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Army Blues by Bill Graves

Although a half-breed, Robert Gleneagle strode boldly out onto
the bluff just above where the river bends sharply to the southeast. He
entered the teepee, greeted the grandfathers respectfully and took a place
in the ceremonial circle next to Eyes That See Into The Night, the old
shaman, who had insisted that he be given a place.

It was her turn. He had spent his entire adult life in military service, much of it overseas. And she had been with him most of the time, enduring frequent transfers and unsettled, nomadic lifestyles to defend the red, white and blue against threats real and imagined. Tom was now back on native soil and determined that his wife Julie would have the opportunity to pursue her interests.

Now that he wasn't interested in the horses as well. But Julie was the rider, the one who showed them in competition. He was the groom, chauffeur, videographer and all around supporting cast. And he liked to stock the refrigerator in the RV with an abundant supply of beer, especially when they went to River Glen.

River Glen had gone through some hard times. Management changes and internal conflicts had taken their toll. Two things kept Tom and Julie coming back: the place itself was magical and the people, though struggling to get things figured out, were friendly. They knew that if River Glen was to survive, enough people had to be willing to persevere, to give it time.

And besides, there was the late, late, late night River Glen Club: that informal group of people that had a lot to do with why Tom stocked the refrigerator. No membership fee. No annual dues. Just a camaraderie born of a love of the place. Yes, they all had some connection to the show. But they were there for more than the show. They were there for the experience. It was an experience that a loyal competitor had described as being in the presence of a very, very old Indian.

Tom knew that it was unlikely that the club would grow in size. Most competitors were too conscientious about their competition schedules and generally required their supporting cast to be equally conscientious. But the existing members were hard-core. And as long as they existed, River Glen would likely exist. And he would be there.

Little Big Horn, Wounded Knee, Sitting Bull, Crazy Horse,
Geronimo: for a long time the stories of the grandfathers had been
the same. It was Eyes That See Into The Night who now began to
dance an ancient story, a rhythm withheld by the earth for so long
that many had never heard it.

In April Tom began to have a good feeling about the show coming up in May. Julie seemed to be riding with confidence and her horse appeared to be keener than he had ever seen him. She had never won at River Glen but had been maturing and finishing higher each season.

Knowing that his retirement from the army was only a few weeks away, Tom sometimes wondered if the good feeling he was experiencing was perhaps mostly about the changes he had been looking forward to for so long. The army had afforded him a living. It had, however, not been quite as simple as he had thought it would be. For a time lines had been clear: G. I. Joe had only to do what he was told; military chains of command were designed to minimize ambiguity. As he had risen in the chain of command, however, he had become more aware of differences of opinion, shades of gray. He discovered himself justifying his commands, his actions, more and more with words like, "that is just what soldiers do" or "you're not getting paid to think". A few times he had come close to belligerence but had never crossed the line. He had become very adept at the art of compromise.

Lately things had become even more difficult. He was beyond compromising. His frustration, his dissent could no longer be negotiated. But he was so close to the end, to being honorably discharged with full benefits and a lot of life left to enjoy them.

He learned to create categories, compartments. One for Bill Clinton, one for the informed soldier; one for the Pentagon, one for Bravo Company. God help him if ever he got his wires crossed or something happened to betray his compartments as insubordination. Or maybe worse. The loyal, common soldier serving his country in a straightforward, mostly black and white way: he clung with tenacity to the simplicity of the idea though he knew he had long ago outgrown it.

Blue Water Woman sat outside the ceremonial teepee with her heart
in her throat. She had heard this dance once before from Eyes That See Into
The Night. It had happened the night before the raid, when she was a young
woman, the daughter of a Cherokee chief; the night before the white officers
had taken turns with her…the night that Robert was conceived.

More and more Tom was turning to his bass guitar. When he was in a groove with the other members of the band, the rhythm was the command: each member was free to improvise, to express his opinion, to be carried by the creative flow and to participate in the music all at the same time. It was the place Tom would go to retrieve the soul that had been stolen out of his life by the tension: an old fox that could suck an egg before you even knew he was in the henhouse.

