Weekly View » CJ Woods III

Singing Again

CJ Woods III — Thu, 20 Aug 2026 05:08:29 +0000

On August 16th of this year, I had the pleasure of accompanying the Creative Director of this publication to an IndyFringe performance in the Arabian Room at the Murat Theatre. When asked to choose from several selections, I told Paula Nicewanger I wanted to see “Ad Libs: The Show: The Experience!” It was not until we arrived at the theater that I told her that my notes on the show indicated that there would be audience participation. As the audience members came into the venue, each one was asked to vote on a name, and were given an envelope with a number. My envelope was prompt number S1. Paula and I entered the theater and sat in the front row.
Unlike my lonely S1, the other envelopes had specific instructions for the performers to work into their routines. We watched other patrons come to the stage, where they were asked their names and presented their envelopes with the prompts for the performers. Hilarity ensued as the performers created unlikely and humorous scenes using the written prompts. The last three prompts were S1, S2 and S3, and those three audience members were invited to sit in chairs near the stage. S1 was asked to decide which member of the troupe should be eliminated from the final scenes, and ham that I am, I pointed to a performer and remembered the opening word to Natalie Cole’s song, “I Wish You Love.” I waved to the cast member and sang out, “Goodbye…”
I have written before of my joy in singing. I recently came upon a neighbor as she left her house, headed toward her car. I sang a bit of song to her and received an unexpected hug. I sing Lionel Richie’s “Hello” to the staff when I enter the cidery I frequent and sing again when I leave: “Goodbye; No use leading with our chins. This is where our story ends; never lovers, ever friends…” For the last couple of years, I have been a member of a choral group called Harmony Collected, which is organized and directed by Dr. Webb Parker. I sing my heart out and am appreciative of the opportunity to make community with like-minded singers. The group is at present on a break, but will reconvene on September 1st, 2026, with a season preview party — an Open Gathering — and the first rehearsal on September 8th. The first concert is scheduled for December 13th, and some members will be traveling to London in June of 2027, to deliver the UK premier of Kyle Pederson’s “A Vision Unfolding.”
It is not too late to join Harmony Collected, to sing and make community with people who like to sing and make community. We used to sing under the auspices of the Irvington Arts Collective, but we have been rebranded as Open Circle Arts. And our circle is open: All are welcome. You do not need to audition, nor do you need to be able to read music. Just show up and sing, as I do. I am a tenor, and I cannot read music. In practices and performances, I will stand next to another tenor, and sing the notes they sing. And we are given “practice tracks,” a recorded breakdown of the individual alto, soprano, tenor, and bass parts of the songs. Come on and sing with me.
As for my impromptu demonstration of song, “Ad Libs: The Show: The Experience!” can be seen on August 21st, at 9:30 pm, and August 22nd, at 6:30 pm. Maybe you’ll get an envelope and an opportunity to sing.

