Category Archives: Bound for Glory

My Dad’ll Bring Your Daddy Back Home Again

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I felt a feeling of some kind come over me like the chilly winds coming over the hot hill. I turned nervous and scared and almost sick inside. I fell down into Papa’s lap, hugging him around the neck so tight his whiskers rubbed my face nearly raw. I could feel his heart beating fast and I knew he was afraid.

 

“Le’s run!”

 

“You know, I’m not ever going to run any more, Woody. Not from people. Not from my own self. Not from a cyclone.”

 

“Not even from a lightnin’ rod?”

 

“You mean a bolt of lightning? No. Not even from a streak of lightning!”

 

“Thunner? Tater wagon?”

 

“Not from thunder. Not from my own fear.”

 

“Skeerd?”

 

“Yes. I’m scared. I’m shaking right this minute.” – “Mister Cyclome” from “Bound for Glory”

 

Thursday, January 10

My writing week in Woodstock only included one day trip plan – a Thursday visit to Great Barrington, Massachusetts, 90 minutes away, driving through the valley that connects the Catskills to the Berkshires, and home to the Guthrie Center. It’s too close to not go, but waking up to this view from my kitchen on that first full day didn’t make leaving the cottage an easy move.

From the kitchen door, through the sleeping porch, and there’s the mountains behind Ashokan Reservoir, where silence greets me as I put the water on to boil for my coffee. Why would I ever want to go?

But I’m going. There’s a hootenanny in Alice’s house tonight.

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There Once Was a Union Maid Who Never Was Afraid

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“Then more settlers trickled West, they said in search of elbow room on the ground, room to farm the rich topsoil; but, hushed and quiet, they dug into the private heart of the earth to find the lead, the soft coal, the good zinc. While the town of people only seventeen miles east of us danced on their roped-off streets and held solid weeks of loud celebrating called the King Koal Karnival, only the early roadrunners, the smart oil men, knew that in a year or two King Koal would die and his body would be burned to ashes and his long twisting grave would be left dank and dark and empty under the ground – that a new King would be dancing into the sky, gushing and spraying the entire country around with the slick black blood of the industry’s veins, the oil – King Oil – a hundred times more powerful and wild and rich and fiery than King Timber, King Steel, King Cotton, or even King Koal. – “Empty Snuff Cans” from “Bound for Glory”

(Since this week marks the 100th anniversary of Mother Jones being hauled to jail at age 86 for protesting mining conditions in West Virginia, seems like a good time to finally write about visiting her grave in Mt. Olive, Illinois, last July.)

July 3, 2012 On the eve of our nation’s birthday, I did the most American thing I could find: I drove by myself through rural Illinois to Davenport, Iowa, in search of Woody Guthrie at a Wilco concert with my friends Sam, Brianne, and Paul. I’ve made lots of drives north on I-55 through the sprawl of crops and wind farms. It’s necessary to get to Chicago, and to my in-laws in Michigan, friends in Peoria. And this time, a town on the Illinois-Iowa border. In nearly 15 years of making these drives, I’ve never followed the signs near Mt. Olive, indicating the Mother Jones memorial. Mostly because I had no idea what it meant or who she was beyond the brief biographies in my feminism books – badass old lady who gave what-for to people who needed it. Which, really, should be enough for me. Hell, Congress called her “the grandmother of all agitators,” so I have no excuse for slacking on my Mother Jones learning.

By this point in the Guthrie project, I knew enough to realize that Mother Jones was the original union maid, fighting for the same workers rights years before Woody was even born. Without Mother Jones, there might not have been a Woody Guthrie. And there would have been fewer miners and workers; her fight for safer, humane working conditions saved more lives than we can begin to fathom.  Continue reading →

Got No Fear in Life. Got No Fear in Death.

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I walked along, the day just leaving out over the tops of the tall buildings, and sifting through the old scarred chimneys sticking up. Thank the good Lord, everybody, everything ain’t all afraid. Afraid in the skyscrapers, and afraid in the red tape offices, and afraid in the tick of the little machine that never explodes, stock market tickers, that scare how many to death, ticking off deaths, marriages and divorces, friends and enemies; tickers connected and plugged in like juke boxes, playing the false and corny lies that are sung in the wild canyons of Wall Street; songs wept by the families that lose, songs jingled on the silver spurs of the men that win. Here on the slummy edges, people are crammed down on the curbs, the sidewalks and the fireplugs, and cars and trucks and kids and rubber balls are bouncing through the streets. I was thinking, “This is what I call bein’ burned an’ a-livin’; I don’t know what I call that big high building back yonder that I left.” – “Crossroads” from “Bound for Glory”

 

New York City’s not nearly as intimidating the second time, especially when taking the same flight as before and staying in the same hotel, knowing how to go about getting a cab with a driver who knows how to get to said hotel. It lowers the adventure factor, but after seven months of traveling, I’m nearing my adventure quota.

