My heart aches for the people of the state to our North. But I am also so proud of the strength and courage by the residents who live there. So I decided to rework an old song of mine to suit the times. The haunting viola and harmony vocals are from my dear friend and Weary Ramblers partner, . Thank you, Kathryn. I pray for a peaceful resolution to the senseless atrocities that have fell upon this beautiful state.

America is with you, Minnesota. You continue to inspire.

MINNESOTA (edited for 2026)

Way up in Minnesota
Where the stars are frozen bright
Way up in Minnesota
Where the stars are frozen bright
We sing ourselves a love song because we all need love tonight 

There was something in the woods
Hidin’ in the tall, dark trees
Something in the woods, mama 
Hidin’ in the tall, dark trees
And we dropped our lantern when we ran away
Now we cannot see

But Lo, the wind, she’s howlin’
Across the prairie lands
Lo, the wind, she’s howlin’
Across the prairie lands
We're still searching for that ribbon
The wind had taken out of our hands

We spoke to one another
Each in our own dreams
We spoke to one another
Each in our own dreams
But now we can’t fall back to sleep
We're wide awake wondering what it all means

Way up in Minnesota...
Way up in Minnesota…
We sing ourselves a love song

Thank you for reading and listening! Please consider a paid subscription to this page. I support my family through creative pursuits and it means a great deal to me. Thank you!

Chad Elliott

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Iowa Writers Collaborative Roundup

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By Julie Gammack

I am a 51 year old straight, white man who was raised by a feminist single mom.

I have always considered myself an ally in protecting women’s rights. Over the last decade, I’ve done some serious soul searching as to what that means, deep down, for me. After all…we are all born into belief systems and I’m grateful that I was born into one of empathy, understanding and equality. But I don’t want to blindly follow anything so I am digging deeper to understand my belief systems.

Learning new perspectives while living in privilege can sometimes be like looking at constellations through the narrow sliver of solar eclipse viewers. There are many blind spots on the path towards illuminating your own ignorance. Most (if not all) of which come from human error…like pride, ego and plain stubbornness. Nobody likes to admit they are wrong.

I read a Margaret Atwood quote recently and her words opened my perspective a little more to understand how a woman experiences the world. The quote?

“Men are afraid that women will laugh at them. Women are afraid that men will kill them.”

When I mentioned those words to the women in my life, they affirmed this sentiment.

This got me thinking about the videos of the shooting of Renee Good. Masked men approaching her vehicle with guns and shouting at her. Her wife was standing up to the shooter telling him “Go get some lunch, big boy.” The seconds before the shots were fired feel like a pressure bomb waiting to explode. We hear Renee calmly say, “I’m not mad at you.”

These events all lead up to her trying to escape the aggressive attempts to open her door by several masked men. She turns the wheels AWAY from them and steps on the accelerator. Bang! Bang! Bang!

Horrific. Tragic. Murder. Then came his chilling words from the shooter. He said, “Fucking bitch”.

This made me sick to my stomach and left me with no doubt his state of mind. The blind anger, callousness and privilege of this ICE agent are the most damning evidence against the government’s attempts to cover up this tragedy.

Like all Americans with any amount of empathy, I am left reeling with emotions and thoughts wondering what I should do to dissent this government’s corrupt and immoral actions. So I just keep writing songs. It helps me process these troubling times.

This song is about another phrase I kept hearing in the media to appease the MAGA interviewees on several news stations. They kept calling the videos a Rorschach Test. As if there were any grey area to the evidence we can all clearly see with our own eyes. I decided this would be my title.

This is “Rorschach Test”.

RORSCHACH TEST

Thank you, Margaret Atwood 
Your words stay with me still 
That men are afraid of being laughed at 
And women are afraid of being killed

I’ve heard it said that men are lonely
But women are lonely too
Lonely and tired from being held down
Beneath the sole of man’s great shoe

Or hell, they’re tired of a scalpel
Surgically removing their rights
I keep replaying Margaret Atwood’s wise words
Over and over tonight

Because a Minnesota mother named Good
Was just shot three times in the face
By a lonely and angry masked, white man
Who wouldn’t get out of the way

Sister Good, Sister Good we all heard you
With your wife standing strong too
The last words you spoke were in kindness
You said, "I am not mad at you"

Then he shot her and called her a fucking bitch
And her car rolled away down the street
With her dog in the backseat as she bled out
In defense of our American dream

They kept calling it a Rorschach Test
But the images were clear as can be
To anyone without an agenda
and two clear eyes that can see

Thank you, Margaret Atwood 
Your words stay with me still 
That men are afraid of being laughed at 
And women are afraid of being killed

Thank you for reading and listening! Please consider a paid subscription to this page. I support my family through creative pursuits and it means a great deal to me. Thank you!

Chad Elliott

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By Julie Gammack

With yesterday’s news from Minneapolis, we were faced with a senseless tragedy. Waves of sadness and anger rippled across our nation. What came after the initial video was gas lighting like never seen before…from our president and from his people. I sat for 24 hours filled with sadness and a sense of futility. Watching Kristi Noem and Donald Trump blame the innocent woman who was murdered filled me with such anger…I turned off the tv. How twisted can a person be?

What action can I take?

Who am I to say anything?

I need to write something, but what? I can’t even begin to express all the emotions I’ve felt this past day.

I decided a letter from Kristi’s dog, Cricket was the back door to some kind of approach at using my voice of dissent.

A LETTER FROM CRICKET

Tell me, who twisted your heart
To do what you've done to me
With a gun on your hip and a sneer on your lip
And eyes empty as can be

Tell me who made you this way
Make it make sense to me
You're as cold as ice, spreading your lies
Saying don't trust what your own eyes see

But wasn't I a good dog?
Didn't I do what dogs do?
Didn't mean to be a pain. Couldn't I have been trained?
Master, tell me, who twisted you?

My hunger got the best of me
I only wanted a hen or two
I am no danger, what I did was not in anger, 
I'm sorry if I embarrassed you

How can you look into these sad eyes
And still pull the trigger and shoot
Are you missing that part everyone calls a heart
Tell me the truth…tell me tell me who
Who, oh who twisted you

Thank you for reading and listening! Please consider a paid subscription to this page. I support my family through creative pursuits and it means a great deal to me. Thank you!

Chad Elliott

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By Julie Gammack

The struggle is real. To go deep, not wide.

I have been on this path for a long time. Conventional wisdom says that art, music and poetry will forever be cast to the wayside of obscurity if the artist does not chase the audience, hen peck them into paying attention and monetize the whole damn deal. But then…conventional thinking is not how great art is made, is it?

Each artist, writer, musician makes a choice, consciously or unconsciously: To chase a large crowd with surface connection, or earn a small crowd with deep connection.

I chose the latter on pure instinct. From the beginning of my music career, I chose small listening rooms instead of beer soaked clubs. Coffeehouses instead of beach parties. Wedding services instead of wedding dances. As an artist, I left grad-school halfway through because I felt the strangle hold of academia on my creative mind. I felt my link to inspiration slowly withering and my artistic expression was drifting into my mind, away from my heart. Thank God I had teachers, especially my mom, who taught me about this decision and the challenges that would come from choosing the road less traveled. It has made all the difference.

But that is not to say that it is easier now that I have decades behind me of finding my way through the weeds. In fact, the path is, by design, more full of bramble than ever. I get lost, frustrated and want to give up a lot of the time. But, it is in my most desperate hour that I am reminded of why I do this…creative thing. I never sought an audience for this in the beginning. I did everything I do now from the purest joy I had known as a frustrated kid. Lying on the living room floor sketching with a well sharpened Ticonderoga pencil, singing harmonies to James Taylor records in my messy room, or writing poems in the woods…each were open doors on my journey into the one place of peace I found early on. I protected that place from every form of conventional wisdom.

The struggle with this “business” has been wearing on me. I’ve had several dark nights of the soul. Hell…I had one last night. This past year has challenged my thinking on this path. I remind myself, over and over…success is not a numbers thing. It is an alignment thing.

So I will keep going deeper. Because, I am still that little kid who loved to draw and sing, even when no one was watching or listening.

Here is my first song for the year. It is about the ever present challenge of staying true to yourself. Pardon the rough phone recording. Someday I’ll get a better recorded version.

Enjoy!

THE GREAT PRETENDER

You open the door to let in the light
The cold is hell on your skin
Remember the days you were a friend of the night
But you promised not to go back there again

So you twist and you turn yourself into knots
Like your in some Vegas show
You are the great pretender, once the number one contender
Saying, “I hope you all enjoyed the show
But it’s time for me to go. It’s time to go.”

You wrestle with the devil while your babies sleep
You bite your lip to keep from making sound
But your salty tears betray you, as they make their own escape
It seems everyone wants to leave this town

So you twist and you turn yourself into knots
That only scouts and sailors would know
You are the great pretender, once the number one contender
Saying, “I hope you all enjoyed the show
But it’s time for me to go. It’s time to go.”

Thank you for reading and listening! Please consider a paid subscription to this page. I support my family through creative pursuits and it means a great deal to me. Thank you!

Chad Elliott

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By Julie Gammack

The first time I portrayed Santa Claus was for my older sister’s Kindergarten classroom. I was 19 years old, 6’2” and 180 pounds and I could not yet grow facial hair. Not a very convincing St. Nick.

I vaguely remember my sister warning me that I would have to park at a certain spot near the school as it was a very small community school which had a 180 degree window view on ground level around the classroom she was in. So in order to surprise the children it would be paramount not to be seen. I drove through the icy winter morning in my beat up old 1985 Toyota Tercel, scraping the interior of my windshield as the defrost was not very efficient in the frigid temperatures. It didn’t help that I was putting off a lot of condensation beneath the pearly nylon beard and wig. It made me feel claustrophobic and anxious knowing that I would be representing Christmas for about 50 children for the rest of their lives. I kept asking myself what I was thinking by agreeing to do this? That is a lot of pressure for a 19 year old college kid.

Nonetheless, I barreled down the small, country highway which led to the town of Minden, IA. I waved at passing cars laughing nervously to myself as families did double takes down the highway. I imagined parents explaining away the image of Santa sputtering down the road in a light blue and slightly rusted Japanese Economy car to their young ones about how his sleigh must have broken down.

