I won’t make claim my brand of loss is any worse than others. These past few years of the world surviving a global pandemic is proof of that, and yet we each grapple with our own sense of mortality in those around us.

We draw closer to our own each time the sun sets on the horizon.

All the more reason to make each day count going forward.

Sometimes, we look back at our life… the people in it… how things were. We have the gift of seeing how our daily life rolled along, ignorant of the mortality we’ll unknowingly face in days, weeks, months, or years ahead.

We can see how we’d do things differently if given the foreknowledge, and we also see the successes and right choices made, and why those choices were so intuitive or strong at the time.

I wrote the below poem for my mom in 2008.

It’s sometimes a challenge to find a card which says what you want to say in that time of life, so I wrote a poem for her.

A few years later, I found the poem framed and hanging on the wall in my parents home.

Today, is 7-years to the day I lost my mom.

I wonder how differently that relationship may have been had I known I’d only have another 7-years with her, and some of them a struggle for her.

This time of the evening 7-years ago, my dad and I were back at the house, red-rimmed eyes, trying to make sense of what life will be like without her in it.

I wrote Wings of a Mother in 2008 based on a story I’d heard about a fire in Yellowstone National Park.

Whether the story was somehow true, or more than likely one of those heart-grabbing fictional stories, I don’t know. Regardless, it left me with an image and a thought.

The story was about a forest fire where a mother bird and her chicks were found charred among the disaster. The mother’s wings were spread over her chicks in attempts to keep them safe.

The instincts and sacrifice of a mother was summed up in that image, and the basis of this poem.

In memory of my mom, Gloria Mae (Stulo) Dunse – August 30, 1937 to June 20, 2015

Wings of a Mother

Mother Eagle makes a home of her twig tangled nest
Shelters her baby’s and denies her own rest
Protects them from danger when it lurks in their midst
Risking her own life until the threat is dismissed
When danger has past, only then she’ll uncover
Her babies’ protection from the wings of a mother

She grooms their survival with maturing of feathers
Each day she’ll loosen the length of the tether
One day they’ll perch on the nest’s narrow rim
Spread out their wings as if a cherubim
She’ll teach them to fly, they’ll flit and they’ll flutter
‘Neath the guided direction of the wings of a Mother

One day she will see they are dressed in full plume
The next day the nest sports plenty of room
Across the tall forest some distance from home
She watches as twigs twist into a throne
With pride and raised feathers, she will discover
The tireless success of the wings of a Mother
With love and respect, and pride like no other
I still find comfort under the wings of you Mother

©2008 Brad Dunse – Used With Permission

Ooh. That headline puts a sad on me like taps in the air at a soldiers memorial.

But it’s a choice I’ve made.

Here’s why.

First, the oldies for me are what I listened to as a kid, teenager, and young man:

the late 60s, 70s, 80s, and some of the early 90s.

Everything from classic and hard rock to what has become known as yacht rock. I even got into the late 80s and 90s country for a time.

But I absolutely love the oldies.

Everything from bands like Rush, Black Sabbath, Kiss, Styx, REO Speedwagon, Aerosmith, Foreigner, Van Halen, April Wine, Boston, Kansas, Bachman-Turner Overdrive, Pink Floyd and those bands…

To U2, Journey, Human League, George Michael, Elton John, Mike and the Mechanics, Heart, Paul McCartney, The Beatles, Fleetwood Mac, Doobbie Brothers, Kenny Loggins, Poco, Prince, John Denver, Olivia Newton-John, Michael Johnson, Michael McDonald…

To country artists like Lone Star, Confederate Railroad, Kentucky Headhunters, Clint Black, Joe Diffie, Suzy Bogguss, Garth Brooks, Alan Jackson, Reba McEntire, Johnny Cash, Alabama, Restless Heart, The Judds, Vince Gill…

It goes on and on to blues and more obscure bands like Lake, Nazareth, Uriah Heep, Sweet, Ace Frehely and more.

