in it for the long haul, during these times “in the desert,” it’s easy to think you’re doing things wrong.
I am still writing. Being a writer is what I set out to do back in the early 2000s and I’ve stayed the course. I’ve had several detours out of necessity, mainly related to paying the bills, but even when I was working full-time, I was still freelancing, putting out books, and honing my craft. So, if success can be joined to stick-to-itiveness, then yes, I guess I am successful.
Success=hard work