cjon3acd@att.net

The Use of Language

CJ Woods III — Thu, 13 Aug 2026 05:08:16 +0000

A woman called the office I managed in Culver City California, and I answered the phone; she asked for me and I replied, “This is he.” She then exclaimed, “Your mother taught you well!” Her comment about my reply was perhaps because I did not respond with “This is him.” But it was not my mother who “taught me well” in the use of the language, but my abusive father.
I’ve written before of the beatings and burnings administered to his family by my father, but one of the demands that he made of his children was that they speak the language “properly.” Autocrat that he was, he also required his first three children to write their full and complete names on their school papers. Not, “Jon Woods,” (me) or “Jerri Woods” (my brother) or “Jaci Woods,” (my sister.) Each school day, we brought home papers inscribed, “Clement Jon Woods, III,” and “Charl Jerrom Woods,” and “Caryn Jacquelyn Woods.” And on the weekend, we fled to the Carnegie Library in the Oakland area of Pittsburgh, where, as my mother noted many years later, we read to “escape.”
A prominent politician had a way of speaking where he would pause, inserting “err,” or “um.” I learned that this was a “speech disfluency,” which is “any of various breaks, irregularities, or non-lexical vocables which occur within the flow of otherwise fluent speech.” Some mean-spirited writers, eager to degrade the politician, would pounce on those pauses as evidence of a lack of critical thinking. Smarter writers gave me the definition of speech disfluencies, and why we use them, and it is often a pause to think. But there are a lot of speech peccadillos in the vocal world.
On one of the seven thousand judge shows that I watch, a litigant was testifying and kept tagging each sentence with, “You know what I’m sayin’?” Sometimes the sentences were not completed before he asked if the judge knew what he was saying. Another litigant on another show asked of the judges, “Do you feel me?” I think that phrase is asking if “you” understand, and/or agree with whatever situation is being discussed. You know? As I have written before, those kinds of statements make me grind my back teeth to powder. And what about “real quick?” I have heard one person tell another to “come here, real quick,” or “can I (do something) real quick.” But when someone says, “Just a second,” it is never a “second” that is needed. And why is it that we always either “jump” or “hop” into the shower. With all the modern, low entry shower stalls, why can we not just, like, “step” into the shower?
I used to gallop to the convenience store to get the Sunday edition of The New York Times, so that I could read a column about writing. A few years ago, I learned that the author of that column was an ardent segregationist who had written a “deeply disturbing essay” titled “The Hell He Is Equal,” positing that people who share my African background should not be granted equal rights. I don’t think his column is still being published (and that screed was rejected by The Saturday Evening Post), but he gave me some sound advice on the art of writing, the principles of which I apply to my speech.
Another little tooth-grinder for me is when people meander about a conversation, ostensibly making a case for something, then pause to ask the listener, “Does that make sense?” I always want to respond with “NO!”
Nor do I know what you’re saying.

cjon3acd@att.net

Let There Be Music

CJ Woods III — Thu, 06 Aug 2026 05:08:51 +0000

A friend from a social media site sent me a message, inviting me to attend a concert at the Jazz Kitchen in Indianapolis, on August 1st. She included information about the headliner, Clint Breeze, who was to be joined by Louisville Kentucky Hammond organist Kendal “Keys” Carter, and Indianapolis saxophonist Brandon Douthitt. Mary Lou’s message said that she had an extra ticket, and I hesitated about 1/10th of a second before I said that I would love to attend. I remembered having seen Carrington Clinton — Clint Breeze — when he played with jazz guitarist Charlie Ballantine at the Jazz Kitchen, and I do like jazz, so there was that.
On Sunday, July 25th, I had traveled to Greenfield Indiana with another friend to see bands play bluegrass and roots music. I sing with Tim’s wife in the Harmony Collected chorus (soon to be called Open Circle Chorus) and I rode with him to Greenfield to enjoy an evening of entertaining music. Tim’s invitation and my acceptance of it were perhaps, the inspiration for my acceptance of Mary Lou’s subsequent invitation; as the O’Jays sang in 1975, “I love music.”
Mary Lou pulled up to the house that I rent at about 4:50 p.m. on Saturday; a slight rain was falling, and I had armed myself with a small, green umbrella, which I did not use when I darted out to her car. I climbed into the front seat, and Mary Lou introduced me to her two sisters, who were seated in the rear. I chatted with Katie and Beth as Mary Lou navigated the broken, blasted, and flooded streets on the way to the Jazz Kitchen on N. College Avenue. Once there, Mary Lou let the sisters out of the car with me and went to find parking. When she rejoined us, we four were shown to a table near the front of the stage, sitting at stage right. We were given dinner menus, and I chose what I thought was a modest salad, but we all received our meals in great white bowls that seemed large enough in which to swim.
As we ate and chatted, Katie and Beth told me of their sojourns in North Carolina and Portland Oregon. I told Katie that I have family in NC, and that we called the state, “North Cackalacka.” Once the musicians took the stage, conversation was limited to excited exclamations as Clint Breeze worked his “kit,” (assemblage of drums, cymbals, and metal hardware) Brandon Douthitt made his alto sax squeal and Kendal Carter, in the tradition of Johnny “Hammond” Smith, a jazz organist who was also from Louisville, created soulful sounds on his own Hammond organ.
We four, in appreciation for the showmanship and musicianship shown by the three on the stage, had our own joyous outbursts and exclamations. Katie and I were more animated; Mary Lou and Beth were more restrained. At the end of the evening, we climbed into Mary Lou’s car, and headed home. When Mary Lou pulled up to my door, I remembered what Beth had told me about having seen a young woman working on my lawn, who gave her the gift of a dandelion “ripping-out” device. I told her that was probably my daughter. As I exited the car, I sang parts of the song that my mother always asked me to sing: “Thanks, for the time that you’ve given me…” I pointed to each of the three women in the car, and said, “You’re once, twice, three times a lady…”
I hope they knew how much I loved that musical experience with them.

