"If today was Christmas Eve..."

I'd been posting these family photos to Facebook where they seem to land like a snowflake on an outstretched tongue.  Something about social media has gotten to me, in a bad way: The fleeting, scrolling, trending nature of everything, a post like a glare off a mirror to elicit a smile or provoke a thought then fades into the feed never to be revisited.  Here I can come back and remember.

The Huron River outside Hamburg, MI

From the vaults of Frederick H. Tank, Sr. via my father, F.H.Tank, Jr. and his preservation of these negatives:  Christmas & Days Past.

Little Freddy seems fairly pleased with the globe Santa left for him.

Grandma didn't much enjoy having her picture made by the time she and Grandpa Tank moved up to Traverse City in the '80s, so this is a rare, placid shot of her.  She loved to hang the tinsel though!

Helen (Jordan) Tank

Uncle Larry

Freddy & Larry circa 1948

My dad and his dad circa 1938.

My grandpa had a fine eye for composition and could nail an exposure. Back in the day, this took practice, persistence & patience, all of which he had.  This shot of my dad and my uncle is one of my favorites--Rockwellian and classically American--taken just after World War II when no doubt the future looked very exciting, indeed!

R.L. Burnside & Alan Lomax

Alan Lomax is well known as the pre-eminent field recordist and folklorist who helped bring the musical traditions of Appalachia and the Mississippi Delta to the public interest (setting aside his trove of recordings from around the world).  Together with his pioneer folklorist father, John Avery Lomax, their impact on American culture reverberates still. 

For a narrow slice of the Lomax legacy--and a subject close to my heart--collected here are films he made of R.L. Burnside of Holly Springs, Mississippi. I came to know Burnside's music after a series of late 90's remixes on Fat Possum Records and listened back from there.  On a trip to New Orleans, I spotted him in these historic photos, probably taken before he was ever recorded.

These clips offer a look into a verdant, peaceful place where, after long sweltering workdays, Burnside cultivated his sound, picking at home into dusk and playing juke joints into night.

The first tune below is from Sound Machine Groove, an album released in 1997 but recorded in1979 & '80. The film was shot two months before I was born.  In college, I listened to this song over and over--couldn't get enough of that shuffling feel!

Here Burnside's sons get into it.  You can imagine these kids playing along with their dad before they could manage instruments.

Those 90's remixed blues tunes, oddly enough, put R.L. Burnside on folks' radar.  It's where I first heard him, and in one of the tunes he calls out, "On drums, my grandson, Cedric Burnside...".

I've since seen Cedric Burnside playing live to a sparsely occupied venue in Athens, GA.  Most people there didn't understand the tradition that this young guy was carrying forward.  Despite the meager crowd, he was as solid singing behind the drum set as his grandfather was behind a guitar.

One of the comments under this video says it all:  Cedric Burnside is "the best example of a self-actualized person I have ever seen. Pure joy!" Here he is doing a mean hambone with longtime collaborator Trent Ayers.  See if you don't agree.

R.L. Burnside - bio and discography at Fat Possum

R. L. Burnside - Delta Boogie interview

Alan Lomax - at CultureEquity.org, field recordings & plenty more

"Pass the fetal learning, please!"

It's becoming quite the little vlog around here isn't it?  That's not intentional, but time does dictate the word count, unfortunately.  Here's a little something you might enjoy: interesting facts about in utero learning. 

This one goes out to K.A. who's been 'round town for a few trimesters now, pretty much. I hope the lil guy has been having some spicy, good times so we can enjoy habaneros and chili chutney and piri piri when he starts on the solid foods!  Ay!

And  N.S. I know you'll find this fascinating too.  Enjoy.

Well said, Kid!

After all the heavy subject matter here, I've decided some levity is in order. This track, a mash-up of sorts, was recorded in Michigan in 2005 or so (can't say for sure). The utter cuteness was too much for me to keep to myself. Enjoy Lea's extemporaneous interpretation of Dr. Seuss!


