Jones Americana

We were to be as kings. Our role models, our...

Fri, 13 Nov 2009 14:05:00 -0500

We were to be as kings.

Our role models, our parents, our loved ones told us of a time when the world would be ours. We would be healers, we would be arbiters of justice, we would unlock the secrets of existence itself. These talents were inside of us, and there was no force in the world which could keep them contained.

And for a time, we believed all of it.

We walked through this world not as spectators, but as royalty in waiting. Those around us were not our equals, but temporary stewards of our rightful inheritance. We began to view the world as we would have it, as we expected it to be. We did not see opportunity around us, we did not see chance. We saw inevitability.

And so we waited. We waited for our own prophecies to come true. The seeds of greatness planted in our heads as children grew to a forest of entitlement while our ambition withered. This was our world and we lived in it waiting for the expected to happen. At the edges of our city was a wrought iron sign, proclaiming to all who entered that magic would be found inside. We scoffed. Kings had no place for magic.

I know the reality now. I know this world is not ours. I know the dream of being kings was never ours in the first place. We were vessels, tools to act out the lost hopes of a generation before, to realize the greatness they wanted to believe lived within their own hearts. This realization has crushed others, but I see now that the expected is the enemy

Because when all you’re looking for is the expected, you miss the magic of the unexpected. You become inoculated to whimsy, to the random and beautiful mysteries of the universe.

I sit now at the edge or our city. My bones have grown long and then brittle. My teeth have fallen out, grown back in, and fallen out once more. My joints hurt and my vision has become increasingly cloudy. But I sit here and I look at the wrought iron sign before me. The sky smolders behind it, casting in negative relief the words within. The city name, unimportant, rote, expected is small and perched near the top, away from where the eye wants to focus. My eyes fix on the words below, “THE MAGIC CITY.” I stare for a moment, taking in the burning, end of the world sky behind this simple, loaded phrase. I close my eyes and smile as the words, now white and energized, dance on the inside of my eyelids.

you may reach ian at ian[at]iancahill.com

My Father was a God fearing man. At least I...

Thu, 01 Oct 2009 08:42:00 -0400

My Father was a God fearing man.

At least I think he was. Once a year, on Christmas, my Mother would drag him to church. He seemed to take some pride in his once a year face time in God’s house. But then the next Sunday would roll around and he would once again be settled into his recliner in front of the TV as Mom would load us up for mass.

He worked the night shift during the week and every night he would come into our room to tuck us in before he would leave for work. He would insist we kneel at the bed and pray. As I got older I began to notice the discrepancy. Why were we bound to religion when he skipped church every week?

At first I would close my eyes and do what I was told. I would pray from Mom and Dad. Pray for my dog and my Grandma, sometimes I would even pray for my Brothers. But in time my mind began to wander. At some point in everyone’s life you reach the point where you begin to question your existence and how you fit into every single action around you. It was during this time that I started peeking during our nightly prayers.

I wouldn’t look for anything in particular, but you could say I was definitely looking for something. I would see my brother’s eyes closed tightly, their mouths quietly moving along with their prayers. I would see my dad, slumped over on my bed taking in the silence of the moment, mentally preparing himself for his nightly work.

It was only after I started letting my eyes scan the room during prayer that I really started to see ‘God in the details’ as it were. Things always look vastly different when you know you aren’t supposed to be seeing it, and for me that made all the difference. As I knelt by the bed, atoning for my sins and asking for forgiveness, it wasn’t a feeling of relaxation but rather a rush of excitement. I don’t think the power of God has ever put on a greater display to me since. Maybe that is how my Father felt as we left the house every Sunday? Surely a God that would allow us the power to disregard him so couldn’t be all bad after all..

you may reach ian at ian[at]iancahill.com

Cassie stands in the doorway of the airplane and...

Fri, 04 Sep 2009 09:58:00 -0400

Cassie stands in the doorway of the airplane and breathes in deeply and slowly, letting the incoming air linger, trying to detect the subtlest smells and tastes imbued in the foreign air.

It’s only her second month and already she’s been in twenty five different cities. Of these cities she’s seen nothing more than a collection of non-descript tarmacs and a handful of very sparsely furnished motel rooms. The other stewardesses complain endlessly of this reality, comparing the promised adventures with their actual experiences. But Cassie still carries herself as if it were her first day, as if she had just heard for the first time all the wondrous tales told by the airlines meant to lure in the pretty young girls and had not yet faced the true nature of the job.

Two older stewardesses walk by on the tarmac below. They see Cassie standing in the open doorway above and share with her wry, cold smiles as they continue towards the tail of the plane. They know that eventually the job will get to her too, that she will be broken and cynical as well, that she will no longer stand mesmerized in each new city.

“Don’t mind them. They’re more afraid of you than anything.”

Cassie turns around and sees Brenda crouched down just outside the cockpit door, restocking the beverage cart for the next flight. Brenda was the first person to introduce herself to Cassie on her first day. Cassie liked her immediately.

“Why would they be afraid?”

“Because you’re young, and the passengers like you. But mostly because you’re young.”