I roared up to the school and immediately regretted my parking situation. But I was also running late with no time to waste moving to a new space. So I wandered up the open lot which led to the door of the classroom. I could already hear the shrieks and shrill screams, “Santa! Santa!”

I did my lowest, “Ho, Ho, Ho.” and suddenly realized that I should’ve done more preparation. I had done improv acting and spent plenty of time in the theater growing up, but this role was different. There are certain protocols. Memories are being made and if I forgot to say certain things in a certain way, I could ruin Christmas for these Kindergarteners!

For those of you who have not portrayed Kris Kringle, I am going to let you in on a little secret. It is all about capturing the persona. But also, perhaps even more importantly, you must have a firm grip. Imagine strangers handing off their most precious gift they have ever received in life while it is wriggling and screaming not wanting to be with you at all! All the while, your grip is impeded by cotton gloves but you can NOT drop them. You must be calm, jolly and answer strange questions about your fictional life in a faraway land. In short, you must lie….lie right through your teeth, and through that cheap, general store, nylon beard. The more fanciful the lie, the better, as to make sure the character you are creating has mystique and depth.

Of course, the usual dialogue then occurs, “Have you been a good boy/girl? What would you like me to bring you for Christmas?”. You sometimes get some very original answers, but not always...no even often. You must act genuinely surprised when the children after the first in line asks for the exact same thing as the kid before them. It happened this day in my sister’s classroom. Every child wanted a toy tractor. EVERY. SINGLE. ONE.

I eventually got pretty comfortable during my first time portraying the iconic figure. I unloaded prepackaged gifts for each of them and thoroughly enjoyed our 30 minutes together. I acted as jolly as I could muster, but then I decided it was time to go. I would quit while I was ahead.

I stepped out onto the icy pavement, still in character waving at the children in the windows. Their little red faces were pressed up to the glass lining the building like ornaments bobbing up and down still giddy with excitement to have met a celebrity of such caliber.

I kept walking, every once in awhile turning around to wave at them some more. I had pulled it off! I felt a sense of pride to have not completely botched it up for those kids’ sake and my sister’s sake.

The ice crunched beneath my snow boots as I got closer and closer to the car. My car! The kids could still see me! They would know I was an imposter! A few would most certainly begin to doubt if Santa Claus even existed!

My mind raced…”Should I turn around once more? Do I just keep walking down the street?”. I had to decide quickly.

I got to my driver’s door and stopped for a second. I took a deep breath and turned around hoping that class had resumed. But as I turned, my fears were confirmed. There they were...the little elves were all lined up and waving at me just as thrilled as when I stepped into the classroom.

I then did the only thing I could think to do at 19 years old, dressed as Santa in Minden, IA. I threw my hands up into the biggest shrug like a silent movie actor and waved a really big “around-the-world” wave as if to say, “I’m outta here!”. My boots squeaked as I wheeled about, opened the creaky, driver’s door and after three attempts to start the engine I finally sputtered away waving out the window. While all this was happening I kept muttering under my breath, “This cannot be happening...This cannot be happening....”.

I think I even saw a few of the kids cock their heads like perplexed puppies in the window.

I pulled the car over when I reached the edge of town far from the gaze of kindergarteners. I sat silent in the car trying to take in just how quickly things turned around for me back at the school. One minute I was Father Christmas, bringer of all good things, the next I was just a teenage art major posing for his sister’s class.

The squeak of my heel was still playing over and over in my mind. What had just happened? I comforted myself with the knowledge that my much more experienced sister would come up with the perfect excuse as to why Santa drove away in a rust bucket, blue Toyota.

It was then that it happened. I laughed the biggest, most jolly belly laugh I had ever laughed. A laugh to make Santa proud.

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!

Thank you for reading and listening! Please consider a paid subscription to this page. I support my family through creative pursuits and it means a great deal to me. Thank you!

Chad Elliott

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Iowa Writers Collaborative Roundup

Linking readers and professional writers who care about Iowa.

By Julie Gammack

HOPE IN A HOPELESS SITUATION

When things drop out in life, a helping hand is sometimes there in the most unexpected place.

When all hope seems lost, our conventional rules go out the window.

It is in that darkness, given no other option but to remain open, people finally find a reason to live. Reaching the end of a rope, people learn to fly.

This story is about finding hope in a hopeless situation.

“Fishing pole 2000! We take change, we make change, and I WILL change if ya give me some change! Put a coin in the cup! It’ll change your luck!”.

This was the voice I heard. It was the panhandle pitch shouted by my new friend, Randy Westgate, during my time living on the streets of San Francisco.

He and I shared a kid-size pup tent, and our feet stuck out in the rain. It came down in sheets, while the overcast days upon days, was the perfect grey setting to represent my mid-twenties. But there were also the moments of crystallized clarity. Like the diamond-shaped patch of blue sky cutting through one of those bleak mornings. Where, for just a brief moment, I peered out from beneath the rain-drenched blue tarp I had slept beneath, and I found some small measure of hope. That small blue jewel of sky, was to me like concentrated hope. A little spark needed to keep a small flame tended inside of me. To keep breathing.

Two months prior, I had watched the news coverage of the 9/11 attack on New York City. I remember sitting in the commons of Graceland University. My first wife and I were at breakfast. Both of us were completely at a loss to voice the emotion.

Looking back now...the fall of those two towers was, in strange way, a terrible foreshadowing of our marriage collapsing. The tension, the fire, the drop, the tragic futility. The anger, the sadness. The ashes and dust.

Our marriage was struggling from the beginning. We were so young and both of us were disconnected by the stress of making a living and becoming new parents. By 9/11, I was trying to figure out how I could provide for my wife and our 3 year old son. It seemed I was failing at every attempt. I was in a very dark place.

We decided to take some time apart. I had no plan. The only thing I could think to do was remove myself from the toxic situation. I was unemployed. I needed to go to a different environment to process the separation in solitude. I figured that if I were in a new, strange environment I could face my demons, own up to my inequities and finally shake myself out of the depression that had gripped me for years.

Hey, at least it was some sort of plan.

SAN FRANCISCO

San Fran...the Golden City. I hadn’t been there since I was a child. Every memory I had was perfect. Sourdough bread, crab legs, Clint Eastwood’s cell on Alcatraz, the cable cars. I could feel the tug at my heart. Frisco was calling me.

I booked a flight out of Minneapolis, Minnesota on a freezing cold November morning.

I pulled out my empty leather bound journal. I scribbled my name and address on it’s sleeve in case I didn’t make it out of this adventure alive. It seems dramatic as I look back on it now, but I was staring into the unknown. I had no idea what adventures lay before me. All I knew was that I had to go. In order to process this sea change in my life, I needed to go to a place where no one knew my name.

The plane dipped down into the bay and it was glorious, sunny morning. I had everything I needed on my back. I set off into the early afternoon towards Embarcadero Street, to Fisherman’s Wharf where I knew there would be people, food and the sense of journey.

Embarcadero- noun

: a landing place especially on an inland waterway

THE WHARF

I had landed. I remember as a child seeing my first homeless person in San Francisco. I remember this man, disheveled and unshaven with a rucksack on his back. As a child, I was so curious about who he was. I remember asking questions to myself: Where does he sleep? How does he find food? Where does he go to the bathroom?

Twenty years later, I was in the same place, disheveled and unshaven with a rucksack on my back. I was asking the same practical questions about myself.

Fisherman’s Wharf was bustling with tourists and transients. Alcatraz lay in the distance as I sat and watched the sea lions bask in the sun. I sketched and wrote a haiku.

I spent a couple days just getting my bearings. I roamed all of the hills of the Frisco Bay. Haight-Ashbury, City Lights bookstore, Lombard Street.

A few days in...I was crouched down beside a sculpture of St. Francis reading some Ferlinghetti while chomping on the last of my store bought bread when I heard a gravely voice through the iron gates.

“Brother, you don’t wanna be in there.”

I looked around wondering who was speaking to me. It was a short, stout man with a salt and pepper stubble wearing a tattered army coat and a small backpack. He looked to be in his mid 50’s.

“The Union will come and kick your ass if you stay there too long. Do you have a place to stay? The rains are coming and my friends and I are looking for a place to crash with a roof, if you wanna join us.”

I didn’t know if I could trust him, but I took him up on the invitation. As we walked at his frantic pace, he struck up conversation.

“The name’s Randy….Randy Westgate, from Santa Cruz. What’s your name?”

“I’m Chad….um, from Iowa.”

“Iowa? The Hawkeye State! I’m gunna call you Hawkeye! Did you know that Radar O’Reilly was from Iowa?”

“Yeah. I think he was from Oskaloosa?"

He shrugged his shoulders and kept walking. His head turned this way and that, eyes scouring the scene around the wharf. He pointed out a few restaurants that would set out left over food in plastic bags on top of the garbage cans everyday for the people out on the street. My mind was racing at all the information he was giving me. I was filled with relief at my good fortune of finding this unexpected tour guide of the wharf.

A few hours later we met up with some of his friends...Rod the Truck Driver, Denver Doug who was carrying a bottle of vodka, the Bushman who would make money scaring people by hiding behind a bush and pushing it at unsuspecting pedestrians...and Toothless Charlie. Some of the nicknames I gave them...to help me remember them by...except Denver Doug...everyone called him that because….well, he was from Denver. They had found some horse stalls in a quiet pier along Embarcadero and Randy was not happy. Seems they had told him they knew of a dry place and the fact that they were horse stalls was not relayed to Randy.

He exclaimed to the others, “You don’t expect me to sleep in horse shit all night do ya? I’d rather sleep in the rain! Come on on Hawkeye.”

I decided to keep following Randy. I was beginning to really like the guy. He was friendly. A real connector. As an introvert, it is always nice to tag along with an extrovert. We searched and searched to no avail and ended up sleeping underneath his blue tarp with two sheets of cardboard beneath us. The rains were unrelenting. Drenching us all night as we tossed and turned. We had camped out in front of the firehouse doors...and in the middle of the night...the doors opened and sirens began blaring. We scooted over quickly nearly being run over by the firetruck as it roared past us.

