I Grew Up In A Small Town

“Sucker punch somebody on a sidewalk
Carjack an old lady at a red light
Pull a gun on the owner of a liquor store
Ya think it’s cool, well, act a fool if ya like
Cuss out a cop, spit in his face
Stomp on the flag and light it up
Yeah, ya think you’re tough

Well, try that in a small town
See how far ya make it down the road
‘Round here, we take care of our own
You cross that line, it won’t take long
For you to find out, I recommend you don’t
Try that in a small town.”

— Jason Aldean, “Try That In A Small Town

Yeah, I grew up with the sentiment of that song in a very small town, smaller than the one I live in now is or was at the time of my childhood. It’s an insular way of thinking and one with a very dark side. To the folks espousing it, who are, by the way, always white, it sounds prideful and full of self-determination. But it is really about creating an us-versus-them world. It ripples with threatened violence, this idea of “taking care of our own.” Why else introduce the idea of having a gun? And I don’t believe for a minute that it’s about unity or acceptance because I saw all the evidence a thousand times over in my little town in the middle of Indiana growing up.  I see it here now, in this place that I’ve adopted as home and a place that I love. It’s a small town with a big heart but also with just as much of a troubled past of segregation and bias toward whiteness as any other place across the country, north and south. (The north has always had segregation — it’s just more hidden and subversive.)

Of course Aldean has every right to put his song out there. Maybe it even serves as something good because it sparks a conversation about our troubled country that, while full of freedom and caring for one another, harbors a dark underbelly of prejudice that was there from the beginning when our forefathers owned slaves, a legacy that has not been obliterated with a violent civil war, a Civil Rights movement, or nearly 250 years of independence and supposed freedom. 

Because you have to ask, freedom for who? That commodity is disproportionately unequal among us and always has been. The way of keeping it thus involves a long history of violence, including lynchings, riots, fire bombings, and threats. It also includes a whole host of laws and ordinances meant to keep “those people” from voting, living where they choose, and gaining education. In essence, doing anything to keep them from gaining power. 

We like to think that here in the 21st Century we’ve achieved some sort of color blindness, reached a time where prejudice against our Black brethren is behind us. We prefer to think of it as something in our rear view mirror. However, it is not any more past us than the idea of Fascism, which is very much alive and well in the world despite a world war fought and millions of people killed in the process in order to eradicate it. We need only look at the disproportionate number of Black people harassed while going about their daily lives merely for the fact of being Black. And that there are still active efforts in many parts of the country to curtail their right to vote, to gain a foothold up the economic ladder. No, racism still lives and breathes among us.

Aldean’s song simply makes me sad that we are still, as a people, telling ourselves these self-righteous untruths and foisting them off as a source of pride and brotherly love. His song, while true that it says what many people feel, is the promotion of a sorry myth handed down generation after generation that continues to unbind us and split us into factions of fury and hatred. It promotes a world view that sets one against the other, void of reaching out or any self-examination about the causations of our dysfunction as a society. 

For whatever else is true, one thing is surely obvious. That we are all in this together for the long run, regardless of our skin color, our political beliefs, our circumstances. Telling ourselves a sad story of self-preservation with hidden dogwhistles about race and class only perpetuates our promotion of racism and violence. We are responsible for this path and where we are today. It is not some mysterious Boogieman who has wrought the violence or inequality in our midst. It is us. And we can only overcome these past and present injustices by deep self-reflection and a commitment to a world where violence toward the “other” is anathema to freedom. 

I love the small town where I grew up, but what it did to some of its citizens and the ideas that Aldean’s song promotes sickens me. I long to live in a better, saner, more inclusive and loving place than the world he describes, where my Black neighbors’ lives and prosperity is valued equally with my own.

2022 CAMPING: Paducah to Cheyenne, Wyoming

We took a five-week road trip this spring to see the sights of the north and west. Testing out our new teardrop camper and finding that old spirit of adventure!

Camp Life

Our little buddy: a T@B teardrop

First stop, Kansas City!

At Kansas City watching a baseball game.

KC to the Platte River via Red Cloud, Nebraska.

