Bones nearly ripped from my back

I wouldn’t necessarily say the towns where I grew up in Northeastern/Central PA were racist per se, but some racial attitudes there were disturbing, to say the least.

For the most part, the only minorities most of these folks, including me and my family, came in contact with were on television.

Lily-white, Christian, all down the line, mostly unaware of the ways of other races, religions, etc.

Which came to light one day in third grade. A couple of weeks before Christmas, Carol Breakstone, who sat across from me, suddenly said, “we don't have Christmas at my house. I don’t believe in Jesus.”

WHAT???? I had never heard anything like this before. I quickly did a Horshack (hand up, “ooh, ooh!”) interrupting the teacher to tell her of this scandalous and unheard of claim. The teacher calmly explained that Jewish people (Jewish? I didn’t know she was Jewish. We didn’t know anyone who was Jewish!!) thought and believed different things – to my memory, it was a well-thought out explanation on the spot.

Which was mostly different from some of the things that were routinely said by friends and family growing up, and I must say, I was complicit in some of the commentary.

I am not proud.

The N word in those parts was common, but no one was safe: Jews, Muslims, Native Americans and Blacks, everybody. Attitudes that were passed down through the years, generation after generation.

Distasteful, for sure. Yet still important to remember.

As for me, my world became more and more color blind, due to maturity and the infusion of soul and blues albums my brother kept bringing into the house; you cannot discount the influence this had on me. Because of him and these records, I knew that Arthur Alexander and Smokey Robinson and Little Richard were heroes to MY heroes, The Beatles. That meant something.

Of course, sports played a huge role in my world view as well. Minorities were unheard of in sports when parents grew up, and they became the majority during my childhood. The likes of Walt Frazier, Homer Jones, Ron Johnson, Earl Monroe and Willis Reed loomed large.

Now, many years later, things have changed back in my hometowns, at least somewhat. How do I know this? When visiting just before the 2008 election, I saw a significant number of Obama yard signs. Maybe a minor thing, but this would been unheard of 30 years ago.

My kids may never quite understand how Nelson Mandela, who died this week, changed the world as a whole.

They may also never know just how far they are from the much smaller world their dad grew up in.

Climb in back, heaven's waiting on down the tracks…

Several weeks ago, after watching Wim Wenders' "Wings of Desire," I was reminded to not overlook and take for granted the "little" things.

The same goes for songs, the ones that are the fabric of our lives, the ones that have been around forever.

We've all heard “Tracks of My Tears” only about a million times, but have you really listened to it?

Marv Tarplin’s delicate guitar into, Smokey’s spot-on, emotion-drenched delivery, the Miracles hitting all the right "do do do do’s," and the lyrics.

Oh, the lyrics.

Talk about economical, every word has its place

"My-smile-is-my-makeup-I-wear-since-my-breakup-with-you,” with the beat precisely on each word, is staggering every time I hear it. And it says more in 12 words than some poetry textbooks.

Dylan once called Smokey Robinson America’s greatest living poet. This song is just one of many reasons why.

Gorgeous and gut-wrenching, no other record ever encapsulated living and going through the motions amidst day-to-day heartache better than this one.

P.S. I also love Linda Ronstadt’s version too; Sneaky Pete Kleinow's steel guitar weeps, and at 2:47 as the fade begins, it's the sound of electric tears.