Indescribably Delicious: The Dixie Dregs

In the fall of ’76 I was chatting with Paul Goddard, the eccentric and quite talented bass player of the Atlanta Rhythm Section. We discovered we both had adoration of progressive rock, and would have lively discussions about various players, bands, and arrangements.  During one of our visits, I asked him if he had any favorite new artists.  Without hesitation, he said, “The Dixie Dregs.”

Being a rock journalist and radio DJ of the progressive ilk, I prided myself on being up-to-date on all the current trends.  But I was stumped with his answer.  “Hmmm…I’ve never heard of them,” I responded.  “What is their sound?”

In his typically clever way, Paul paused, staring off for a moment through his Coke bottle thick horn-rimmed glasses.  “Well….they are indescribably delicious.”

He proceeded to tell me that they were an instrumental outfit that had just been signed to Capricorn Records (the home of The Allman Brothers, Marshall Tucker Band, Wet Willie and other southern rock jam bands).  “The Dregs blend together so many styles of music, and they do it with such a great sense of melody and song structure, you just can’t help but like ‘em, even if you’re not into musicianship. Their first album is to be recorded soon, so be on the lookout for it next year.”

Eight months later, I am the Music Director at WVVX FM, “The Progressive Rock Voice of Chicago.”  My mission was to listen to every single album that came to us, which, during some weeks, could be as many as thirty new releases.  When a box of fresh product arrived from Polygram, the distributor of Capricorn, I was buzzed to see an odd cover featuring some hippie-lookin’ dudes jumping out of an airplane: Free Fall by the Dixie Dregs.  Remembering Paul’s infatuation, I quickly moved it to the top of my stack of auditions for that day. An hour later, when the production room became available so I could use one for the turntables, I dropped the needle on the disc. 

I was immediately mesmerized by the cornucopia of genres that defied easy categorization.  The guitar playing of primary composer Steve Morse was incredibly varied in style, with techniques that was reminiscent of Jeff Beck, Gary Rossington, John McLaughlin, Richie Blackmore, Steve Howe, Chet Atkins, Leo Kottke, Roy Buchanan, and Neil Schon, to name but a few.  Allen Sloan’s violin had elements of Jean Luc Ponty, Kenny Baker, Jerry Goodman, and Charlie Daniels.  Keyboardist Stephen Davidowski was well versed in jazz, boogie woogie, fusion, and rock stylings.  And the foundation of bassist Andy West and drummer Rod Morgenstein was adept at complex as well as solid rhythms that kept everything in sync.

When I met with our air staff the next day to go over new releases, I couldn’t stop raving about Free Fall, and declared that it would become an instant classic with our listeners.  When asked for a description, I gave them Paul Goddard’s line, but they just stared at me.  I then pointed to the mini-review I wrote on the album’s cover: “This is the best rockabluesicaljazzgrass you will ever hear,” and then proceeded to play them several cuts. Their collective eyes opened wide, grins came over their faces, and I knew they had been won over as well.

The Polygram/Capricorn promotion rep was thrilled that we not only added the album in our rotation, but that it quickly moved into our Top Five in airplay within a week of release.  He told me the band had just been confirmed as the opener for Sea Level at the Ivanhoe nightclub in Newtown a few days later and asked if I’d like to go.  I don’t think a battalion of Satan’s minions could’ve kept me away.

When the lights dimmed and they were introduced to the full house, there was only a ripple of polite applause since most of the crowd was unaware of who they were, let alone familiar with any of their music.  I noticed a seat in the front row was empty and filled it during their opening number.   I was directly below Morse and watched transfixed as he played fluid lines on his well-worn Telecaster.  They tore through “Free Fall” and “Refried Funky Chicken” in quick succession, and the gentle greeting from the Sea Level faithful was snow building into well-earned enthusiasm.  In between various tunes, I would chat with Morse and West requesting other songs from the debut album.  They were amused that someone actually knew their music, and Andy even mentioned on mic that, “our one fan in Chicago is here,” pointing at me.  The crowd laughed along, but it was a communal joy in that everyone in attendance was quickly joining that clique.

One of the things that set the Dixie Dregs apart from most fusion bands was that the songs were economical in their composition, and actually had verses, choruses, and a bridge even though there were no vocals. This made the songs quite memorable.  It also allowed them to play most every cut on their debut since each tune clocked-in at between three and four minutes, instead of endless, meandering jams of noodling over one repetitive riff like so many jazz rock outfits of the day.

The one song where they did stretch out was the frenetic “Cruise Control,” which served as their set closer.  The incredibly tight exchanges between guitar, keys, violin, and bass that got shorter and shorter towards the song’s climax had the room full of musician-oriented fans whooping in exultation with each amazing volley. When the final chord sounded, the six hundred in attendance leapt to their feet in a mighty roar.  The Dregs had arrived in big way in the Windy City. You could tell the band was visibly touched by the warmth as they left the stage.

I worked my way over to the small dressing room off stage right, and waited for the guys to come out to help get their gear off stage.  They each recognized me from the front row, and asked how I knew so much about each of their songs.  I explained my position at WVVX and asked if they would like to do an interview on air the next morning.  With “aw shucks” humility and a bit of excitement in their voices they agreed.  I guess they hadn’t done many radio interviews yet, especially anywhere outside of Georgia. 

The next morning they arrived at the station quite early and we spent the better part of an hour going through many of the tracks from the album on air. Our rabid, serious music-oriented listener base soon got acquainted with the Dregs’ narrative of meeting at University of Miami School of Music.  We learned that Pat Metheny was actually one of the professors there and took Morse under his wing. They had recorded an indie album entitled, The Great Spectacular, as their senior project in the school’s small studio.  Only a few hundred were printed up, but one of them made it into the hands of Capricorn’s iconic president, Phil Walden, and they were signed shortly thereafter. Some of the tunes from that disc ended up being re-recorded for their professional debut, and some other songs, like the title track, would end up on future releases.

