A some kind of wonderful adventure, Chapter Two

Originally published on the Real WV

Music, mourning, and feeling Minnesota

By Matthew Young, RealWV

It’s almost 11 o’clock at night, and I’m laid out on the bottom bunk of a five-by-eight jail cell in Ladysmith, Wisconsin. 

I don’t know it yet, but Jupie Little is locked in an equally tiny room a floor below me, and he’s frantically calling John Ellison to come get him out. Not really sure where Mike Lipton and Ted Harrison went – all I know is that they took off somewhere with the keeper of this particular jail. Never trust the long-haired freaky people, I suppose.

I’m fairly certain there’s a cautionary tale in here somewhere about partying with rockstars, but hell if I’m clever enough to pick it out.

You’re probably wondering how we ended up in this predicament, and that’s a perfectly fair question. I can’t speak for my guys, but I can tell you that my story – as good stories so often do – begins with the loss of a woman.  

Now you’re probably wondering who this woman is – you’re thinking that any woman special enough to make me Kerouac my freckled Irish ass halfway across the country in search of something that I can’t put into words, only to end up singing “Nobody knows but Jesus” behind bars in Wisconsin, must really be something.

And you’d be right…

The woman Before the Beginning

MaryEllen Mullen Young was born on March 28, 1947, but I didn’t get to meet her until she gave birth to me some 31 years later. I was the youngest of three boys, and the last of my mother’s five pregnancies – the first two ended in miscarriages before my oldest brother made his appearance in the summer of 1975, with my second brother following 16 months later. 

I was the unplanned, curly-haired, red-headed runt of the litter. Due on Christmas Eve of 1978, my lifelong love-affair with impatience blossomed five weeks before that, and I made it in time for Thanksgiving. It happened so fast that my parents weren’t able to make it to their preferred hospital down in Jersey, and had to settle for St. Luke’s in Newburgh, New York. 

Oh, and no time for an epidural, either.

So that’s how my mom and I met – spending our Thanksgiving holiday in the maternity ward at St. Luke’s Hospital, with her eating frozen turkey grossness and a Dixie cup full of cranberry Jell-o, and me in an incubator with a squished-up red face. 

And as much as I don’t want to, now we have to move ahead to how we said goodbye…

One thing that you can never prepare yourself for is how cold a person’s skin feels after they die. You know the coldness is inevitable, but you’re still surprised when you feel it. I felt that coldness in my mother’s face at a New Jersey funeral home on June 23, and it was in that same funeral home that I felt that coldness in my father’s face four years earlier. 

It’s weird to find yourself an orphan at 45-years-old. I have more regrets than I care to remember, and my parents were often the collateral damage in my battles with my demons. They deserved so much better than I gave them, and I want nothing more than to feel the warmth in their faces again.

So why am I in a jail cell in Wisconsin, singing songs about Jesus and my troubles? 

Because my skin feels cold. I just looked in the mirror, and things weren’t looking so good. I guess I’m looking California, and feeling Minnesota.

30 Hours to Duluth

It’s just after three in the afternoon, and I’m outside the bus station in Cleveland with my two new friends. The first is a younger guy, probably mid-twenties, who swears that his name is Yo. I don’t believe that’s his name, but then I really don’t care what his name is. He can be Yo if he wants to be. 

Yo is a white dude, wearing an all white outfit that bears a striking resemblance to pajamas. He’s also about three hours out of prison, and already high as a kite on the weed he just scored from some guy inside the bus station. His eyes look like cherries, and he smells like the lawn seats at the Tom Petty concert I went to outside Philadelphia in 1999 – Yo that is, not the weed dealer. I didn’t smell that guy.

My other new friend, I’m assuming, is a woman in her sixties who looks like she’s lived a pretty rough life. Although it’s also possible that she’s in her forties and lived a really rough life. 

I have no idea what her name is because I can’t understand a word she says. I’m pretty sure that what she’s speaking started out as English, but it took a hard left somewhere and is now more like verbal hieroglyphics. But she seems super nice, and smells less like a parole violation than Yo. 

Just before we came outside, I took a pass on the weed dealer’s offer to sell me a dimebag of his homegrown. I did, however, buy him $2.75 worth of Dippin’ Dots from the vending machine in exchange for directions to what he swore was the greatest tasting Chinese food place in Ohio. I was a little skeptical, but he seemed like the trustworthy type of drug dealer, so I gave him the benefit of the doubt and followed his recommendation. In fairness, who better to know where the good food would be?

The geography of Cleveland reminds me of that little kid’s rug they sell at Walmart – the one with the road and the town that you can play on with Matchbox cars. The simple-sounding directions of “two blocks up and a block to the left” would make perfect sense if the city streets actually went in a straight line. But since they don’t, our trek required a bit of mid-day celestial navigation. 

