I realize I've been writing a lot about my health and the hospital and health care and we've experienced a lot of loss of friends lately. I know of a number of you who have lost someone close to you recently as well. I know there are a number of you that are facing healthcare crises of your own, or huge, overwhelming changes in your lives, or just having a bad day....or a series of bad days: this essay is for you.
I know a number of you who face all of us who are in crises, and help us as best you can, even when there are times you feel there isn't much you can do: this essay is for you. (By the way, during those times, a simple touch of your hand, or sharing a personal story, or just finding a way to make us forget for a moment or two is the best you can do and more healing than you know. The simple touch of another human being who cares can be more powerful than any medicine or procedure ever could be. Never ever forget that.)
So on this rainy Friday night in Minnesota, I dedicate this essay to all those who are suffering and to all those who do their mightiest to ease or end that suffering. My gift of thanks....my gift to hopefully uplift and ease, even if only for a short time.....
One portion of a minister's lot concerns the dying and the dead. The hospital room, the mortuary, the funeral service, the cemetery. What I know of such things shapes my life elsewhere in particular ways. What I know of such things explains why I don't waste much life time mowing grass or washing cars or raking leaves or making beds or shining shoes or washing dishes. It explains why I don't honk at people who are slow to move at green lights. And why I don't kill spiders. There isn't time or need for all this. What I know of cemeteries and such also explains why I sometimes visit the Buffalo Tavern.
The Buffalo Tavern is, in essence, mongrel America. Boiled down and stuffed into the Buffalo on a Saturday night, the fundamental elements achieve a critical mass around eleven. The catalyst is the favorite house band, the Dynamic Volcanic Logs. Eights freaks frozen in the amber vibes of the sixties. Playing stomp-hell rockabilly with enough fervor to heal the lame and the halt. Mongrel America comes to the Buffalo to drink beer, shoot pool, and dance. Above all, to dance. To shake their tails and stomp frogs and get rowdy and holler and sweat and dance. When it's Saturday night and the Logs are rocking and the crowd is rolling, there's no such thing as death.
One such night the Buffalo was invaded by a motorcycle club, trying hard to look like the Hell's Angels and doing pretty good at it too. I don't think these people were in costume for a movie. And neither they nor their ladies smelled like soap and water was an important part of their lives on anything like a daily basis. Following along behind them was an Indian - an older man, with braids, beaded vest, army surplus pants, and tennis shoes. He was really ugly. Now I'm fairly resourceful with words, and I would give you a flashy description of this man's face if it would help, but there's no way around it - he looked, in a word, ugly. He sat working on his Budweiser for a long time. When the Dynamic Logs ripped into a scream-out version of "Jailhouse Rock" he moved. Shuffled over to one of the motorcycle mommas and invited her to dance. Most ladies would have refused, but she was amused enough to shrug and get up.
Well, I'll not waste words. This ugly, shuffling Indian ruin could dance. I mean, he had the moves. Nothing wild, just effortless action, subtle rhythm, the cool of the master. He turned his partner every way but loose and made her look good at it. The floor slowly cleared for them. The band wound down and out, but the drummer held the beat. The motorcycle-club group rose up and shouted for the band to keep playing. The band kept playing. The Indian kept dancing. The motorcycle mamma finally blew a gasket and collapsed in someone's lap. The Indian danced on alone. The crowd clapped up the beat. The Indian danced with a chair. The crowd went crazy. The band faded. The crowd cheered. The Indian held up his hands for silence as if to make a speech. Looking at the band and then the crowd, the Indian said, "Well, what're you waiting for? Let's DANCE."
The band and the crowd went off like a bomb. People were dancing all through the tables to the back of the room and behind the bar. People were dancing in the restrooms and around the pool tables. Dancing for themselves, for the Indian, for God and Mammon. Dancing in the face of hospital rooms, mortuaries, funeral services, and cemeteries. And for a while, nobody died.
"Well," said the Indian, "what're you waiting for? Let's dance."
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