The Errant Pen and Escaping Words

Gleaning

2011-09-07T14:22:00.000-04:00

Webster's second definition for gleaning: to collect or find out (facts, information, etc.) bit by bit. That best describes what this past year on the island has been for me: a year of gleaning. I've been finding out what I really want to do, who's really important to me, who feels I'm important to them, and how my life is going to look in the year or so to come. This has been both exciting and disheartening as I look forward to new adventures and leave old dreams behind. But the gleaning was necessary.

With the gleaning came some deadheading, the plucking off of dead petals so new growth could take place. Old habits, some old friends had to be left behind in order to let the positive energy flow in and take its rightful place in our lovely bookstore, where we wish to keep hope flourishing and smiles alive. The energy is alive here and we've worked hard to make our community of peace and understanding, where no one who enters is judged or ridiculed by others, where all have a place to come rest and chat a moment. We've tossed in a Board Game Night, a group of women who knit and chat, a writing group very much like the one I left behind that keeps me sane, play readings, poetry readings, and live music to keep the smiles alive. We're selling books, too. It's working.

While collecting information, I learned to listen to my own heart and trust my own instincts, that others had the right to their own opinion but that didn't make their opinion right. We all need to remember that and not be so easily influenced by pundits, news reporters, friends and family. There are always at least two sides to every situation. You figure out those who live with truth and positive energy in their lives and when you wrap yourself around those folks, life gets good. So much easier never to have to play games or tiptoe through the landmines others set up for themselves. A musician friend of mine recently said, "It's better to run with scissors than walk on egg shells." Oh yeah, I agree....take some risks, live your life, live truthfully, accept others for who and what they are, enjoy the ride, toss the negativity away. Who needs it?

Yes, I'm Still Here

2011-07-07T13:01:00.003-04:00

It's been awhile....we've been busy getting Book Hounds PLUS set up on the island and adjusting to island life. I was looking for posts I'd done on music because I was thinking of writing an article on how much we loved going to Sparky's for the Woodshed and I remembered how much I loved writing this blog...so why not do it again?

The summer tourists are flooding the island and the bookstore. We seem to be the few who love this. Some of the other merchants grumble...do they not understand who helps to pay their bills? We love to find out where folks are from, what they've been doing, etc.

A few days ago three folks came in who had lived in our house as young children. I gave them a tour of the store and of our apartment upstairs as they related stories of spying on people walking on the sidewalks to the Fireman's Carnival (we do that now, too) and how they had a grand piano where our cash register counter sits. It was a delightful trip down memory lane for them and I loved hearing their stories. This morning's mail brought a thank you card from one of the women.

This island is magical and we continue to enjoy it, even though the kayaks we bought sit in the back yard more than on the water. Maybe Monday we'll get a ride. That's MY kayak up on the car. Hubby's is lime green.

This weekend Melissa Clark, a musician friend from Hamilton, NY, is coming down and playing in the bookstore. We are looking forward to that.

Check back. I am hoping to write more here, let you know what it's like to run a used bookstore. It's really more fun than you can imagine, especially on this island of sun and salt.

Island Love Affair

2011-01-15T20:30:00.002-05:00

No, I’ve not become infatuated with a local waterman, although it’s quite possible that some day I may be swept off my feet by one of these gentle men who call me “ma’am” in that delightful Southern accent. Their manners are impeccable, at least what I’ve seen in the bookstore so far. They have beautifully weathered faces, laugh easily, and I’ve certainly come to appreciate the difficult jobs they do. I’m waiting for the gentleman who recently purchased most of my Louis L’Amour paperbacks to bring me the fresh flounder he promised, another reason I may easily fall under their spell someday.

The love affair I’m telling you about today is between Rupert and Cheeka. Sadly, Rupert seems to have left any memory of his Northern love interest, MacKinley, far behind him. MacKinley is a large, white dog adopted by close friends who quickly became the alpha dog in the relationship, putting Rupert in his place at their first meeting. Something happened along the way, though, because Rupert, an extremely selective eater, became comfortable enough to devour MacKinley’s dog food whenever we visited our friends.