The guys were so down-to-earth and friendly, and the music so uniquely terrific, that our listeners couldn’t help but fall in love with them. The album quickly shot to #1 on our request lines, and all the retailers in northern Chicago, where the WVVX signal was strongest, couldn’t keep the album in stock.

A strong friendship was forged between the band and me.  Unfortunately, several months later, new ownership of WVVX decided to change the format of the station.  However, when I landed on my feet as Music Director at WMIR in southern Wisconsin, I was able to bring my Dregs devotion with me.  Whenever the guys were within a few hundred miles, I’d drive to see them and we would hang out before and after gigs.  Sometimes they were headlining smaller clubs like Harry Hopes north of Elgin, IL, or in Des Plaines at the Thirsty Whale. I remember a gig at The Electric Ballroom in Milwaukee when the guys from Journey came in to see the Dregs.  I knew Neal Schon from backstage visits over the years, so visited with them while the boys from Dixie were tearing it up.  Neal, Steve Smith, and company had become fans of their recordings, but hadn’t experienced them in person yet. They were duly impressed.

The Dregs second album, What If, built on the growing buzz, and by the time the third, Night of the Living Dregs, came out they were starting to earn opening slots on major tours like the Doobie Brothers.  I recall an evening at Alpine Valley Music Theater where they played in front of 15,000 and took the place by storm.  It was always amazing to see these humble guys transform an oft-disinterested audience into screaming, stomping, shirt waving fans by the end of their set with rousing songs like “Take It Off the Top,” “Country House Shuffle,” “Punk Sandwich”, and the electrified bluegrass of “The Bash” and “Dixie.”  The Doobies even had them come out and jam with them on their final encore, “Listen to the Music,” to great response from the throng. 

Steve Morse and I became the friendliest.  We shared a lot of the same favorite bands, and found out that we were both P.K.’s (Preacher’s Kids).  His dad was a Methodist minister, mine a Presbyterian.  There’s a bond between those of us in that predicament--especially those who grew up liking rock music in the 60s and 70s-- that is hard for others to understand.  Sometimes we would get into pretty deep theological discussions.  Steve has always been afraid to commit to a deeper faith journey because he saw so much phoniness from congregations in his teens.  “I just don’t want to be guilty of being a hypocrite,” he would opine. 

My response was, “Hell, Steve, we’re ALL hypocrites.  And I’m the most ridiculously contradictory one of the lot.   I think each of us has to come to that realization before we can accept God’s grace towards us.” 

At times Steve would get quite bitter because, for all their popularity--especially amongst musicians--they were still struggling with getting mass airplay and generating enough income to sustain a career. For instance, he was voted “Best Overall Guitarist” five consecutive years by readers of Guitar Player Magazine, and was retired from eligibility so other people would have a chance to be recognized (only Steve Howe of Yes had ever been given the same honor).  But at the same time, each of the guys in the band had to take up part-time jobs to cover the bills.  Steve would lament how many people would tell them they were huge fans and had every album, but they would explain, in nearly every case, that they had dubbed the music onto cassettes from someone else’s disc.  He figured they would’ve had numerous gold albums if people just bought them instead of copying them that way.

With the lack of consistent sales and airplay, despite being one of the most popular instrumental bands ever and garnering several Grammy nominations, the Dregs went through various personnel changes, and have become more of an occasional side project for Steve in the past thirty years. Drummer Rod Morgenstein got a good paying gig as drummer for late 80s/early 90s hair band, Winger.  Original violinist , Allen Sloan, went back to school and became a surgeon. Subsequent violinists included Mark O’Connor (who eventually became known as Nashville’s premier fiddle player), and former member of Mahavishnu Orchestra, Jerry Goodman. Second keyboardist Mark Parrish went on the play with many Broadway shows in New York.  His replacement, T Lavitz, later worked with Bill Bruford, Billy Cobham, and Widespread Panic (sadly, T passed away two years ago). Morse was a member of the band Kansas for a stint in the mid 80s, started doing solo albums, and eventually became the guitarist for Deep Purple over the past two decades. It seems like about once every seven years or so the Dregs will reunite for a short run of dates and record a new, freshly stellar, live album.  They are always greeted enthusiastically by adoring musicians world-wide.

Imagine my joy when I found out that Bill Evans, a music impresario friend of mine who helps manage the careers of Kerry Livgren (ex-Kansas), and Neal Morse (amazing composer, singer, and multi-instrumentalist formerly of Spock’s Beard), also got to know Steve. One thing led to another to where Neal and Steve (no relation) have ended up forming a new band along with rock drummer extraordinaire Mike Portnoy (founder of Dream Theater), bassist Dave LaRue (Steve Morse Band) and little known but quite talented lead singer, Casey McPherson (of indie band Alpha Rev).  The ensemble, known as Flying Colors, has recently come out with their first self-titled release to great international anticipation, and will be touring this fall. The conglomerate has progressive elements compositionally, but is also quite accessible and melodic.  With the band members’ individual acclaim, it isn’t surprising that the album debuted on many world-wide charts in the Top Twenty upon release.  So it will be interesting to see if things can finally click for Steve this time around.

One thing is certain, Steve’s original foray into the music scene in the 70s has provided me with some of my favorite memories from his orchestral arrangements and soaring sonics on guitar.  Savoring those intoxicating concoctions has been one of my favorite musical repasts.  Indescribably delicious, indeed. 

Title track to their first album, Free Fall, performed at the Montreaux Jazz Festival in ’78:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I33P03i_YA0

Spirits in a Material World

Eugene Peterson always helps me see in a new way…

G.K. Chesterton once said that there are two kinds of people in the world:  When trees are waving wildly in the wind, one group of people thinks that it is the wind that moves the trees; the other group thinks that the motion of the trees creates the wind. The former view was the one held by most of humankind through most of its centuries; it was only in recent years, Chesterton said, that a new breed of people had emerged who blandly hold that it is the movement of the trees that creates the wind.