Unlike Tom, the other members were in the middle of their military careers. They were not foot soldiers but scientists with graduate degrees from M.I.T. and Stanford. Sometimes Tom wondered that a group of men with enough scientific knowledge to blow up the planet would be so intensely committed to their music. But then, if he felt tension, what must they feel?
They all agreed on one thing. Sometimes they needed to make music. It was more than an interest, a hobby, an extra-curricular activity. When they played the blues there were no evil empires. There were only other men wailing, groaning, pumping out their pain and fear with a bass guitar and a set of drums. And for Tom, he forgot about his compartments and simply kept time with the rhythm.

Tom's intuition about Julie had been right. She started off with a very good dressage score and went clean on cross-country. She was firmly entrenched in first place with only stadium left between her and her first blue ribbon at River Glen.

Amidst the excitement of years of hard work coming to visible fruition, Tom did not forget the beer in the refrigerator which by now had become something of a compartment as well. Although it was not yet dinnertime, Tom decided to tune up for the spring meeting of the late, late, late night River Glen Club with a lawn chair and a cold brew.

"Hey stranger, Julie looks unbeatable." Bill appeared around the side of the camper, looking for a stop on his way to the end of the day.

"This could be her show," responded Tom. "Want a beer?"

Bill and Tom had become friends over the years at River Glen. Both charter members of the late, late, late night River Glen Club, they picked up where they had left off as if the intervening six months were a necessary interruption: caravan routes across the desert, between the oases. Since Bill had become the one responsible for developing and operating River Glen, Bill told Tom about bringing the water system to the stables. Seventeen new hydrants. No more water wagons. Also, new cross country courses and the new stable that was in the planning stages. Tom shared his anticipation of being discharged, his satisfaction at Julie's success and his increased involvement with his music. Two were gathered together. The late, late, late night River Glen Club had convened.

"Do you think the guys in the band would be willing to play at the summer show?" Bill had been thinking about trying to find some entertainment for Saturday night and had immediately picked up on the possibility.

"If nobody is committed elsewhere there is a good chance. Could they camp out here at River Glen?"

Soul had its' own agenda, its' own timetable, its' own choices. Tom was discovering this with the band. They were in a creative phase; writing new songs; hearing their lead singer, Steve, take them places they had not gone before. Yes, it was blues. But it was different. Army blues? Could there be such a thing?

They had agreed to accept the invitation to play at River Glen. The idea of staying on grounds, taking families and building a weekend getaway around the horses appealed to them. Tom had told them of the beauty of the valley, the hills, the bluff overlooking the river and Bill had assured them he would take care of their expenses. Yes this was something they knew they would do.

It was very hot in August. Rain had been less than average and the workers at River Glen struggled to get the new stable ready in time for the show.

On Thursday night before the show there was a gentle rain. It softened the ground, put moisture into the sand rings, drained the humidity out of the air and dropped the temperature ten degrees. When the competitors began to arrive on Friday, Bill knew that the weekend would be magical: clean, clear, wistful days that could belong as easily to autumn as to summer; nights full of stars, moons, planets that one only finds in the country, away from the lights of the city.

Tom and Julie arrived Friday afternoon. Julie had decided to remain in the novice division although she was the novice level champion. Since Tom had brought all of the sound equipment and was responsible for setting it up, Julie would have to get along without him for much of the show.

The band members did not come together. Some came Friday and some arrived on Saturday morning. They decided they would camp below the bluff, where the river bends sharply to the southeast.
The evening was clear, comfortable and full of energy. As the competitors milled around the machine shed where dinner was being served, Tom was setting up the equipment on a couple of hay wagons in front of the barn. The band members had finished their dinner and were coming over to the set to tune up.

It had been very dry in the southeast. Although it had been dry at River Glen as well, other places had been hit much harder. The grass at River Glen was still green. After dinner, many of the competitors indulged their equine companions and led them out into the meadow behind the stables. The horses grazed appreciatively, peacefully, while many riders imbibed their wine coolers or beer and danced to a rhythm that was somehow familiar and new all at the same time. "Army blues" was what Steve had called it.

Up on the bluff the old shaman had tired. The dance had chosen
Robert Gleneagle. His feet were like sponges, sucking the blood out of
the ground; his hands like magnets, drawing the pain, the hostility, the
regret, the fear out of the hearts of people who knew only that suddenly
their feet were light, that they wanted to dance. Robert Gleneagle un-
furled mighty wings and soared into the night sky, a point of light shin-
ing brightly in the east while an old shaman looked down from the bluff
and tapped his foot to a bass guitar and an ancient rhythm that had found
it's way back.

Bill Graves
2-9-2000