On to Cheyenne, Wyoming…

Stef thought this turkey could use a hug. The turkey was down for it. (outside Cheyenne, Wyoming)

… next day.. CAMP LIFE!

Cowango Retreat 2019

It’s all about the Giant Stickies

As we move forward with our art business we find it extremely useful to get away occasionally for a couple of days to focus on our future as artists. The last time we did so was in 2017 and at that time we discovered a very nice spot to do just this kind of thing.

The deluxe cabin near a lake in Southern Illinois that we stayed in two years ago was so nice we decided to make a return trip there for the 2019 version of our Cowango retreat. Having a fire pit and hot tub on the back deck might have had something to do with it too. All work and no play…. you know.

We got to the cabin in the late afternoon and after unpacking we took a nice stroll through the woods and down to the pond. The turtles were out in force and looked to us for some snacks which were not forthcoming. They swam off disappointed at our lack of hospitality.

We got down to business the next morning. Each of us had prepared an opening gambit. Just for laughs and to break the tension I led us both in the “Failure Bow” routine where we both announce to the world our greatest failures in our lives as artists. Then we each take a grand stage bow and get a round of over-the-top applause. Seems weird I know but by the end we were both laughing off the things that seemed just earlier to be a big deal.

Stefanie had a sack full of crafty goodies and set us both to the task of making a time capsule book, to be exposed to the elements and recovered later for examination. She had tissue paper, ribbons, tree bark, an old book with great image plates, and a pile of other stuff. We cut, pasted wrapped, and folded like a couple of school kids. At the end we twisted twine around the “books” and talked about where we might hang them when we got back home.

After a few more warm-up exercises we tried something to help us expand our focus. I had read about a form of brainstorming called “ideation” where the object is not just to throw ideas around uncritically in the spirit of quantity over quality. Ideation uses a slightly different approach. Instead of just saying whatever comes to mind it tries to introduce new stimuli, challenge assumptions and work to break patterns of thinking. Ideation tries to excite your brain in new ways and create what the champions of the concept call “lateral thinking” (indirect and creative approach, not step-by-step).

First we were required to clearly state our objectives and to make them short and precise. We came up with four really good ones but the one that jumped out for both of us after we formulated it was, “To behave like an artist every day”. That may sound perfectly obvious but just making the statement and committing to follow it every day was powerful. Too often we find a way to be casual and not “all in” on that idea.

From there we moved to an exercise that created a list of linked concepts related to our art business. We were directed to come up with a concept associated with our business and then just say whatever it suggested to us, related or not. The idea was to get at a broader range of ideas and then figure out what might link the two. We cranked out about ten of these pairs and then went back and tried to discover the linking concept.

We were both amazed at the fertile ground this turned over! We were soon filling pages of the giant electric green Post-it Note pad we brought along. We both hummed at buzzed with ideas and energy. Just what we came for.

The two day retreat filled us up, re-energized us and made us more committed to what we really want to do. By the next morning we had a skein of stickies running across the the back deck, full of value statements, objectives, plans and a five-year outlook for Cowango Studios. And it gave us a new catch phrase “Say yes! Go yeah!”. There’s a story to that, ask us about it sometime.


As we stood watching, our maid, Chela, spotted us and motioned for us to come and join them. With her second beckoning I knew that I had to go join in. This was an opportunity not to be missed, in spite of my trepidation at not knowing the rituals of the ceremony. I slipped on my jacket and gloves and hurried outside into the cold night, down the steps of the calljon to Raul’s gate. Chela was just inside, and we exchanged greetings and then stood for a moment with arms around each others’ waists. One of Chela’s daughters was near by, but that was the only other familiar face. Eyes turned in my direction, the only gringo present. Chela then moved into the yard amidst the rest of the gathering while I remained at the periphery, content to observe and be a silent part of their tradition. Voices raised in unison, young and old together singing from memory these songs to commemorate the night of the birth of Christ. Songs alternated with chants and spoken verses, and I understood but a few words. Yet it mattered little.