The consensus had always held that the invisible is behind and gives energy to the visible; Chesterton in his work as a journalist, closely observing and commenting on people and events, reported with alarm that the broad consensus had fallen apart and that the modern majority naively assumes that what they see and hear and touch is basic reality and generates whatever people come up with that cannot be verified with the senses.  They think that the visible accounts for the invisible.

Having lost the metaphorical origin of “spirit” we operate, in our daily conversations (in the English language at least), with a serious vocabulary deficit.  Imagine how our perceptions would change if we eliminated the “spirit” from our language and used only “wind” and “breath.”

Spirit was not “spiritual” for our ancestors; it was sensual.

It was the invisible that had visible effects.

It was invisible but it was not immaterial.

Air has as much materiality to it as a granite mountain: it can be felt, heard, and measured; it provides the molecules for the quiet breathing that is part of all life, human and animal, waking and sleeping—the puffs of air used to make words, the gently breezes that caress the skin, the brisk winds that fill the sails of ships, the wild hurricanes that tear roofs of barns and uproot trees.

It would clarify things enormously if we could withdraw “spirit” and “spiritual” from our language stock for a while.

Superficial misunderstandings can be easily disposed of: Spirituality is not immaterial as opposed to material; nor interior as opposed to exterior; not invisible as opposed to visible.

Quite the contrary; spirituality has much to do with the material, the external, and the visible. What it properly conveys is living as opposed to dead.  When we sense that the life has gone out of things and people, of institutions and traditions, eventually (and sometimes this takes us a while) we notice the absence.  We look for a file-drawer kind of word in which we can shove insights, images, and desires that we don’t have a precise name for.  “Spirituality” works about as well as anything for filing purposes.

The frequent use of the word as a catch-all term is understandable in a society in which we are variously depersonalized, functionalized, and psychologized.  The particularity of each life is obscured by reductionizing abstractions. 

Life leaks out of us as we find ourselves treated as objects, roles, images, economic potential, commodities, consumers. 

Even though daily life is much simplified and made easier by these various reductions, something in us rebels, at least in fits and starts.  Most of us, at least at times, sense that there is something more, something vastly more. We need a word, any word, to name what we are missing.

(Eugene Peterson, Christ Play in Ten Thousand Places)

There is no political solution
To our troubled evolution
Have no faith in constitution
There is no bloody revolution

We are spirits in the material world

Our so-called leaders speak
With words they try to jail you
They subjugate the meek
But it's the rhetoric of failure

We are spirits in the material world

Where does the answer lie?
Living from day to day
If it's something we can't buy
There must be another way

We are spirits in the material world...

(The Police/Sting from Ghost in the Machine, 1981)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cDs9zbiumDc&feature=related

Goodbye Dear Brenda

I predict this Saturday is going to be one of the more bittersweet days I've experienced in a while.  In the south central volcanic hills of Guatemala I will be saying goodbye to Brenda Maria Leticia Tambriz Tzoc.  She has been my sponsored child thru Compassion International since 2000. And now she's graduating with high success out of the program at age seventeen, and getting ready to move into her young adulthood. This will be the seventh time we've visited, allowing us to become pretty close over this baker's dozen of years.  Here is the English version of the letter I'm giving her as we say our farewell's...at least for now.  We will both appreciate your prayers as it is bound to be a teary hasta luego. 

My Dearest Brenda,                                                                                    Aug. 2012

It seems like it was just yesterday that I met you for the first time at the Compassion office in Guatemala City twelve years ago. Do you remember that day?  We had a nice visit there where your mother gave me the first of many lovely woven gifts: a dark violet head wrapping, that I now use as a centerpiece on my dining table. 

We then traveled in a minibus out to Antigua where we toured through some of the old monasteries and had a wonderful lunch at a restaurant that had a lush, sun-dappled garden and playground. While we were eating you kept looking longingly out at the yard, and I knew you wanted to explore. When we finished our eating, we excused ourselves to discover what they had to offer.  No interpreter was going to be necessary. Because you were so tiny, we could hardly hold hands when we walked.  You had just learned how to skip, and so you gave me some lessons on how to do it properly.

When we arrived at the swing set, you were a mixture of excited and scared.  I sat down on the little seat and gave a demonstration on how it worked.  Then you took a turn, and were instantly giggling as you began moving yourself back and forth.  I positioned myself behind you and began pushing you a bit more with each return. Your gentle laughter turned into joy-filled squeals as you soared higher and higher.  The others back at the table could see and hear you, and they were clapping.  I then taught you how to use the slide and that was a great source of happy woops as well.

With each passing year I have been equally joy-filled watching you grow.  Whether from the updated photos, the progress in your penmanship, the maturity in your drawings, and certainly in the lovely time we have gotten to spend together in the seven journeys I have made to Guatemala. I want to thank you and your mother, Micaela, and other family members for making so much effort to travel long hours to see me, and always giving me a fantastic hand-made gift like my colorful jacket, the dress shirt, the vest, and the ornate wall hanging, just to name a few. 

I have a stack several inches thick of every letter and thank-you note you have ever sent to me, as well as hundreds of photographs from our visits.  Six of those pictures are framed and hanging in my home.  My favorite is in my main room where all of my friends sit while visiting.  It is that portrait of you sitting next to an ancient Antiguan fountain, where the mixture of your robin-egg blue sweater, sea green blouse, and the beige and rust painted wall all perfectly frame your flowing, shiny black hair, almond skin, and warm ebony eyes. Your gentle smile is the centerpiece.  You are no longer a little girl losing her baby teeth…you have blossomed into a striking young woman.  All of my houseguests always comment on how beautiful you are.

But your beauty isn’t just physical.  I recall how proud you were to write out all the numbers up to 100, and writing out the alphabet, and spelling your own name in your kindergarten and early elementary years. In successive visits you impressed me with addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division. With each successive year your letters showed refinement in your penmanship and structure, and your drawings grew in beauty and skill.  You also became a good basketball player.  In the early days I needed to lift you up high so you could make a basket.  Now you can shoot the ball with ease and accuracy, while dribbling circles around me.  As I look back on this dozen years, I have always been warmed to hear of your good grades as you were learning so much in school and at the Compassion Student Center, and to hear you speak of your hopes for a good future. Yes, you are a woman who shows beauty on many levels.

