Born on a Mountaintop in Tennessee

(Thanks to Kim, whose recent trip to the Alamo reminded me of my roots)

"Born on a mountaintop in Tennessee
Greenest state in the Land of the Free
Raised in the woods so's he knew every tree
Kilt him a b'ar when he was only three.
Davy, Davy Crockett, King of the wild frontier!"

...and one of my ancestors, on my father's side.

BUTLER: "That's not Davy Crocket.  That's Mark's Dad."

BAGMAN:  "Can it!  Let him tell the story."

BUTLER:  "But that's all it is!  An ego-drenched story."

"However," I interrupt. "For once it is not my ego.  If it is a made-up story, it was made up by someone further back in my lineage and passed down the line."

BAGMAN: "And there is that family resemblance..."

BUTLER (Puffily stomping out the door):  "I'm not going to participate in this fraud."

Anyhow, as the story was passed down to me, probably when I was a young boy enamoured of Fess Parker, one of my great-great grandfathers was very closely related to Davy.  Brother?  Son?  Cousin?  In any case, he bore the Crockett name.   

He was also, apparently, one of the ones who graciously passed down the genetic propensity toward alcoholism which became such a great influence in my father's life...and mine.  Since Alcoholics Anonymous did not show up until 100 years later, my ancestor Crockett became a town drunkard, liar, horse thief, and overall ne'er-do-well.  

Although Davy became best known for dying at the Alamo, thanks to Walt Disney -- not for the dying part but for the becoming best known part -- his family was much more proud of his election to the U.S. House of Representatives in 1824.  

You have to remember that in 1824, being a member of Congress was really something to be proud of in contrast to the present day when being a member of Congress is a step down from circus clown.  My apologies in advance to those hard working member of the clowning profession. 

But I digress.  The fact was (unless it was fiction) that my town drunk Crockett ancestor was besmirching the family name.  (I think this is the first time I've ever used the word "besmirch.")

Eventually he ended up facing a noose and the upstanding Crockett family intervened and saved his sorry neck providing he would change his name and never bother the family again.   He changed it to "Seely."

BUTLER (Poking his head back in the door):  "But your name is Cowell!  Aha!!  It's all meaningless jibberish!

"But you forget," I countered, "My dad's name was Seely.  As was mine originally.   When my maternal grandparents adopted me because my mom had died and my dad was at the height of his own ne'er-do-wellness, I took on my mother's maternal name.  

Truth or fiction?  Who knows.   Since the story was passed down through a long line alcoholic ne'er-do-wells who have a natural propensity for lying, it's probably as true as the story about Davy Crockett killing a bear when he was three-years-old. 

Friday Hometown Shootout -- Doors

(WARNING!!  WARNING!!!  THIS IS GOING TO BE TOO LONG FOR A BLOG.  APOLOGIES IN ADVANCE.)

I enter the B&B studio with an extra cushion for my chair.  I know already this is going to be a loooong post.  Doors have always been one of my most favorite things on Earth.  Entering, leaving - whenever I pass through any door, everything changes,  assuming I notice it. 

BUTLER: "I suppose, if you are already planning to bore the world with a long-winded, too many pictures blog, you aren't going to let us talk much."

"Probably not," I reply.

BAGMAN:  "Just try and stop us!  We already planned our own photo blog and we're going to put it in no matter what!"

Ignoring them, I continue discoursing.  Oddly, my interest in doors started as a reaction to something someone said long ago when they were looking at a collection of my photographs, most of which were of trees, mountains, peaks, tall buildings, etc.  "Very phallic," they said. 

Now I'm not a big follower of Freud, nor am I particularly homophobic, but...

BUTLER:  "Oh joy.  This is going to be a long and tedius blog, isn't it?"

...but it made me think.  I like mountains and trees and I never thought of them as phallic, but I wondered what I would shoot if I related my creativity more closely to my favorite orientation, which, at the time, was (confess confess) women.  And I suddenly saw doors all around me. 

I know that Freud is supposed to have said "Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar."  And, of course, many times a door is just a door.  But, in general, doors seem to be to be more...what's the opposite of phallic anyway?  Saphhic?

BUTLER:  "Yonic."  Look it up, I'm not adding any more length to this blog that necessary."

BAGMAN: "At least post a picture once in awhile, Dude.  This is suppose to be a photo blog!"

Myrtle Beach

(This door has not been opened in a while, I think)

I know this is a photo blog and not a poetry blog but over the years, I found myself writing a series of "Door Poems."   And I can't help but share some of them.

BAGMAN:  "Oh you could help it all right!!  You just don't want to!  Your ego is out of control!!"

"Baggie, my friend," I reply.  "You are my ego." 

__________________________________________________________

Door Poem #3 

I cannot pass a door

without wanting to go in

or fly above a town

without wanting to dive down.

 I cannot pass a soul

without basking in its shade

or pass a pair of legs

without wanting to dive in.

I cannot see your eyes

without turning where they look.

I cannot pass a wall

without trying to build a door.