cjon3acd@att.net

Black Men Can’t Swim

CJ Woods III — Thu, 30 Jul 2026 05:08:05 +0000

In a conversation with an Indianapolis Indiana native, I noted that the high school that I attended in Pittsburgh Pennsylvania had a swimming pool in the basement. That person was surprised, saying that her high school did not have a pool. I told her that I was on the school’s swim team, an activity for which I had earned an athletic “letter.” I thought of that conversation when Paula Nicewanger, the Creative Director of this publication, and I had an opportunity to attend Indy Shorts 2026, presented by Heartland Film. Two of the films dealt with Black men trying to learn to swim.
On Wednesday, July 22nd, the Living Room Theaters hosted a series of short films under the designation of “On A Mission.” Those five films included one that resonated with me. “Can’t Float” is about “(a) 30-something Black man (who) confronts his lifelong fear of the water, and the weight of U.S. historical stereotypes about Black people and swimming, as he commits to finally learning how to swim.” At the end of the five films, there was a question and answer (Q & A) session with filmmakers. When the opportunity arose to ask questions of the writer/director of “Can’t Float,” I raised my hand. I told Dave Schilling that I saw another Indy Shorts film that dealt with a similar subject. “Yeah; we hate each other,” was his humorous reply. I asked if his film was reinforcing the stereotype that Black people cannot swim. (I had not read the promotional information that I quoted above.) Schilling said that his film was a depiction of his efforts to “get past boundaries” and overcome stereotypes. His family is multi-racial, and at the end of the film, his character, having failed to learn to float, is joined by his hugely pregnant, white wife.
Schilling told me that one of his motivations to learn to swim was to be able to safeguard his son around water. (His son is now 9-years old and is one of the children in the movie.) “Can’t Float” shows Schilling’s character joining the only available swim class; he is the lone adult among many children. Schilling also told me that learning to swim, for Black people, is also about access to facilities. When Paula and I spoke to Schilling, she laughed about the irony that she cannot swim, and I can. “And I’m white!” she giggled, pointing out the obvious. But for me, access to pools was not a problem, though I grew up in the 1960s, when segregation was the norm. The exception was my high school; Schenley was built to be inclusive. Schilling asked me where I grew up, and when I told him the Hill District in Pittsburgh, he said, “August Wilson.” (I told him that my sister’s boyfriend, Sala Udin, was Wilson’s best friend.)
“Sea Star” was another Indy Shorts film that, in general, addressed the issue of Black people not being able to swim. I found it ironic that those two films, one about “Breaking Through,” the other about being “On A Mission,” would have the same stereotype as a basis. But, as Paula accurately noted, I did not have the limitations that many other Black people have faced, regarding swimming. Not only did my high school have a pool, but my grade school did, as well. And in the Lower Hill District of Pittsburgh, there was Ammons Pool, where all the Black people went to swim.
“Can’t Float” is Dave Schilling’s record of his journey to swimming, but Dave: I can swim, as can all my children, two of whom are multiracial.

