M-G: 4.24.17 // Flashes of Sovereignty, Part 1 of 2

The air was cooler than usual on that spring evening as Beverly and I were having dinner with some dear friends at a Mexican restaurant. We were enjoying listening to a group of seniors playing country music that I recalled hearing when I was a kid, but occasionally, we heard some hymns that had left long ago in musically progressive churches; not surprisingly, the words were relevant and uplifting still. The Truth is always relevant.

The music seemed to settle our spirits in the stale, lukewarm air of the backroom of this dated place that struck me as having a distinctive musty smell of an antique shop. Eventually, the odor became less noticeable as this elderly lady sang her heart out among the circle of aged minstrels. We were the only patrons in the backroom while the rest “listened” from the front room in a cooler environment.

I think this frail lady had a lovely voice when she was young for the quality of her voice now didn’t match her appearance. She felt everything she sang, and we settled into enjoying the chit-chat with our companions, slopping salsa, and listening to those who loved playing the music of a time more meaningful to them than us, in this room fitting of a bygone era.

Like piranhas, Beverly and I were hungry and had already consumed our chips and salsa while waiting on the main meal to arrive. I failed once again to avoid getting salsa on my shirt; the lecture ensued! I had been longing all day long for some delicious decadent crispy lemon-peppered wings. And so, we feasted in this backroom, a side room actually, like there was no tomorrow without any conversational hiatus. It was a sweet fellowship of talk and trough!

With our bellies full, we took a short stroll, more like a waddle for me wearing a salsa-stained shirt, for about a block down to a nearby coffee shop on a corner that was pricier than Starbucks. Serendipitously, the establishment was hosting a solo guitarist/singer that looked to be far younger than his south-of-the-border counterparts that gathered together for the fun of it without a cover charge. They had no resume to speak of, only their love for music.

This coffee bean place was once a bank. It was a bit cramped but classy and clever with its glassy block wall designs, and its bank vault door that was actually still intact and wide open. Looking across from our table, I could look out the former teller's window. I told Beverly, “Look, Bev, there’s old Bud making a deposit!” She didn’t hear me for the noise. Inside the chamber of the vault was where they prepared their food. I commented that this had to be the “safest” food in the world to eat. I thought that warranted more than a few chuckles. I fired back with a hurried announcement, “There will be more puns coming; you can bank on it.” It died a quick death, too. So, I surrendered my comedic act, “I am not going to teller any more puns.”

We were allowed to stay for about twenty minutes to avoid a cover charge as we downed our caffè lattes while listening to this former American Idol contestant give his rendition of Midnight Rider by the Allman Brothers. He was no John Mayer on the acoustics, but I enjoyed his stylized version of the song first released in 1970.

My first cousin worked for the Allman Brothers. He was an incredible musician in his own right. I remember him telling me down in Macon, Georgia to make sure my heart was right if I ever was going to seek a Christian music career. During that time, the guitar was considered the devil’s instrument…. What about King David’s 10-string instrument, the lyre? According to my cousin’s experiences, there were manifold temptations in that business. I took him at his word.

Chasing lemon-peppered wings with a coffee bean concoction of raspberry and vanilla probably were not the smartest move on my part, like mingling pizza and ice cream in your gut, but it actually tasted pretty good though it dinged the wallet. I gave no thought to my age that evening until I walked into the coffee-aroma atmosphere. Though we were warmly welcomed, we happened to be the two oldest couples in the place; I felt like a fossil already lodged in sedimentary rock, and I wasn’t even dead yet. Here we were, four geezers grooving on the music of times past with people half our age.

It was no wonder we felt comfortable in Tortillaville. The singers were older than we were, singing songs set in stone, but so was the younger minstrel at Coffee-Beanville, singing songs written before he was even born! We were not as old as the former but definitely not as young as the latter. There is no place for those in transition like us, except in Rod Sterling’s Twilight Zone.

“You’re traveling through another dimension, a dimension not only of sight and sound but of mind. A journey into a wondrous land whose boundaries are that of imagination. That’s the signpost up ahead – your next stop, the Twilight Zone.”

I felt in the zone alright…. For “The times they are a-changin’,” were my feelings put to words by Bob Dylan in 1964; I was twelve. Alas, “Anyone over thirty is ancient” is more fact than fiction today. We were double ancient!

The dark blue ominous clouds were approaching fast from the north. Scattered sprinkles were already signaling the time to leave this place. So, we quickly gathered up our wits and left this zone of an oddity, returning to our vehicles and parted ways with our friends.

I took Highway 11 to Cleveland rather than I-75S, taking my time driving back and talking to my very best friend in the world. It had been a good evening in spite of feeling in between things of different sorts. The further the time stretched between the two; the more they shared a commonality, a season of beginning and end, all things human.

We made it back to town, and I decided to go down Keith Street instead of taking US-64 Bypass or APD 40 to our home. As I approached a major intersection at Keith Street and 25^th Street, the traffic light was still green as I went under the light and entered the four-lane intersection with two additional turning lanes for each direction. I am thankful I was under the speed limit and not traveling one mph more.

We had no idea that a driver was going to run a red light from a turning lane that was arrow directed only from the opposite side; there was no “left turn yield on green” sign dangling from above, only a no U-turn. I noticed a car fast approaching the west turning lane from the opposite direction the very moment I went under the traffic light. I laid on the horn when I saw the car starting to make a left turn in our path. The next thing I knew we were on an imminent collision course. I went into another zone of God’s choosing, all things God.

I slammed on the brakes making a hard-right turn in an effort to avoid being hit at my left headlight or at my driver’s door; everything went into slow motion. The words appeared in my mind instantaneously, “He is going to hit the left rear of the car.” I instinctively made a hard-left non-braked turn with my foot on the accelerator in the hope of dodging this misguided missile running a red light.

Then I braked, making another hard-right turn, and we came to a screeching halt about a car length away in front of a car waiting in the northbound turning lane. It was fast, furious, and fuzzy, but I think that was how the maneuvers went. All in a matter of less than a handful of seconds, I went hard-right, hard-left, and hard-right. As my adrenaline bled, I told Beverly, “I don’t think we made contact! Are you okay?” <><

To Part 2