Thus, it is sad on one hand that our relationship as sponsor and child is coming to an end. But on the other, it is so exciting to think where you will be heading next in your life. 

Let’s not look at this as the end of our story together.  I would rather think of it as the close to just one chapter, and the turning of the page into many more to come.  I will be anxious to see more of how God will be moving in your life as more unfolds with each new season.

I would very much like to stay in touch with you.  Below is my mailing address.  I would like to get yours as well, and we can continue exchanging communiqués on our own.  And perhaps we will be able to visit more when I make my journeys with Compassion International to The Land of Eternal Spring that is Guatemala.  I pray you feel the same way.

In closing, I’ll recall how touched I still am by one of the picture that was taken of you and me inside the front entrance of your home in SololB of the central highlands when I visited in 2003.  Your mom had painted DIOS NOS AMA in bold purple letters on the wall next to the door, for everyone to see as they came and went.  That declaration, “God loves us,” was and still is evident in the fruit that has come forth in your life, Brenda.  And our God is hardly finished with you and your family yet.

“May God himself, the God who makes everything holy and whole, make you holy and whole, put you together—spirit, soul, and body—and keep you fit for the coming of our Master, Jesus Christ.  The One who called you is completely dependable.  If he said it, he’ll do it! Friend, keep up your prayers for me, as I will for you. The amazing grace of Jesus Christ be with you always!”   (First Thessalonians  5:25-28)  I love you, Brenda!

Under His Mercy,

Mark


Here are a few pics from our times together.  There will be more in the near future (my computer is fighting me on some downloads of great shots of when Brenda was tiny).

The Furious Grace of "Crash"

The Curious Souls group that I am part of is going to be watching and discussing the Oscar winning film, Crash, this coming Sunday evening. I've seen it several times on the big screen and DVD, and I still feel it is one of the more mesmerizing, gut-wrenching, and powerful movies of the past decade.

This multi-layered film starts with the lines “In L.A. nobody touches you…I think we miss that touch so much that we crash into each other just to feel that touch,” which sets the stage for a series of around ten sub-plots that all seem to interconnect somehow by the end of the experience.

Canadian writer/director Paul Haggis (who has won two TV Emmy’s for writing, as well as the Oscar earlier this year for Best Screenplay for Million Dollar Baby), paints a complex, passionate expression of racism and prejudice, and how they intertwine in cause/effect to lead to sometimes tragic, and sometimes transcendent results. Los Angeles is the best setting for this to take place in a twenty-four hour period, as it is perhaps the most cosmopolitan city in the world at this time—certainly the most within the U.S.

Crash features exemplary performances from an ensemble as diverse as Sandra Bullock (as you’ve never seen her before), Don Cheadle, Matt Dillon, Jennifer Esposito, Ludacris, Thandie Norton, Brendan Frasier (in a rare serious role), Larenz Tate, and Ryan Phillipe (among others).  The story is both gritty and heartwarming, shocking and soothing, tragic and magical—and it will ring more truly in your heart than just about anything I can think of that has come out of Hollywood in years.

Lives of the characters collide in ways unpredictable, and it causes each of them to thoroughly face down their own moral dilemmas.  They need to cope with the consequences of decisions made, actions taken, or, in some cases, lack of resolve to do what was necessary.  Most of the characters go through a metamorphosis in the process.

Jean (Sandra Bullock) states at one point “I thought I would wake up and feel better today—but I’m still mad.  I’m angry all the time…and I don’t know why.”  This brooding sense of acrid bitterness can overtake us all if we allow it to.  Crash helps us face up to how and why some of this happens.

The underlying questions of the film are: Why has our society grown so cold to affection and respect? Why do we so often gravitate towards hatred and paranoia as the standard for communicating with fellow citizens?

They are addressed with a thoughtful blend of melodrama and realism in a nearly seamless way.  There is Truth with a capital T humming just below the surface of every scene.  It resonates clearly with everyone I know who has seen the film.  Just as in real life, we realize that none of us are simply evil people…we’re not just products of our environment, our families, and our frustrations.  But rather, deep down we all ache in quite human ways to connect with each other, to protect those whom we love, but are stunted by our own fears, and often by our accompanying anger.  All of this is done in the intersplicing of story and character development as brilliantly as Robert Altman has done in so many of his works over the years.

There are many scenes that will be etched in my subconscious for years:  Jean going ballistic on her husband (Brendan Frasier) about her distrust for a Mexican locksmith, as well as bitterness over being car-jacked; Anthony (Ludacris) decrying negative white stereotypes of blacks as he steals automobiles; Daniel (Michael Pena) and his angelic daughter in a scene under her bed when she is frightened by gunfire in the ‘hood, as well as the heart-pounding sequence when they are dealing with a gunpoint confrontation;  Matt Dillon’s Office Ryan has two very different confrontations with the same woman—one despicable and the other heroic. 

There are at least five scenes in this film that build and build in complexity, pathos, and intensity to a point where you have absolutely no idea how it is going to play out.  That’s the real strength of Crash, it is so realistic to life and the unpredictability of it all and how we react to what is thrust before us.  Allow yourself to be taken on the ride—but be forewarned: it’s not a pleasure ride. It is unrelenting in its ferocity and rage at times (especially the first half).  It will cause you to think over and over “how would I respond any differently?”

We do not live in a black and white world (that’s not just a racial assessment).  There are so many shades of grey. There are many compromises that we need to make along the way. But most of us know what is the right thing to do—and this film reminds us that we can indeed act justly if we stop to ponder how our actions are affecting others…as well as ourselves.

Crash is not a “nice” film.  Racism is dealt with bluntly, honestly, and without reservation. Every character participates in the perpetuation of the ugly cycles, and they also suffer because of it. But there is a palpable sense of hope and redemption behind the shattering of cultures and furious intolerance.