We met Cheeka and her owner on our morning walks on the Island Trail here on the Island, about the only place dogs are allowed. Rupert typically greets any other dog in a rather unfriendly manner. He believes the Island Trail is there for his use alone and he’s not one to welcome company. Cheeka is the kind of dog that Rupert usually barks determinedly at, the kind of dog we've referred to in the past as a “yippy” dog, because when Rupert would bark at such a dog, he’d get a “yippy” bark right back. Cheeka, however, is quiet and subdued. Her owner explained to us that she had been recently adopted and had come from a home where her previous owners were in the process of divorcing, a situation where a lot of “kicking and shoving” had gone on with Cheeka often caught in the middle.

Rupert would instantly transform into a gentleman at the sight of tiny Cheeka approaching us on the Island Trail. He would sit beside us, regarding her as we chatted with Cheeka’s owner, allowing her to pass with never a bark. After several days of this, Rupert would begin whining in excitement when he’d see Cheeka approaching, then start prancing, but would still sit again once she was beside us. Cheeka was not ready for him yet. Somehow he knew this.

This morning we were late going for our walk. We met Cheeka and her owner on the road to the Island Trail. We had to roll our car window down so Rupert could see Cheeka as the whine from the back seat was so loud we couldn’t hear. And as we were chatting with Cheeka’s owners, darling Cheeka put her paws on the side of our car, trying to reach Rupert, “Juliet” courting her “Romeo”.

I’m anxious to see what their next meeting brings.

Expectations

2011-01-04T08:29:00.001-05:00

My father always told me I expected too much. He also told me, beginning at a very early age, that life wasn’t always fair, that the sooner I learned to accept that, the easier my life might be.

I’ve always struggled with this. That whole “do unto others as you’d have them do unto you” seems like a good way to live your life. If I want someone to respect me, I need to respect them. If I don’t want to be lied to, I don’t lie to others. If I want my back scratched, I scratch yours. It seems simple to me. It doesn’t feel as though I’m expecting too much. If I can do it, can’t others?

We are such a blip in the universe and take ourselves so seriously. I guess living here on this beautiful island surrounded by nature makes me realize how insignificant one human being is in the grand scheme of things. It’s quite clear to me that we are not in charge. Every time we visit the beach, more sand has shifted, more shoreline altered. Every walk we take with Rupert on the Island Trail, another tree has fallen.

A customer recently was chatting with us, sitting on the loveseat by the fireplace in the bookstore after making his purchase. “There’s a piece of the Canary Islands that’s going to break off and send a tsunami this way. All these lovely books are going to get wet. What will you do when the waves hit?” he asked.

And it took me back to my time as a Human Resources Director when I had a saying typed out and taped to my computer monitor that helped me keep my sanity those days. I can’t remember where the words came from; I know I read them somewhere. They were words I imagined my father could have said to me, words that always calmed me, made me realize I could alter my expectations to meet the reality of any situation. It was the perfect opportunity to quote them.

I said, “If you can’t stop the waves, you can always learn to surf.”

This Winter Without Boots

2011-01-03T14:59:00.000-05:00

I can still see the grin on the face of that tiny old Korean woman who left my garage sale with my winter parka tucked over her arm the day before we left Syracuse, New York for Chincoteague, Virginia. She had talked me into selling it to her for $3, and as I was so certain I’d never need it again, I was happy to do so! Ha! I should have realized her smile wasn’t a smile of gratitude but her way of saying, “Sucker!” or whatever the equivalent might be in Korean.

Winter did indeed hit this beautiful island paradise, making us wish we hadn’t sold our boots, too. We refused to go out and buy replacements, though. I just added extra pairs of socks and pulled my sneakers on, or let hubby walk Rupert on the mornings I couldn’t bear to go outside. The snow didn’t pile up – only about six inches compared to sixty – and the temperatures stayed in the thirties. Living on the water with no building on one side of us, however, means we feel each and every blast of the 40 mph winds that blew our way.

The big difference, though, is the sunshine. We see it almost every day. How nice it is not to deal with stretches of grey skies!

And our commute down those thirteen stairs from the apartment to the bookstore is so much nicer, too! Even though Rupert still insists on going outside a couple of times a day, we basically have been able to stay inside and rearrange the store. We are getting to know the locals and welcoming return customers, still enjoying each and every day…..even the wintry ones.

