Hitting All the Keys
I joined the crew, helping my daughter and her fiancé load a moving truck. They were headed westbound from Mason City, Iowa. They had plenty of help lined up to unload in Sioux City, Iowa, their destination. So, once the truck was packed, I decided not to caravan across the state with them. I was tired and didn’t feel like driving six hours home to northern Minnesota. Instead, I opted to spend the night in Mason City.
I would attend Mass at Saint Joseph’s Church on Sunday morning, where my parents married many years ago. It’s always been a special place to me. However, I had no plans for Saturday night and no one to hang out with, so I looked online for things to do in Mason City. Finally, I found something that caught my attention.
At eight, Jason Walsmith, a storyteller and singer, would perform live at Mason City Brewery (MCB). It sounded interesting, so I stopped by to check the place out.
MCB is a small brewery on State Street in downtown Mason City. There were a few tables and chairs on the front sidewalk, but it was a bit chilly, and I had no interest in sitting outside that
night. Inside the front door was a small stage with a red backdrop and a single mic stand. Further back in the narrow building were barrels and equipment where they brewed their beer. The high, antique tin ceiling was restored and beautiful. Above the bar was a plaque with a mounting of a squirrel.
The squirrel wore a little black fedora hat and a red western kerchief around his neck. He had a cigarette in his mouth and an old-fashioned six-shooter in his paw. In his day, I would suppose the squirrel was a bandit. But, since he was stuffed and mounted on a plaque, I questioned his success in his line of work.
I stopped and chatted with the bartender. I wanted to know the story behind the squirrel, but first, I asked if they served food. “We don’t,” she told me. “But you’re welcome to bring your own food here.” Next, we talked about the entertainment for the evening, Jason Walsmith.
The bartender told me Jason had performed there a few times before, and the audience really liked him. Then I asked her for a sample of their Cream Ale brew. The brew was crisp and tasty, and Jason sounded interesting. “So, Jason is a storyteller, eh? I’ve been known to tell a few stories of my own,” I told the bartender. “The show starts at eight? I’ll see you then.”
I got in my car to drive home, remembering I’d forgotten to ask the story behind the bandolero squirrel. “No problem,” I said. “I ask tonight.”
I had no one to go to the show with me, but that’s
okay. I’m a person who is not uncomfortable going to dinner, or a movie, by myself. “This is awesome,” I said. “Date night with myself, and I’m going to see a storyteller to boot.” I was looking forward to the night. Then, at about seven-thirty, I headed for the brewery.
I wanted to arrive early, leaving myself time to stop next door for a couple of slices of pizza to enjoy at the show. I looked over the selection in the display case. “What is the cook’s choice?”
The girl behind the counter turned and asked the kitchen staff, “Who made the last cook’s choice?” A man spoke up, saying it was bacon and mushroom.
“That sounds great,” I said, “I’ll take two slices to go, please.” So I carried my box of pizza to the brewery next door.
I prefer to sit close to the stage, even in a small venue. Unfortunately, most of the open seats were toward the back. However, a frontrow table was available, so I set my pizza down and got a beer; my choice was Mason City Brewery, cream ale draught beer.
Soon, a lady (one of the owners) stepped onto the stage. She laid out the rules: turn off your cell, be courteous, avoid talking loudly while the performer is on, and have fun. Then she called for a warm welcome for singer and storyteller Jason Walsmith. The audience gave enthusiastic applause. Jason wore a blue denim shirt, buttoned up about halfway, with a t-shirt underneath. He had on light brown pants, maybe
Carhartt’s, and boots. I’d never been to a show with a storyteller before, so I didn’t know what to expect. However, the performer seemed very down to earth. His beard, light-colored brimmed with a hat band, and warm smile gave me the feeling this would be a fun night. Jason greeted the crowd, picked up his guitar, and started singing.
Next, he told a story about biscuits and gravy, then sang a song he wrote, called…well, Biscuits and Gravy. What else could it be called? As a biscuit maker myself, I loved it! Singing about food must have made him hungry.