cjon3acd@att.net

Lashes Nails and Beards

CJ Woods III — Thu, 23 Jul 2026 05:08:36 +0000

The woman on the program I was watching had eyelashes that resembled great black bats; when she raised her hands, she showed fake nails that were inches longer than her own. Not for the first time, I wondered how people were able to negotiate life with window shades that blocked the light and sabers that interfered with one’s ability to pick up a penny from a counter. I have watched in fascination as cashiers arch their fingers in (to me) awkward ways in attempts to press their fingertips onto specific keys of the register without clawing the surrounding keys.
As a former art director and assistant creative director in the advertising departments of three department stores (Stewart’s, L.S. Ayres, and Famous-Barr,) I am acquainted with the fashion industry’s requirements for enhancing the beauty of the models hired to wear the merchandise that we photographed for the catalogs that used to be mailed to your homes. For female models, we hired “hair and makeup” artists; for male models, we hired “grooming” artists. For the ladies, the artists would enhance the eyelashes and eyelids, and brighten the brows and cheeks. For the male models, there was some cheek dust and hair fluff. Once on set, the models would prance and the photographers would shoot, and anything that we art directors did not like, we would remove, using photo editing software. But we never added eyelashes and certainly not fingernails.
In the old days, women used to enhance their beauty by darkening their eyelashes and painting their fingernails. I’m not sure when fake lashes came into play, and certainly not lashes that have no resemblance to real eyelashes. And when did the idea develop that, fingernails had to be twice the length of the fingers to which they were attached? I can remember watching my 14-year-old granddaughter — who will soon be 18 — as she carefully applied the gunk she needed to attach her false eyelashes to her eyelids. Imani was — and is — an athlete, a New Jersey state champion in the discus and shotput. But she is also an adherent to the (apparent) philosophy that, when it comes to eyelashes, bigger is better. I guess the bat wings do not impede her vision as she lines up to put the shot.
Now beards. Men seem to have embraced the cultivation of face foliage. When the rock band ZZ Top hit the scene in 1969, they were distinctive in that two of the band members, Billy Gibbons and Dusty Hill, had long beards. What I have dubbed the “ZZ Top look” has come around to the 21st century. A few men that I know have those “ZZ beards,” and a few others that I see in the pool hall have “ZZ-aspirant” beards. One young man that I see has a red beard that juts from his jaw, emphasizing his strong jawline. Several others have beards that seem to be products of a lack of commitment to mowing the face, or an attitude of “ain’t nobody got time for that.”
I am a hairless man; I cannot grow a beard. My facial hair forms a mustache and goatee. A friend asked if I shaved the hair to form the goatee, and when I told him that I did not, he smiled. “Got your cool from the gene pool,” he said. Weekly View columnist Al Hunter and I had a contest about growing a “soul patch,” which is a tuft of hair beneath the lower lip. Al grew a great bush, while I managed a few small and insignificant hairs.
Fake lashes, fake nails, fake beard?

cjon3acd@att.net

Making Community

CJ Woods III — Thu, 16 Jul 2026 05:08:10 +0000

From the Shorter Oxford English Dictionary, Sixth Edition: “Community- 7; social intercourse; communion; fellowship, sense of common identity.’
I am a tenor voice in Harmony Collected, a choral group organized by the Irvington Arts Collective. Dr. Webb Parker, the founding artistic and executive director of the group, will often have the gathered members do exercises that he calls “making community.” We have been encouraged to name a favorite activity or share with the group something that might not be known about ourselves; to introduce ourselves to the person next to us. As the current singing season neared an end, Webb had a party at his house for the choral members, and there was an impromptu session of singing around one of the several pianos in his house. We made community. I had not heard the term “community” used in the way that Webb applied it, but I understand it now, and recognize it in use in my life.
On the street where I live, I have placed water bowls on the side lawn of the house I rent. The bowls are for the nine thousand, five hundred dogs that lead their caretakers past my corner. I have a log of dogs — a notebook recording the names of the canines — for my youngest granddaughter must “pet that dawg.” I saw one dog-owner in a restaurant one day, and when I could not remember her name, she told me that she was “Zola’s mom.” I remembered that great beauty, a Bernese Mountain Dog, (Zola is short for “Gogonzola”) and Mom’s shock when, after petting her dog, my granddaughter gave her an impulsive hug. When mean-spirited people steal my bowls, I get new ones, and carry on. One anonymous member of the community left a set of bowls for me, when I posted of the theft on a social media site. I still do not know who that generous spirit was, but I still have the bowls as a back-up to the latest banditry.
One recent day, I was sitting on my front porch, watching the passage of bikers and hikers and walkers. A couple passing by called out to me by name. I wondered how they knew me, and they told me that they read my column in this publication. I invited them to sit on the porch with me, and we talked, shared stories, and made community. I gave them the current issue of The Weekly View, and they went on their way. I was happy to have had those moments with them, to have made community.
I have been lucky in the making of community. When I moved from California to Indiana in 1978, a racist group left their calling card under my windshield wiper: “Racial purity is America’s security.” I walked the grounds of the apartment complex and found another card, on the windshield of another African American family. That greeting did not discourage me, and I made good friends in New Albany, Clarksville and Jeffersonville, Indiana, not all of whom shared my cultural heritage. My family was included in the “rotating dinners,” where a series of homes would each host a portion of a dinner. The families would walk from house to house, eating, drinking, and making community.
T he Heartland International Film Festival will present the “Indy Shorts Film Festival,” July 21st – 26th. One of the films in the line-up is “Community,” on Wednesday, July 22nd, and Friday, July 24th. The description of the film is that it is “Stories of belonging and self-discovery … in (a) celebration of community.”
I understand it now, Webb. Thanks, for sharing.