Monday...A Day Off

2010-11-09T17:13:00.000-05:00

We close the bookstore on Mondays. There’s something wonderful about having Monday off when the rest of the world goes to work. It doesn’t even matter that we are “working” on the weekends, because this gig sure doesn’t feel like work.

Saturday was another busy day with lots of interesting folks coming into the store. I am still frustrated when we don’t have the books they are looking for, even when it’s a romance novel. One woman who was in a couple of weeks ago returned with some books for us to take in on trade and brought me a book that she had heard another customer requesting – it doesn’t get much better than that! And I haven’t been able to hunt down the book she had asked me to find yet either, but she was pleased as punch to have found the book that other customer had been asking about! It’s wonderful to be building those kinds of relationships with customers. And I’ve finally found some time to read a few books, too, including some these customers have suggested.

Our book hunting Sunday morning did not net us as much as I’d have liked. And Sunday proved to be a slower day, with the Poetry Workshop Sunday afternoon the highlight of my day. So we were looking forward to Monday.

And what a glorious Monday it was!

We went “off the island”, an hour’s drive away, to Salisbury, Maryland, to pick up my wedding band. I’d lost a diamond somehow on the move down here and this was the nearest Kay Jeweler repair shop. After that jaunt, we stopped at a Hospice Thrift shop (they are marvelous little stores!) and got some children’s books, plus I picked up some long-sleeved t-shirts for these cooler days when I don’t really need a sweater but my other shirts aren’t quite warm enough. Then home to pack a lunch which we ate at the beach, sharing some of it with the seagulls. Hubby had them eating bits of his apple out of his hand. We took a long walk along the Woodland Trail after our beach walk and were lucky enough to see a pony and a deer at the Wild Pony Overlook in addition to several egrets. We drove the Wildlife Loop and then stopped at Gary Howard’s for oysters and shrimp.

While hubby was preparing his oysters, he cut into his hand. That’s the first time we had to face the reality of living 50 miles from the nearest hospital. However, we live across the street from the fire department and there is an EMT on duty there. She wrapped his hand and suggested he go the clinic two doors down from us when it opened up today. He did. All is well. And it cost us a whopping $30, a huge reminder of the skyrocketing, out-of-control health costs in New York. Oh, we don’t have health insurance here either.
Other than periodic bouts of loneliness, missing loved ones and craving quality live music, life is good.

Here I Go Again....

2010-11-03T14:26:00.001-04:00

I should change the name of this blog to “The Wonders of Running a Used Book Store on the magical island of Chincoteague, Virginia Where it Seems Like Home and Every Day Brings a New Wonder” but that’s way too many words.

But that’s my life now.

We’ve had a couple of very hectic months relocating, rearranging, readjusting. After having only about a day and a half of looking around these five rooms loaded with books (approximately 7,000) and absolutely NO experience running a cash register or credit card machine, we opened our doors the same day they closed the beach here because Hurricane Earl was expected to make an appearance. He didn’t but we saw almost everyone who had planned on spending Labor Day weekend at the beach. Those folks all bought books (THANKS!) and helped us learn our new profession very quickly.

After that first day, after scrambling around for eleven hours straight with no coffee/lunch/dinner breaks, hubby and I went upstairs and sat out on our back deck overlooking Chincoteague Channel and couldn’t stop smiling at each other. It was one of the best “work” days we’d ever had! We were exhausted, frustrated, wondering if we were going to get blown away by the storm before we even got unpacked, but we did what we always do: put our heads down and plowed on.

And it’s paid off. We still aren’t unpacked. We still have frustrations, but are slowly catching up on our sleep. Our days off now are actually spent at the beach and we were there this week when the snow geese landed here, at least two thousand. We were about the only humans on the beach, and it felt as though we were in our very own National Geographic special. It was mystical and magical and something I will never forget.

We don’t seem to leave the store often, but have ventured out to hear live music, although we realize how spoiled we were by the variety and talent we left behind us in Syracuse. At the last concert we attended here on the island, we made a call to a musician friend we knew was playing in a café we once traveled to often – if you scroll back you’ll read me raving about both Mark Zane and the Red and White Café in previous posts – and we called the Red and White and requested a song from Mark because we needed to hear “good” music that night. Of course, Mr. Zane obliged, and we were able to hear a couple verses of “Ruby” that gave us our live music fix for the weekend.

