Essays by Joel Melton
Gospel: Beauty
Beauty is a good word.
Of course, when thinking of beauty, I usually think of physical beauty, the female form, a ‘face that could launch a thousand ships,’ Helen of Troy — or some flexible brunette sliding down a pole to a gyrating rhythmic beat.
That is beauty, I suppose, or should I say superficial beauty — eye-candy beauty, the kind of beauty that often fades the moment said protagonists open their mouths.
I am not sure that the above-mentioned is a full accounting of the word ‘beauty.’
When I was young, my mother thought the way to make me grow into a better person was to ‘beat the devil’ out of me. She was convinced of the innate sinful nature of all humans, especially her son – me. She would hold a switch over me and make me read five chapters of the Bible every day. Come rain or shine, I read five chapters of the Bible: When finished with the book of Revelation, I would start over again at Genesis . . . and again . . . and again. I read the Bible all right — while thinking, When I grow up, I am going to kill that woman!
I grew up. I have not killed her yet. I am pretty much over that notion.
In thinking back, my mother had had the beauty beat down in her. Someone or something had injured her so that she could not for the life of her let her beauty show to her family. She is a beautiful woman and a beautiful person. She just could not and still cannot let her children see it.
I have seen her care, comfort and inner beauty manifested with other persons less fortunate, the downtrodden in life and animals but remain hidden from the persons she should really let it shine upon.
Over the years of performing music, I have tried to control the audience either by laughter or witty banter or provocative songs or any number of little acting tricks to entertain while also not really showing much of my real self. Little bits of the real me can be gleaned from the lyrics of my songs — bits here and there — little hints, so to speak.
I no longer think that is enough for me. I no longer want to hide behind this façade of I-will-kick-your-fucking-ass attitude.
I have decided now after some time and much introspection that I should not be afraid to reveal my beauty.
As men, we think it must be all machismo, bluster, bad-ass attitude and scowls. I know that, speaking for myself, I was and still am to a great extent afraid to reveal my soft, sensitive and beautiful nature.
I am going to try to do better and trust that while opening and pulling back the curtains, so to speak, others will be inspired and see themselves in the process — see themselves as beautiful. We all really are, you know. We just have to have the courage to divulge that tender inner side. I am trying.
So when you pass someone and they say, “Hey, what’s the good word,” just say, “Beauty.”
You see, ‘beauty’ is a good word.
Gospel: A Lesson
A lesson is a lesson only if something beneficial is learned from the encounter.
My mother, for all her faults and over-the-top parenting, was constantly trying to teach my sisters and me lessons — life lessons. My father was really the caretaker of the family; my mother was the disciplinarian and self-proclaimed tutorial giver.
This particular session of matronly seminar happened when I was about 13 years of age. Living in the country, eight miles outside of Checotah, Okla., we had chickens, rabbits, dogs, cats and some livestock. My dad loved Jersey cows because they gave gallons and gallons and gallons of milk.
At the time of this tale, we had two cows that needed milking twice a day. Dad gave me the choice of milking either in the morning at daybreak or evening at dusk.
I chose dawn, figuring that if I had to do this unpleasant assignment, I might as well get it over quick.
Being an adolescent boy of 13, I had my mind on other, more pressing matters — girls, chicks, cheerleaders, cute female classmates, and perusing National Geographic for exposed pictures of African women. Hey, it was the closest thing I could get my hands on at the time that had uncovered feminine form.
Therefore, to say the least, milking a cow and taking the proper time and tempered judgment that the task required was way, way, way back in the recesses of my raging testosterone-fogged brain. I had to get to school and get my cool on baby — and Checotah High was a happening place back in the late 70s.
Being in such a hurry, I developed the unfortunate habit of leaving the old Jersey milk cow’s head in the feed stanchion. You see, what you would do is lock the bovine’s head in the stall with feed in the trough, keeping her busy while you furiously tugged on her teats, filling the two-gallon pail with warm frothy milk.
If she finished eating before you finished milking, she would hit you repeatedly with her cockleburr- and dung-filled cow tail — not a pleasant thing to start your day off, by any stretch of the imagination.
My mother loved animals. She loved the weak, the downtrodden, the less fortunate, and all animals. To her, leaving the old cow’s head locked in the stall all day was a cruel and unusual punishment that the female bovine did not deserve.