Morning could not come sooner.

The rain briefly stopped by the morning light. Randy frantically showed me more places to get free food from the markets. He, then, took me around meeting the community of street hustlers gathered there. I was quickly assimilated into this group of down and out souls. There was a comfort that came with being accepted into their community. The one thing we all had in common? We were all hungry. It was the kind of hunger that never is truly relieved. Searching for food and later on, shelter, seemed the utmost priority each day. We decided as a group to pool our resources and have a feast on an abandoned pier. We made a list and scattered throughout the city bottoms looking for various sundries: canned foods, charcoal, alcohol, and anything else that would serve the feast.

Randy and I hit the jackpot in the Presidio. In a grocery store dumpster they had thrown away a slew of canned beans and vegetables as well as some frozen chicken set to expire that day. We gathered all we could carry and headed to the pier.

The sun was setting on the bay. No rains that afternoon...everything seemed perfect. Everyone brought the goods. Malt liquor flowed as we cooked beans in an old oil drum grill which dock workers must’ve left behind. Rev. Friendly, a kind old street corner gospel preacher in suit coat and top hat, showed us how to rig our own crab traps with plastic pop crates, some wire and the raw chicken we had discovered.

Soon we were like kings, reeling in Dungeness crabs by the dozens...eating, drinking and making merry.

The confluence of alcohol and desperation make for a very unsafe place. Insulting words were shared. Fights broke out. I stepped in between Charlie and Rod who had been mixing it up. Rod drew his knife to my throat and everything went silent.

My mind raced as I thought of any kind of connection I could make to cut through the intoxicated fog and bring Rod back to reality. Chicago….Chicago….I knew he was from Chicago.

I stammered and calmly said…”tell me... Belmont, did you live near there?”

A look of bewilderment came across his face. “How the hell do you know where I lived?”

I had spent time in Chicago at the Art Institute after high school as part of an early college program. I roamed the streets getting to know different neighborhoods as a starry-eyed eighteen year old. It was a random guess, but it was enough to disarm him and he lowered the knife. He told me about his young hell raising days running around the neighborhood. He bragged that he went to prison for assault and battery. His semi-truck and license were taken from him due to too many DUI’s…otherwise he’d already be back home in Chicago. I listened and things calmed down. Charlie just stumbled away, still angry and slurring his words into his collar.

Randy had, earlier that day, found a kids pup tent and the sky began to drizzle. We crawled inside to keep dry with our boots out in the rain. A short time later, I could hear the fighting start up again. Charlie came back and insulted Rod’s grandma. Something about a Kielbasa sausage. I stayed in the tent, hoping the conspiracy theory program on Randy’s transistor radio would drown out the sound of the scuffle which continued outside of the nylon wall.

I kept asking myself one question. “Why I wasn’t scared? Why wasn’t I scared?” I was cool as a cucumber with that knife to my throat. I didn’t even feel the urge to fight back. I fell asleep eventually. The next morning we found out Rod had thrown Charlie’s grocery cart, along with all of his belongings into the bay. Charlie had been beaten up pretty badly. He even lost his two front teeth (hence the name toothless Charlie) and he was pissed we didn’t come to his aid again. Randy and I pushed on past him in search of coffee. Later that day we watched Grapes of Wrath somewhere in Chinatown on the laundromat television as we dried our clothes in one common heap in the overloaded dryer. There I sat in my long underwear taking in the last night’s craziness, as Randy quietly carved a pipe from a carrot. It just got more bizarre as time dragged on.

Darker days came upon me. Seems you cannot outrun your own mental illness. Also, I found out the airline I had flown in on went out of business. So I felt trapped. With no ticket home and the constant rain just kept falling….I was losing all hope.

I had suffered depression all of my life, but none as dark as this, I had hit the bottom. Maybe it was constantly dark weather, maybe it was the pain of separation from my family, my sense of failure as a father, or the countless sad stories of all the people on the street. It was probably a combination of all of these things. But when I received a message from my wife that she didn’t see us ever getting back together, I lost the little hope I had. I decided to walk out of the Wharf, onto the Golden Gate Bridge and I planned to throw myself into the Bay.

Alone, in a state of hopelessness, the kind of hopelessness you rarely walk away from, I began walking. I began thinking of all of the ways I had failed, I thought of my son. How I should’ve been there with him instead of walking those streets. I walked in deliberate steps convincing myself that the world was better off without me in it. I walked past the union’s St. Francis sculpture, past Rev. Friendly spouting bible verses, past the hidden Bushman, and I was just about out of the Wharf when I heard a familiar gravely voice.

“We take change! We make change! I WILL change if you give me change!”

There on the last stoop before the trail that leads to the bridge was my friend Randy Westgate. He had fashioned a fishing pole with a string, and tied a cup to collect money in.

He yelled, “Hawkeye! I got us enough to get an In & Out burger!”

I wanted to cry. Hell, I did cry. What made this man burn so bright? Like a guardian angel, he brought me back to the present moment with his optimism, tenacity and generosity. Being surrounded by the poorest of the poor, I had to ask myself, “Truly, who is the poor person here?”

I collapsed beside him on the stoop and sighed. We ended up spending a couple more weeks together, meeting new people in flux, borrowing a guitar, busking in subway stations, crashing Irish pub jams and having a grand old time. I took each day in like it was my last and began looking forward to the next day. The clouds began to clear and the sun poured into the streets on my last few days in the Bay. I even found myself making a banjo uke resonator out of my sauce pan, some screw eyes, fishing line, and an old chunk of wood from the pier. It was odd enough looking to garner a few extra dollars in tips.

I managed to get a flight home again and had to say good bye to Randy. He scribbled an address of his brother. I wrote him a thank you letter one time but never heard back. I have often considered that he was just a figment of my imagination, as my imagination has saved me all of life.

I still have yet to thank Randy in person for unwittingly saving my life. His tenacity, optimism and kindness has served me well in life. Like a touchstone of wily energy, he helped me become a survivor. I have tried to live my life in such a way. A continuous search of basic needs armed only with resourcefulness, taking each day as they come, rolling with the punches life throws my way.

I have been blessed by the people I have met in life. In my most desperate hours, souls have come into my life to teach me lessons of hope, abundance and gratitude. I have also learned that sometimes we must let our older self fall away so we can begin anew.

The song I am going to share with you is called Embarcadero Street. It was recorded at the Legendary Sun Studio in Memphis, TN with my old band, The Redemptions. The verses bounce around to different places...but mostly is centered around my time in the Bay.

Thank you for reading and listening! Please consider a paid subscription to this page. I support my family through creative pursuits and it means a great deal to me. Thank you!

Chad Elliott

Also, please subscribe to this wonderful community of writers!

Iowa Writers Collaborative Roundup

Linking readers and professional writers who care about Iowa.

By Julie Gammack

The Salt Dream

There were white drifts blowing across the landscape. As I trudged through them, I began to realize that they were not snow drifts. They were made of salt. My first clue was the sound made as the wind pushed across their surface. The best I can describe the noise would be a thousand miniature wind chimes all randomly playing.

This was a dream I had years ago. I don’t know about you, but I listen very carefully to my dreams. Like obscure art films, I search for any meaning in my dreams that I could relate into my waking hours. I often miss the message. But still, any problems I’m facing in my daily life, I listen for the answer in my slumber. Dreaming is a doorway for the realm into which, I believe, we are all being called back.

This dream held a message that was tricky for me to unlock. But finally, as usual, I unpacked the message through writing a song. A week prior to having this dream, I read an old Hebrew saying, “Let there be such oneness between us that when one cries, the other tastes salt.” I was profoundly moved by that message. It stirred in me for quite awhile and is, probably, the origin of the dream I had. A few years prior I had written a couple of lines for a future song, “A river of tears runs away from me. But what’s one more pinch of salt to the sea?” When I awoke from this salt dream, I just knew I had to write the rest of the song.

So I did. I wrote it from the perspective of a man who is alone and looking back on a relationship that went awry. He has regrets and is talking to his former partner. (Yes, a very common theme. But with oh, so many nuances to explore!)

Here is Salt River Psalm from my 2021 album Singing River, recorded at the legendary FAME Recording Studios in Muscle Shoals, AL.

When I think back on how it went

All the years she and I spent

Going round and round like in a boxing ring

Neither one of us could have foreseen

How she would cry and I’d taste salt

But I’d try to fly when she needed firm ground

It seemed that time wasn’t on our side

Sweet Adeline, Adeline

It seemed that time wasn’t on our side

Sweet Adeline, Adeline

When the sun falls down, it sinks below

That ridge of trees and this valley glows

It’s beautiful, half dark, half light

Just like looking into her eyes

How we lost what we thought won

I’ll never quite understand

A river of tears runs away from me

But what’s one more pinch of salt to the sea

A river of tears runs away from me

But what’s one more pinch of salt to the sea

So let the moon and stars look on

As the coo-coo bird sings his song

It’s better to have loved and lost down here

But didn’t we burn bright for a moment, dear?

Oh, she would cry and I’d taste salt

But I’d try to fly when she needed firm ground

It seemed that time wasn’t on our side

Sweet Adeline, Adeline

It seemed that time wasn’t on our side

Sweet Adeline, Adeline

THE MEANING?

So, what is the meaning of the preceding dream which birthed this song? Here is what I came up with.

Empathy and understanding is ever so important in love, but it may not be enough. Relationships are hard work. Even with all of the best intentions in place, a relationship requires empathy AND sacrifice. The character in the song laments that he truly loved Adeline, but was not capable at the time of their relationship to be the “firm ground” she needed. Finally he submits to the notion that maybe “…time wasn’t on their side”, giving the implication that he now has the earned wisdom, through self reflection, that he was not ready to sacrifice his own needs for their relationship.

As the dreamer of this dream. I have to process it as something that I need to learn in my own personal life. The song is just one way for me to process while giving others the chance to process how it relates in their own life. In my life, I am often the partner who “tries to fly” instead of being on solid ground for the relationship. It takes work to find a balance between family life and making a living from a creative life. But that is the job.