Monday night we went to the movies here in a nice, old-fashioned theatre less than a block down the street from us. Tickets are $5.50 on Monday! We saw “Secretariat” and next week they’ll be showing “Social Network.”

Misty’s hoof prints are in the cement in front of the theatre. If you don’t know who Misty is, well…..there’s this book. You can’t spend five minutes here in Chincoteague without learning about Misty. I hang my head while admitting I have not read “Misty of Chincoteague” but we did borrow the movie from the library and watched it last evening. I enjoyed seeing how the island I now call home looked back in the 1960’s.

In a selfish effort to get a writing group started here, I’m offering a poetry workshop here at the store tonight. I hope someone shows up.

If you’re interested in seeing some of the rooms at the bookstore or learning more about us, check out the website hubby put together. http://www.bookhoundsplus.com/

So Long, Farewell, That German Word I Can’t Spell….

2010-08-26T15:17:00.001-04:00

Although Time Warner SWEARS I will be able to access the email account that allows me to access this blog, it seems to me that once I stop paying someone for a service, that service most likely goes away. So I’ll probably be starting a new blog someplace else and I simply don’t have time at the moment to set up a new email account to continue this one.

Yup, hubby and I did indeed buy that used bookstore on that island and are in the whirlwind of selling almost everything except the stacks of books we have, stacking up stuff for a moving sale and doing all the shutting off/turning on utility things that have to be done. It’s amazing how the Internet has made this out-of-state move easier. I can definitely understand, also, why so many choose to set up a business in states other than New York. Having lived in New York most of my life, I had expected to be much more sentimental in leaving it. Not so. I am counting the days. I had given myself much more time to accomplish what I needed to do to set ourselves up for business…..I’m basically done…..now I’m sitting in an apartment that’s basically packed and ready to go, counting the days until the movers arrive.

So, Island life, here we come! No more posts complaining about the snow! If life slows down and I’m able to get back in here someday, I’ll tell you how it’s going. If not, thanks for reading. It’s been fun!

Loyalty and What's Next

2010-08-12T10:12:00.000-04:00

Often I wonder if I even understand the meaning of “loyalty”. Perhaps it more that I wonder why my understanding seems lights years away from others most of the time.

It’s difficult to witness examples of employers being “loyal” to long time employees as they hand them pink slips after years of expecting those same employees to be loyal to them as employers. Children expect parents to be loyal – in spite of what children may do – yet feel free to turn their back on parents when things may not go their way. Long time commitments such as those to a particular business, restaurant, library, craft fair, are no longer always appreciated. You may remember previous posts about the craft fair I sold my one-of-a-kind handmade knit items at, Plowshares, for the past twelve years; this year they rejected my application to their annual event, the only place I’ve ever sold my merchandise. There was a time when they were barely able to fill a gym with vendors and I stayed with them, loyal to the core because I believed in their mission to sell quality, handmade goods.

But everything changes. I can’t quite put my finger on this shift in thinking though. For years I followed the advice of various elders: always do your best, work hard, be loyal, and you’ll always be respected for that.

Somehow it hasn’t always worked out that way.

These days it’s the advice my dad gave me later in his life that’s playing over and over in my head: You’re always going to have to work hard so you might as well work hard for yourself, not to make someone else rich.

Dad owned a successful marine distributorship after my mother ran off his boss. Funny what leads us to realize whatever it is we’ve really meant to do with our lives. He loved going to work every day, kept his inventory in his head even after purchasing a computer system to do that, treated his employees as he would have wanted to be treated, and was well respected.

I’m confident Dad was happy selling boats and being in control of his headaches. The echo of his advice to me – often given to me as I’d sit on the edge of his bed the last months of his life relating yet another story of issues I was dealing with the Human Resources job I had a that time – keeps me awake nights lately. He’s not here anymore for me to mull ideas over with as hubby and I try to figure out what to do next with our lives, but I think I’m finding an answer.

Yeah. I think I’m going to buy me a bookstore on an island off the Virginia coast, take control of my own headaches, spend some time near the ocean, forget about the snow and just be happy.