We found the Chinese joint after walking around for maybe 30 minutes. We ordered our food, and when it was time to pay it was pretty clear that my man Yo didn’t have any money. Apparently they handed him a $20 bill with his bus ticket when he got released from the hoosegow, but Yo smoked that up outside of the bus station. 

My other new friend retrieved several crumpled and very wet looking dollar bills from inside her sock, and dropped them on the counter. I was then treated to the best Abbott and Costello impersonation I have ever seen, as the woman taking our order – who spoke very little English – tried to explain to my new friend – who spoke hieroglyphics – that she couldn’t accept her wet sock money. 

So we all know where this is headed now, right? I ordered an egg roll and a can of Pepsi, and it cost me $28. But damn if it wasn’t the greatest tasting Chinese food I’ve ever had in Ohio.

About nine hours after parting ways with my new friends, I found myself standing in a very crowded Chicago bus terminal. This was by far the busiest station I had been in since leaving Charleston 15 hours earlier, and the busyness carried over into my trip to St. Paul. 

I had a window seat, which was good. What wasn’t so good was the very large man in the very small shorts who sat next to me. He was hairy, sweaty, and considerably wider than his seat, and I spent my night time ride spooning his bare thigh. Nice fella though. 

I got off my fourth and final bus in Duluth at about 2:30 that afternoon. And I have to say, it was pretty nice to see a West Virginia license plate there waiting for me. 

Searching for Jesus with Pat MacDonald and the Ghost of Gordon Lightfoot

Grand Marais, Minnesewdah – doncha know – is a pretty small city of just over 1,300 people, situated on the North Shore of Lake Superior. One of the largest freshwater lakes in the world, Superior stands as the final resting place of some 600 ships just since the 1850’s. The total number of vessels claimed by the lake throughout history is impossible to calculate, but the number is well into the thousands. 

As I make my way through town – past the gift shops and restaurants, and out past the abandoned Coast Guard station – I begin quietly singing…

The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down

Of the big lake they call Gitche Gumee

The lake, it is said, never gives up her dead

When the skies of November turn gloomy

There’s a lighthouse out past the harbor that has me fascinated. I’m like a literal moth to the flame, only it’s daytime so I’m nothing like that. More like a bug to the windshield, I suppose. 

There’s a concrete walkway out to the lighthouse that’s simultaneously breathtaking, and terrifying. It sits maybe two feet above the water, and is smoothly angled downward on both sides. The walking surface is no more than 18 inches wide, and is often interrupted by jagged bedrock. 

I can’t explain the pull of the lighthouse, because I don’t understand it myself. I just have the sense that there is something out there waiting for me. Maybe I’ll find Satori and achieve enlightenment, or maybe Jesus Christ himself wants a word. Hell, maybe there’s a storm hiding behind the sun that’s waiting to drag me out into the frigid water, and bury me with the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald. 

To be clear, I am not a religious person. Once upon a time maybe, but that time has long since passed. My mother would often jokingly refer to me as a heathen, but I don’t know if that’s really what I am. I can’t honestly say that I believe in any specific God – Christian or otherwise. But logic tells me that it would be pretty hard to hate something that you don’t believe in, and my hatred comes pretty easily these days. 

The journey out has an almost ethereal quality to it. I take my time – not because I’m scared, even though I probably should be. I move slowly because I want to experience every step, and each one creates a new memory that I can use to push away one more thing I don’t want to remember anymore. 

Does that sound dumb? I feel like that sounded dumb. I’m really not that deep. 

The last 50-feet or so are by far the most intimidating, and I’m surprised to see a painter casually working at an easel positioned on the rocks beside the walkway as though he was spending a lazy afternoon in the park. 

The lighthouse has definite “Robert Browning” vibes, and, strangely, I find that even more inviting. 

Childe Roland to the Dark Tower came…

As I take the final steps to the platform where the lighthouse sits, the waves kick up and splash me with cold lake water. “Maybe it’s a warning,” I think, with a smile I can’t contain. I look up to the tower’s deck, and I wonder what’s up there waiting for me. I see the narrow metal stairwell heading up, and my anticipation grows. 

As I reach the top of the stairs, I’m greeted by a closed wooden hatch cover. I take the metal latch in my hand, and…

So, as Stephen King once said, you should probably stop reading right here. I promise you will not find the end of this part of the story at all satisfying. 

Well since you didn’t stop reading, I guess I’ll tell you what happened. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. The damn latch had a giant lock on it, and the wooden hatch was screwed shut. 

Does anyone know where the love of God goes

When the waves turn the minutes to hours?

But I will say this: whatever it is that you’re searching for in this world, I’m pretty sure it’s waiting for you at the top of the Grand Marais lighthouse in Lake Superior. I guess I’m kinda glad that the hatch was locked. That way I know that what I’m looking for will always be there waiting for me. 

Less than 24-hours later, I’m in the tiny green room above the stage in Duluth’s West Theatre, with none other than Pat MacDonald from the band “Timbuk 3.” If “surreal” could manifest itself as a tangible moment in time, this would be it. 