My songwriter friend, the late, great Eric Taylor gave me some great, albeit brief, advice after my daughter was born. I was explaining how exhausted I felt with touring and sleepless nights waking up with my baby girl. He said, with a smile on his face and a twinkle in his eye, “You bought the ticket, you gotta take the ride.”

Indeed, Eric. Indeed.

Thank you for reading and listening! Please consider a paid subscription to this page. I support my family through creative pursuits and it means a great deal to me. Thank you!

Chad Elliott

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By Julie Gammack

Every Spring I am reminded of my love for Irish music. Something about the opening of the earth after it’s frozen encasing thaws and releases it’s grip on everything stirs my imagination and love for the color green.

But there is also a beautiful melancholy to Spring, isn’t there? I suppose that those who are always prone to melancholy can find it anywhere, anytime. I know I can. But what I am talking about is a counter-intuitive sadness. After all, Spring is the season of hope. It is the season of rebirth and renewal.

Maybe that is why this season stirs such complicated feelings of loss in me.

If Spring is a rebirth, wouldn’t that imply a preceding death? Winters can be long, cold and filled with despair in Iowa. Especially during March blizzards or cold snaps. Sometimes you come out of winter feeling as if you have survived something that tried your soul. With the blooming of trees and sprouting grass, Spring comes in to remind the most tender parts of our humanity that life is to be celebrated. But our trials are every bit as sacred. Our most valuable life lessons are often born from our most painful experiences.

To fully embrace Spring in all of it’s emerald green glory, we must also hold in our other hand the counterbalance of the Solstice midnight blue.

I say all of this to celebrate my love for the melancholic music and poetry of Ireland. One of my favorite writers is the Irish poet, theologian and philosopher, John O’Donohue. His writings on the “inner landscape” inspire me greatly.

“Beauty isn’t all about just nice loveliness, like. Beauty is about more rounded, substantial becoming. So I think beauty in that sense is about an emerging fullness, a greater sense of grace and elegance, a deeper sense of depth, and also a kind of homecoming for the enriched memory of your unfolding life.” - John O’Donohue

I began writing a melody that sounded like it could be an Irish tune. I decided to write lyrics to it based on a place I am familiar with so I could describe it without guessing. Because I haven’t visited Ireland yet. Some day! I picked a lake up in Northern Minnesota where my in-laws have a family cabin. It’s a beautiful lake and it stirred most of the imagery I used in the lyrics. But since it is supposed to sound like an Irish melody, someone had to die. Melancholy, folks. Melancholy.

Here is “Lake O’Brien”

When winds blow round

On the Lake O'Brien

And the rains move on

Past the Mille Lacs shores

As the sun shines down

And begins to dryin’

All the birch and the pine

You can rest assured

She is in the wind

She is in the rain

She is in the sun

And the green, green plains

All the bluebells wait

For the birds to begin

For the sweet, Spring song

To return again

It was on the rocks

She was with me there

But the storms rolled in

In a gale, she was gone

T’was many years ago

And I searched everywhere

Many dark nights I wandered

As I heard her song

I am in the wind

I am in the rain

I am in the sun

And the green, green plains

All the bluebells wait

For the birds to begin

For the sweet, Spring song

To return again

When winds blow round

On the Lake O'Brien

And the rains move on

Past the Mille Lacs shores

Thank you for reading/listening. Please consider subscribing and so you can follow along with more creative ramblings. Also…the painting above was painted this past weekend. If interested in purchasing any of the art you see, please reach out to me.

Best,

Chad Elliott

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By Julie Gammack

Being Prolific is a Double Edged Sword

I have spent nearly thirty years writing songs. I have never fallen for the impossible goal of writing the “perfect song”. I have approached songwriting like everything else in my life: shitty first drafts that I choose to edit or not edit depending on the sincerity or strength of the song’s first breath.

Lately, I’ve been troubled.

I have a bin of over two thousand unheard songs that will go unheard if I don’t do something with them. Which begs several questions.

How much time should I give to these orphan melodies? Did I choose not to record them because they are not worthy? Or did I keep them all so that, one day, a trove of songs could be released posthumously? Have I saved them for a reason?

I have shared a lot of songs on albums and in live concerts. I have a couple hundred demos recorded as well. I have been very diligent as a writer and tried my best to be a good chronicler of these melodies. But I’m beginning to wonder…why?

I have, quite seriously, begun to think it is a madness that makes me save every scribble on napkins, hotel stationary, etc. All the while believing that, someday, I’ll need them. I am hoarding words.

This morning, while looking out the large windows of my home framing the snow laced walnut and oak trees, I had a fleeting thought. Then, I felt a peace come over me. I thought…These songs, which I deem to be memorable and worthy, may never be heard at all. They may fade away once I am gone. At first, this stirred a panic in me, because, after all, I’ve been trying to write songs that stand the test of time, long after I’m gone. When past interviewers have asked, “What is your goal in music?”My answer has always been,

“I am writing songs for my grandchildren and their grandchildren.”

I still hope that my music will last long after I’m gone. But maybe that isn’t the point. All of the future relies on the present moment. The way a song sounds now is, perhaps, the birth and death of that song. As my friend Byron Stuart of Byron’s Bar in Pomeroy, IA always says, “Live music only happens once, you have to BE there.”

Songs are powerful things. I know this to be true. But there is a lot of crap out there. I’ve created a LOT of crap, too. But, at it’s best, a song can lift a person straight out of hell. Like the blues, music can create a communion for people making them feel less alone in the human experience. Protest songs can frighten politicians into doing better work for their constituents. Even love songs can change the air in a room and make the world a better place.

I still believe that a good song has the power to change the world.

So..I am feeling a lot less burden today. Once I gave myself permission to let the song do it’s own work, I feel at ease to write, sing and play again.

I wrote the following poem after ruminating on the power of letting go of who hears these songs, or why they come to me, or what I should do about it. After all, I know what to do about it. Write, sing, play and repeat.

The Forgotten Song  

Let this sound be a song that sings 
Then, finally, fades  into silence again 
Let this sound stir you to rise from your crooked, old chair 
Pull your limbs into a celebratory dance 
Too often, I have wished for a song to last long after I am gone 
This one goes with me, my friend 
Or before me 
Every single soul may forget this one 
If they even hear it at all 
Even me, the singer  
I will send this tune back into the arms of it's mother, 
Silence 
This moment of crystallized sound will be forgotten 
But... 
As it sings, let it be as glorious as the sunrise 
Somber as the night 
Fleeting as the nighthawks diving  
And after it is sung, let me go to sleep 
Let me envelop myself into deep silence 
Without longing for more notes 
Or words 
Or questions like... 
Why me? 

C.A. Elliott

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By Julie Gammack

Let me explain.

My first marriage was to a Canadian woman. We were married in Niagara Falls, Ontario. We were young and fresh-faced out of college. I held a studio art degree in sculpture. Catharine held a degree in elementary education, but truly wanted to teach dance.

We were starry-eyed about Montana for all of the right reasons. The mountains, rivers, big skies and all of that space were beckoning us. It turns out that people with stars in their eyes can have expansive blind spots. We ignored all the warnings and jumped into our adult life without looking.

We decided that, after our wedding, which was a month away, we would move to Bigfork, MT on the Flathead Lake. Bigfork is nestled up to the Swan Mountain Range. Catharine would start her dance studio with our wedding money and I would find any work I could while using any free time to make art. That was the entirety of the plan. We should’ve been more worried in hindsight, but that is the gift of being young. It was a grand and uncertain adventure to us and it was with this kind of idealism that we began our marriage and our life post-college.

The wedding was filled with chaos and anxiety, like most weddings. We couldn’t wait to drive off to Montana, but decided to save money on our honeymoon and just drive to the North country in Ontario to relax before making our way to Montana. We chose Callander Bay as the perfect place to let go of all of the stress and enjoy the cool lake mornings, hiking and swimming in the lake waters. It is a beautiful place and Catharine and I had driven through the area several times on summer adventures. We would sometimes drive around the Great Lakes before heading back to Iowa for fall semester. We just knew that Callander Bay would provide the perfect, calm honeymoon.

However…

The cold bay waters and my fear of bees was the beginning of our marriage unraveling before it even began.

While Catharine swam in the frigid waters, I decided to sit in the sun and draw. I had taken off my loose wedding band and wrapped it into my t-shirt before taking a dip myself. I didn’t want to risk losing the ring in the lake. I sat at the picnic table sketching the pine trees, the lake, and my new bride when I heard the buzzing noise. I had been afraid of bees since I was stung as a 7 year old. I learned that I was allergic after I swelled up so big that I called my arm a “python” like Hulk Hogan.

So when I heard the dreadful sound of a buzzing, little bumble bee I immediately grabbed my t-shirt and swatted at the poor creature. I saw a glimmer of white gold sparkle in the sun and sink into the sandy beach. I remember thinking, “Oh, no big deal. It landed right here.” But as I searched and searched the area where I believed it landed, my search came up empty. I began to panic. A half hour passed, and we were still searching when two young boys on bikes pulled up and asked what we were looking for.

“Hey, if we find it, will you give us a reward?” one asked.

“Yes, I’ll buy you ice cream from across the street if you find it!”

They both jumped off their bikes and helped us look. Hours passed. The sun began to set and no one could find this small band of gold. Catharine and I decided we still had the next day to find it. We would spend the morning looking and surely find it, so we could enjoy the rest of our “relaxing” honeymoon. The next morning passed and we found nothing. In the afternoon the boys returned with friends. A man with a metal detector had heard the news and came to help. Evidently, the boys’ teacher had made an announcement at school that we needed help. It was amazing. The friendly Canadians, eh?

Unfortunately, with all of this help and hoping, we still didn’t find that wedding band. I knew I couldn’t return to my in-laws house without a wedding band on my hand. We decided to sneakily buy a similar wedding band in North Bay at a jeweler’s store. No one would be the wiser. And it worked. We came back to Niagara, said our goodbyes and drove back to Iowa to retrieve our belongings and finally headed to Montana.

