FADE TO GOLD
by Loy Carlos
TEAR-STAINED EYE
Legacy. What is legacy? I have not a clue.
When Dolly Parton passed away recently, I found myself weeping. The deep sadness caught me by surprise. I wouldn’t say I was a big fan. I liked some of Dolly’s songs: Here You Come Again, I Will Always Love You, Islands in the Stream, Jolene, The Coat of Many Colors. I loved her in the movies. There was even a time when a dear friend and I refused to check out of a hotel because one of her movies was playing. But that’s not enough to evoke tears. Nor the many hit records or awards. Not the fame. Not the celebrity.
Dolly went from poverty in Appalachia into stardom. On the way, she was judged for her looks before she was accepted for her talents. Many desired her. I would say more probably derided her. So she took the most extreme solution and put in a lot of work to make herself, in her words, look “cheap.” And once that was done, and there was nothing negative left to say, they all shut up. She made them finally listen.
Her voice was not just a voice for singing. She was the voice of humility. She was a voice for inclusion and compassion. She defended the marginalized—whether that be the LGBTQ+ community, the poor with little means to help themselves, or the children who did not know how to read. Every time people attempted to corner her into putting people down, she simply refused. She was determined to make those around her laugh. She was brilliant but eager to learn, witty but kind. She may have made herself a joke, but she never treated anyone else like one. She was spiritual and true to her faith, but she never treated anyone as being less than. She didn’t preach as much as she showed her faith through acts of love and kindness.
This reminds me of Ray Gish, the late owner of Brooklyn’s legendary Commonwealth Bar. He also grew up in Appalachia. The youngest son of journalism giants Tom and Pat Gish, publishers of Whitesburg, Kentucky’s The Mountain Eagle (It Screams!). Ray was an activist and a community organizer whose understanding of issues about culture, race, poverty, and the environment was so exhaustive and nuanced professors at NYU were in awe. He was also a brilliant writer. Having grown up editing with editors, he was precise and concise. I used to tease him about his stinginess with words. But he was never stingy with love or friendship. Commonwealth was not just a bar; it was where everyone gathered to celebrate, to hang out, to discuss issues, to listen to Ray’s impeccable taste in music. His curated playlist is legendary. It provided the soundtrack to an entire community of friends. To most he was a superstar. To me, he was a beloved friend.
I’m beginning to believe that legacy is not so much how much we do or how many people are affected by what we do. It is in the magnitude of the positive effects we have on each other. Both Dolly and Ray were larger than life to those who knew them. But whatever it is that they did to make people like us love them, they did so unceremoniously, quietly, without anyone ever noticing. It came from deep within. But their humanity did not just affect us. It infected us. They inspired us. They lived a life of authenticity. They were true to themselves. They were compassionate. They were kind. They loved and were loved. And they left traces of themselves and that love in us.
Like autumn, death appears to be the end of what once was. Soon the seven sugar maples will be stripped bare, the ground will freeze, and the canopy of yellow and red ochre will return under the gray forlorn skies. But standing back on that North Shore lawn, breath fogging in the mist, I know this time that none of it is truly lost. The traces of gold settle into the soil, unseen, simply nourishing whatever life comes next.
True legacy to me used to mean success in big efforts to help others. Don’t fade into nothing. Fade into gold! That was the whole idea. That was the original intent of this essay. But perhaps the better, albeit much more difficult legacy to cement, is to fade into good.
This reminds me of Ray Gish, the late owner of Brooklyn’s legendary Commonwealth Bar. He also grew up in Appalachia. The youngest son of journalism giants Tom and Pat Gish, publishers of Whitesburg, Kentucky’s The Mountain Eagle (It Screams!). Ray was an activist and a community organizer whose understanding of issues about culture, race, poverty, and the environment was so exhaustive and nuanced professors at NYU were in awe. He was also a brilliant writer. Having grown up editing with editors, he was precise and concise. I used to tease him about his stinginess with words. But he was never stingy with love or friendship. Commonwealth was not just a bar; it was where everyone gathered to celebrate, to hang out, to discuss issues, to listen to Ray’s impeccable taste in music. His curated playlist is legendary. It provided the soundtrack to an entire community of friends. To most he was a superstar. To me, he was a beloved friend.
I’m beginning to believe that legacy is not so much how much we do or how many people are affected by what we do. It is in the magnitude of the positive effects we have on each other. Both Dolly and Ray were larger than life to those who knew them. But whatever it is that they did to make people like us love them, they did so unceremoniously, quietly, without anyone ever noticing. It came from deep within. But their humanity did not just affect us. It infected us. They inspired us. They lived a life of authenticity. They were true to themselves. They were compassionate. They were kind. They loved and were loved. And they left traces of themselves and that love in us.
Like autumn, death appears to be the end of what once was. Soon the seven sugar maples will be stripped bare, the ground will freeze, and the canopy of yellow and red ochre will return under the gray forlorn skies. But standing back on that North Shore lawn, breath fogging in the mist, I know this time that none of it is truly lost. The traces of gold settle into the soil, unseen, simply nourishing whatever life comes next.
True legacy to me used to mean success in big efforts to help others. Don’t fade into nothing. Fade into gold! That was the whole idea. That was the original intent of this essay. But perhaps the better, albeit much more difficult legacy to cement, is to fade into good.