I love the music. To me it’s like grabbing a bowl of comfort food and eating my fill. Or, like freezing cold on a snowy winter’s day, and someone throws a pre-heated blanket over you.

It puts me right back at my youthful days.

The days where there was so much road in the windshield you couldn’t see to the end, and the rearview still had mom and dad’s driveway in view.

So, why did I dig a shallow grave and bury them?

For the exact same reasons as above.

Music is a powerful emotional anchor.

When I listen to Jamie’s Crying or The Cradle Will Rock by Van Halen? I’m a 17-year old kid, munching a Whatchamacallit candy bar, looking out the window of a bus headed out to the woods for forestry class.

When I hear Is There Anybody Out There off of Pink Floyd’s The Wal album, I’m 16-years old, sitting on the edge of my waterbed, moving the needle on the turntable setting on top of my huge Ampex guitar amp sporting 4 fifteen-inch speakers, picking off the acoustic fingerstyle guitar part.

When I hear Talking Heads, Burning Down the House, I’m walking the cool damp air along the marina in Menominee Michigan, the smell of funnel cakes in the air, stepping over power cords, the sound of screams coming from carnival rides, and a nervous love sprouting off my left arm as we took it all in.

When I hear Nazareth’s, Love Hurts or Hair of the Dog, I’m with my older brother and his buddy Junior. I’m 15-years old, no license, already downed some suds, driving in a city I’d never driven before…

Of course I hadn’t, I didn’t have a driver’s license.

By night’s end I was yelling, “When’s the band going to play!”

I didn’t even know Nazareth was done with their gig.

Am I endorsing substance abuse recalling this?

No.

But all of the above are fingerprints of my youth, bookmarked by the music I listened to.

And for that it brings me fond memories of a life yet to be lived. Days where the biggest concern is getting your first car. Hoping she’ll say yes when you ask her out. What is happening on the weekend. And learning that cool riff on guitar.

And while those tunes are so comforting, bringing such a great feeling to me…

It also holds me there like a blind-folded hostage.

It keeps me emotionally anchored to a point in life I’m not anymore.

It seems like it should empower me. Wah me over with feel-good feelings. Everybody does better when they are high in emotion.

But, it brings me back to a reality I’m not sixteen anymore.

Each time I come back from those memories, I feel the shortness in the road ahead of me.

I’m reminded of my regrets. Things I should have done. Things I’d wanted to do but never took the risk.

Now, I’m a long way from being retired to the pasture.

I have a lot of living yet to do, and in many ways, my best days are yet ahead.

But music is such a powerful anchor for me, I don’t want it reaching in and pulling me back to the past, preventing me from emotionally moving forward.

Science knows, the maturity of unrecovered alcoholics is severely suppressed.

I honestly feel continually feeding your mind with emotional anchors, back to an earlier time of life, has the same affect.

At least for me. At least now.

But even more importantly, if I only listen to the oldies, two things happen.

First, I then have no musical fingerprint for the life I’m living today.

What songs will I hear then and fondly look back at today?

There is music out there which is different than I grew up on. I can hide from it, or embrace what I like, and use it as musical bread crumbs back to the life I’m making right now.

I can use it to influence my songwriting.

Secondly, if I only listen to the oldies, the life I’m living today is competing with the life I lived when those songs were new, fresh, and powerful.

By listening to them today on a regular basis, I’m only diluting old memories with new ones of today.

I’m only reducing the value they bring to me when I want them.

But, why would I even care if I buried them?

If you noticed, I buried them in a shallow grave.

I’m free to dig them up on occasion.

Maybe sitting out back with my sweetie ,chatting over a glass of red wine. The Kamado Joe smolders up a brisket, or sizzling up some rib eyes. The finches up in the willow are competing for air time with Steve Perry singing, Still They Ride, (one of my favorite Journey songs).

For now though, when I’m sitting at my desk writing for a living, it might be Native American flute music, meditation music, or a coffeehouse station.

But, it won’t be the oldies.

When I’m doing chores around the house, it’ll be what’s current in blues, pop, or maybe country.