That autumn in the Montana Rockies is still one of my favorite autumns. It’s beauty inspired my very first songs.

It was, however, a rough winter. We found a small cabin duplex to rent on the opposite side of the lake of Bigfork. Our poverty and the record-breaking snowfall kept us homebound many times. I was working in Kalispell as a hotel houseman. The drives were treacherous in the early mornings. I nearly went off a cliff avoiding deer on those icy mountain roads. We had very little money. Our image of a happy mountain marriage was slowly eroding. We had some lovely moments, mostly with our cats and dogs. Pets are good distractions for a dissolving partnership. They tell no secrets.

In the early Spring, as the pines were thawing, we received a call from Niagara Falls. My mother-in-law asked, “Did you guys lose your wedding band up North?”. We laughed nervously and told her what happened and asked how she could possibly know.

She went on to explain that the townspeople never forgot about the “newlyweds who lost a ring”. So when a wedding band turned up months later in some guys yard, he remembered us and what lodge we were staying during our time there. The lodge had our person of contact still and contacted her. My mother-in-law had the ring in her possession and she mailed it to Montana. As I look back on it now, I remember feeling ashamed. Not for losing the ring, but for the dishonesty. It was a rough start to a marriage which, six years later, would end.

I remember carrying those two rings for years in a ceramic jar. When I remarried I decided not to keep them. I pawned them along with the engagement ring that was mailed back to me after the divorce, thus ending the tale of that first wedding band. Or, maybe not.

Maybe that wedding band is on some man’s hand right now…and he is happily married in Montana.

Maybe the lost dreams of our youth were, after all, meant for someone else.

So…three wedding bands, two marriages and a partridge in a pear tree.

I wrote this song about these memories and did a phone recording for it last week . It’s called Callander Bay.

If you make your way

to the Callander Bay

There are memories there

That I'm sure have stayed

Young lovers in the piney trees

Songs in the stones

Up in the Callander Bay

If you see the Northern Lights

Dancing in the sky

Those are reflections

I once saw in her eyes

I was only twenty

And she was nineteen

Dancing in the sky

The winds would howl across

The Callander Bay

Lord, how they sounded like

The northern trains

Filled with fallen trees

Southbound flying’ back home

Home from Callander Bay

She'd swim the cold waters

I'd draw her in the sun

After our escape

We were lovers on the run

Her father won't forgive me

For stealing her away

Away to Callander Bay

There's a wedding band

Buried neath the sand

It was lost before

We ever began

If it's found don't send it, please

Just throw in the hands of

the unforgiving Callander Bay

Thank you for reading/listening!

Chad Elliott

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By Julie Gammack

The truth is, I rarely feel informed enough on any political topic to make a public statement that I would be proud enough to share. I also have dedicated a lot of my time trying to create beauty as a way of countering the ugliness I see in the world. And I will continue to do that, as I am firm believer in shining light into the darkness.

This morning I felt compelled to write a song to showcase the ridiculousness of what is going on. I also felt like addressing the callous and heartless grifting that is going on. I thought a circus was a good symbol for this. It is a tongue and cheek song. By no means, do I mean to offend any…circus workers.

Here is American Circus.

Don't it feel like the world is on fire

I know you're angry, I know you're tired

This country is dancing on a real high wire

Working without a net

The carnival barker is making a scene

Under the bleachers are the powers that be

Picking the pockets of poor people in need

Who came to the show just to forget

The old, skinny lions are too tired to fight

They're getting long in the tooth

Ticket sales have gone down, but that's all right

The snake oil sales are through the roof

So grab your bag of popcorn, sit down enjoy the show

We gotta full clown car, forget all of your woes

Sure, the elephant died, and we got rid of all the rhinos

But the American Circus is back in Town

What was that? What'd he say? That's gotta be a lie.

Ooh, but here comes a Russian Bear on a bike

He can rip your face off in one full swipe

Kids under 12 get in free

Folks, step right up…everybody fall in line

The Hall of mirrors have been polished to a shine

You might get woozy…but you'll have a great time

Did I mention the kids get in free?

The old, skinny lions are too tired to fight

They're getting long in the tooth

Ticket sales have gone down, but that's all right

The snake oil sales are through the roof

So come down to the show we'll take almost… everyone

Don't stay home on your couch like a chump

Empty your wallet to the man named…

The American Circus is back in town

Pull up the stakes, tear the tent down

The carnival is leaving town

Thank you so much for reading/listening!

Chad Elliott

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By Julie Gammack

In America, there is a love of vehicles that stirs the imagination in many writers, artists and musicians. John Steinbeck spent a good amount of time describing his 1960 GMC truck with topper named “Rocinante” in My Travels with Charlie. There’s Jack Kerouac, of course, in his ‘49 Hudson coming unspooled across the American expanse in On the Road. Robert Pirsig’s Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance is a personal favorite. There are SO many more. I could write pages upon pages sharing examples of songs that are infused with beloved vehicle references. In pop country, there are probably…okay, definitely too many, as of late. So I won’t begin to list them.

I would like to describe where my own fascination with vehicles and road-tripping started. It was in the back of a wood-paneled Pinto station wagon that my mom used for our family vacations. A single mother of four, she, accompanied by my favorite artist, aunt Diane would pack us all into the back of whatever vehicle she owned at the time. Two young wild women and four rascals with bad home-haircuts would set off on the highway, driving through the night camping along the way. All of us kids were stowed among the tents, dufflebags and coolers filled with bologna sandwiches and Tab sodas. We would weave our way across the American road system to far off destinations: Mt. Saint Helen’s the year after eruption, the Rockies, Alcatraz, the Grand Canyon, Plymouth Rock, Death Valley, the Statue of Liberty, etc. It all started in a Pinto.

I didn’t realize the invaluable treasure my mom was giving us when we were young. Coming from rural Iowa, the experiences opened our minds and gave us greater perspective. Not to mention, how these travels would nurture our love for the United States and it’s many diverse regions smattered with campgrounds and RV parks. We used many different vehicles to explore these regions. On one of these vacations, my mom started calling our Lynx Escort station wagon, “Sturdy Gertie”. I believe this was a catalyst for me and opened up my deep love for whatever vehicle I have owned since.

When I learned to drive, we had a baby blue 1985 Toyota Tercel hatchback. We called her “Ethel”. She went with me to college and I would ditch my college courses to drive off to Colorado or Lake Superior on a whim. I loved that car. One backpacking trip I came back to Ethel and found that she had a broken window. Someone had busted it to get the few dollars I had left inside.

The other day I wrote a song about her. Take a listen to Ethel.

ETHEL

Ethel was a friend of mine

She and I traveled many a mile

Many a mile down the line

Ethel was a friend of mine

She knew me when I was just a boy

Back before I was ever employed

Long before I moved to Illinois

She knew me when I was just a boy

She loved me in ways nobody did

Back when I was a reckless kid

So many secrets she and I kept hid

She loved me in ways nobody did

We would go fast down the road

Dust flying high as we’d go

Plastic bag wrapping on the broken window

We would go fast down the road

I never should’ve left her alone

Stranded in them Colorado stones

When I got back she was dry as a bone

Never should’ve left her alone

Ethel was a friend of mine

We traveled many a mile

Many a mile down the line

Ethel was a friend of mine

I have since owned over twenty vehicles. I’ve had a Plymouth Voyager named “Vincent”, a Buick Town Car named “Captain”, a Ford Transit with two names “The Wildervan” & “Van Quixote” and many, many more.

Many of my stories and songs are centered around traveling. I’ve spent most of my life on the road. I imagine I never will stop wandering. It is part of who I am. My family understands this and I am grateful for that. My son recalls the time when he was 6 years old and we had broken down in Limon, CO. The alternator went out in my Toyota Corolla (named “Steve”) as we were driving through the night from Estes Park. I woke him up and told him we were going to be doing something extra fun…sleeping in a parking lot! We spent the next day waiting for the repair and we met an nice, old man named James Taylor (not that James Taylor!) from West Texas. He said that for many years he had taken personal road trips in his camper van for fun. His wife would pack him a cooler and send him off to explore on his own. I remember how happy he looked. I felt understood.

We all have points of trajectory in life. We bounce from point to point trying to make sense of our own existence on this planet. For me, my points of trajectory are accompanied by beat up vehicles with names given to cure any loneliness I may feel on the back roads of the American highway.

Thank you for reading/listening!

Chad Elliott

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By Julie Gammack

I wrote this new song this morning in a dark and foul mood. Writing songs in a minor key always helps me back into the light. I began this tune believing the narrator was a cold and unfeeling, dark figure. As the song developed I realized it was a deep, inner voice trying to advise the younger part of themself…symbolized as a timid rabbit mustering up the courage to take leave and make a run for the breaking light as a hound is on it’s heels.

What began as a dark and foul song, became a courageous dash for hope.

I hope you enjoy this phone recording of Run, Rabbit

RUN, RABBIT

There are one thousand ways to die

And one dozen more ways to cry

When you take leave

Take only what you need

There are one thousand ways to die

If you're gonna say goodbye

If you feel your ready to fly

Be sure to choose your words

Outta all the things you've heard

If you're gonna say goodbye

The night is cold and dark as pitch

But you've got your scratch you gotta itch

When you pack your things

Make sure that you bring

Your little light, the night's dark as pitch

Where will you go when you leave?

Not that it matters much to me

But if a letter comes

Which way will you run

Where will you go when you leave?

Little rabbit run, run, run

Pray you make it to the morning sun

The hound is on your heels

Your soul he wants to steal

Little rabbit run, run, run

Thank you for listening!

Chad Elliott

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By Julie Gammack

Today I share a birthday with my twin sister, Cherie. To be a twin is to never be truly alone. From cradle to grave, our souls are paired in a unique bond that transcends the daily life. There is a quiet knowing that someone is always with me, and that is my twin. It, undoubtedly, makes us stronger as individuals. After all, isn’t half of the struggle in life learning to understand that we are never alone?

I don’t remember having any major fights or conflict with Cherie growing up. There always seemed to be an inexplicable understanding that we were on the same page. I still feel this today. Sure there were some cringy moments that were forced upon us as twins, like when we were both crowned Homecoming King and Queen. We awkwardly laughed and were secretly embarrassed!

