The Backseat Blues by Wesley McNair

A while back my mother-in-law, Sue Reed, a beloved figure in my family, had a stroke that paralyzed her left side, which gave us all the blues. Our hearts sank as we watched her struggle to make the smallest movements with her leg or arm or hand. But one day, after a month of physical therapy, she was able to stand on her quadcane, and a few days later, to walk with it. All my wife, Diane, and I wanted to do then was celebrate.

So I packed my mother-in-law and her quadcane into the passenger seat of her two-door sedan, Diane got into the backseat, and I drove us to dinner. On the way, spirits high, we picked up Sue's sister, Dot, a large woman who dearly loves to eat, and soon we were pulling into the sunny parking lot of the restaurant. There, something disastrous happened. We couldn't get Dot out of the backseat. No matter how much we pushed and prodded and rocked her, she was lodged back there.

Surely, Dear Reader, you have noticed that just when you think you have escaped trouble and the blues, the two return to threaten you again. Here is a poem I wrote about how Dot got out of the car and the rest of us escaped the blues for a second time. So, next time you get the blues, take a lesson from Dot. Instead of just sitting there, reach out to those you love you for help.

Happiness
Why, Dot asks, stuck in the backseat
of ther sister's two-door, her freckled hand
feeling the roof for the right spot
to pull her wide self up onto her left,
the unarthritic, ankle - why
does her sister, coaching outside on her cane,
have to make her laugh so, she flops
back just as she was, though now,
looking wistfully out through the restaurant
reflected in her back window, she seems bigger,
and couldn't possibly mean we should go
ahead in without her, she'll be alright, and so
when you finally place the pillow behind her back
and left her right out into the sunshine,
all four of us are happy, none more
than she, who straightens the blossoms
on her blouse, says how nice it is to get out
once in a while, and then goes in to eat
with the greatest delicacy (oh,
I could never finish all that) and aplomb
the complete roast beef dinner with apple crisp
and icecream, just a small scoop.

The Faces of the Blues by Gayle Sayers

There are many faces to the blues. They show up in a multitude of ways: problems at home, the loss of a job, illness, death. For me, there is one sure way to deal with any kind of blues: prayer. I pray for forgivness for my sins.

Seeing Mel Gibson's The Passion of the Christ affected me tremendously. Any earthly blues we might get pale by comparison to what our lord and savoir, Jesus Christ, went through for our sins. We are all going on home one day, to where blues don't exist.

The Walter Mitty Blues by Robert Timmerman

Do I get the blues? I work in a factory, doing twelve-hour shifts, making radial truck tires for eighteen-wheelers. Is it snowing out today? Raining? Is the wind blowing? There's no way to tell when you're doing factory work.

Had anyone told me thirty years ago that I would still be earning a living this way, I would have told them they obviously had me confused with some other drone. Not a chance. Thirty years ago I was on the cusp of writing the Great American Novel, after which I would retire to a comfortable cabin in the mountains with my fly rod and a sedate Labrador retriever. But, of course, that was before I had decided to major in beer and tennis, instead of journalism and premed. At some point during that critical stage of my life it must have seemed like a good idea to drop out of school for a f rew months and put aside some money for a serious reentry into college. That six-month respite from school has since morphed into thirty years of relentless, mind-numbing tedium on a factory floor. One night call that decision a career error. I know I certainly do. It seems like overnight I went from"young man with potential" to "father nearing retirement." One day you're hauling a kid to his T-ball practice, and the next day some smirking jerk is handing you a gold watch and thanking you for having been such a productive "associate" for all those years.

The reality of a check-to-check existence on a factory payroll is enough to give anyone the blues. Twelve-hour shifts on concrete floors, deprived of any contact or view of the outside world, can make even the best of days seem dreary. Everyone in that environment has his or her own way of coping with the repetitous, physical work, and the stifling sense of imprisonment that production work demands.

So how do you beat it? My own escape mechanism has always been the fine art of daydreaming. If you can't actually wade out into a clear mountain stream with a fly rod in hand to spend the afternoon making lazy casts into pools beneath the rapids, a well-crafted daydream can be almost as therapeutic. I've spent countless hours on a clothing-optional beach at a Jamaican resort, all the while churning out tire after tire and rolling them to the conveyor belt. Some days, I see myself finally settling down at a quiet desk, with a good typewriter and plenty of paper, to write that Great American Novel.

