He was, of course, ten feet tall.
The tall, dark horse
from Tennessee.
“Camptown ladies sing this song…” ~ Stephen Foster
Put your money down
on the tall, dark horse
from Tennessee. I have an image in my head,
of a young Charles Bukowski, age ten, 1931;
running down to the corner news stand
to get his latest copy of Street and Smith’s
Sport Story to read Sam’s latest horse racing story.
I’ll give you even money on that one. I’ll bet Papa even
sneaked a peak to read the words of this man who
beat him to the left bank by two years.
“Man, that guy can write…horse racing and ladies in red…”
He was a front runner, odds on favorite
from any position, but he made the right move
at the wrong time. October, 1929 brought him to the ground
faster than the Hindenburg.
Put your money down
on the tall, dark horse
from Tennessee.
“Doo-da, doo-da”~ Stephen Foster
He watched his first Kentucky Derby
the year Old Rosebud came home first (1914) and
watched his last run for the roses in 1973,
Secretariat, a good enough ending, I suppose
for the man who called Grantland Rice “granny” and
Damon Runyon quiet. A sportswriter in Louisville
had to know and love his horses
and their riders.
Earl Sande on Zev, he said, was the best combo ever.
Here’s a Sam quote for you:
“It’s okay to dream, but then you gotta do.”
Put your money down
on the tall, dark horse
from Tennessee.
“And it’s run for the roses, as fast as you can…”~ Dan Fogelberg
Sam played guitar and every other instrument
in the band,
“Camptown racetrack five miles long” ~ Stephen Foster
Sam painted, just because he could, just like
he attended classes at the Sorbonne
because he and they were there,
he delighted in the Left Bank,
because he could clearly see,
they were he.
“My life has been a poor attempt to imitate the man.
I’m just a living legacy to the leader of the band.” ~ Dan Fogelberg
Sam gardened at age three, gave 25 years in service
to the teachers of farmers and was still writing
a weekly column (Coffee with Carson) for a large farm newspaper
on the day he reached the finish line.
“Oh, de doo-da day.” ~ Stephen Foster
Sam was a tall teller, a tall teller of
the stories of
our lives. He owned every room
he walked into, but not to enrich himself,
his goal was first and foremost,
to enrich you.
His poet was Wordsworth,
his authors Dickens, London and Hawthorne,
his friends legion and legend, his God
known only to him.
Put your money down
on the tall, dark horse
from Tennessee.
“Goin’ to run all night
Goin’ to run all day
I bet my money on a bob-tailed nag
Somebody bet on the gray.” ~ Stephen Foster
He was a southern man who
had no time for bigotry or
suffering fools, not a popular stance in 1910. How many speak it
from the side of their mouth in 2010?
He was a champion of the underdog,
strong supporter of lost causes,
a believer until the end that
the fourth estate could rise above
pettiness.
Put your money down
on the tall, dark horse
from Tennessee.
“And much it grieved my heart to think
what man has made of man.” ~ William Wordsworth
The army put a rifle in the hands of
Mentor Watson Carson and sent
him off to see what he could do with France.
The crazy dreamer he worked for (Luke Lea) thought it fairly simple,
“Capture the Kaiser!” Bring him to justice in Paris, heads will roll.
As plans go,
it wasn’t a bad one, just suffered a bit in the
execution.
Ah, those boys from Tennessee fight fierce,
the 114th Artillary, 30th Division, all volunteer, of course.
Put your money down
on the tall, dark horse
from Tennessee.
“Another year! – another deadly blow!
Another mighty empire overthrown!” ~ William Wordsworth
I knew him as Grandfather
with a capital G:
I had Coffee with Carson
when I was just five.
He got scolded by Mergie,
but he just scoffed at her admonishments,
he knew what was really important.
I remember the days of wonder:
Hey! Come take a look at this!
Tomatoes the size of softballs,
a lifetime of knowledge behind them,
Clickity-clack, clckity-clack, clickity-clack, beep, zing,
clickity-clack, clickity-clack, clickity-clack, beep, zing, whirl,
a lifetime of knowledge leaping upon the page,
the trunk in the attic on Holbrook full of war treasures,
the ’69 Chevy doing 70 between red-lights on Broadway,
walking with him in his old home town,
selling the cookbooks in Pigeon Forge and Gatlinburg,
watching Bob Gibson dare the batters to hit his pitch,
the smell of pipe tobacco and old sweaters well worn.
I would have cut the grass for free
a thousand times.
I remember the last time and I remember
that sunset.
Put your money down
on the tall, dark horse
from Tennessee.
I’ve already bet my life on him.
“_____It seems a day
(I speak of one from many singled out)
One of those heavenly days that cannot die” ~ William Wordsworth
Mike Carson
9-27-2010
2 comments:
This is Good.... with a capital G ;-)
I saw Bob Gibson pitch, in 1969 & 1970. My Dad and my Uncle took me. Moments measured as legacy lead us to a here and now. Legacy keeps moving on... You made time hesitate a few times here, just long enough to gauge its speed, and confirm its direction. Along the way, you picked up some riders, one of whom was me.
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