It’s the last weekend in October, and this trip should be simple. Two concerts in the same location - Pace University on the Lower East Side – on two different nights. Plenty of time to travel, get lost, get found, explore, and sleep, when I’m not immersed in Justin Townes Earle and Joe Pug.

My mother wasn’t quite as convinced that I was going to be murdered to death this time in New York. I’d like to think it’s because I turned 40 a week earlier and in that time have kept myself and the person I made with my body alive and well.

No, that wasn’t it. This time, she was convinced I was going to be decimated by the hurricane slowly climbing the eastern seaboard in a grim race with the blizzard creeping east over Ohio.

“Please tell me you’re going to cancel this trip,” she sighed into the phone the day before I left.

I’m no fool, Mama,

I know the difference

Between tempting

And choosing my fate.

Of course I’m not canceling. Not even an option. I grew up in Tornado Alley. With my mother. Fleeing for cover with a few seconds notice? Second-nature. The hurricane and blizzard are days away and trackable.

Woody Guthrie arrived in New York City during one of the worst blizzards in the city’s history. He did just fine.

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Guest Post: It Takes A Village To Kill A Fascist

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Such timing! Another great guest post while I play catch-up from Brooklyn. This one’s from Sean Rapacki. I’ve never met Sean; he works with my best friend at a library in Ohio, so I do feel like I know him to an extent. My friend’s told me stories. Good ones. Sean signed up at the beginning of the year to read “Bound for Glory” and write some commentary. Here it is:

Teen Librarian, Writer and Aging Indie Rock Fan, Sean Rapacki got his undergraduate degree at the University of Chicago and his big shot librarian degree from Kent State University. When he’s not helping teens find a good book or reading one himself, he still occasionally picks up his guitar and belts out a song or two. He lives in Ohio with his wife, stepson and rescue dog.

Reading Woody Guthrie’s autobiography in the year 2012 it is impossible to ignore how Woody’s time resonates with our own. Every Occupy protester seems like a spiritual descendant of the man who wrote This Land Is Your Land. But it is not the history writ large in Bound For Glory that effects me most deeply. Conversely, it is the history writ small that sticks with me: strangers sharing some scraps of food or passing a bottle, looking out for each other amidst the adversity. Hard times tend to bring the worst in our nature, and we’re not shocked when we read about a man getting beaten for his money, or even getting beaten by those in power just for the thrill of exerting their power, but spontaneous acts of kindness still have the power to command our attention. When, while riding the top of a box car, two children literally give Woody the shirts off their backs to shield his guitar from the rain, how are we supposed to top that with pedestrian tales of selfishness and greed? There is something so ordinary, so utterly banal, about the machine that would oppress us, and something so magical and yet so simple about the acts of giving that define our resistance. When a couple of kids with nothing to their names can reach out to help protect something that, to them, symbolizes hope and creation, how can we possibly doubt that we are truly bound for glory, however hard the road may be and however unstoppable the forces that oppose us may seem? Guthrie was undoubtedly a remarkable man, but perhaps his greatest achievement was to see past all the struggle to those aspects of humankind that make us worth the struggle in the first place.

Where the Beer Flows to the Ocean

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(Don’t forget – still fundraising to finish my research. I’m a smidge over halfway to my goal. Pledge if you can! Spread the word!)

“I been needin’ a little drink ta ease me on down ta Chicago.” I wiped my hand across my face and smiled around at everybody. “I shore thank ya fer thinkin’ ’bout me.” I took the bottle and smelled of the gasoline. Then I sailed the bottle over a dozen men’s heads and out the door.” – “Soldiers in the Dust” from “Bound for Glory”

 

Obviously, this blog ceased being chronological a long time ago. Events this summer came faster than I could write about them. Not a bad problem for a writer to have, although I’m not thrilled to have things so disjointed.

But sometimes, waiting works. I’ve been trying to write about my trip to Chicago to see Tom Morello on May 19, the night before the NATO convention and ensuing protests for three months, but have been in too much of a dead run capturing other events to do so.

Lucky me – I procrastinated long enough to make my Morello post relevant.

Gen X music nerds (hello) and guitar geeks know Morello as lead guitarist of politically-charged Rage Against the Machine. Here they are in 1999:

Current union supporters and people protesting on behalf of the 99% know him as The Nightwatchman – the personae he uses for his acoustic protest music. He’s been a fixture at Occupy camps and protests and union events.