cjon3acd@att.net

Good Vibes

CJ Woods III — Thu, 09 Jul 2026 05:08:12 +0000

My friend told me that she had responded to a notification about a house concert that was going to feature one of the musicians that we follow. Paula Nicewanger, co-owner of this publication, said that she included me in the invitation. On Monday, June 29th, we went to a Clear Vibes House Concert at Kati Taylor’s house to hear guitarist Charlie Ballantine and bassist Quinn Sternberg.
The temperature was 4,000 degrees when Paula picked me up; we brought camp chairs and a cooler, for we did not know if the concert was going to be indoors or outside. Paula made it plain that if the concert was outside, we would not be staying. As we neared the address, we saw that many cars were parked in front of the house. We climbed inside with our coolers and chairs and found ourselves in an intimate and inviting environment.
Guests were seated on a screened-in front porch, in chairs and on couches in the living room as well as in a room off the kitchen. In front of the living room fireplace, two great speakers posed stork-like over a bass that lay on the floor; close by, was a chair that was fronted by a microphone. A dog cruised about the space, casually — albeit carefully — stepping over the bass in its passage. Paula and I snagged two chairs at stage right, with a perfect sightline on “The Man Who Plays Guitar,” (The Weekly View, April 3, 2025).
I first saw Charlie Ballantine in January 2016, when I attended a “Sweet Thursday” event at the Coal Yard Coffee House when it was on Bonna Avenue in Irvington. (A recent memory on my social media page notes that on July 5th, 2018, Charlie was going to be playing at the Coal Yard with Even Drybread and Pat Petrus.) Since that 2016 date, I have seen him in various Indianapolis concert places on many occasions, including concerts on his lawn in Rocky Ripple. The June 29th concert was unusual in that it was an acoustic affair. When the time was right, Quinn Sternberg lifted his bass from the floor and Charlie curled over his guitar and they opened with a piece called “Yellow Horses,” Charlie strumming his guitar and Quinn spanking his bass. Paula and I sat in silent appreciation of the skills the two musicians brought to the gathering, and at the end of each song, I delivered a loud cry of “YES!” and contributed to the enthusiastic applause from the rest of the audience. Between sets, Paula told me that the home we were in was a Justus home, a style which is much like her son’s home.
Charlie told the audience that he and Quinn Sternberg were long-time collaborators, and as I watched them play, it was obvious to me that they were, as they seamlessly “handed off” solos to each other. As he played, I noticed that Quinn’s bass was scarred by years of enthusiastic slapping. I remembered taking my son to St. Louis to see the jazz bassist Stanley Clarke, and heard in Quinn’s solos, echoes of the “bassmanship” that Clarke had delivered. As for Charlie and Quinn, their musicianship delivered to the audience “Love Letters,” and “Off Minor,” and “Like Never Been in Love Before.” When they took a break, Charlie said it was because his hand, unused to extended acoustic time, needed to rest.
Kati Taylor and Clear Vibes House Concerts gave a willing audience a chance to hear Charlie and Quinn. I hope that I am not alone in saying, “Thank you” for the good vibes.