After sitting in silence for a minute once the credits were finished, one friend said, “Everyone needs to see this film.”  

Should you be interested in viewing and discussing Crash with our Curious Souls group this Sunday night (Aug.12th) at 6 PM at my house, let me know and I'll give you all the details.

Harry Carey Taunted Me

Tomorrow I'll be headed to Chitown for another radio event, but will arrive a day early so I can take in my first game at Wrigley Field in over two decades with my old chum and co-editor of our high-school underground comedy paper, Scott Whitney.  I used to see many a contest there when I lived in the City of Broad Shoulders.  Of course, you could sit in the bleachers then for a buck.  It's about forty times higher than that now. But there's nothing like taking in the ambience of America's pastime in one of it's cherished old cathedrals.

Many know of my rabid, vocal support of hockey.  Others have seen me wax nostalgic with legendary tales of football lore with the 70s Steelers.  Some know of the great affection I’ve had for the fledgling American Basketball Association, as well as the terrific NBA battles between the Celtics and Lakers in the 80s. 

But it’s baseball that will always have a special tug within me.  Whether reminiscing about the Pirates’ amazing double play combo of Gene Alley and Bill Mazeroski, or recounting stupendous slugfests at Wrigley Field, or sitting with Fifty-three other lonely souls at Fans Field in Decatur, Illinois watching the San Francisco Giants’ Single A minor league affiliate bumble their way through yet another loss in 1972, or somehow retaining hitting statistics from players who have been retired for thirty years…baseball will always take the biggest share of my sports heart.

Part of the romance of the ballpark stems from the play-by-play announcers that captured my imagination as a little sprout.  Every summer night I would wander up and down the AM dial from my Ohio and Illinois homes listening to Ernie Harwell describe Al Kaline’s exploits for the Tigers; Jack Brickhouse’s friendly banter on Cubs’ broadcasts; Phil Rizzouto’s chatterbox style with the Yankees; Joe Nuxhall’s sign-off of, “this is the old lefthander rounding third and heading for home” at the end of each Reds’ game; and the inimitable Bob Prince’s zany metaphors for my battlin’ Bucs (“He couldn’t have hit that pitch with a bed slat,” and “that play was closer than the fuzz on a tick’s ear” were two of my faves).

But there was one character who was always even more colorful than the rest…one who perhaps more than any other defined an era of baseball with his larger-than-life persona: Harry Carey.  Many a night I would hear him on KMOX calling a Redbirds game in St. Louis.  When the muggy Mississippi River valley afternoons would send temperatures at old Busch Stadium soaring well above 110 degrees on the field, Harry was known to actually strip down to his underwear in the press box, and stick his feet in a tub of ice water while describing the action.  

After a run-in with owner Augie Busch (it is rumored that Harry had an affair with his wife), Carey was suddenly canned by the Cardinals in ’69.  He broadcast for the A’s out in Oakland for a few years, but eventually ended up in Chicago, going to work for another renegade: the unpredictable Bill Veeck, owner of  the Chicago White Sox.

In 1972, my church youth group decided to make the three hour ride north to the Windy City to see the Sox take on the Detroit Tigers.  The original Comiskey Park was one of the oldest structures in baseball even at that point (and it remained so until it was torn down in the early 90s).  The wooden seats had been painted dark green so many times that in some cases the openings between the boards were sealed-over and no wood grain was remotely visible.  All the screws that held each seat together and to the concrete flooring had long-since been encased in heavy duty all-weather Lucite.  Cement steps leading down each section had literally been worn down a few inches from millions of footfalls over seven decades of traffic.  The scent of spilt beer, stale popcorn, and rancid cigar smoke was imbedded in the place. And it smelled great!

One of the oddities of the stadium was that the press box was actually located at the top of the balcony behind home plate. Most baseball parks had the broadcast booths tucked underneath the upper deck...but on Chicago’s south side, the announcers were pretty much on the same level as the fans upstairs.

So when we learned that we could purchase seats immediately beneath Harry Carey’s broadcast vantage, we leapt at the chance.  Veeck had placed several loudspeakers on the outside of Carey’s booth, so anyone in that area of the upper deck could hear his call of the game.  You could turn around and see him sitting there, big as life, with his oversized black horn rim glasses, mussed-up white hair, and distinctive jowls flapping away.  Anytime a batter would foul a ball back towards him, instead of running for cover, Carey would quickly grab his trusty butterfly net and try to catch the ball before it could harm anyone.  Even if the ball was fifty feet away, he would toy with the crowd by waving it about—and we loved it.   

So there we were, all dressed in support of the various teams we cheered for:  I was decked-out in Pirates’ gold and black, Duke had on his Cub’s hat and sweatshirt, Jon had on his Cardinals gear, Mike had his Yankee pinstripes, etc. etc.  All of us had brought our gloves hoping to snag one of those wayward balls sometime during the contest.  My buddy Steve Samuelson was getting bored, and decided he would have better luck standing down along the aisle way along the first base line.  Sure enough, about ten minutes later, Detroit centerfielder Jim Northrop lofted a foul right into that region, and I saw Steve with his distinctive bright red St. Louis cap and warm-up shirt run over to catch it, only to have it glance off his glove and into the hands of a portly gentleman.

With head down, Steve returned to our perch overlooking home plate, and we teased him incessantly for the next half hour or so about his lack of fielding acumen.

In the bottom of the sixth, the mighty Richie Allen, who was at that time leading the American League in home runs, came up to bat again for the Pale Hose.  Catching a ball hit by him would be the coup de grace.  Of course, there were about 27,000 others in Comiskey that night thinking the same…so the chances were nil that we would be so lucky.

Harry was setting the scene: “Richie Allen, with twenty-two dingers to lead the Junior Circuit, could give the White Sox the lead with one swing of the bat.  Oh…for the long one!”  The first pitch was a ball, low and outside to the bespeckled right-handed slugger.  “Mickey Lolich peers in to Freehan for a sign…he knows how dangerous Richie can be.  Allen waves his 34-ounce bat menacingly as he awaits the pitch.  The crafty lefthander rocks and fires…there’s a swing and a pop up coming our way.”