Star Appeal: Donna Colton and Sam Patterelli

2010-08-12T10:07:00.003-04:00

Late last spring while hubby and I were enjoying the company of friends at a wedding reception, we looked up to see Donna Colton and Sam Patterelli, local musicians we admire greatly, being seated directly across the table from us. Although many of our friends are musicians, I was indeed star struck by their presence that day, as I continue to be each and every time we are lucky enough to catch one of their performances. I’ve blogged about them a time or two in the past, I’m sure.

We had an opportunity to hear them again at one of our favorite spots for acoustic music, Onativia Church in Lafayette a couple of Friday nights ago. It’s the perfect venue to hear every lyric Donna sings and each note Sam plays on any one of the many guitars he brings with him. I love their originals and never tire of hearing them. Their cover of Etta James’ “At Last” would have knocked my socks off had I been wearing any.

But this post is about what makes Donna and Sam stars, why I still feel star struck whenever I see them perform.

During the Onativia performance they told their audience about attending the sound check prior to the Washington, D.C., concert they attended of two of their idols, Carole King and James Taylor. They spoke of standing right beside one or the other of these stars, chatting with them and how down-to-earth each one of them had been, how in awe Donna and Sam had been of the way Carole King and James Taylor had treated them.

Well, Donna and Sam, that is EXACTLY how we as fans feel about you!

Thanks for sharing your talents with us! The miseries of the day recede for awhile when we listen to your songs until all that remains in our heads is “Evening Ride”, reminding us that good things, too, remain in this world.

Snoooooze Alarm

2010-08-12T10:06:00.000-04:00

It took awhile for me to identify the source of my morning alarm clock. Our bird feeder is attracting new birds this sun-filled summer. I’d thought it to be some fair feathered friend cracking open sunflower seeds at dawn. Yup, I blamed the junco who feels free to wander across the deck whether we’re sitting there or not, the one who I swear would perch on Rupert’s back if he’d stay still long enough.

Then one morning when the song seemed particularly loud, long and darn joyful – though much earlier than I welcomed – I crept from the bed to peek out to see which bird was singing such a pretty song. Atop our mailbox, standing on his or her tiny hind legs stood one of the three or four chipmunks who scoot across our deck every day. This chipmunk was just a singing away!

One of my wildlife books claimed such chirping meant a chipmunk was sending out a distress call. I beg to differ. The chipmunk I spotted, and have heard several mornings since then, curtained did NOT seem to be in a protective mode. And there was definitely no danger. These critters love to toy with Rupert, often stopping on their trot across the deck to look through our sliding glass doors at the dog before they stop to sip out of his outside water bowl, never caring if he then barks at them while they leisurely get their fill of water. No, I believe they chirp with pure joy.

I just wish they would do it a little later in the morning.

Kellish Music Barn

2010-08-07T10:35:00.001-04:00

I have another favorite venue for acoustic music run by two of my favorite people, Rick and Kathy.

I’d worked with Rick for several years and grew to respect his gentle nature and ability to always keep the needs of a patient front and center no matter what else was going on in his world. He was the same person each and every day, a smile on his face, his passion for providing excellent patient care shining brightly. There should be more healthcare professionals in this world with Rick’s values.

Kathy and I met face-to-face about a year ago when we both attended a musical event at Onativia Church and I introduced myself to her. I felt as if I’d known her, having had phone conversations with her in my role handling employee benefits with I worked with Rick. She and I went on to become Facebook friends.

Hubby and I finally, finally, finally made it out to their amazing farm and music barn a couple of Friday nights ago for a concert. Larry Hoyt and Eileen Rose, two talented local musicians we’ve often had the pleasure of hearing at the Monday night open mic at Tipp Hill hosted by Joanne Perry and Wendy Ramsay (we often enjoy listening to Larry Hoyt’s Sunday afternoon radio show, Common Threads, on WAER, too) played the first set, a combination of cover songs and Larry Hoyt originals. Shannon Wurst, a singer/songwriter from Fayetteville, Arkansas, followed – what a treat! Check her out on You Tube! Buy her CD! You won’t be disappointed!

We fell in love with the ambiance of this venue, mostly the result of the huge welcome Kathy gives each guest. We happily returned to the farm last Thursday night for their weekly open mic, hosted that week by Mark Zane, that drew area musicians Brian Francis, Dave Gillespie, Dusty Pascal, Brad Thomas, Tim Stevens, Dan Brown, Mark Matthews….and so many more I’ve forgotten their names, including a woman from Cary, North Carolina and Dave from Hamilton, whose mandolin accompanied many and was truly the “star” of the evening.