Cassie hears the smile in Brenda’s voice, but knows there is none on her face. In the short time that Cassie has known Brenda, she has only ever heard Brenda’s smile in her voice. It was clear, from the deepening lines connecting the corner of her eyes to her softly graying temples, that at one time Brenda had been quick with a smile and likely a bubbling, cheerful laugh soon afterwards. But neither came so easily anymore.

“They were young once too.”

“That’s exactly the problem.”

Cassie turned around and looked outside once more.

“My father always said that you could tell what part of the country you were in just by the smell of the air.”

Brenda finishes stocking the beverage cart and begins to arrange the pillows and blankets in an overheard bin. “What did your father do?”

Cassie remains facing outward. “He was a farmer. A migrant farmer. Traveled around from city to city. My mom and I stayed at home while he would go out and find work.”

“How long would he be gone?”

“Depended. Sometimes weeks, sometimes months. But when he came home, it was like he never left. He’d come riding up in the bed of a pickup truck, it was different truck every time, and the truck would stop right at the end of this path that ran straight to our front door. I remember one time he jumped out of the back of the truck and a cloud of dust just blew off of him when he hit the ground. I laughed a long time at that. But he would always walk faster than any man should who had just worked who knows how many 18 hour days in a row. And he’d pick me up and kiss me on the cheek. My mom would make some stagey fuss about how I just had a bath and he was going to make me all dirty, but none of us minded. Anyway, he would always say that you could tell where you were at by how the air smelled. He’d laugh at the people who would come back from places with doodads and trinkets. Said the only thing you needed to remember a place was to remember what it smelled like, what the air tasted like. And that after that, nothing else mattered. Not where you were, not where you were going, but where you are and what you are at that moment. Alive.”

Cassie feels a small breeze blowing across the wing, carrying with it hints of rain, tastes of salt. She closes her eyes and breathes in deeply and slowly.

reach Marty at stiper327b@gmail.com

By my estimations, given the fact that our family...

Wed, 12 Aug 2009 08:17:00 -0400

By my estimations, given the fact that our family vacation started at exactly 3:00pm on the Friday that school let out for the summer, I had managed to keep one hand on it for seven days straight

When dad picked my brother’s and me up promptly after school in his already packed car, I had only been a few minutes removed from the single best moment of my life. Sue Anderson had dropped her locket and I was there to pick it up. I would have returned it immediately, but before I knew it we were on the road, heading to Grandpa’s cabin in southern Tennessee. My mother had managed to procure matching jackets for the trip and barked our full names when we tried to remove them. Andy was the only one immune from this, as he could cry louder than mom could.

Each time we left the car I was extra careful. My jacket zipped up completely and my left hand buried deep into my pocket, my mission to secure the keepsake as best I could.

I didn’t want to spend the rest of the summer wondering what beat up gas station or rest stop I had lost the locket of my all-time greatest crush. I didn’t dare pull it out of my pocket for fear that my mother would swoon or my brothers would laugh. I intended to return it as soon as I got back, dreaming of that moment for the remainder of the trip. Until then I keep my hand wrapped tightly about the trinket. It was my secret and I planned to keep it that way.

you may reach Ian at ian[at]iancahill.com

The kind old gentleman sits in the passenger seat,...

Fri, 15 May 2009 08:58:00 -0400

The kind old gentleman sits in the passenger seat, hiding from the sun as the engine cools.

He has brought water to quench the steaming engine, has taken it upon himself to help two women stranded on the side of the road. I know he does not want to leave until he knows we are safe. I appreciate his kindness, but I am eager for his exit; the sooner he leaves, the sooner we can continue upon our path. He softly hums to himself, a sad broken melody.

She leans forward, finding refuge from the beating sun in the shade of the open trunk.

She says I have to go back.

But I can’t. She knows this, has known it since the day we set out. But she continues with her assertion. I wonder if she thought me serious when I first told her of my decision. I wonder if she mistook the tears as a sign of temporary irrationality, if she took my wild trembling voice as resolve ready to waver. Did she not sense the depth of my conviction? And if she had, would she have come along?

She says things will be different if I go back, that he learned his lesson, that I made my point. She says things will be better.

But I know they won’t. Things will improve, they always do. But that improvement will not last, it never does. I know all too well that temporary improvement is nothing more than a mirage, a tantalizing glimpse of what salvation could lie ahead. And I have too often tasted the gritty bitterness as that salvation fades away to an endless expanse of undulating sand.

She says we won’t know anybody. She says we’ll be alone.

But we will. Not right away. We’ll be strangers in somebody else’s town. We will be looked upon as unwanted, unnatural. Two women alone in a strange city invite the most penetrating of stares, the most accusatory whispers, as if such a tandem is exempt from the rules of polite society. But some quarters will hold compassion for us. They will help us, they will protect us, they will teach us. But they will not coddle us, they will not shield us from life and all the lessons which come from living it.

She says we won’t have any money. She says we’ll be broke.

But we won’t be. We will work, we will earn. We will prove to those around us, to those we have left behind, and to ourselves that we require no Providence, that we are the sole executors of our futures.