Arcing at least ten stories above us, the ball spun high and backward from the batter’s box.  It had a great chance of coming down in the upper deck…in fact, as it reached its apex, we realized it had a wonderful chance of coming right towards us…and within the next few seconds I knew that it was coming straight down towards me.  

Harry reached for his butterfly net, while simultaneously shouting, “Here comes a free souvenir for a lucky Sox fan!”

As the ball began plummeting from the dark Chicago sky, framed by hundreds of white- hot 1,000 watt lamps in the light standards around the stadium’s ring. I lifted my well-oiled Rawlings Roberto Clemente Special above my head, aligning the ball’s downward trajectory with the soft spot of my mitt.  I was about to become the owner of an actual American League baseball endorsed by the commissioner himself, and touched by two All-Star players just a matter of seconds before. 

I was set and poised.  Being an outfielder by trade in Pony League, I had utmost confidence in my ability.  However, I didn’t normally have to fight with other people to catch a ball, and just as the precious sphere was about to nestle into my grasp, a balding man wearing an Ashland Oil work shirt thrust is greasy hand under my glove in his vain attempt to make a bare-handed grab.  The ball glanced off my leather, and careened off several other hands and shoulders before a curly headed little blond girl picked it up from the sticky cement.

“Ohhh…a young lad wearing a Pirate’s hat really bungled that one!” Harry barked out, much to the delight of my chums and the rest of the crowd around us.  Not only had I missed out on the prized artifact, but I had been slammed by a hero and a future Hall of Fame announcer.  The teasing we had given Steve over his muffed chance a few innings earlier was nothing compared to the needling I got the remainder of that trip.

I didn’t lose any sleep over it, however. I figure there aren’t that many baseball aficionados who can say they were taunted by Harry Carey.  

Ti Chape (another free chapter from "Embracing the Gray")

Preparing for my sixth visit to Haiti (and first since the earthquake), I’ve been in a reflective mood. Here is a chapter form my book, Embracing the Gray that explains my attachment to this struggling nation over the years:

After passing by the hazed eastern tip of Cuba, our American Airlines flight banked steeply to the right and within minutes we were passing over the northern peninsula of Haiti, so recognizable due to the heavily rutted landscape.  The French had not been kind when they ravaged the once lush western half of Hispaniola of all the mahogany trees and shipped the lumber back to Paris to make fine furniture.  Over 200 years later, the nation is still 90% barren, and what little good topsoil remains is being eroded into the Caribbean. We circled over the Canal du Sud strait approaching Port au Prince, a teeming city I had not been to in nineteen years.  As we touched down on the single runway “international” airport, memories began to take focus.

I had been to this second-poorest country in the world three times in the 80s.  In fact, my very first trip to a developing nation had been here in early 1984 when I was managing Petra. We had begun a relationship with Compassion a year earlier, and had seen thousands of needy kids find sponsors with their enthusiastic concert audiences and via album inserts. It was so humbling for us to meet some of the children we had been sponsoring, and to see the life-changing results that child development in a Christian environment could bring about.

A wiry American with a unique accent was our guide on that trip.  He had been living in Haiti for six years, assisting with various ministries, and eventually signing-on full-time with Compassion.  His deep, expressive voice had been influenced over his lifetime of being raised as a missionary’s son in West Africa, then attending various universities in America earning multiple degrees, as well as serving as a linguist in the Army on the Eastern Front of Europe. Along the way he had mastered seven different languages, and we heard him speak fluently and persuasively in the unique language of Haiti known as Creole.  Thus began a twenty-eight year friendship with the man who is now my boss. Wess Stafford has since gone on to become the president of Compassion International, overseeing an organization that has grown to twenty times the size it was then, now giving manifold assistance to over 1.3 million children in twenty-six countries.

I’ll never forget as we were sitting in some sort of traffic back up—a very common Haitian occurrence—along the N1 Highway near the coastal town of Arcahaie.  I snapped one of my all-time favorite photos: a little boy of about three with a distended belly from malnutrition, wearing a ragged striped t-shirt and nothing else, proudly hoisting his torn little hand-made kite on a ten foot string made up of whatever scraps of twine and wire he had found.  The breeze was keeping it only about five feet aloft, but he was as gleeful as any child I had ever seen.

Wess was seated next to me in our van, and noticed my fascination with the tiny urchin.  “Ah, yes…another little Ti Chape,” he observed. 

“What is a Ti Chape?” I asked.

“It’s a Creole phrase that many parents in these poorest areas of Haiti use with their youngest kids,” Wess explained.  “I’m sure you’ll hear it often over the next several days as we visit homes.  It’s a term of endearment…but it’s also one of a harsh reality that reminds everyone every time it is uttered of how devastating each day can be for people living on the brink.  Ti Chape means ‘little survivor’ or ‘one who has escaped death’.” 

By this time, several others from the band were leaning in close to hear what Wess was explaining.

As a very tenderhearted man, Wess could not conceal his passion for these people, and tears began to well in his eyes, and with a catch in his throat he continued: “Sadly, for the majority of the poor here in Haiti, the infant mortality rate is as high as fifty percent for children under the age of five.  So, often times parents won’t refer to their littlest ones by their birth name until they celebrate their fifth birthday, because they know all too well that many of them won’t make it that far.  While they are still in this most vulnerable toddler stage, they are affectionately called “Ti Chape.”  I guess it is overly painful to consistently call them by their real name for fear of assigning too much hope to their prospects.  This same phenomena happens, by different names of course, in other desperately poor cultures around the globe.”

I watched intently for a few more minutes at that toddler joyfully trying to keep his tattered toy buoyant on the air. Then we lurched forward in the traffic flow.  For the rest of our stay I pondered what his chances were really going to be within the next few months. 