FADE TO GOLD
by Loy Carlos
TEAR-STAINED EYE
Legacy. What is legacy? I have not a clue.
When Dolly Parton passed away recently, I found myself weeping. The deep sadness caught me by surprise. I wouldn’t say I was a big fan. I liked some of Dolly’s songs: Here You Come Again, I Will Always Love You, Islands in the Stream, Jolene, The Coat of Many Colors. I loved her in the movies. There was even a time when a dear friend and I refused to check out of a hotel because one of her movies was playing. But that’s not enough to evoke tears. Nor the many hit records or awards. Not the fame. Not the celebrity.
Dolly went from poverty in Appalachia into stardom. On the way, she was judged for her looks before she was accepted for her talents. Many desired her. I would say more probably derided her. So she took the most extreme solution and put in a lot of work to make herself, in her words, look “cheap.” And once that was done, and there was nothing negative left to say, they all shut up. She made them finally listen.
Her voice was not just a voice for singing. She was the voice of humility. She was a voice for inclusion and compassion. She defended the marginalized—whether that be the LGBTQ+ community, the poor with little means to help themselves, or the children who did not know how to read. Every time people attempted to corner her into putting people down, she simply refused. She was determined to make those around her laugh. She was brilliant but eager to learn, witty but kind. She may have made herself a joke, but she never treated anyone else like one. She was spiritual and true to her faith, but she never treated anyone as being less than. She didn’t preach as much as she showed her faith through acts of love and kindness.
This reminds me of Ray Gish, the late owner of Brooklyn’s legendary Commonwealth Bar. He also grew up in Appalachia. The youngest son of journalism giants Tom and Pat Gish, publishers of Whitesburg, Kentucky’s The Mountain Eagle (It Screams!). Ray was an activist and a community organizer whose understanding of issues about culture, race, poverty, and the environment was so exhaustive and nuanced professors at NYU were in awe. He was also a brilliant writer. Having grown up editing with editors, he was precise and concise. I used to tease him about his stinginess with words. But he was never stingy with love or friendship. Commonwealth was not just a bar; it was where everyone gathered to celebrate, to hang out, to discuss issues, to listen to Ray’s impeccable taste in music. His curated playlist is legendary. It provided the soundtrack to an entire community of friends. To most he was a superstar. To me, he was a beloved friend.
I’m beginning to believe that legacy is not so much how much we do or how many people are affected by what we do. It is in the magnitude of the positive effects we have on each other. Both Dolly and Ray were larger than life to those who knew them. But whatever it is that they did to make people like us love them, they did so unceremoniously, quietly, without anyone ever noticing. It came from deep within. But their humanity did not just affect us. It infected us. They inspired us. They lived a life of authenticity. They were true to themselves. They were compassionate. They were kind. They loved and were loved. And they left traces of themselves and that love in us.
Like autumn, death appears to be the end of what once was. Soon the seven sugar maples will be stripped bare, the ground will freeze, and the canopy of yellow and red ochre will return under the gray forlorn skies. But standing back on that North Shore lawn, breath fogging in the mist, I know this time that none of it is truly lost. The traces of gold settle into the soil, unseen, simply nourishing whatever life comes next.
True legacy to me used to mean in big efforts to help others. Don’t fade into nothing. Fade into gold! That was the whole idea. That was the original intent of this essay. But perhaps the better, albeit much more difficult legacy to cement, is to fade into good.
This reminds me of Ray Gish, the late owner of Brooklyn’s legendary Commonwealth Bar. He also grew up in Appalachia. The youngest son of journalism giants Tom and Pat Gish, publishers of Whitesburg, Kentucky’s The Mountain Eagle (It Screams!). Ray was an activist and a community organizer whose understanding of issues about culture, race, poverty, and the environment was so exhaustive and nuanced professors at NYU were in awe. He was also a brilliant writer. Having grown up editing with editors, he was precise and concise. I used to tease him about his stinginess with words. But he was never stingy with love or friendship. Commonwealth was not just a bar; it was where everyone gathered to celebrate, to hang out, to discuss issues, to listen to Ray’s impeccable taste in music. His curated playlist is legendary. It provided the soundtrack to an entire community of friends. To most he was a superstar. To me, he was a beloved friend.
I’m beginning to believe that legacy is not so much how much we do or how many people are affected by what we do. It is in the magnitude of the positive effects we have on each other. Both Dolly and Ray were larger than life to those who knew them. But whatever it is that they did to make people like us love them, they did so unceremoniously, quietly, without anyone ever noticing. It came from deep within. But their humanity did not just affect us. It infected us. They inspired us. They lived a life of authenticity. They were true to themselves. They were compassionate. They were kind. They loved and were loved. And they left traces of themselves and that love in us.
Like autumn, death appears to be the end of what once was. Soon the seven sugar maples will be stripped bare, the ground will freeze, and the canopy of yellow and red ochre will return under the gray forlorn skies. But standing back on that North Shore lawn, breath fogging in the mist, I know this time that none of it is truly lost. The traces of gold settle into the soil, unseen, simply nourishing whatever life comes next.
True legacy to me used to mean success in big efforts to help others. Don’t fade into nothing. Fade into gold! That was the whole idea. That was the original intent of this essay. But perhaps the better, albeit much more difficult legacy to cement, is to fade into good.
© Classiques Modernes All Rights Reserved
© Classiques Modernes All Rights Reserved