She says the car can take no more. She says it’s been beaten enough, that it can go no further.

But it can. We will wait for the car to cool down; we will wait for the gentleman to leave. We will thank him for his kindness, and we will continue on our road. We only need the car to make it for another 150 miles, and then there will be no more need of the old beaten girl.

She says I can’t keep going this way, that it’ll only lead to more misery.

But it won’t. I know that misery lies in my path ahead, but not more than what lies behind.

Some misery you can live with, and some misery you can die with.

The kind gentleman hums his tune as I look to my left at the shimmering, wavy road ahead.

you may reach stiper327b[at]gmail.com

I was in the wrong place at the wrong time that...

Fri, 17 Apr 2009 08:29:00 -0400

I was in the wrong place at the wrong time that day.

Allen was caught digging a hole to China and as I marveled at the idea, my shocked look was mistaken for cahoots. When I heard the sharp piercing sound that would turn out to be my mother’s shrill vocals, I spun around and had that stunned look on my face.

My lower lip trembled as my mother charged through the yard to survey the devastation. Allen continued to dig, almost disregarding the pounding earth as mom approached. I, on the other hand, stood motionless as if my small frame would hide the gapping 3 by 3 foot hole that was not to be missed in the middle of the yard.

Allen was calm as he twisted his shovel deep into the earth. He worked it deeper into the ground using his foot for leverage. Eventually he worked out a nice sticky piece of dirt. An earthworm clung to the surface as he raised the shovel waist-high. My mother arrived on the scene and scuffled her way into the hole and straight towards Allen. Without missing a beat he turned his body and gracefully flung the thick ball of muck over his shoulder and straight into my mother’s face…

you may reach ian at ian[at]iancahill.com

As far as I could tell, at least according to my older...

Fri, 03 Apr 2009 07:51:23 -0400

As far as I could tell, at least according to my older brother, was that Dave was being punished…

..for the time last week he brought a frog into the house while mommy had guests. I know she was real mad, but I never thought that someone could lose a body part over it!

I couldn’t help but look a little concerned as I began to think of all the things that my brother will have to go through. For one thing his school pictures would be ruined forever! My brother’s face was laced with fear as my father put the finishing touches on the knot. He gave the string a few quick pulls to check for adequate taut and I pictured my brother warming his hands on an open fire outside of the homeless shelter. Surely no businessman would hire him for a job now.

He would never hold hands with a pretty girl. He would never be in toothpaste commercials. My mind was racing and yet he just sat there, awaiting his punishment! On the bright side he would probably be very popular among hockey players. I wanted to stop my Dad, reason with him. Tell him that he didn’t have to go through with it! But instead I stood motionless, curious more than anything what it looked like to rip a tooth out of a living person. I hoped my brother would survive…

you may reach ian at ian[at]iancahill.com

The turkeys mill about, oblivious to the two small boys...

Thu, 19 Mar 2009 22:45:00 -0400

The turkeys mill about, oblivious to the two small boys among them.

A larger man stands outside their number. He holds a silver and black camera to his face with one hand, the other waves above his head, commanding the boys’ attention, directing their youthful smiles forward. He motions left and right, manipulating the boys’ location in his viewfinder with nothing more than a casual flick of the wrist.

The turkeys are not bothered by any of this. They hunt and peck and search for food. They warble and gobble and communicate with their own kind. They ruffle their feathers and scratch the earthy scrabble beneath. Soon, they will be called to another pen, covered, crowded and dank, and then ushered into one more dark room where the floor is hard, a room controlled by the large men.

The camera clicks, the boys and their impish grins gleam brightly beneath their cowboy hats. The man with the camera smiles and walks away. The turkeys migrate to another part of the pen. The boys stand alone for a second, unsure of their next heading. One follows the man with the camera, the other heads towards the flock of turkeys.

you may reach marty at mlong[at]saepio.com

“If you fall, it is 397 feet to your death.”...

Thu, 19 Mar 2009 08:53:00 -0400

“If you fall, it is 397 feet to your death.” I whispered this into her ear as we started our way across the small worn down footbridge.

It didn’t take her long to coldly fold her arms and exclaim how morbid I could be. I shrugged as if to agree without fault and nudged her to continue across.

Looking ahead, the trees enveloped the bridge to the point that I feared we would be lost in the wilderness upon reaching the other side. At the same time the unknown was appealing and I was rushed to find out what glorious views awaited us.

But before I could take another step I noticed her feet firmly planted on the weather beaten plank below. Her eyes were fixated on a point far off in the distance. She seemed to be staring down a cloud with the intent to destroy it.

I offered a humble, “it’s beautiful up here.” She remained silent, lost in the pull of the breeze. I tried again, this time with more steam than before, “you are beautiful”. She turned to look at me.

Tears were in her eyes, but she wasn’t sad or upset. She was caught up in the moment. It seemed as if the scene had taken her by surprise. I, on the other hand, was struggling to find the magic of the moment. My eyes turned from hers down to the gorge below…

you may reach ian at ian[at]iancahill.com