Later that day, I saw my first human corpse abandoned in one of the filthy alleyways of an intense slum on the bay known as City du la Sole. It wasn’t the only one I would ever see in Haiti.  Even now, whenever I look at that tyke’s photo in my collection, it gives me great pause, and it was all coming back to me nearly twenty-five years later as we drove through the packed streets of Port au Prince.

On our final day of this just-completed trip, we drove out the N2 highway along the southern Massif de la Hotte peninsula, weaving past colorfully painted tap-taps (old pick ups converted into buses often over-loaded down with upwards of twenty people), soot-spewing diesel trucks, and UN troop patrol vehicles that help keep the peace in this politically unstable environment. 

As we pass tiny farms, my mind drifts back to meeting Horele Georges. He was the third son of a meager dirt farmer near the town of Miragoane.  Hector Georges supported his family of seven on a rocky plot about one-half of an acre in size.  He toiled with one emaciated cow nearly every daylight hour trying to squeeze each ounce of productivity out of that parched earth as was humanly possible.

When Horele was registered into the program at age five, he began learning new agricultural techniques that showed how yield could be increased dramatically with the help of better seeds, certain fertilizers, irrigation techniques, and so on. 

A year passed as he observed through a couple of growth seasons how the corn at the project was markedly bigger than what was growing on all the area farms.  Horele started asking Hector if they could try these processes on their crops.  At first his father just ignored him, but Horele persisted.  Eventually Hector said, “Son, I’ve worked this land in this way my entire life.  My father before me did the same, and your grandfather and great grandfather before them.  There’s nothing that can be done that we haven’t tried.”

But Horele knew that some of these ideas had not been put into practice…or at least he wasn’t aware that they had been while he helped his father every day before and after school.  So, he continued trying to explain to his poppa what he had been taught.  As it was just the beginning of a new planting season, Hector finally relented, and said, “Alright, Horele.  I’ll let you have one row of this section where you can try your silly tricks.  I’ll be surprised if whatever it is you try even survives the first heat wave.”

Taking what he had learned at the Compassion project, the little boy eagerly set his attention on that modest row of newly planted seeds.  Each morning he tilled and watered.  Each afternoon he blended in the fertilizing techniques he was being taught, pulled weeds, and watered more.

Eight weeks passed, and lo and behold, Horele’s row was two feet taller than the rest of the plot.  His daddy had certainly noticed, but kept waiting for the stalks to wither.  When it was apparent that indeed his little son’s crop was going to be substantially better than his, he sheepishly said “So, son, ummm…what is it exactly that they are teaching you to do?”

By the time the next growing season was finished, Hector Georges’ little farm was producing forty percent higher yield than it ever had.

I look back fondly on Horele, because he was a boy I sponsored for twelve years. And I finally met him less than four months before he was to graduate from high school, near the top of his class. His dad became so good at the farming techniques his little son had taught him that he became a regular volunteer assistant with each new class at the Compassion project.  Skepticism and even fatalism had been superseded by the youthful zeal of his child. Hector eventually ended up on staff at the project. 

Horele in his mid-thirties now, with a family of his own.  He’s a leader in his church and in his community. And on the same tiny scrap of land he’s still raising some of the best corn on that side of the island.    

It would be easy to assess that not much has changed for the better in Haiti since that visit in 1990.  There were still massive piles of stinking refuse at nearly every street corner.  Sewers were packed and overflowing with debris.  The charcoal based energy and cooking lifestyle was still evident with a thick haze that covered most urban areas. And tens of thousands of people packed every sidewalk and spilled out into the bumpy streets…just barely avoiding dismemberment from crazed motorists.

We were headed out to see one of Compassion’s projects that had been in existence for twenty-three years, but had just a few years before added a new program that is helping revolutionize our work.

When we arrived in the rural town of Papette, where the Wesleyan Church had become a real community center over the past two decades, and it was obvious that the one thousand residents had a deep respect for all that the Compassion project had helped them with over the years.

My little group of radio professionals and I were ushered into the sanctuary where ninety-three mothers and their infants had been patiently waiting.  It was amazing how quiet and disciplined the 120 or so little ones were—we commented amongst ourselves that the same scene in America would’ve been utter pandemonium. There was a look of gentle appreciation on the face of each young woman when we made eye contact. 

A handful of the moms came forward to give testimony to what had revolutionized their lives.  You see, over Compassion’s fifty-six years of existence, we’ve always been laser-beam focused on child development for kindergarten age kids through high school.  But in the past five years, we have launched a new initiative called the Child Survival Program (CSP), which supports mothers and children all the way from their pregnancy, on into infancy, and through the toddler years.

One of the young mothers, Irmice, had her little eighteen-month-old boy draped on her shoulder, fast asleep, as she shared with the crowd.  “I serve a living, loving God,” she confidently declared.  “If not for Him or Compassion, I, and certainly not my baby, would be alive today.”  She went on to explain the loving care and instruction she had received from the CSP staff, nurses, and social workers who showed her how to improve pre-natal health via exercise, nutrition, and supplements.  Then after her son was born, the encouraging practical lessons like proper breast-feeding, preventive vaccines, immunizations, and other medicines have continued.

On a subsequent tour through the CSP wing of the project we saw cribs, tiny chairs, baby swings, scooters, tricycles, a huge supply of learning toys and instruments, exercise mats, building blocks, and everything else you would see in a well-run education based nursery.  They even had weekly classes for social interaction/training and early literacy. For these moms, who come from households where the average monthly income is perhaps $40 at best, this is a sanctuary for their babies in the truest sense of the word. The CSP Director, Rose, explained how the tots were regularly weighed, measured, and examined to make sure they were within healthy parameters. There was a full pharmaceutical closet with everything a young mother could need for their child. Extensive files were kept on each mom and baby that was regularly updated with the weekly visits at their homes as well as at the project.  We were thoroughly impressed. And the results were obvious in the shiny eyes, gleeful giggles, and yes, even the healthy full-throat wails of some little nippers. 