When I interviewed Sarah Lee Guthrie last April, and saw her aunt, Nora, speak in early May, they both said the same thing about Morello: he’s the current embodiment of Woody Guthrie’s spirit.

Here he is two days before the NATO convention at the National Nurses United Rally in Chicago, after Chicago city and NATO officials almost denied the union their protest permit if Morello attended :

This one-man revolution? Republican vice-presidential candidate Paul Ryan claims Morello’s former band is his favorite. Last week, Morello said, “I don’t think so, Paul.”

I missed the nurses, but I still got a taste of the fervor. It was delicious.

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The Sign Said No Tresspassing. But On the Other Side …

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I just reared back and soaked in every note and every word of their singing. It was so clear and honest sounding, no Hollywood put-on, no fake wiggling. It was better to me than the loud squalling and bawling you’ve got to do to make yourself heard in the old mobbed saloons. And, instead of getting you all riled up mentally, morally and sexually – no, it done something a lot better, something that’s harder to do, something you need ten times more. It cleared your head up, that’s what it done, caused you to fall back and let your draggy bones rest and your muscles go limber like a cat’s. - “The Telegram That Never Came” from “Bound for Glory”

 

I’ve been to many music festivals. Even though I was only able to spend one day in Okemah for Woodyfest, I can say that it’s quite likely the most musician-centric festival I’ve seen. The crowds were small on Thursday, but the focus was definitely on music. Not on trying out the latest home video game unit, or sideshows or any other crap. It was music. From buskers on the street to open mic at Lou’s Rocky Road, and afternoon sets at Brick Street Cafe. Music was everywhere, as were hardcore music lovers from little kids to elderly folk.

One of the smartest festival-planning moves I’ve ever seen: all the daytime sets were inside. Because it was 100 degrees. Perfect! Since the earlier acts tend to attract smaller crowds anyway, it was an idea set-up. I got into town later than expected, and spent more time roaming downtown (buskers, statue pilgrimage, visiting my brick on the new Grammy Museum monument, eating tacos), so I didn’t catch as much music at Brick Street as I would have liked. By the time I made it there, I was wobbly from the heat and adrenaline.

Since Brick Street not only offered free live music, but also wifi for the reporters (and free lunch! Which I unfortunately missed.). I did triple-duty: music, work, and hydration.

Not a bad work day, if you can swing it.

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Just a Wandrin’ Worker, I Go From Town to Town

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I said, “I like the way you play that guitar with your fingers! Sounds soft, and you can hear it a long ways off. All of these three hills was just ringing out with your guitar, and all of these people were listening to you sing.”

 

“I saw them listening,” one sister said.

 

“I saw them, too,” the other sister said.

 

“I play with a flat celluloid pick. I’ve to be loud, because I play in saloons and, well, I just make it my job to make more noise than they make, and they’re sorry for me and give me nickels and pennies.” - “The Telegram That Never Came” from “Bound for Glory”

I left the crush of the press at the historical society with thoughts of lunch. Earlier I’d noticed a Mexican restaurant two doors down from the Woody Guthrie statue. I don’t recall this restaurant being there during my visit in March, so I took it as a sign that my Guthrie tribute/al pastor streak was meant to continue.

I crossed the street by the Crystal Theater, with its “Welcome to Woodyfest” marquee, giving a small nod to the busker sitting on the sidewalk. His can held a sign reading, “Traveling broke but happy.”

This is why I’m not a real reporter: I got all the way across the street before I considered that perhaps I should visit with this fellow.

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A Hot Old Dusty Highway for a Dust Bowl Refugee

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By Robin Wheeler

And so the week of centennial celebrations is over. I’m a little sad, but I’m also happy to rediscover these things I’d forgotten. Namely, my family, and this blissful thing called “sleep.” Have you tried it? It’s awesome! I partook in around 14 hours of it on Sunday.

Lots of you are coming here for the first time after hearing me blab about my project at Woodyfest on Thursday, Corey Woodruff’s photo exhibit on Friday, or the KDHX benefit on Saturday. I appreciate the growing interest in this project so much, and I love hearing what others have to say about Guthrie and his influence. This project didn’t start as a way for me to run my mouth about my experiences; it was originally a way for as many people as possible to express their thoughts about Woody and his work. Got something you’d like published on the blog? By all means email it (boundforglory100 at gmail.com) and I’ll post it. It started out as thoughts on his book “Bound for Glory,” but I’ll gladly take anything you have to say. One of the many things I’ve learned: Guthrie can’t be surmised from one single piece of his work.