Things are going great, I think, and they’re only getting better. Although I was slightly disappointed that Pat wasn’t wearing shades. 

At 70-years-old, Pat MacDonald is pretty far removed from the Grammy nominations and top 20 hits he enjoyed with his band back in 1987. There’s a shyness to the man. And with his dark-rimmed glasses, and stringy gray hair, he bears a striking resemblance to Andy Warhol. 

Pat opens the show ahead of John Ellison and The Carpenter Ants, and his set wasn’t at all what I was expecting. There’s no fast drum beats or dance-techno; it’s just Pat and his guitar, and I’m mesmerized.

“I need a real safe place to do this song,” Pat tells the audience. “I got cancer in 2016, and had it for a couple years. When I got diagnosed, I told a good friend of mine who’s a songwriter.”

“I’m like, ‘Hey, I just got diagnosed with cancer,’ and this guy is a pretty devoted songwriter,” Pat continues. “He’s a songwriter that you’ve probably heard of, and if I don’t say his name the story is not as good. But if I do say his name, you’ll just think I’m a name-dropper.”

“His name is Jackson Browne,” Pat predictably tells the crowd. “Young guy just starting out. He’s trying really hard.”

The audience laughs, and so do I. 

“Anyway, when I told him I was diagnosed with cancer, he said, ‘Oh, that oughta be good for some good songs,’” Pat added. 

As he recalled, Pat told Jackson Browne that he had already begun writing a song, and it was called “I Can’t Imagine a World Without Me.”

The title came as a surprise, and it hit some emotional trigger in my brain that I wasn’t sufficiently defending. I turned away from the stage, but Pat’s words pulled my eyes right back.

I can picture God, hereafter and on

Pointing the chariot, the show must go on

And a singer who’s singing, to know that he sings

I can’t imagine a world without me

Music, Mourning, and Feeling Minnesota

My trip to the Midwest was pretty spontaneous. The Carpenter Ants had just gotten back from a two-week tour of Europe, and I knew they were playing some shows with John Ellison out in Minnesota. When the chance for me to meet up with them was presented, I thought it would make a great story about West Virginians doing cool things that I could share with all of you. 

What I didn’t know at the time was how much I needed to get out there for myself. It’s been a really long, really hard year, and I have a lot more healing to do than I ever imagined. And if I’ve learned anything in my life, it’s that there’s no better place to heal than in the company of musicians. 

I found a lot of value in Pat’s music, and his songs resonated with me. But it was Ellison and the Ants – guys that I’m lucky enough to call my friends – that left me in tears. 

Toward the end of their set that night, John – as he likes to do – came down off the stage so he could be closer to the audience.

 “I don’t know how many of you are religious, or believe in God,” John said. “But I can tell you this – he’s real.”

“My mom passed away in 2004,” John continued, and I felt a lump begin to form in my throat. “She had a stroke – three strokes, as a matter of fact. My brother called me and said, ‘John, you need to come home. Mom is completely paralyzed.’”

John, at the time, was performing in Toronto. After speaking to his brother, John immediately made his way to Winston Salem, North Carolina to be with his mother. 

“When I reached the hospital, it was about one in the morning,” John explained. “My mom was laying there with her head back, and her face and hands all twisted.”

“So I got in the bed with my mom,” John said. “I was sitting with my back against the headboard, and I had my arms around her. She couldn’t say a word – couldn’t even move.”

John told the audience how he began singing “Amazing Grace” to his mother because it was her favorite song.

“When I got to the second verse, I heard a voice singing with me,” John continued. “So I said, ‘Mom, if you can hear me, I want you to sing this song with me.’ She picked her head up, and her face and hands became normal, and she started singing.”

“I called my brothers, and I said, ‘You guys gotta’ come to the hospital,’” John added. “And they said, ‘What’s wrong, did mom pass?’ I said, ‘Hell, mom is singing.’”

“They couldn’t believe it,” John concluded. “They all rushed to the hospital, and by the time they got there my mom and I were sitting there, playing Crazy Eights.”

“So that’s the power of the man upstairs, and I just wanted to share that with you,” John finished. 

And with that, the tears came. At least the theatre was dark.

To Be Continued…

This some kind of wonderful adventure is only just beginning. I haven’t told you yet how I ended up in a jail in Wisconsin, or about our run-in the next day with a sheriff in Indiana. 

I have to tell you the tale of the wallet lost at the laundromat, my discovery of both French Market soup and this amazing pair of musicians called “Between Howls,” and how the guys sang for our meal at some little diner south of Misquah Hills. There’s intrigue, suspense, rooster castrations, and the story behind why “blessed are the methmakers” is now a permanent fixture in my vocabulary. 

And there’s still Devil Track Lake, and a whole music festival we have to get through.

Until next time…can I get a witness? 

If you can’t wait for Chapter Three, why not take a trip down memory lane, and revisit Chapter One?