LeaPhraseMash by afctank

The Smell of Dish Soap in the Morning

When I lived in Washington, D.C. for a time with my brother, sister-in-law and then 2 & 1/2 year-old niece, I learned that the commonly regarded task of dishwashing could be a pleasure unto itself. This quiet revelation on work in general gave me insight that I've since tried to apply to all manner of tasks. And why not relish these menial, day-to-day actions; however unromantic it may seem, cumulatively they amount to the whole of modern life.

In ancient times, the reality of a task-based life was amplified all the more, and as such, one can regard monasteries, convents, priories, temples and the like as the blueprints for today's rejuvenating Yuppie-centered spas and retreats. The fundamental difference lies in the work itself; the modern spa culture promotes rest and glorifies the absence of work, whereas communities of old cherished the daily work that kept them running while incidentally nourishing their members' spiritual, physical, and mental well-being. The monks had it right as they kneaded the bread, broke clods in the fields, tended the vegetables, and combed their hairshirts. When no temptation glistens provacatively beyond the light of a day's work, then the work of the day becomes life and within that work sits the key to contentment.

So, Anna would tell me, as I tried to lend a hand after supper time, "No. Just leave it in the sink and I'll get to them in the morning." To my naturally obsessive side, this seemed contradicatory. Why not rest well knowing the kitchen downstairs sits spotless and ready for another busy morning? She explained that the task of dishwashing possessed some quiet joy, the warm water and airy foam, the repetitive motion of scrubbing, the cool and flowing rinse, that she relished as a way to awaken to the day. And it made sense but only after I started to be mindful of the secret profundity of the activity.

Yes, it is strange to talk about the act of cleaning bits of food residue or burnt, charred flecks of what was, just the evening prior, a phenomenal homemade meal, as something almost sacred and valuable as a daily practice by itself.

Note: The title was either that or "Zen and The Art of Dishwashing" but after a quick google search, I found a blogpost on some site that was actually proud to call itself "Redneck ..." something-or-other and so I'd rather the none-too-subtle allusion be to the classic, mystifying film set in wartime Viet Nam.

Tallulah...so intense!

This shot is from Summer 2008 after a good, long stay on Power Island in Northern Michigan. I think she looks pretty concerned that she would have to re-enter civil society after the free, wild time she'd spent on the island. She doesn't mind the boat, but I know at that moment she'd rather have been swimming for a tennis ball, for sure!

An Inherited Taste

I love pepper because of my mom. I love salt because of my dad. She always used to say that pepper makes it better and "You just have to add pepper!" He always added the salt silently, practically sneaking it underneath her nose so as to avoid confrontation, another trait I've inherited, incidentally. He did too many shakes until the plate looked snowed upon at times. Still, the taste popped then and I'm always seeking that effect to this day. She had Mrs. Dash, but that was a relatively poor substitute for the Earth's most abundant flavor enhancer, not to mention, as my dad was fond of pointing out, salt is a necessay mineral for the functioning of the human system. The spicy justifications abound!

Accounting for taste is near impossible, however some of mine do seem to have distinct origins. I'm very fond of the calming wave following a good bout of chile-induced fervor. Somehow the endorphin release after a deep burn is something I've grown accustomed to and something I crave, even in the wrong culinary contexts. No, there's no habanero dice going on the lemon-merengue pie, although the peaceful resolution tailing after the heat would still be welcome.

More to the point, this need for fire surely originated in the very vivid childhood memories I have of my Grandpa Tank downing entire jalapeno peppers in one gulp at the table of a favorite Tex-Mex restaurant. He seemed to be wholly unaffected, essentially immune to the capsacin in the pepper, that chemical that yields the pseudo-pain and subsequent endorphin response in the brain. The trick had to be in the method of swallowing the peppers whole; without chewing them up, the tongue never actually came in contact with characteristically volatile checmical compound in the wonder fruit itself. All in all, it was a dandy of a stunt that stuck with me along with my love of hot peppers!

I wonder if this would be condsidered a MEEM? Is this the right context for such inheritance of culturally and socially influenced traits? Maybe an expert will weigh in and help out here.

Tallulah's Eyebrow Calisthenics

Introducing...Tallulah !

Please enjoy a tiny glimpse of one of the sweetest little canines I ever did know...it's Tallulah y'all! Check her out in all her puppy glory racing up and down the trails of Georgia's Black Rock Mountain State Park.