I love that I am a twin with my sister Cherie. When I flew off to California to immerse myself in the underbelly of the homeless world, she was the one who bought me a ticket back to civilization. She picked me up at the airport and laughed at my duct-taped pants and bearded face. She has always had my back with understanding and compassion.

Being a twin comes out in ways I hadn’t noticed until recently. I seem to write songs in pairs. Oftentimes, when I am feeling inspired to write a song, two songs come pouring out. Like fraternal melodies. Also, musically speaking, I am drawn towards harmony. Since I began my music career, I have felt more comfortable in duos than playing solo or in a band. Perhaps I’ve always been in a duo.

I am blessed by being a twin. Happy Birthday, ! Love you.

NEW SONG!

I wrote a song about two trees this morning thinking of this connection. It is call Two Trees. Perhaps my Weary Ramblers duo partner, will lend some harmonies to this one?

Take a listen!

Two Trees

There were two trees growing from the ground

In the field, in the field

They would gather up the sun and drink the rain

In the wind, they would spin

When the birds came by they would wave

To say hello, to say hello

‘Neath the stars and moon they would sing

Lullaby, lullaby

Young children laugh as they climb

Way up high, way up high

Lovers carve their names down below

As if they know, as if they know

The colors of their leaves will change

In the fall, in the fall

Winter will take all they have

The thieving wind will take it all

There were two trees growing from the ground

In the field, in the field

Thanks for reading and listening!

Chad Elliott

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By Julie Gammack

I have been performing original music around the country for nearly 28 years. Of course, I never imagined it when I was young that I’d be a musician, let alone a songwriter. I tried and quit a couple music instruments along the way. By the time I was eighteen years old I resigned myself to singing only lullabies and carols the rest of my days. After all, I was an artist first and foremost. I took art very seriously as early as age six.

While I was earning my bachelor’s degree in Studio Art, I had a roommate who had an old electric guitar in the corner. He let me use it whenever and slowly I taught myself to play. I was drawn to songwriters and folk musicians from the 60’s and 70’s, so I began learning those songs. It didn’t take long before I started trying to write my own music. I figured I could use my poetry writing to spark this new obsession. I found the first song nearly impossible to write. I just could not turn off the critical voice in my head telling me that I was not a songwriter and that I should stick to things I knew: drawing and sculpting naked people, birds and trees.

I got married after graduating college and we moved to Flathead Lake in Northwest Montana. My first wife was a budding songwriter as well. So, at first, I just helped write songs for her to sing. I played guitar and sang harmony to her songs, basically. But I could feel something in me stirring. Like a bubbling spring inside me. I needed to write my own songs.

Eventually I made the seemingly insurmountable goal of writing twenty songs in a week. The catch was, they didn’t have to be good. In fact, I expected them to be terrible…but I gave myself permission to wade through the muck to see if I could do it.

I called them my “shitty first songs”. I figured if I could get twenty bad songs in a week, I would be well on my way in learning as a beginning songwriter. I could not have guessed back then that I was setting myself up perfectly to be a very prolific writer. That little trick of first draft writing made a foundation of creating freely that I still use today. I have never felt the pressure of writing a perfect song. I write so many songs that I just know there are some gems I can pull out and edit from the heap of mediocrity. 28 years of songwriting in this way has given me around 2,500 saved songs and 26 full albums recorded.

MEMPHIS

The first time I stepped into Sun Studio in Memphis, TN was my 40th birthday. I was in town, performing on Beale Street in the International Blues Challenge. Talk about a birthday!

When I stepped into the recording room where Elvis, Johnny Cash, Howlin’ Wolf, BB King, Jerry Lee Lewis, Roy Orbison and SO many others had recorded. I could feel that deep wellspring in myself stirring again. Deep in my bones…I just knew I had to record there. The seed was planted and I made a detailed and powerful image in my mind that the dust that had collected over the years inside the wall tiles of Sun Studio would shake from the sound of my voice someday. Several years later, that image came to fruition. I recorded my album, Rest Heavy, with a group of friends as the backing band called The Redemptions.

It was magical. We were even invited back to record a second album for free as part of the Sun Studio Sessions which aired on many PBS stations across the country.

Here is a snippet:

MUSCLE SHOALS

I decided that my next album would be at the historic FAME Recording Studios in Muscle Shoals. I hired my friend, Bo Ramsey, to come play on and co-produce the album.

Years before, while on the tour of the place, I met two of the original “Muscle Shoals Swampers”, David Hood and Spooner Oldham, while sitting alone in the gift shop. I made a little promise to myself that I would bring together my own songs and the Iowa roots sound of Bo Ramsey and I would merge it with the Muscle Shoals sound of the Swampers. I kept that promise to myself in 2020 with the album Singing River.

Here is a song from that album called Down and Out.

I write all of this, not to boast, but to chronicle my path from a budding folksinger recording in my bathroom, to rubbing elbows with some of American music’s legendary players.

I have had many fortunate moments throughout the years:

I sang with the widow of Buddy Holly, Maria Elena Holly as part of Surf Ballroom’s 50th Anniversary of the Winter Dance Party. She whispered to me, “You’re my Buddy”.

I sat and had dinner with delta blues legend, R.L. Burnside. He did not whisper anything to me…just told me about the time he was in jail.

I ate chocolate cake with folk legends Odetta, Tom Paxton and Loudon Wainwright III. Tom patted me on the back as I got off stage and he said, “You got what it takes, kid!”.

SO many wonderful memories that I could fill a book! And I will someday, I’m sure.

All in all, this path I stumbled onto back in Montana has led me to such a rich tapestry of musical memories and moments that I cherish dearly. I find myself peeking around the next bend in the trail, full of curiosity and wonder.

To be recognized by the Iowa Rock ‘n’ Roll Museum for having the time of my life seems an embarrassment of riches. I’m grateful and humbled.

Thank you for reading!

Chad Elliott

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By Julie Gammack

I’d like to share with you a journal entry I made on a frigid, snowy day back in 2002. I was in the Boulder area in Colorado where I spent a couple months, writing, singing and sipping coffee. I had very little money and was performing now and then to make some cash. My wife and I had just separated a few months earlier and I was learning to process the world alone again. It was a very nourishing and dark time, much like a deep well.

In hindsight, it is apparent to me that the one thread, that runs through all of my journal entries, is my undying devotion to writing, singing and making art. My constant companion in life has always been the desire for expression.

Expression. A hopeful word implying connection in its final form.

Mar. 2, 2002

I spent most of yesterday reading, writing, and pretending not to be alone. I found myself in a coffee shop finding the closest table next to a large crowd of laughing, smiling people. Bantering back and forth about Denali backpacking excursions, and trips to Europe, they went on for an hour or so. I pretended to read a book, and just blurred my eyes a bit, so as to not be suspected of eavesdropping. I could have listened to them for rest of the night. As they left, I admit, my heart sank. I knew when they were gone, I would be alone again. The same voice. Same stories. Boring myself. I took comfort in a quote from Jack Kerouac:

“No man should go through life without once experiencing healthy, even bored solitude in the wilderness, finding himself depending solely on himself and thereby learning his true and hidden strength. Learning for instance, to eat when he's hungry and sleep when he's sleepy.”

But, I was facing myself for the first time in years, a total stranger. I was afraid I would not recognize me if I brushed past myself on the street. I spent the night again in the Safeway parking lot, and it was bone-chilling cold. The radio announcer said it would drop below the zero mark and I was sure it did. It was impossible to sleep a wink with all the tossing and turning. "It's going to be another long month in Colorado, Vincent." I jokingly called my van, Vincent Van-GO. At some point this van had become my confidant.

I started waking up early. Before the snow plows came in. I scurried into the grocery store bathroom to make myself presentable for the day in preparation for that night's gig. It was at a coffeehouse by the name of Cafe Luna in Longmont. I knew they would be feeding me, so I would get a break from my diet of instant noodles and fig newtons. I needed to get some extra guitar strings. I'd been gambling each time I played, knowing at anytime my G-string might snap. Friends back home always kidded me about being so hard on my G-string. I laughed quietly to myself thinking of these all-too-common music jokes. I have always loved any joke that made people roll their eyes. I roll my eyes with them. Bad humor is as good as any shared space.

Downtown Longmont was a nice town. It felt much more quaint than it's neighbor of bustling Boulder. It had a lot of smiling people in it. I felt very welcome. I swung into the public library to get details on the upcoming events in my performance schedule. I found myself a soft chair and spent an hour or so looking through a book filled with sketches from Leonardo da Vinci and then headed for Cafe Luna. The coffeehouse was in a restored old house that was transformed into a nice cafe. It had multi-colored lawn chairs outside. Inside, was a quiet wood-floored space with a few people sitting in discussion. There were three high school kids there having a lively discussion over a Risk game. One blue hair, one long curly red hair, and the other short brown hair. They proudly displayed peace logos on their clothing. It made me smile during a time filled with so much conflict.

The owner was a friendly man in his mid-thirties. He told me to come back to set up in two hours. I decided to go window browsing, knowing full well, that I couldn't buy anything if I wanted to have the gas to get to my week's destinations.

It's interesting, that a town's main store window displays tell so much about the community. The main street is where the town wears its heart on its sleeve. Longmont was no exception. I counted within 3 blocks: 4 music shops, 3 pubs, and several Mexican restaurants dispersed evenly throughout. It was fun to compare the music stores, and tempting not to go into the Irish pub for a stout. I resisted.

It began to snow. And it snowed even more. It dawned on me that the weather may not be cooperative for the show. But I couldn’t cancel. I needed money for food. I returned to the coffeehouse ready to set up and the three teenagers were still there along with only three more customers. "Should be a quiet gig" I said to myself.