So she boldly confronted me one day when I came home from school, regaling me with how I should be taught a lesson, a lesson that would impress on me just how the cow felt!
She laid down the law: The next time I ran off and left the cow’s head trapped in the brace, she would do the same to me — she would leave my head trapped in the stall all day without food or water!
Of course, it didn’t take long for me to make the same unfortunate mistake again. And true to her word, that following Saturday, she led me out to the barn for her kind of special life lesson.
There I stood all day, watching the flies buzz around manure piles, counting the seams in the wooden stall and generally feeling like a fucking fool for having the obedience to keep my head in the cow’s feed stanchion.
My younger sisters felt sorry for me, sneaked me water while the old witch was not watching — and trust me, she watched with a vengeance, hoping I tried to escape so she could dole out her favorite kind of punishment — with a belt.
Needless to say, I never from that time on left the cow’s head trapped or unattended. I swore at that moment I would never, after leaving home, have a garden, do country chores or milk cows again. I have kept that promise to myself. I play guitar now and write about my emotional scars or, should I say, life lessons.
A lesson is a lesson only if something beneficial is learned from the encounter.
I learned not to milk cows — but spend my time playing guitar for women at parties. It has been a lesson that my mother did not intend, but this particular lesson that I gained knowledge from has brought much pleasure and joy to this old country boy. I am not sure that is what my mother was intending at all, but in some way, I suppose I have her to thank.
I learned something that . . . I think . . . has been beneficial. So let’s call this episode: A Lesson.
Gospel: Son and Father
I like stories, especially if they are true stories.
It might be because when I was a child, my father would set me on his knee and tell me stories. Sometimes they were stories of the Old West, stories of his adventures as a young man or, on the rare occasion, a scary story.
Last week, I had a semi-business meeting with a somewhat famous Austin film producer and video maven — we will call him ‘Ray.’ Ray is my middle name and was my father’s middle name as well, so the moniker ‘Ray’ will work fine, especially in this story, and keep the anonymity of said artist/producer/writer intact.
While waiting for other participants of the meeting to arrive, ‘Ray’ told a very interesting tale. It touched me because it involved his father. You see, while growing up, ‘Ray’ had never known his biological father.
He had acted out and projected and generally got into much nonsense in his adolescent years — who knows why; we all do to some extent, don’t we? As a late teen and adult, he had an unquenchable desire to make contact with his biological father. He looked via the Internet, asked family members, made phone calls, but to no avail.
His interest in movies, film and video blossomed, and he moved to Austin, Texas, to pursue his dream of directing, writing and filming movies. His taste in movies included tales that made a person think, What would I do if confronted with the same situation? You see, he envisioned himself in most movies he watched and fantasized that he was the protagonist, he was the hero, he was the flawed but leading character who discovered the truth and always won in the end.
‘Ray’ finally discovered the truth, the truth of his father. Interestingly, the truth involved movies.
Three years before his biological parent passed, he was given a phone number to call. And he called it with heart pounding and hands trembling.
A voice answered, “Hello?”
‘Ray’ after a short pause said, “I think I am your son.”
They both connected, and to ‘Ray’s’ surprise, his biological father was and had been an actor — he had even written books on acting and how to perform the art to its greatest potential.
Strangely, ‘Ray’ had seen his father in one of his favorite movies, Beast Master. His father had played a role of one of the priests in the film. ‘Ray’ had watched the movie many times, not knowing he was looking at his own flesh and blood — the man who had passed on to him his looks, desires and yearning to work in film.
‘Ray’ now has the books his father wrote and has an inner fulfillment from knowing from whence he came and why certain things were. So when you see Beast Master the next time, look for ‘Ray’s’ father. I know I will.
I like stories, especially if they are true stories.
Joel Melton is a writer, musician, composer and filmmaker who was born and raised in Oklahoma and now lives and works in Austin, Texas, where he has released his fifth studio album, Round Here. It and three other albums — two featuring only his songs and one by Uncle Joey & the Mud Puppies on which he is featured — are offered as mp3s on his home page, Joel Melton: Kick Ass Texas Music. His nonfiction writing he describes as ‘personal life asides and truisms.’