“I noticed everyone in the
house seems to be eating pizza,” Jason commented. “Where is everybody getting this pizza? It’s making me hungry.” Then, a gal in the audience told him it was from the place next door. She quickly offered to get some pizza for the storyteller and headed out the front door.
While she was gone, Jason involved the audience to learn the lady’s name was Angelina. He had some fun with that, then began telling a story about how he, his wife, and two dogs (now three dogs) traveled around in a van – exploring our great country. Next, he sang
Our Next Meal
It rained last night and was cool and cloudy early this morning. When I got to my turkey hunting blind, it was still dark outside. Usually, a person can hear deer, raccoons, and other wildlife moving around in the early morning hours. The new rain made the normally crunchy leaves soft and quiet. Waiting for daylight, I could not hear anything moving in the woods around me. The only sound was a few birds calling into the darkness somewhere off in the timber. Dawn broke without any gobbling. Turkeys do this sometimes, which I find extremely annoying. I cannot tell if a bird is around, where he is or if they are sneaking up on me. It is really bad when a gobbler walks right up to the back of a hunter’s blind and makes the only gobble of the day. It can startle a person right out of their skin. I did not even get that this morning.
Using my turkey call, I was able to call in a hen. A real hen strolling around among a person’s decoys can be a great help. A gobbler spotting a hen moving around with a couple of decoys is likely to come in. If a gobbler was anywhere around, he was not impressed. Two Jakes did show up, but they would not come into shooting range. When the hen wandered off, the Jakes lost interest and left also. I made occasional calls for another hour or so before I decided this morning was a hopeless cause. I packed up and headed for the house.
Breaking over the hill toward home, I saw a pair of geese with seven new goslings swimming single file on the lake. They were feeding in the shallow waters near the shore. I
did not know any geese were nesting. Usually, we see where a pair has a nest and keep dogs and power equipment away from them. They must have spent the last month in the backwaters somewhere. Geese have a very limited success rate of raising their young to maturity. The highest mortality comes from the bass that attack from below when the goslings are in the water. On shore, there is a threat from raccoons and coyotes. I paused for a few minutes at the top gate, watching as the clouds rolled away and the sun shined brightly on the newly washed trees and hills. A bald eagle was circling around and finally dove to catch a fish. Two eagles have been hanging around, fishing almost daily. It causes me to wonder if they might be nesting here somewhere. We have not seen a nest, but it could also be in the backwaters of the lake where they would not be bothered like the geese were.
Back at the
house, I grabbed a cup of coffee and joined my wife on the porch. We watched as the eagle continued to hunt swooping down to the surface of the lake. He may also be looking for tender young geese. The hummingbirds are back, fighting over the feeder of sugar water and the orioles are waiting patiently in line to get some grape jelly from the oriole feeder. Everything
seemed to be enjoying a meal this morning. It is a good thing my wife and I were not counting on my turkey hunting skills for our next meal.
(Just the Other Day cont’d from pg 2) a song he wrote called… well, Camper Van.
While singing Camper Van, Angelina returned with a pizza box, setting it on the stage. Jason rolled smoothly into a line from a new song he’d just made up, singing, “Angelina, the best pizza getter in the whole world, Oh Angelinibbed….” The crowd roared with laughter. When he was done singing, he told more stories about traveling in the van with his wife and dogs. I could relate to every place, every highway, and backroad he spoke of.
He told a story about a cul-de-sac near the Des Moines International Airport. “People would park on that road at night to watch airplanes land, contemplate life and things,” Jason said. “Of course, some of us took our girlfriends…” He spoke of the soft blue lights that shined in the night, then sang a song he wrote called Blue Lights. What else could it be called?
I really enjoyed his story about visiting Alaska. He told of his brother, who fished on river banks next to the grizzly bears. “The bears were fishing for the same fish, and if they wanted your fish – you let them have it.” He sang a song called Alaska, then told more of his story;
“My brother handed me a rock,” he said, “Telling me it was his lucky rock. I told him, ‘I can’t take your lucky rock.’ But my brother said he had plenty and pulled a handful of rocks from his pocket.” Jason laughed, “Who keeps rocks in their pocket?” Then he sang a song he wrote called, Pocket All the Rocks.
