reflections and directions in a weave form

(Check out this newspaper clipping I found in a drawer here last night)

Chuck and MaryAnn King, two of the nicest folks you’ll ever meet, had a Christmas party last night. I remember hearing stories about Chuck King and his band from my mother for about as long as I’ve been hearing stories about Columbiana. Mom tells me she used to sing in his band in high school, and Lance and Troy used to take lessons from him when they lived down here years ago.

Chuck and his family have been living in the valley for about as long as Grandma and Pop have, I believe. Their house is a staple on the drive from town to the farm, but for all the years I’ve been driving by it, I’ve never made it in, until last night. Chuck’s both a trumpet player and a trumpet teacher, and every Christmas he invites his students and their families over to play Christmas songs and sing along. This was my first year attending.

So there I was, drinking hot apple cider and singing “Joy to the World” with Chuck, and I got to thinking about how this is sort of like what Mom used to do. Maybe not so much has changed in the world after all, which reminds me…

I suppose I haven’t made the official announcement yet, and now seems like as good a time as any. A few days into December I got the call that my friend had found me a spot to live in Park City, in a loft above a nice lady in an old old house, up on the mountainside right close to town. It was a jewel of a find, especially this late in the season, because winter housing tends to fill up months in advance. To try and get a single is nearly impossible, but in a single day all the pieces fell into my lap and came together. It felt clear that this was what I’d been waiting for.

Now I know at one point or another I’ve said I wouldn’t go back to Park City this year, but I think that was the part of myself that doesn’t like to see myself have too good a time. It wasn’t that I wouldn’t go back because I wouldn’t enjoy it, quite the opposite actually. I said I wouldn’t go back because I was worried that if I went back once, I’d go back ten times. There is a pace of life up there I had the opportunity to taste last winter that is so great, so self-contained, so sweet, if you’re not careful you can slip into a lifestyle adjustment that sets the clock for the rest of your life. Again, not that it’s a bad thing, it’s just that I’ve got a lot of work left to do to get the 2012 Music Festival underway.

Fortunately Bowen explained to me that two winters is actually the way to go, and only after two winters do you have to worry you’re drifting into year round ski bum status. Heck, if Bowen hadn’t gone back her second year she would have never met James, and now look where they are? Getting married in May.

Not that I’m looking for a bride, I’m just looking to buy a little more time living life for life’s sake before I choose a life path that’s a little more long-term. Two years feels full circle, and a full circle is nature’s perfection. The other thing is that now that I know what I’m doing, now that I’ve already been there for a season, there are so many things I can do a little bit better, like getting a single for instance.

The only problem last year was that I didn’t have any place I could go to be quiet and write. Living in employee housing was a trip back to freshman year in the dorms, which was one of the funnest years of my life don’t get me wrong, it’s just communal living has its limitations as far as how much control you have over the way you live. Humans are adjusting creatures, we adapt to our surroundings. Now that I have a single, and I’ve learned everything I’ve learned living down here since last winter, I believe a marriage of my ski bum self and my writing self is going to be possible.

The mountains are one of the most inspiring places to be. Sitting in the lift shack eye level with the clouds and staring out into the valley is one of the greatest creative laboratories I’ve ever been in. When you don’t have time to write all the day’s revelations down though, the visions tend to just keep on floating up into the sky, which is fine too. But this year, I’m going to go for a yolking of my two better halves.

Sorry, I digressed. I’ve been meaning to tell you guys that and I guess it slipped in right there. But anyways, back to the Christmas party and thinking about heroes.

When Brooks and I walked in the party was already well underway. We had missed a message or two and found out about the gathering last minute. Mollie wasn’t feeling very well, but Brooks and I have been meaning to get over to see Chuck and MaryAnn for some time now and we really wanted to go.

Chuck was upstairs directing the band and MaryAnn was tucked away around the corner somewhere, so at first we didn’t see any familiar faces. We mingled slowly and soon enough we’d been greeted and led over to the cider. We let Chuck know we were there and then sat back and enjoyed the music.

A nice looking lady came over and introduced herself as Emily Radkin and asked me what my name was.

“What’s your name? I’ve seen you at church with your grandmother before…”

“Oh yes, hi there. My name’s Cole Suttle and this is my brother Brooks.”

I told her, and then she told me a golden little tale that seems to optimize something about what’s it’s like to be from a small town.

“Well I thought so! I went to school with you parents, and I remember when I was in 7^th grade your Daddy was a senior in high school, and those Suttle boys were just, ahhhh!” and she clutched her chest and looked to the sky with a sigh and a dreamy eyed expression on her face. “Ya’ll two come from some mighty fine folks I hope you know. How’s your mother?” and we drifted into some lovely Christmas time small talk.

I don’t know why hearing things about my Dad that I’ve never heard before makes me so happy, but it does. These things feel like puzzle pieces that you can’t go looking too hard for, but when they come, they just come. Hearing about how Dad was the high school stud especially makes me smile, and proud. It’s the proud of papa feeling again, and it reminds me to count my blessings.

Brooks and I walked over to get more cider and met Emily’s husband who saw us coming and asked us “Are ya’ll Suttle boy’s?”

“Sure are,” we said. “I’m Cole and this is my brother Brooks.”

“Well I want you to know that your grandfather taught me Algebra at the University of Montevallo years ago. Coached me through it might be a better way to say it. I know I sure wouldn’t of made it through that class if it weren’t for your grand-daddy coaxing me through. He sure was a fine man. I used to come over to the farm and help him out whenever he needed something. Your grandmother’s about the sweetest thing in the world too. How’s she getting’ along? Sure is good to have you young boys around here. Good good.”

Another type of pride and joy swept over me and I knew I must have had a silly looking grin on my face.

“That man was an original,” he went on. “Yup, that’s about the best way to say that. Your grand-daddy was an original. Don’t find too many like him.”

Frank Suttle was and original indeed, both of them. Sometimes it just clicks and I find myself living Dad’s life for a split moment, and this time it was Pop’s.

“Columbiana is just one of those story book little towns.”

There is no right way to express the honor and gratitude and fortune I feel to have such an inside view on what it means to really be FROM somewhere, without having actually grown up there. Not a big suburb where everybody is a stranger, but a small little town where everybody knows your name because they know your mama and daddy and they know their mama’s and daddy’s too. Small towns where your offspring meet your schoolmates and your neighbors are more like your family.

So though I’ve leaving for the mountains, my first Christmas party at Chuck and MaryAnn’s house represented everything that is great and special about what it means to live in a small town for a long time, and I won’t soon forget it. I’m glad I stayed down here as long as I have, because when I come back it won’t be like I’m just coming to the farm. When I come back, it’ll be like I’m coming home. Like I said, this isn’t where I’m from, but this is where I came from.

God bless this place and all the people in it.