cjon3acd@att.net

Big Game Hunter

CJ Woods III — Thu, 02 Jul 2026 05:08:34 +0000

I was startled into an impromptu Capoeira dance, whirling and slapping at my face and arms, as if trying to put out little brush fires. A moth had attacked me. It did not live to tell its friends of my demonstration of fear. I stood over the crushed body and roared: the Big Game Hunter had triumphed, again.
My first bride had a no-kill policy with regard to insect life, and I spent many years coaxing bugs back into the bush. Bride Two embraced the “shock and awe” method of insect removal, which enabled me to conceal my fear of wildlife.
I was employed at the Marble Hill Nuclear Power Plant when I survived my first moth attack. I lived in Southern Indiana at a time when the greater part of the state did not observe Daylight Savings Time. Marble Hill was an hour’s drive away, into an area that did observe the biannual flip-flop. I left the house at 4 a.m., drove for an hour, and arrived at 6 a.m. I left the job at 2:30, drove for an hour, and arrived home at: 2:30. (Bride One was the original Time-Traveler’s Wife.)
My drive to work was along dark country roads, and in the Spring, I would roll down the windows of my VW Rabbit, and punch the darkness, the roaring wind offsetting my full-throated singing. One night, I was popped on the cheek by a thing fat, fuzzy and winged. I screamed, regained control of the car. Something fluttered on the floorboards. My right foot on the accelerator, I “stomped the yard” with my left. Movement ceased, and I continued my trip in terror. I bolted from the car when I got to the plant, and as I signed in, someone asked about the dust on my face. I found a mirror, and horrified, slapped the stuff from my cheeks. Later, I inspected the floor of my car: great chunks of wings and body parts indicated that the “moth” had been of prehistoric size. I whimpered, glanced around and recovered. I stood at the door of my car and roared: The Big Game Hunter.
My house on Orange Street, in Indianapolis, was loaded with me, Bride Two, three kids- 4, 5 and 16, and mice. Lisa, my oldest daughter, pointed out the intruder:
“Dad — there’s a mouse in my room.”
I sighed, thinking, “Be a man for the kids; be a man for the kids.” Mice terrify me. The height and weight disparity between the average me and a mouse does not reassure me. But I had to respond to The Kid’s cry for help.
A friend had, long ago, left his shotgun and his son’s BB gun at my house; they were promptly and safely stored away. The shotgun was empty, but BBs I thought, rattled in the little rifle. I got the weapon, and went hunting.
The mouse was trapped beneath a bookcase/desk in my daughter’s room. Red eyes winked in the beam of my flashlight, and the mouse’s belly pulsed in fear as it cowered in a corner. My pulse boomed in my ears as I cocked the BB gun.
Pop! Yeep! Pop! Yeep! I popped him again and again, and he yeeped, jumped, and stayed alive. (Do “air rifles” shoot air?) We grew weary of the air show, the mouse and I, and I finally coaxed it into a brown paper bag, and released it in the back yard.
My roar did not drown out the laughter of The Bride and The Kid, who knew the trembling, terrified truth that lay behind the Big Game Hunter’s cry.

This column first appeared in June 2009.

cjon3acd@att.net

Songs Flung Out

CJ Woods III — Thu, 25 Jun 2026 05:08:28 +0000

Early in the evening of June 15th, 2026, I was walking West on 9th St. between N. Hawthorne and Emerson Ave.; I saw a woman on the ground at the side of her yard, doing something gardening-wise. As I got closer to the house a young face popped into view on the porch. Peering over the bushes, a small boy smiled and waved at me, then said, brightly, “Good morning!” As is my wont, I returned the boy’s greeting with a song: “Good morning, good morning, how are you today? I love you; I love you, come out and go play!” The woman in the side yard, who might have been his mother, turned a wide smile on the two of us as I continued my walk toward Emerson Ave.
My impromptu delivery of song that day is typical of me; I’ve written of the songs that I sing to the staff upon my arrival at my favorite cidery, and the song that I sing when I leave. My melodic (I hope) outbursts prompted both the Editor and the Creative Director of this publication to suggest that I accept the invitation of the Irvington Arts Collective to join the Irvington Community Chorus; I have been “flinging out” songs with them since 2024. The song that I sang to that young boy that day was one that I composed for my youngest daughter, who used to be crabby when she woke up. I sang the song to encourage her to be more joyful when her eyes opened. The first time that I delivered it to her, Lauren slapped me on the chest and said, “Stop, please.” Operation “Epic Happiness” failed, but I soldiered on and was recently surprised to hear my youngest granddaughter quietly singing to one of her 7,000 toy dolls, the song that her mother had rejected. It is ironic that Myah did not sing the song I had composed for her, which starts, “Good morning, Crabby Appleton…” Like mother, like daughter, they say.
“Cogito, ergo sum” is a Latin phrase that translates to “I think, therefore I am,” which is the “first principle” of the philosophy of René Descartes, a French scientist and philosopher. I have co-opted and altered the phrase to “canto, ergo sum.” Canto is Latin for “I sing,” which I do. I fling out bits of song during my travels along the path of life. When my eldest child was in grade school, she was asked for a suggestion for a school program; Lisa responded, “My father will sing.” I have sung at weddings, as well as at my grandmother’s funeral. (That one was a very difficult, “Old Rugged Cross.”)
The titles of two of poet Maya Angelou’s autobiographical works are derived from lines from a poem written by Paul Laurence Dunbar. In “Sympathy,” Dunbar wrote “I know what the caged bird feels …” Later in the poem, he wrote that the song the caged bird sings is “… a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings …” I don’t know where my songs are going, except into the ears of (perhaps) unwitting “ear-witnesses,” but I will continue to fling them out. Due to some unfortunate family circumstances, I will not be able to participate in Harmony Collected’s last concert, a collaboration with the Indiana Choral Director’s Association on Monday, June 22nd. But I will be in attendance, listening raptly as Dr. Webb Parker, the Founding Executive and Artistic Director of the Irvington Arts Collective, encourages the chorus to fling out some more of the songs that we have practiced and flung out before.
“Canto!”