We saw the wall charts that were proudly displayed showing the progress of each and every infant that had come through the program…and not a single one had died.  In fact, once the three-year-olds “graduate” from CSP, they then become eligible for Compassion’s regular child sponsorship that runs from pre-K all the way through their late teens. And all of them from four to five years ago were now enrolled there.

“What an ongoing blessing we have seen as Compassion has been involved here for over a generation,” said Rev. Thebaud, the aging pastor who had formed the church three decades ago. “So many more precious little ones have been saved physically and spiritually since we began partnering with you. I am retiring soon, and will probably be going to be with the Lord very soon as well…however I can rest easy knowing that things have changed so much for the better from when we started back in 1985.”

Outside the project, we saw some much healthier looking kindergartners sailing their tattered kites.  But they were in their school uniforms, with good shoes on their feet.  I always like asking these little Haitian dynamos their names.  It swells my heart every time to hear them proudly blurt out their moniker: “Pierre!”  “Camille!” “Sebastien!” “Monique!” “Alain!” “Simone!”  “Yves!”  I close my eyes and see a skinny tyke waving some big ears of corn yelling out “Horele!”

And when I asked these mothers on this day to introduce their littlest ones, there wasn’t a single “Ti Chape” answer in the bunch.

# # #

If you would be interested in reading Embracing the Gray: A Wing, A Prayer, and A Doubter’s Resolve, you can get it via Kindle for just 99 cents via Amazon.com here:

http://www.amazon.com/Embracing-Gray-Doubters-Resolve-ebook/dp/B004L62CN2/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1342572881&sr=1-1&keywords=embracing+the+gray

Or you can get it as a FREE PDF download at my website here (donations accepted):

http://MarkAHollingsworth.com

It is also available at most bookstores and internet sites in book form as well.

More Five Star Reviews for "Embracing the Gray"

I am so grateful for the positive reviews of my book, Embracing the Gray: A Wing, A Prayer, and A Doubter’s Resolve, that continue to be posted on Amazon.com…

Hollingsworth pulls no punches here. This is real, tough, faith in the trenches. The chapters dealing with family loss are heart-breaking and yet ultimately hopeful and full of grace and appreciation. One chapter (about a trans-Atlantic flight from Hell) had me laughing out loud, covering my mouth due to shock, the way I do when I read The Onion or humorist Dave Barry! I read the book in less than a week. For comparison's sake, my wife and I are still trying to get through The Shack after two and a half years. Get Embracing the Gray. 

-C.H.

Laugh, cry, think.  Embracing the Gray is fascinating. Mark A. Hollingsworth writes of his challenging life growing up in an era of great social change during which he is subject to even more scrutiny as a preacher's son. Added to that, his family carries extra burdens from multi-generational family problems with substance abuse. Despite this triple whammy (or maybe because of it) Mark's amazing life evolves as one of great joy, purpose and courage while questing for spiritual answers. I wanted to put this book down but I couldn't. This is a must read for anyone who admires books that cut thru BS. 
-K.C.

You may not recognize the name Mark Hollingsworth, but you’ve probably heard him on the radio, read an article he’s written, been a fan of a band he managed or at least heard of his employer, Compassion International.

Embracing the Gray is a beautiful journey of doubt, music, reality, mission and faith…or a lack thereof.  Through short stories from his work, confessing his renouncement of Christianity in college, destruction and restoration in his family, returning to faith, occasional looks at the every day … they are journeys and questions that I think we all need to consider if we really want to make our beliefs our own.

Walking through the gentle death of his father truly moved my spirit. I’m realizing that I’m not good at aging, and as I see my parents getting older I am forced to recognize how our relationship is starting to change. For Mark, the true realization his father was slipping was by beating him in checkers. For me, it involves deciphering recipes in the kitchen. It was comforting to look into not only what might be ahead, but to know that I won’t be navigating that road alone.

Out of the collection, the stories that truly touched me were his interactions with some of the least of these: a Kenyan girl named Mercy, a woman who broke rocks into gravel in India, children in Haiti who aren’t expected to survive so they have no names, the angel that showed up on Mark’s doorstep…all unexpected faces where grace is found.  Mark’s narrative is descriptive, yet open so I can remember the people I’ve encountered over my own journey.

The beauty of a well-written memoir is realizing all of our journeys interact.  And by looking at the lives of others, we learn more about our own.

Embracing The Gray is just such a book.

-L.L.

A journey toward meaning. This book shows that everything in life can move us toward meaning. I appreciate the author's willingness to expose his life on paper so that we share his journey. I was inspired by this to see my own life in a new way - which is all one can ask of a memoir. Lovely writing and full of humor, too. Five stars.
- S.A.

Mark's unique talent as a storyteller will have you laughing, sighing, & most importantly thinking ... often in the same chapter & sometimes in the same paragraph. I found myself making an effort to find "just a few minutes" to sneak in "just one more chapter", and know I will re-read it often. This is a book that would be enjoyed by & beneficial for everyone to read ... so buy it, read it, & share it! 
-B.D.

Something that I greatly appreciate about Mark and his book is his gift of story telling. It's one thing to tell a story face to face, but sharing an experience through the written word and making the reader feel like they are right there beside you is an art form. Mark is simply a fantastic writer. I found myself, like many of the other reviewers who have posted, not able to put the book down. I wanted to find out what happened next! This book has so many layers...it's deep and soul searching as well as light and hilarious. It's one of those books where you find yourself laughing and then running for the kleenex box. You will walk away feeling inspired, invigorated, and challenged. I can't recommend this book enough. Well done.
-A.G.

I continue to be humbled by the response the book is generating.  If you have read it and wish to correspond with me, I always interact with any communiqués.   You can also read many reader reviews (97% are Five Stars) at:

http://www.amazon.com/Embracing-Gray-Doubters-Resolve-ebook/dp/B004L62CN2/ref=cm_cr_pr_product_top

Embracing the Gray is still available for a limited time as a 99 cent Kindle download at that same link, or as a free PDF download at my website (donations accepted):

http://markahollingsworth.com/Node