I’ve been really lazy about pointing out our Facebook presence. Of course we have a Facebook page, and I’ve been posting a lot of extra goodies on it. As have the people who’ve followed the page. Perfect example: this weekend a fan from the Netherlands posted that a local band played “Worried Man Blues” for Guthrie’s birthday at a gig on Saturday, then posted a video of the band on our Facebook page:

Want to see exactly how music transcends language, countries, continents, genre? There it is.

Where we we last? A hotel room outside Tulsa, last Thursday. I started writing this at Woodyfest Thursday night.

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Riding in My Car Car

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By Robin Wheeler

A mile or two of up-grade, and the tank was empty. The driver throwed the clutch in, shifted her into neutral, and kept wheeling. The speed read thirty, twenty, fifteen – and then fell down to five, three, hour, five, seven, ten, fifteen, twenty-five, and we all yelled and hollered as loud and as long as our guts could pump air. Hooopeee! Made ‘er! Over the Goddam hump! It’s all downhill from here to Alamagordo! To hell with the oil companies! For the next half hour we won’t be needing you John D.! We laughed and told all kinds of good jokes going down the piny-covered mountain – some of the best, wildest, prettiest fresh-smelling country you could ever hope to find. And it was a free ride for us. Twenty miles of coasting.

- “Off to California” from “Bound for Glory”

No, I’m not in California again. I’m in Tulsa again.

When I started this project at the beginning of the year, I didn’t anticipate traveling all over the place for it. I didn’t even travel to the bookstore to buy “Bound for Glory” – I totally cheated and bought an electronic version. Which explains why I’m able to include quotes in all of my posts. Keyword searches in electronic books might be the best invention of the century.

I’m babbling. Because it’s 11 pm last night (Wednesday. I think.) I drove eight hours today. Four with my daughter, four without. I left her with my parents in Springfield, Missouri. I think. It was a long time ago.

I think I’ve hit the point where I’ve done enough solo traveling to push myself into a slightly new dimension. Once I’ve been alone and traveling for a few hours, I start noticing weird things. Or weird things start appearing. I don’t know – maybe the things I notice are there all along, but I’m too distracted by my own people to notice. Being a lifelong fan of solitary pursuits, I learned long ago that weird things rarely happen when you’re coupled or grouped. The loner is the target.

And this is why I love traveling by myself,

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“Empty Snuff Cans” – Chapter Two

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By Kim Gutschmidt

Chapter two of Bound for Glory introduces us to the Guthrie family and his hometown of Okemah, Oklahoma.  It begins with his birth in 1912 and he explains that he was named Woodrow Wilson Guthrie in honor of the soon-to-be President Wilson.

Okemah, in his childhood, was a small farming community of around 1,000 citizens.  Woody claims that everyone knew just about everyone else and the reader sees as the chapter progresses how that fact can be both an advantage and disadvantage.  Much is made of the reputation and impressions people living in Okemah leave on each other.

Woody had two older siblings, Clara and Roy, and an amusing part of the chapter tells of how a toddler Woody attempted to follow his brother and sister to school.  It reminded me of my own envy of seeing my older siblings go off to school each morning and I was left to entertain myself.  Woody composed his first little song while waiting for Clara and Roy to come home, the pickets in the fence his audience.

In the chapter Woody’s father, Charles, was a successful businessman dealing in land purchases and it was a source of pride for the family that they were able to live in a fine home and were able to purchase anything they desired at local merchants just by signing their names to a charge slip.

As in the first chapter, we see the theme of conflict in chapter two.  Charles Guthrie is described by Woody as being a fighter in his land deals.  Woody writes, “Papa was a man of brimstone and hot fire in his mind and in his fists and was known all over that section of the state as the champion of all the fist fighters.”  Woody’s mother, Nora, seems to have a more gentle nature.  Woody describes her as one who taught the children songs and ballads and stories and to “…always try and see the world from the other fellow’s side.” His father, however, “…taught us never and never to allow any earthly human to scare us, bully us, or run it over us.” It seems that those early lessons from his parents taught Woody to use his love of music and storytelling to fight for and demand fair treatment and to encourage others to stand up against wrong.

Another theme continued from the first chapter is one of cooperation between others in order to solve a dilemma that, on the surface, seems near impossible.  Woody tells a rather funny story of him trying to best a playmate and in his eagerness to be higher and therefore superior to his playmate, Woody finds himself literally up a tree and unable to get down again.  It’s the cooperation of other children in town, along with the incentive of a reward, that gets him back on the ground.

Although chapter two has charming and lighthearted stories contained within (the conversation Woody has with his mother after his tree rescue is especially sweet), there’s a dark cloud that seems to be gathering along the horizon for the family.  It seems that sadness will come to the Guthrie family before too long.