cjon3acd@att.net

Impossible Dreams (Two)

CJ Woods III — Thu, 18 Jun 2026 05:08:56 +0000

In May 1969, the R & B group “The Temptations” appeared on the Ed Sullivan show and sang a song that became a theme for me and the woman I would marry in July of that same year. “The Impossible Dream” was composed by Mitch Leah, with lyrics written by Joe Darion, for performance in the 1965 Broadway musical, “Man of La Mancha.” The song came to be featured prominently in my own life when my friend’s brother-in-law told me to go pursue my love: “Get a horse and a sword,” he told me. (My column by that name was published in the Weekly View in July 2009.) I pledged my troth to my friend, and we married. In 1970, we quit our jobs, bought a tent, and spent 6 weeks camping across the country from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania to Los Angeles California, where I was going to pursue my dream of being an artist. Her family called us “The Dreamers” and we named our 1963 Volkswagen Bug, “The Dreamer.” Whenever we would return to Pittsburgh to visit, my mother-in-law would ask me to sing to her, and always chose “The Impossible Dream.”
The television pregame publicity for the United States’ soccer team’s competition in the 2026 FIFA World Cup shows two men in conversation at a bar, discussing the upcoming matches. In the background of the commercial, Elvis Presley is crooning “The Impossible Dream.” One man is enthusiastic about the United States’ possibilities, but the other man asks, “Do you really think the U.S. can win?” At the other end of the bar, a man chews nuts and says to the two men: “You don’t believe in miracles?” He stands up and walks away, showing the back of his jacket, emblazoned with crossed hockey sticks, a reminder of the “Miracle On Ice,” the US hockey team’s defeat of a powerful Soviet team in the 1980 Winter Olympics.
I watched the U.S. vs Paraguay game on Friday, June 12th. I understand very little of the game, though I remember my two youngest children running up and down the field in Mooresville Indiana, and their cousin, my first granddaughter, in goal in Cedar Knolls, New Jersey. I understood — somewhat — the object of the goalie: Keep the ball out of the net. The rest of the game is a mystery to me, but I shouted out “BOOM!” when the U.S. drew first blood against Paraguay. Soon that first score was augmented, when “striker” Folarin Jerry Balogun scored two more, becoming the first player to score multiple goals in a World Cup game since 1930, the last time that the games were played in the United States.
The U.S. won the game against Paraguay 4-1. My lack of knowledge about the technical aspects of the game — “offside,” yellow cards and red cards — did not keep me from rooting for the home team: The U.S. got four boisterous “booms” from me. My shallow dive into the research pool showed that now, we (what do you mean “we” writer-man?) must win 7 more games to achieve that impossible dream. The U.S. Men’s National Team (USMNT) plays Australia next, and though I have a very good friend who lives in Australia — I sang in her wedding — my “booming” will be reserved exclusively for the U.S. team.
It is not too much to hope that when the 2026 World Cup ends — perhaps with a 30-second-long cry of “Gooooaaalllll! — “Elvis The Pelvis” and the “Tempting Temptations” will be singing, having done what they could to encourage the USMNT to dream the impossible dream and to reach the unreachable “Starrrr!”

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