Big Mike: Who’s The Madman?

August 12th, 2009

Here we are around good old Nashville, Indiana, seat of Brown County, and perhaps the center of the Midwest arty/crafty world. It’s an Indiana that I never even knew existed, with gorgeous vistas, deep woods and dizzying hills. The area is essentially a Great Smoky Mountains-lite.

The Loved One and I are on vacation with our good and great pals Sophia and Danny and their two kids, Arianna and Matty. We’re renting a cabin high on a ridge with a spectacular view of a succession of tree-covered ridges to our south. At about ten-thirty, when it becomes almost totally dark, the planet Mars gleams some 20 degrees above the tallest of the ridge lines. We stand on the deck and stare at it, listening only to the hoots in the woods and, perhaps, the odd hoof trample of a twig somewhere. It’s heaven.

Last night, we went into town for dinner at the Muddy Boots Cafe, a coffeehouse that also serves food. Our good luck – last night was also the regular Tuesday appearance of the Nashville Saxophone Company, a quartet of ancient reed-blowers whose repertoire pins them at perhaps 75 years old minimum and whose ability to keep time puts them at about 85 or 90. They huffed and puffed through the old standards like “Over The Rainbow” and took lengthy breaks after every two or three numbers. Poor Matty, who’s 15, the music was torture to him. Of course, the quartet’s cracking wails sounded no more dulcet to my ears, but I – an old bastard in training – was able to revel in their ability to maintain regular respiration and heartbeats at their advanced age.

After dinner, we shoveled in pie ala mode. Scoops of rich homemade vanilla ice cream atop homemade peach/blackberry pie – the ensuing sugar crash was well worth it. While we labored over dessert, a hairy bird named Sam (Danny insists on referring to him as Mr. Woodstock) took up a post nearby and regaled us with tales of the wonders of living deep in the woods of Brown County.

“I used to live in Chicago,” Sam said after we’d told him where we were from. “I worked downtown. Hated it. It was crazy. It got under my skin.

“I was a structural ironworker. There isn’t a big building or bridge I haven’t worked on. When I started out, I was afraid of heights. But I’ve always lived my life on the edge, you know, pushing boundaries. I love motorcycles and racing cars. So I saw it as kind of a dare. Every day, I’d push myself to go higher, walking along those girders. I worked with a lot of Mohawk Indians. Heights are nothing to them. Before I knew it, I was as comfortable up there as they were.”

The skin on Sam’s hands and fingers was as hard as lobster shell. His hair was Moses-like, long and tangly. His salt and pepper beard was a good six inches long. His blue eyes were piercing.

Sam told us he has to cross two creeks to get to his home. Sometimes the creeks flood and as a result he has to stay home until they recede. He and his wife raise just about all their food. “When we want meat, I just shoot a deer out my kitchen window,” he said, casually, like me saying I’m heading out to Dominick’s.

“Whydja do it, whydja move out here,” we asked.

“I couldn’t take it anymore,” Sam replied. “The stress was too much. The traffic, the noise, the pressure. Plus, working for The Man – ‘Ya gotta do more, we need more, work harder!’ – no matter how much you’ve done or how long you worked that day. Forget it!”

Now Sam has his home in the woods, he’s got his own blacksmith shop behind it, complete with forge and welding machines. Whatever he needs he makes. He’s also a sculptor and sells his artwork here and there. To supplement his income, he does metal work for his neighbors. According to Sam, his expenses are about as close to zero as they can be.

For my vantage point, he looks awfully happy.

It made me think of the Age of Reagan which, of course, has just been laid to rest, thankfully. Like any passing, there’s grief and panic. But I say Good riddance, ya bullying bastard.

Starting a quarter of a century ago, the era presided over by Saint Ronald and gleefully nurtured by a couple of Bushes and Clinton nearly drove us mad. No amount of money was ever enough. Anybody who worked a 40-hour week was a lazy bum. We became so obsessed with buying, buying, buying that our homes became as disposable as plastic garbage bags. We needed flat screen TVs in every room of the house. People hired coaches to get their precious darlings into the finest business schools.

The dick-wavers at Goldman Sachs, Salomon Brothers, Morgan Stanley, Lehman Brothers, Bear Stearns, IndyMac, Enron and the rest felt they were being deprived if their yearly bonuses slipped below seven figures. They – and we – all became ugly Americans.

Sam, on the other hand, hardly spends a dime. I must disclose that his water pump went out the other day. His drinking and bathing water comes from a pond next to his house. He can’t call a plumber to fix it. He had to wade into the pond, pull out the pump, tinker with it, get it working, wade back in and reinstall it. As of last night, he was waiting for his hot water heater to fill up. “It’ll be nice to take a shower,” he said. “I haven’t had one for a couple of days.”

Some people might think Sam’s lifestyle is far too harsh. I only know this: he doesn’t appear mad.