That way, when I’m 85-years old I can pop up Gabby Barrett’s, I Hope, and think if my writing this blog.

 

When I was going out with my wife, we were just teens.

I won’t say what ____teen, but she was on the lean side of the spectrum and leave it at that, okay?

Anyway, she babysat a little runny nosed kid.

Jimmy. Jimmy Cartoonfishy.

That wasn’t his real name. But he did add the “fishy” think to his real last name.

The little tyke.

Anyway, it seemed young Jimmy had quite the fetish for the word, “why.”

Jimmy, it’s time for bed.

Why?

Because it’s your bedtime.

Why?

Because it’s 8:00 PM.

Why?

Because that’s what the clock says.

Why?

Because you’re an irritating little snot-nosed kid.

Why?

Okay, she never said that.

I prob’ly did though.

Once, we counted a full 28, why’s, in one go.

Thing is, he wasn’t stalling. He was just curious of, why.

Today, he’s probably got someone on his couch getting paid $350 an hour still asking…

“Why… why do you feel that way about your newly deceased husband Mrs. Thompson?

“And why did you stick that Pink Flamingo yard decoration through his chest last week?”

Anyway, the little nose miner was on to something back then. Because when we know the “why” behind things, it opens up a whole new world.

There was a time a few years back I’d gone through some dry, dark times musically.

Non-existent to tell the truth.

But my “why” behind stopping was all wrong.

I probably should have had that Cartoonfishy kid around to ask why I was turning my back on it.

My wife did though.

She was a good student of professor Cartoonfishy.

But, not only was the reason why I stopped songwriting, wrong, I wasn’t asking myself, why should I get songwriting back in my life?

I had plenty of reasons not to, but I didn’t even ask why I should put songwriting back in my life.

The reasons not to amounted to my day business taking circumstantial hits at the time.

I didn’t feel I earned the right to play around with songwriting.

I didn’t feel it was responsible to play around with songwriting.

I felt guilty playing around songwriting when all this other work needed doing.

I should have realized songwriting offers more than anything finances could ever do.

Sure, I make some money at music.

But that’s far from why I do it.

It took my wife saying it, and me ignoring her long enough until I felt it…

I’m a different person when I’m not writing.

So if I were to ask myself why I write. It would be things like:

When I write, I feel like I have a super power no one else in the world has.

And it’s true. Other people write. Millions of them.

But no one has lived in my skin, and writes like I write.

I feel at peace when I write.

I feel like I’ve just come back from a relaxing vacation after having written.

I feel stress wash away.

I feel like I can work out my thoughts better.

I feel like I’m honoring the gift I’ve been given.

Most of all, I feel like me.

And if I go down in a muddy mess in life because I chose to take some time out of my day or week to write songs which I like, and help someone else along the way?

Then bring it on buddy, bring it on.

But, that will never happen.

Why?

Yes, Jimmy Cartoonfishy, I’ll tell you why.

Because I am more balanced, less stressed, and can think clearer.

I’ve already won.

What am I really saying?

If you have a creative gift…

Paint pictures of mountain cabins.

Make gorgeous quilts.

Carve Smurf figurines out of blocks of blue cheese.

Or have the most impressive dead June bug collection…

Whatever it is, if you find peace in it?

You owe it to those around you to partake.

You’ll be a better you for them…

And you owe it to yourself most of all.

It is not squandering money away. You’re investing in you.

Listen, time on this earth is shorter than you realize.

I went to my high-school forestry class, fell asleep on the buss back to the school, woke up and it was 40 years later.

It seems like you have all manner of time as a young person, but it goes by quick.

I thought my dad was just talking like an old fart when he said, the older you get, the faster time seems to fly.

It’s true.

So go get out that guitar, whittling knife, or whatever it is you do… and do it, just because you love to!

 

One of the member activities in the Minnesota Association of Songwriters is taking part of song challenges: to write a song based on certain criteria.

Since I awoke this activity as vice president of the group, I figured I best take part in it.

The challenge I cooked up for the group was writing a song entitled, Mississippi Moon.