________________________________________________________________

Greenville, SC

(Doors in the process of being built)

(Embryonic doors?)

WHAM!   BOPPED ON THE HEAD, I SLUMP OVER MY KEYBOARD, VAGUELY AWARE THAT BUTLER AND BAGMAN ARE TAKING OVER MY POST.  MY LAST THOUGHT BEFORE I PASS THROUGH A DOOR OF FOG IS THAT THEY'RE PROBABLY GOING TO PUT IN STUPID STUFF. 

BUTLER: "Door are just doors.  They come in many forms and have many uses."

Doors are useful for protecting the stuff you can't fit in your current house

until you realize you can't fit it in your future house either.

Your mail goes into a kind of door until you take it out of the same door.

BAGMAN: "What's mail?"

BUTLER: "It's a kind of antiquated communication form used mostly these days by catalogue printers."

Most of what we eat comes out of doors

Most of it is cold so we heat it up by putting it through other doors

Because the media has made us all paranoid,

almost everything we eat is wrapped or double wrapped

which creates endless garbage which must be sent through other doors.

BAGAMAN: "Does anyone remember when cereal was just in a box without being additionally wrapped in a plastic bag?   I know it was true with Cracker Jacks because I always opened the box upside down to get to the price first.

And, of course, the food we actually eat

eventually starts its trip to the sea through this door.

MUFFLED VOICES...LIGHT...FOCUS...I REGAIN CONSCIOUSNESS AND LEAP UP, GRABBING A BASEBALL BAT TO FEND OFF ANY MORE ATTEMPTS TO HIJACK MY BLOG.

I scream at them.  "Did you guys just post a photo of a toilet on my blog!!"

BUTLER:  "Put down the bat, Mark.  We're done and you can go on talking people to death all you want."

BAGMAN: "A baseball bat?  Very phallic, Dude."

They leave.  I put down the bat...gently.  I'm running out of energy and my lifelong fascination with doors begins to seem more childish than yonic.  Maybe I'll shut up and just post some stuff. 

Charleston - Doors of the Civil War

___________________________________________________________________

Door Poem #9

I’m usually three feet into a room

with a fourth in my mouth

before I see we’re all about to blush

and make apologies

while backing out.

___________________________________________________________________

Boston - The Salada Tea Company Building

(Salada has not been here for decades, but they left their door)

Althought I took this in the mid 70's and don't know if it is still there.

Stonehenge

(Hmmm....maybe the Druids used these for doors?)

Guardian of the swimming pool gate (door)

_____________________________________________________________________

On Doors #16 

Watching you from my porch

changing your locks

with such regularity and detail

it’s almost a challenge

of new combinations, the latest

deadbolt, and of course a chain or two. 

Whatever happened to the oaken beam

that woke the neighborhood at night

when it fell in place?  Changed because

it could be torched?

replaced with tempered steel, 

But once you’re safely in

just suppose that that I and all the other thieves

just sit and sleep with nothing left to prove

Ah, but yes, there’s always some young

set of fingers itching to be tried.

_____________________________________________________________________

Vatican City

Sometimes the path to a distant door is long and full of interesting things.

Take time to appreciate the trip without rushing to a destination.

The phone rings.  I pick it up.  It's Bagman.

BAGMAN: "Hey!  Butler wanted me to ask you if a hallway is just a hallway?"

Beaufort, SC

A spiritual door with some natural growth to get through first

The phone rings again.  I don't answer it.

Near Florence, Italy

Many doors to the path of rest in peace

(in the words of Queenmother Mamaw)

_____________________________________________________________________

Door Poem #2 

You can see this one coming

unless you’ve never watched

The Three Stooges

but if I don’t take your door

too seriously, I might just play

anyway, stepping back ten paces

and running at full speed

like some gung-ho cop even if

wood is harder than collarbone

but you and I both know

at the last minute

you’ll jerk open the door

and I’ll go flying through

with a loud “Yahoo!” and crash.

So instead I’ll stop – surprise –

at the last second grinning.

And of course you won’t open the door.

In fact, you might not even be home

leaving me standing in the hall

with that look you know so well.

_____________________________________________________________________

Charleston - Outdoors doors

(This in in the alley behind a restaurant.

I think the staff takes breaks here.)

Florence

(What happens when the architect fails to note the scale

on each set of blueprints)

My  back door at night

(Actually the steps lead up to my neighbors back door.

To get to mine, turn left right after the bush.

Y'all come now.  Heah?

The phone rings.  Since I'm done, I answer it and hear Butler's voice.

BUTLER: "I just wanted to warn you that you're wife is looking for you.  She doesn't usually talk to me, or know we exist, for that matter, but you've been in the studio for over 36 hours, writing a blog that nobody will have the stamina to read all the way through to the end.  She's wondering if you are all right."

"Tell her that I'm fine.  Apologize for the me spending so much time in the studio.  And that I'm coming out now."

BUTLER:  "And be careful.  She found a cigar in your truck."