What a time we had there! If you will, please vote for them for the Best Acoustic Venue in this year’s SAMMY Awards. Here’s the link: http://www.syracuseareamusic.com/peopleschoice

This Summer of Love

2010-07-29T13:25:00.002-04:00

Many of you are probably old enough to remember flowers in your hair and the sweet music that evolved from a magical summer years ago. It seems as if I’m reliving that summer in many ways. So far it’s been filled with visits with dear friends resulting in laughter and hugs. We’ve filled our heads and hearts with exciting music, traveling around to hear our friends play various venues and always waking up the next morning with their songs still keeping us company. Even our teenaged granddaughter has enjoyed accompanying us on such ventures this summer, leaving her heavy metal music behind her and opening her ears to other avenues and even LIKING what she hears! If John Sebastian was singing “Do You Believe in Magic?” I would have to shout out “Yes”.

Of course, I’m exhausted.

I thought with hubby not working we’d have long hours where we wouldn’t know what to do with ourselves and we’d be bored and restless and what have you. That hasn’t happened. We’ve had time to read a ton of wonderful books…..The Lacuna by Barbara Kingslover and Terrorist by John Updike have to be the best books I’ve read all year and both of us were spellbound by Stephen King’s Under The Dome which I read in three days (1072 pages), not doing anything else except walk the dog and answer hubby when he'd ask, “Where are you now in the book?”

We still don’t have a plan for what’s nextin our forced retirement. Hubby is still enduring physical therapy but is now able to join Rupert and me on our walks and actually mowed the lawn yesterday for the first time this year. Little by little it’s getting better. I admit to awaking in the middle of the night sometimes in a blind panic wondering when the money is going to run out and which bridge I’ll be begging beneath ….but, for now, I’m enjoying this beautiful summer of love. It’s never too hot for me, so I’m about the only person I know who’s not complaining about the lack of rain. As they sang way back when…..Let the sun shine, let the sun shine, let the sun shine in.

Grandbaby

2010-07-04T15:22:00.000-04:00

She is not our first, baby Gwen, yet she is oh so special, this one. I’ve always said, if there was any woman on the face of this earth that I would choose to be a mother to my grandchildren, it would be Kate….and how blessed I am to have a son wise enough to choose Kate to have this special child with. To add even more to my blessings, Kate honored me by having me with her when baby Gwen was delivered last Christmas Eve. This was truly an event I will never forget. I have not been able to find adequate words to describe the emotions that ran through my heart and head on that day as Kate held my hand and this delightful little girl slipped into our world.

Gwendolyn Mary is a curious six-month old who has a quick smile after she warms up to you. Her belly laugh is genuine. She’s pulling up on everything she gets her hands on, eager to walk, exactly as her father was at that age. He pulled this task off at nine months, so proud of himself he jumped up and down with glee, then fell into the coffee table, cut his forehead open and needed three stitches. He did not attempt walking unassisted again for a couple of months. I’m hoping Gwen takes her time.

Gwen’s going to be such an amazing kid. Her folks are so patient with her, seeing the world anew through her eyes and enjoying the view tremendously. She can’t help but turn out to be even smarter than the two of them are. I hope I’m around long enough to see where her passions lead her. I know she’ll find her way to amazing places and will be allowed to dip her toes into the water on many shores in her search to find what feels like home. Her parents understand that happiness is the journey and not the destination, such an important lesson to learn. Gwen could not be in better hands. This shows in her smile, in her dirty face at the end of a busy day exploring her world, in the contented way she falls asleep in her mother’s arms. Ah, Gwendolyn Mary. She is indeed a grand baby.

