Eagles in the Sky

Published in slightly edited form April 29, 2015 in Tulare County's Foothills Sun-Gazette

     Thanks to the Orange Blossom Festival and several class reunions, many of Lindsay’s eagles returned to the nest this past weekend, a remarkable homecoming.

     I had one on my porch Friday afternoon in anticipation of Saturday’s events, Stan Rice.  Some of you may remember him from high school:  fundamentalist, nerdy, ‘way-too-bright kid who is now a Christian Environmentalist in a way that is not an oxymoron.  Stan writes, teaches and leads evolution field trips in his parents’ home state of Oklahoma. “I just flew in from Tulsa,” he said when he called to let me know he was here.  “My arms are really tired...”  Stan still tells cornball jokes, but his heart is true and his mind is sharp as ever.

     Bob Puls’ brother David was also in town for his 53rd.  David’s lived Down South most of his adult life, and is the only person I’ve heard so far who can offer one reason why the price of ag land around here is soaring through the stratosphere at a time when you can’t live on the income from oranges and there’s no guarantee of water in the foreseeable future.  Everyone around here just watches with their jaws hanging open.

      I myself was not here for Saturday’s festivities.  I was singing backup in Porterville with “The Standlees,” Diane and Tommy, with Jesse McCuin on standup bass and me on tambourine, conga shaker and autoharp.  We’d managed to get ourselves booked for the Iris Festival before we realized we’d be missing OBF as well as two nearby rodeos, but it was alright. 

     There we were, singing in the rain under two little tents that shed their collected stormwater every time the wind blew, while the generator running the PA equipment roared and the feedback squealed and groaned.  Diane was belting out a line from “Master of the Wind,” and it sent shivers through me.  “Sometimes I soar like an eagle to the sky.  Among the peaks my soul can be found.  An unexpected storm  may drive me from the high.  It can bring me low but it cannot bring me down.”  Day to day, life sometimes can be daunting to Diane, but not when she’s singing.  Then nothing stops her.

     Later that evening Jesse and I were up at the casino to hear the Oak Ridge Boys.  They said they were glad to be here, and even knew where “here” was:  first they were in Porterville, then they started driving up, up, up.  “Eagle Mountain,” said one, “I guess that’s still in Porterville,” and all the Portervillians clapped and hooted.  But we were really nestled among the peaks to the east, the ones that catch the rain and save us our drinking water.  When someone announced mid-way through the concert that it was raining again, everyone cheered, including the Boys and the Mighty Oaks Band.

            Some writers have noted the brain drain in rural areas, and it’s not hard to notice on a weekend such as the last.  What these Brains have done, however, is leave the fate of their hometowns in the hands of people who, perhaps, have a little more heart and a little more faith in harness with their minds, and willingness to put up with the every day consequences of being attached to a place.  May our all our souls soar among the peaks.

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Trudy Wischemann is a writer committed to rural places in California’s Central Valley.  You can send her your eagle sightings c/o P.O. Box 1374, Lindsay CA 93247 or leave a comment below.

Stand Still

Published Oct. 15 2014 in Tulare County's Foothills Sun-Gazette


     Friday night, in Porterville, I had one of those moments of a lifetime, the kind where you know you’re home no matter where you are.  Writing about it now, I also know I’m home.
    
     I was singing with the Standlees, Tommy and Diane, with my regular singing partner, Jesse McCuin, playing standup bass fiddle.  We were singing “Stand Still,” a song recorded by The Isaacs in 2001.  Diane, with her beautifully clear, strong voice, was on lead; Tommy was playing his wonderful guitar and carrying the first harmony part on the choruses.  My job was to find the middle harmony note, to fill in the triad of the chords on the chorus, and then accompany Diane on the second verse with a kind of ooo-ing descant.
    
      As I moved to the microphone to join in on the first chorus, all I could do was pray the right note would come out of my mouth.  When it did, there was a release of energy I can still feel these three days later.  It was like finding the right word in a sentence, the word that makes the sentence sing instead of puzzle or conflict with the meaning lodged in your heart trying to get out onto the page.
    
     But it wasn’t finding the right note that gave me the thrill.  It was getting to be part of the music, part of the medium carrying the message.  I’d never heard the song before Tommy and Diane asked us to join them for the gig they’d gotten at Porterville’s Main Street Friday night “Concerts in the Park.”  I’d never even heard them sing before, much less the music they perform, which could be called an eclectic mix of old and new Southern Country Gospel.  It’s wonderful music, and they bring it to our ears simply and beautifully with trueness of heart that just shines.
    
     But “Stand Still” hit me right where I’m living, and opened a large window I’d had covered with curtains.  “Stand still - and let God move,” the chorus opens.  I have had so many instances recently when I felt completely confused about what to do, and felt conflicted about my confusion, only to be relieved of both conflict and confusion by going still and waiting until I felt the nudge.  The song reminded me that when I do that, I’m being led.
    
     Quakers have a saying:  “Proceed as Way opens,” and sometimes that happens by doors being shut.  But other times it’s as if someone turned on a light in a hallway you didn’t see before.  That’s what singing with the Standlees was like.
    
     Like so many artists in rural regions, we all make our livings doing something else.  Tommy works for Lindsay-Strathmore Irrigation District; Diane has her own dog grooming shop on Valencia; Jesse manages the mini-storage here in town, and I scan groceries.  But we sing to have a life, and we make music to help others enjoy or appreciate or understand their own.  So if you see Tommy or Diane or Jesse around, let them know you’ve heard they’ve got music in them.  And if you can think of a place where that music would do some good, let one of us know.
    
     But most of all, if you’ve got confusion and confliction, don’t know where to turn, where to go, or what to do, here’s my suggestion:  stand still.  Let yourself utter the two-word “Oh, help” prayer, and then just let God move.


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Trudy Wischemann is a flute-playing low alto who writes.  You can send her your favorite lyrics c/o P.O. Box 1374, Lindsay CA 93247 or leave a comment below.