I started playing a bluesy set to hopefully gather their attention. One gentlemen I hadn’t noticed before came in from the other room to sit at the table closest to me on the left and quietly nodded his head up and down. My anxiety slowly drifted away. This is typical. If I can get just one person to listen and engage, all is not lost. I told a few stories, and sang some more. He applauded enthusiastically. I decided to take a break and walked over to sit at the table next to him. He was unshaven, wearing flannel, with a brown scraggly pony tail sticking out of a well-worn University of Colorado Buffaloes hat. He asked me where I'm from. When I explained that I was just passing through, he praised my courage to travel in solitude across the nation. We got to talking about Iowa, and how it's in the center of America. Then, with a twinkle in his eye, he said, “Man, just this last summer I felt the urge to move. So I grabbed myself a U.S. map and landed my finger on a random little town. Have you ever heard of Guthrie Center?”

I couldn’t believe it! When I explained that it was my home town. He proclaimed the fate of it all. He said, "Ever since then, I’ve wanted to learn guitar and go to Guthrie Center, Iowa and play music and just absorb the people of small town Midwest." Expressing his love for Woody Guthrie and his new affinity to my own music, he decided it made sense for him to go finally. I hope he did.

I played the last set in a serene mood to a few more folks who stumbled in from the snowstorm. A gentleman with a big grey beard and two older women crocheting sat in the center of the room. Evidently they would meet there to crochet regularly. I was happy to see them and, as I’ve always said, “a crocheting audience is a quiet audience”. Okay, I’ve never said that, but I should.

They tipped me afterward. We talked about the rural life of Iowa and how one of the women had a sister in Bloomfield who had used an outhouse and had party telephone lines all of her life. I enjoyed the conversation very much. It was like any conversation I’d heard in a sale barn cafe. The owner handed me $15 and a big bag of assorted bagels to take with me. I thanked him, loaded up the sound, and drove around the treacherous roads in search of a parking lot where I could overnight camp.

I crawled into the back of the van. I submerged into my subzero sleeping bag and blankets. Sad memories began drifting into my mind. How did I get here? Is my son wondering where I am? It was in moments like this, I became a student of compartmentalization. It was going to be another cold night of sleep so I figured it best not to make my interior world cold as well. I stowed away all of those questions that haunted me, to be answered some other time when I was strong enough to ask them again. I began wishing for whiskey to warm me in my bed. I took the risk of running my propane heater within the confines of the vehicle with a window slightly cracked open. I slept hard…dreaming of Hollywood actresses. It was a good, deep sleep.

I wrote many songs during this time period. I would keep the lyrics organized and recorded them onto a handheld cassette tape player. The kind that journalists used. In a way I did feel like a journalist during these travels. I was documenting my interior world, so as to make sense of the exterior.

I am grateful to my younger self for these writings, if not only for one reason…I can answer those haunting questions, one by one.

Here is a song I wrote and recorded on the old tape recorder the very same week in the van. I was reading Walt Whitman a lot that week. So the chorus is from Leaves of Grass.

Roaming in thought over the Universe, I saw the little that is
Good steadily hastening towards immortality,

And the vast all that is call'd Evil I saw hastening to merge itself
and become lost and dead.

Here is the song, Roaming in Thought:

Thank you all who have subscribed and read along! I am planning on doing some live stream concerts and live painting here on Substack soon! So please share with anyone you think might enjoy my ramblings!

Until next time,

Chad Elliott

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By Julie Gammack

I woke from a dream last night. I was leading a group of people through the forest. I knew exactly where we all needed to go, but many of the members of the group began to doubt me. I tried to remain calm and encouraging, but some of them decided to just sit down in protest. At some point I got so frustrated I wanted to leave them all behind and just make it to my destination.

“After all, I am not a born leader…I’m a lone wolf.” I kept saying to myself as I hacked my way through the forest.

It began snowing in this dream. Just a light snow. I, somehow, convinced the others to follow for a little longer and we finally reached our destination…a village with a fire. I was frustrated and exhausted from having to convince others to save themselves.

It was at this time, I woke up and the light from the full moon was pouring into the windows of my home. We have lots of big windows and the living room was illuminated by the light. I looked outside to find a fresh layer of snow powdering the trees and sidewalks.

It was as if I was still inside the dream. I walked outside…it was beautiful. I could see a neighbor down the street taking his garbage out, stopped to take in the moment as well. This made me happy.

I had this song whispering to me. So when I sat down to have my coffee this morning, after I shoveled the driveway, jumpstarted my eldest son’s car and dropped off my other two children at school, I wrote these lyrics and recorded a rough draft on my phone.

Here is Snow on the Full Wolf Moon.

SNOW ON THE FULL WOLF MOON

If there ever was a time

To fall out of line

It would probably be tonight

Wander far away

Go so far astray

Into the dark trees lined in white

The moon will light the way

The others, they may stay

They’ll make their own choice, wrong or right

You see, after all

The snow’s begun to fall

On the full wolf moon tonight

The old man down the street

It’s just him and me

Standing outside to watch it snow

Am I in his shoes?

Is he in mine, too?

At the moment it’s hard to know

Life sure is sweet. When my waking hours blend with my dreams, I know I am aligned again and with this alignment comes a quiet, still peace. It has been some time since I last felt this way. For the moment…all is right where it supposed to be.

So if you are lost…or in the dark…it’s just a little ways further. Get up…keep moving. The moon will light the way.

Thank you for reading,

Chad Elliott

Proud member of the Iowa Writers’ Collaborative:

Iowa Writers Collaborative Roundup

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By Julie Gammack

Out of boredom we decided to race each other. The track we invented went several blocks and began on a quiet street next to Dustan’s house. First it went down a small hill, then onto a long flat straightway, around the corner and down the final steep hill, across another quiet street and into Chris’s driveway. The hills were easy, but the straightaways meant that we would have to use our bare fingers to manually scoot ourselves along until the final hill. It was a lot of work to get the speed needed to beat our opponents. After several hours we all had worn the skin down on each of our fingertips.

“We should go down Tank Hill,” Dustan suggested.

“Oh no. That’s crazy! It has way too many cars.” Nick answered immediately. It was as if he had already anticipated the notion.

“Yeah, I’m not sure if it’s legal.” I said.

“I can’t anyway.” Chris announced. “I’m going to Yale tonight.” We all knew that meant that he was going to stay at his mom’s house in the next town over.

“I’m not doing it. You guys go right ahead. I’ll get in big trouble.” Nick added.

Dustan just laughed, but I could see that his gears were still turning. He was going to do it with or without us. We all knew it. Dustan was known for these types of things. On his first day of school, he got in big trouble for secretly standing behind our sixth grade teacher, Mr. Smith and comically saluting him. I barely had gotten to know him, but I felt a sense of brotherly responsibility towards him, as we had met over the summer just after his family moved to town. This mocking of one of the toughest and most frightening teachers was quite a brazen act.

Another example of Dustan’s mischief was the time I heard metal being drug down the street. It was an awful scraping and squealing sound like fingernails on a chalkboard. I watched in disbelief when I saw Dustan riding along with a big grin on his face as he rode his bicycle dragging a metal shovel beside him down the street pretending not to notice the sound, sparks trailing behind him. He did this just for his own fun.

“Okay. Let’s go. We can ride all the way down to the pool.” I agreed.

Nick and Chris left while Dustan and I grabbed our beach towels from our houses. We all lived only a few blocks from each other, which made planning last minute adventures very easy.

We stood atop the massive hill of our town’s main thoroughfare, State Street. It was known as “Tank Hill” and it began on the street where I lived, North 12th Street. We could see the traffic getting smaller and smaller all the way down through the business district.

“Are you ready?” Dustan asked with excitement in his voice.

“Let’s do it! If we need to slow down, we’ll pull off at 8th Street.”

8th Street went back up another hill towards Nick’s house.

“HERE WE GO!” Dustan exclaimed as if he hadn’t heard me.

We began rolling faster and faster. The wind was sheering across my face as we hurled past parked cars. 8th Street blurred by quickly and I knew there was no turning back. About halfway down the hill before the Casey’s General store, the start of the busy business section of town, I noticed we were coming up on a slower moving car. Slowing down was not really an option if we wanted to maintain control of our rumbling steeds whizzing beneath us. We would have to pass it on the right.

“This will be interesting.” I thought to myself as Dustan and I rolled up beside them looking up into the passenger windows of the car.

That is when I noticed the yellow sign on the car door level to our faces.
DRIVER’S EDUCATION VEHICLE

It was the driver’s ed car! And who should be sitting in the passenger seat but our high school principal, Mr. Patera!

We goofily waved and lunged forward with overly intense expressions, pretending to be race car drivers.

The students in the backseat laughed and pointed. Mr. Patera looked down from the sedan at us with an angry grimace, fuming mad as the nervous student driver gripped tightly to the steering wheel making sharp, jerking motions as if steadying her ship.

We rolled past them and kept rolling. We rolled down into the main street businesses waving and laughing at all of the stupefied pedestrians as we rumbled on to the city park and swimming pool. I repeatedly looked over my shoulder to see if anyone was following us. The driver's ed car had turned left back towards the school. We were scot free!

We laughed and splashed until the pool closed at sundown. We had pulled it off. Our classmates would surely hear of our daring exploits. Girls would shake their heads. The guys would smile in wonder, envious of our reckless courage.

Several weeks passed. Our classmates stopped talking about our daring adventure down Tank Hill. On an early fall day, Dustan and I were walking to school when a black Toyota pickup rolled up beside us on the street. Inside sat an incredulous Mr. Patera. He rolled down his window and we stopped and waited for the lashing.

The time had come. We were about to pay the piper. One cannot steal fire from the Gods and get away with it. We were fools to believe that we could be lauded as heroes without a price. Our price would, most likely, be suspension from school or in school detention. My mother was going to kill me! Chiseled on my grave, the epitaph would read, Chad Allen Elliott - Death by Going Down a Hill on a Skateboard.

Mr. Patera began slowly.

“The next time I see something like that, I’m turning you into the police.” he said in a low, serious tone.

Dustan and I just stood still stammering.

“You got that?” he asked with a raised voice.

We both squeaked “Yeah.”

Dustan began snickering into his collar. I nudged him to be quiet.

Mr. Patera shook his head and began pulling away. As he rolled up his window I noticed something unexpected. Through the reflection on the glass, I saw that his face was softening...the grimace melted into a grin on his face. As he pulled further away, I could see his shoulders began lifting up and down as if he was holding back laughter.