Soon Dave came to join me, and we stood together as the last song was sung into the night. The mood shifted from solemn to festive as bags of fruit and nuts were handed out to everyone. We were ushered inside the yard by a man standing next to me, in spite of our protestations, and given a bag as well. Raul appeared and welcomed us, bringing us glasses of hot fruited punche, quickly followed by a splash of Tequila for additional fortification against the cold. He then invited us inside to meet the rest of his family. Sitting on the couch watching 3 of the small children and trying to determine whether they were siblings, one of teenagers on our other side told us in English that they were cousins. The spell was broken, and one of the women across from us said, “Mama!” and pointed to herself. There followed a part English, part Spanish exchange of introductions and talk of our families.

Away from our own traditions, friends, and families it felt good to be included and welcomed by our neighbors. We watch nightly to see where the Posada will go and listen for the sounds of our neighbors’ voices to fill the night air. They bring a friendly warmth to the cold that has descended.

Feliz Navidad,

— Stef

Another Photo

They hung paper streamers across the plaza the other day. These brightly colored paper cutouts known as “papel picado” are used throughout the year to dress up every Mexican fiesta but this is the time when they really get to shine. This is Dios de los Muertes (http://muertos.palomar.edu/dayofthedead.htm), the season when every Mexican family pays respect to their dearly departed. While the American tradition of dressing in costume has a great appeal here to a culture that loves street theater, the unique customs of Day of the Dead are still honored with an outpouring of energy typical of this culture’s approach to celebrations. Unlike the other fiestas we’ve experienced since we’ve arrived (and there have been many!) where the papel picado strung across the streets are the more common, machine made cutouts, they now take the time to carefully hand-cut them with elaborately detailed designs. Then they are raised prominently right across the main plaza to fly in the breeze until the ancestral spirits are chased back to heaven at the end of November 2nd.

All this fuss about the spirits of the dead seems odd to me because something tells me its superstitious and irrational. Certainly a night spent at father’s grave with candles, incense and plates of food to beckon him back doesn’t fit neatly into my experience or understanding. The vigil part makes some sense, but the plates of food? I’m sure this is where I part ways. The spirits aren’t actually returning are they? And a bit peckish at that? But then, what exactly are these plates of food? The very things papa enjoyed while living; enchiladas mole, chicken with rice and beans, cerveza fria. These simple details soon expand into a flood of memories and regardless of what logic may not allow, those memories have now created a presence. Dear papa has arrived in the circle of those who share his memory. Now whether or not he likes the same old cooking…

My culture chooses to denigrate the value of the emotional, irrational mind, largely to its own detriment. There are some very fundamental and persistent enigmas that can’t be approached any other way. The rational day cycles with irrational night and they both have their place and time. As much as we try to banish the irrational, it never really disappears. I began thinking about my culture’s rituals to see how the irrational sneaks in the back door.

The rituals we all share are almost transparent, so much so that we would hardly see them as superstitious. What is with lighting and blowing out candles on a birthday? Or what is the “laying of the cornerstone” ceremony, or even the singing of the National Anthem at ballgames? Why do we do these things? Well, because they feel right and because they are the right thing to do. And actually that’s reason enough. Rituals only persist as long as they “feel right”. Those that lose that emotional connection, or those that succumb to logic and are designated “silly” or “old fashioned” tend to fade away. It could happen to the candles on the cake. It’s what happened to the curtsy. And then there are the other behaviors that become “just a superstition”, like those encounters with black cats, ladders and sidewalk cracks. Hard to imagine they were all highly respected ritual behaviors at one time, ignored only at great risk.
So, are all rituals eventually doomed to the ash heap of “silly superstitious behavior”? Maybe, but I don’t think its appropriate to judge their worth based on whether or not they are sensible, or even logical. Even the rituals we buy into completely and follow habitually look a little silly when you step aside and get “objective” in that way. The only reason that really matters is whether they help us to connect to a shared emotional experience, not whether they look silly to some third party. A wonderful thing happens when we can give ourselves over to a commonly shared ritual. To perform a ritual that your community holds dear, and to perform it with conviction and absolute focus can be uncommonly powerful. We’re just awfully self-conscious about the whole ordeal because we’re sure that somebody will call us on it at any time. Just what the heck are you doing anyway?