Jason told stories and sang songs about whiskey, tolls booths, and other fun stuff. He told of some things that were only funny in hindsight like the night someone put water in his diesel fuel.
(Followed by a song called Water in the Fuel) One song he wrote for his wife, Rosie, was really sweet. It was called…well, Rosie. What else could it be called?
Eventually, the show came to an end. People gathered at the side of the stage to meet the performer and purchase his CDs. When it was my turn, I opted to buy the album. (Yes, he sold vinyl albums.)
I told Jason I was a bit of a story writer/teller myself. Then I shared a brief story: “I bought an old, antique piano. Paul was the man who worked on the piano and kept it tuned for me. I loved hearing Paul play a swift, uplifting song after the tuning. Although Paul swore he never took a piano lesson, he shared with me that he had written that song.
“I asked Paul if some particular event inspired such a fantastic tune? He laughed and said, ‘That song hits all the keys on the piano. From top to bottom, it uses all the keys.’” Jason looked like he was waiting for me to make a point, so I continued.
“Your show hit all the keys tonight.” I pulled up a photo of baked goods on my phone.
“Those look great,” Jason said.
“Thanks! I love biscuits and gravy, so I make my own biscuits. And your song, Blue Lights; I’ve been on that cul-du-sac many times
– but, being a pilot myself, I was actually there to watch the airplanes land.” We shared a good laugh about that. “The blue lights are from the taxi-ways leading to the end of the runway.”
Jason was amused by the commonality of the experiences we shared. “But there’s more,” I said.
“A guy once put water in my diesel fuel tank as a joke. It costs a lot of money to have it cleaned out.
“I’ve been to Alaska twice. Frankly, the grizzly bears scare me. We fish rivers and lakes in the woods of northern Minnesota, and we have plenty of bears, too. But we don’t actually share the river bank with the bears – at least not at the same time.”
I told him, “My wife and I travel the country in a van and do a lot of camping with our dog Nova Mae and our black cat, Edgar Allan. I could relate to, and have been to, almost every place in your travel stories.” Then I pointed out a difference, “I see on your album cover you drive a Mercedes Sprinter van; we have a Ford Transit, so not everything is the same.”
Jason laughed, “We recently sold our Sprinter and replaced it with a Ford Transit.” We shared a good laugh about that.
I told Jason, “I liked your song Pocket All the Rocks. Especially when you asked, ‘Who carries rocks in their pocket.’” Then I reached into my pocket and pulled out my two lucky rocks, which I always have with me. I asked him, “Is your wife’s name really Rosie?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Emma Rose is her name.”
“And you wrote a song about Rosie,” I said, then smiled, “The story I wrote last week was titled Rosie!”
“You’re kidding me, right?” Jason said.
“Scouts honor,” I said, hold-
ing up two fingers. (Although I was only a boy scout for about three weeks.)
Then Jason told me a story about his show the previous night, “We were in Sioux City, Iowa…” he said. I started laughing. “Have you been to Sioux City,” he asked.
“I was supposed to be in Sioux City tonight,” I said, “but decided to stay in Mason City instead.” We shared a good laugh about that, then I told Jason, “I don’t know if all your shows go this way, but tonight, you hit all the keys on my keyboard. I’m sure glad I came to your show.”
I asked Jason if he’s ever been to the north shore. He said he had not but heard it was beautiful. So I suggested he schedule a tour there: “We have lots of pubs and venues that would be perfect for your style show.”
We said our farewells, and I walked out to my car. I thought about my evening and all the fun I’d had on my drive back to my daughter’s house. This was far and away the best date night I’ve had with myself in a really long time! “Darnit,” I said aloud.
I was so engrossed with the show and meeting Jason afterward that I forgot to ask the bartender, “What’s the story behind that bandolero squirrel mounted on a plaque hanging on the wall over the bar.” I’ll have to revisit the Mason City Brewery to find out. The only question is: who will tell the story first; Jason Walsmith, or me?