The two of us looked at each other in disbelief. We began walking again and, slowly, we came to the realization that we had pulled off the perilous act with no punishment. We had managed to break the rules and get away with it. We had stolen fire from the gods and shared it with our common peers...our eighth grade classmates. We were lauded as heroes for a brief moment between boyhood and manhood. Even the Gods were impressed.

Thank you for reading!

I don’t have a song about skateboarding, but I do have this song about Tank Hill. I remember moving to town at 8 years old and realizing the hills were much bigger than in my previous hometown. I lived at the top of Tank Hill…but the pool was at the bottom. Take a listen to OLD TANK HILL!

If you are enjoying my Substack and haven’t already subscribed….please do!

Thank you!

Chad Elliott

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Linking readers and professional writers who care about Iowa.

By Julie Gammack

I paint.

I paint people, trees, birds, landscapes, imaginings, and flowers. I paint to reflect beauty. I am not a painter for your mind. I do know the difference. There are artists who mean to disrupt and disturb your beliefs and shatter your paradigm. I am not one of those artists. I definitely enjoy art that disrupts. But I have reformed since the days I believed I needed to do that, personally.

The world needs to be reminded of beauty right now. If I have any goal at all when it comes to making art, it is this:

Art should beckon us back into beauty and awe.

I did not say, pretty.

Pretty is pleasant. Well mannered. Oftentimes manufactured.

Beauty holds both, dark and light. The full palette that spans before us. From the strange to the awe inspiring.

Beauty is in the homeless man’s hands cupped in such a way they resemble an iris.

Beauty is the perfect, glistening trail of a tear shed on the sun-spotted face of someone who grieves their partner.

Beauty is blinding, red rage that evolves into deliberate, indigo action.

Beauty is falling apart.

The palette is immense and infinite.

I paint.

I paint to be in line with an energy that I have only known to be life-affirming…even in the face of death.

Here is a song I wrote called Painters and Boxers. Because sometimes, creating is a struggle.

Thank you for reading/listening!

Chad Elliott

Iowa Writers Collaborative Roundup

Linking readers and professional writers who care about Iowa.

By Julie Gammack

I was a fifth grader when my music teacher, Mrs. Morgan, announced that there would be a talent show in the upcoming month. I didn’t give it much thought at first. I had already quit violin and was just beginning to play trombone and really didn’t think I had any talent to share on a stage. I was a serious artist. Serious artists didn’t perform, and neither did any of my friends.

That is why it came as a surprise that my best friend, Chris, asked me if I wanted to do something together for the talent show. We were hunting for nightcrawlers on the street after a good rainstorm. He would use and sell the worms for live bait. We often stored them in a decapitated old enamel sink that sat on the dank floor of the root cellar next to his house.

“What would we do?”, I asked him hesitantly.

“I was thinking we could sing something together.” he replied rather confidently.

I was impressed by his courage, but I still wasn’t sure what he was thinking.

“What would we sing?”

“Oh, I’m sure we can find something we both know to sing. How about “Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord, he has dah, dah, dah…”. He was now singing with a hand full of wriggling earthworms.

“I guess I know that one well enough. But we’d have to practice.”

“Oh yeah...of course. We can do it on our way to school everyday. I’ll write us down on the list.”

“Okay.

And with that, our fates had been sealed. We would throw caution to the wind and sing on stage together. Two young men singing proudly a manly song in front of our peers. What could go wrong? We knew our audience. We had preparation time. This could even be the beginning of a great new era in our elementary school culture. It would become a place where young men could play football, go fishing AND sing in front of each other without any preconceived notions of being sissy. All because two young men...with live bait in their hands and a song on their hearts, made a stand. It was going to be great.

If I had the gift of clairvoyance, or the power to speak to my younger self. I would have a few things to say at this moment. I would suggest:

“Despite what many dreamers believe, it is not unwise to look before you leap. Even if it is just a glance. One glance may give you enough foresight to save yourself from embarrassment, ostracization and even DEATH.

Also, when learning to fly, metaphorically speaking, there will come a moment when you first feel as if you can fly. It may be just a whisper. That is your inner child telling you to leap into your destined dream and fly with the eagles as God intended.

DO NOT LISTEN TO THIS CHILD. This child knows nothing about the dedication and labor required to learn a skill like singing in front of an audience. This child is only whispering because they are quite aware that they have no experience to back up such a risky proposition. This child will leave you if you fail!”

Okay, so that may be a bit dramatic and untrue. But immediately after the following events occurred, this may have been my advice.

It was the day of the talent show. We were walking to school going over the verses. We had memorized them and were beginning to think we sounded pretty good. Sure, we hadn’t worked out harmonies or gone through the entire song without a mistake yet, but we thought we were prepared enough to take on the other fifth graders. Of course, my twin sister Cherie had prepared a little skit of a Shel Silverstein poem which would be a serious contender. But we had confidence on our side. Maybe it was the song...every day signing verses about trampling grapes, loosening lightning and terrible swift swords...we just knew that reading a boring old poem couldn’t hold a candle to two young men using their God given voices to express the human condition through a patriotic song. We were a shoe in.

We briefly mentioned that it was kind of strange that Mrs. Morgan hadn’t practiced with us on piano. But we figured that she was a professional and would know what to do. (It may have been an ominous premonition. This would be the “look before you leap” part.)

I should mention that Mrs. Morgan never warmed to me since I moved to town in third grade. I had a couple run ins with her as my friends and I would goof around in her classroom. Just normal kind of trouble making. Talking when we shouldn’t. Playing with the recorders and percussion instruments when we weren’t supposed. That type of stuff.

We arrived early for the evening talent show. It would be held in the high school. Families, teachers and students would all congregate into the lunch room for dinner before the show. My friends and I all sat together and ate the delicious chili, cinnamon rolls and dill pickle spears. It was a curious lunchtime favorite for students all throughout the Midwest school cafeterias. Over the table Chris broke the news to me. He had just spoken to Mrs. Morgan and she informed him that we would have to sing acapella.

“Aca-whatta?” I asked.”

“She said that since we didn’t ask her to accompany us, that she hadn’t prepared the piece.” Chris replied.

Panic coursed through my body. A vision came to me. The two of us awkwardly standing in front of the entire school body and our families...we were dead meat.

I asked, “Well, maybe we can just not do it?”

“But we’re on THE LIST. We’re in the PROGRAM!”.

Chris made a good point. The only thing worse than failing in front of your entire community, is being branded a coward. Everyone would know we chickened out.

We had to do it. It was time to wield our terrible swift swords and face the music...or lack thereof.

Luckily, we had been drawn to sing earlier in the evening. We both knew from playground assaults and injuries, pain is easier when it is dealt swiftly.

“And now Chad and Chris will sing a rendition of “Battle Hymn of the Republic”.

I became queasy. After all, this was the first time I had heard the actual title of the song. All of this time I thought it was “Mine Eyes Have Seen the Glory”. Not a good sign.

We slowly walked up the stairs on the side of the stage and found our place in the glowing sphere reflection of the spotlight on the empty wooden stage.

In the shadows of the wings, behind the curtains I could see the dark figure of Mrs. Morgan. I believe I could see an iniquitous grin on her face, as if she was taking too much pleasure out of this moment. An owl before two overconfident fledglings, about to have their wings clipped.

Chris and I looked at each other. I waited for him to start. He waited for me to start. My face became flushed and the heat rose into my cheeks and ears.

“One, two, three, four..” I counted off….and neither of us began singing.

The audience murmured and snickered quietly.

My heartbeat throbbed inside my ears.

We tried again.

“One, two, three, four..” and although we didn’t begin on the next one count rhythm, we finally managed to stammer into the first verse.

“Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord..”

We sang louder with each passing phrase and I began to think we were going to at least save ourselves from too much ridicule if we just kept displaying confidence. We went into the next verse and we joined in unison...and, dare I say, we were sounding pretty good. I became confident enough to close my eyes and begin to feel the music….this glorious composition was spectacular. I was certain the audience would begin to feel what the two of us were emoting...especially leading into the big chorus...bah, bah, BAH!

“GLORY, GLORY, HALL-Ley- lu….jah.” My solitary voice trailed off abruptly. Where was Chris? I opened my eyes to see I was standing all alone on the stage. Naked in that spotlight. I looked stage right to see Chris running back up the staircase to the stage. He had forgotten the big chorus!!

Suddenly, our musical number became a comedy act. The audience roared. Parents slapped their knees, and the popular girls all whispered and snickered to each other.

“HIS TRUTH IS MARCHING OOOON!” We sang with artificial confidence.

We gave a big apish bow and hurried off the stage as the crowd laughed and clapped sympathetically.

It was over.

Chris apologized profusely. I just slapped his arm and scolded him half heartedly for leaving me up there alone.

“I was just glad you came back!” I added.

We both laughed and breathed a deep sigh. Thankful that it was all over.

“Hey, I bet they still have more cinnamon rolls! Let’s go grab one.” Chris suggested.

The next day at school, it seemed as if no one remembered our tragic performance, or thought it as paramount as Chris and I. There was no teasing. There were no new nicknames born. It was just a typical school day. The whole experience had breezed by, but taught me an important lesson.

My sister and her friend placed second place that night. They did a great job. The audience heartily clapped for them. I was very happy for her.

I don’t even remember who won first place...but one could say that Chris and I won something even more priceless...if we chose to look at it that way. We had won the confidence of the fool. No longer would we have to fear the number one fear...a common nightmare: making a fool of oneself onstage in front of a laughing audience. We had already managed to do this in glorious fashion and it didn’t kill us. In fact, it made us impervious to future embarrassment. I would say that it is probably why I could easily slip into the performer’s life as an adult. I was unafraid to make a mistake on stage or in life. I had learned as a fifth grader that, at the end of the day, we grow a layer of invincibility through every failed attempt. Once the heart slows to a steady pace again, anyone can look back and laugh at the absurdity of it all...and maybe have one more cinnamon roll.

Thank you for reading!

Chad Elliott

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