It needed to be a solo write, no cowriting.

It also needed to have a specific chord pattern in it. The chord pattern was taken randomly.

So random in fact, I took my cell phone number, removed the 7’s and 0’s out of it, and the remaining numbers served as the Nashville numbering for the chord pattern to be included somewhere in the song.

When I sat down to write Mississippi Moon, I thought…

Maybe it should be about Kiln, Mississippi. Once known as the capital of illegal moonshine during the prohibition days.

Or, maybe it should be about a quaint lover’s café in someplace like Gulfport, Ocean Springs, or Biloxi.

Or, maybe it should be about two lover’s skinny dipping on the banks of the Mississippi.

Out of the ideas bouncing around, a towboat on the Mississippi River kept pushing its way to the front.

I started watching YouTube videos of various river pilots and crew. It actually became quite interesting.

I didn’t realize just how much freight they can haul.

First, towboats are not tug boats. Sometimes they are called pusher boats, but tug boats have a different purpose.

Often times tugs are used to guide large ships to port, and even sometimes help towboats flank their freight around tricky bends in the river.

Towboats don’t tow the barges, they push them. The name towboat has to do with the name of the barges strung together, a tow.

Some towboats have three engines running three props, often called triple screws.

These screws are powered with as much as tens of thousands of horse power.

They’ll move a tow (set of barges) 8 barges wide by 6 long, or sometimes 6 wide and 7 long loaded with all manner of freight.

In feet, we’re talking as much as 280 feet wide and as long as 1,400 long.

Including the length of the towboat, the total length can be as much as 1,600 feet long, well over a quarter of a mile, taking up as much as 6 acres of water.

These are massive freights being pushed up and down the freight rivers in the USA, the Mississippi River one of the most notable.

And since the Old Muddy is a few short minutes from where I live, it fit perfect for the song.

I started watching YouTube videos by a river pilot calling himself Mark Twain. Then I saw videos by my song’s character, Towboat Toby.

Toby Clarkson, I found, actually lives in the Smokey Mountains. Not Baton Rouge as in my song.

Toby does his one-month shift on the river, then heads home for 28-days or so, then rinse and repeating it.

Happily, Toby is alive and well in real life, but I killed him off in my song.

Sorry Toby.

And well, is he really dead in the song?

You’ll have to listen and find out.

While watching the videos, I saw news clips of riverboat pilots which went down with their towboat. Sadly, a few never made it out.

I guess this song is a bit of a tribute to them.

A song which, a short while ago never existed.

So here’s a “dirt roads version” of the song.

Thanks to Towboat Toby, I borrowed a few audio snippets from a few of his videos to get us started.

 

 

Mississippi Moon

©2020 Brad Dunsé. All rights reserved.

 I’m Towboat Toby out’a Baton Rouge
Pushing 40 barges with a triple screw
Headed north for Cairo Illinois
Flankin’ banks at 10,000 horse
Dodging skiffs and bars of course
Smell that river… man it’s a beautiful night
And look right there, ain’t that quite a view
That’s my Mississippi, Mississippi moon

[Chorus]
No matter where I roam in this old world
My pilot house and crew are always here
Back here on the river
Pushing 46,000 ton
And to get back here all I got to do
Is see my Mississippi, Mississippi moon

Wilkerson Point’s lyin’ dead ahead
That’s one wicked piece of riverbed
It’ll throw your tow when the river’s floodinghigh
It pulled us under in a massive fit
My crew got out, some say I didn’t
Somethin’ ‘bout that story ain’t quite right
I’m doing fine aboard The Déjà Vu
‘Neath my Mississippi … Mississippi moon

[Repeat chorus]

They say old river pilots never die
When they go down with their tow
I reckon there’s a bit
Of truth to that old myth
Guess that one’s best left up to you
‘Neath my Mississippi … Mississippi moon

[Repeat chorus]

I come back to the river
Every time they make this run
To get me here all they got to do
Is see that Mississippi… Mississippi moon
To get me here all they got to do
Is see that Mississippi… Mississippi moon