I'll leave it to the physchologists to determine if thirty years in a Walter Mitty haze is healthy or delusional. All I know is that when you can't change your reality, sometimes it helps to change your perception of that reality. Now, if you'll excuse me, I think I see a fat rainbow trout rising in the shallows below the spillway. no license required, and no limit.

An Alternative to the Blues by Willie Nelson

If you don't like the blues, play from the whites.

On The Road Blues by James Gregory

Years ago, when I was out on the road playing clubs, not making much money, and spending a lot of time alone, I'd start to get filled with self-doubt. I'd wonder what I was doing way out in Oklahoma, earning $250 a week and having to pay my expenses out of it. I'd go down to the local Waffle House and order a grilled cheese sandwich and a glass of water because I couldn't afford anything else.

I don't call what I was going through the blues. I call it feeling sorry for myself. And as time went by I learned what I had to do to snap myself out of it. I have a serious conversation with myself. You can do the same, whether you are in a diner in Tulsa, Oklahoma, or a mall in Brockton, Massachusetts.

My conversation with me starts out with a calculation of the number of hospitals within ten to fifteen miles of where I am. I remind myself that there are thousands of sick people in those hospitals. Some of those people are going to come out of the hospitals missing an arm or leg. Some will be released without hope. Some won't come out alive.

What that means is that within a few miles of where I am, there are thousands of people who would trade places with me in a second.

By the time I'm that far into the conversation with myself, I stop feeling depressed and start to feel guilty.

I may be ordering a glass of sweet tea in a Tulsa diner, or buying socks in that mall in Brockton, but in my mind I'm saying: I've got a job I like most of the time. I've got family. I've got friends. I'm pretty healthy.

I'll think about that waitress in the diner, who may have just worked a double shift to support her kids, or the person selling socks at the mall who may be worried about some tests the doctor just ran. Then I say a silent prayer that God will forgive me for whining, and remind Him to keep paying attention to those who really need Him.

Then I say this: The sun is gonna come up tomorrow. It always does. Winter will go, and spring will appear. Dogwood and honeysuckle will bloom again.

The Finite Blues by Sir Arthur C. Clarke

I very seldom suffer from the blues. But on those rare occasions, I have had two infallible remedies:

1. Exploring the infinite universe of fractals.
2. Playing with my killer Chihuahua, Dainty.

How We Beat the Blues by George and Barbara Bush

George: When I get down in the dumps I talk back to the TV set. I have even sworn at the TV set and yelled at the bubblehead on TV with whom I do not agree. It hurts a lot more when our son, the president, is attacked than when I used to be in the crosshairs. I expect it is of no lasting benefit when I shout at the TV, but it sure feels good at the time.

Barbara: I do not get down in the dumps because I refuse to watch TV when the president (current and even past) is criticized. I tune out, and go about walking our dog Sadie, or working on one of my many reading projects. I understand "this too shall pass." I have many blessings to count about family, and I refuse to let critics, be they politcal or journalists, get me down.

George: Speaking of "beating the blues," my mother always told me, "George, don't get down in the dumps." I never understood what "the dumps" were, but when, at age twelve, I'd lose an important match, and even later in life when I'd lose an important election, I remembered Mum's advice. "Keep your chin up. Set an example for others. Don't blame anyone else for your own shortcomings. And when you win, remember the guy you beat. Don't gloat or be arrogant. He will be hurting, so be kind." Even when I was president, I remembered her valuable advice.

Barbara: I guess the hardest thing for me was way back in the early fifties, when our little four-year-old daughter died of leukemia. I was devestated, as was George. I sat by her bed and watched her suffer. Then, I watched her at peace as she went to heaven. I found that prayer helped enormously. I always wondered why our lovely, innocent four-year-old was taken off to heaven so early in her life. But prayer helped me understand God's will. Prayer lifted me up and helped me get on with the life that has been so fulfilling for both George and me.