What I Don't Understand

2010-07-04T13:41:00.001-04:00

Yes, indeed, I could write a book with that title. Every holiday weekend we swear we won’t stay at the campground because there are too many idiots who literally disturb our peace with their misbehaved dogs and children while they drink all day and night and play around with illegal fireworks. I have to admit that it gives us great pleasure to get up early the next morning and walk Rupert through the campground. These transient campers are typically hung over, sitting by campfires with grumpy kids who still wanted their breakfast (imagine that) and dogs who haven’t stopped barking since they pitched their tent or pulled their noisy pickup trucks up to the campers they only use for holiday weekends. We stroll by, shout “good morning” to them with a smile on our face. We’ve observed the “quiet” rules, turning our fan on inside our camper so we don’t hear the drone that continues long after 11:00 PM on these weekends, after the illegal fireworks have frightened Rupert to the point of a near heart attack, leaving him in a pool of drool huddled beneath the table inside the camper, leaving me on the brink of another seizure, leaving us to wonder how much the rates here will be increased when someone loses a finger or two and the liability insurance rates go sky high. Those bright lights (much better when left to the professionals anyway) won’t seem so special then, I imagine.

This campground that we call home from May to October doesn’t have many bells and whistles. There’s not much for the kids to do here. That’s a common complaint. For us, it’s one of the reasons we stay here: we like it that there aren’t a ton of kids roaming around all the time. We’ve played that game. We love to have the grandkids come; we love to have them go home again. We’re here to watch the trees grow, watch the lake change as the wind switches direction, listen to the birds call to one another, chuckle at the chipmunks scampering across the camper deck, enjoy the sunrise and the sunset. We want the peace and quiet. We’ll relinquish it to those who crave the party atmosphere of the holiday weekends, yet we’ll never understand why they put themselves through all that. They’d feel so much better if they’d drink less, take a nice morning walk with their dogs and children, or sit quietly and look around them, enjoy these beautiful woods without making all that useless noise. Don’t they get enough of that at their jobs or in their homes?

Onativia Church Music Series

2010-06-22T15:27:00.000-04:00

One of the best kept secrets in the local music scene has been the First Friday concerts at this lovely little white church just off Route 20 in Lafayette, NY. If you’ve read me before, I’ve written about several folks we’ve heard play there. The acoustics in the church are amazing and the talent brought in never fails to provide top notch entertainment. Sherrie and Opie (the brains behind this operation) work very hard to make the experience welcoming and pleasant…..and the homemade desserts for sale during intermission are pretty darn tasty, too!

What great news to find out they were expanding their series to include other Friday nights! Here are shows scheduled for future Fridays, beginning at 7 PM:

July 9th - Diamond Someday
July 23rd – Butternut Creek
August 6th – Donna Colton and the Troublemaker (that’s Sam, of course)
September 10th – Dana Klipp (Northwater)
October 1st – Folkstrings
October 22nd – Larry Hoyt and the Good Acoustics
November 5th – Joe Davoli and Harvey Nussbaum
November 19th – Joanne Perry and the Unstoppables
December 3rd – Donna Colton and Sam’s Holiday Performance
March 11th – Mark Zane and Friends (yes….Sherrie’s booked folks all the way into 2011)

We had the absolute pleasure to catch Mikey Powell and Dusty Pascal (or is it Pas’cal…..I never know if I should put that apostrophe in or not….sorry, Dusty, if I got it wrong) at the beginning of the month. We knew it would be a good show; the way hubby is feeling these days after his knee replacement surgery, we do not venture too far away from home or camp for much of anything. It was so much more than GOOD though. It was magnificent. Such talented singer-songwriters who absolutely love bringing their tales to an audience didn’t even have to break a sweat to please this crowd. What a pleasure it was to sit back and watch them perform. Everyone in the audience was attentive. That’s what’s so great about going to one of these gigs at Onativia….you can sit back and truly listen to what’s being played and hear the mastery of the artist. Mikey and Dusty gave us a lot to remember, tunes that stuck in our heads as we drove back home.

Work it into your calendar to get over to Onativia Church, just off Route 20 at the corner of Dodge Road and Apulia Road. Music starts at 7:00 PM and they’ll pass the collection plates around at some point to pay the musicians. Be generous. You’ll be in for a special treat.

Neighbors

2010-06-21T20:46:00.000-04:00

I’m blessed….and cursed.

Coming home with a belly full of spaghetti and meatballs courtesy of Mary Ellen who cooked for us tonight, knowing we’d come home from the camper and had doctor appointments and nothing in our refrigerator here…..she is so wonderful…..I was accosted by my neighbor in the back who accused me of messing with the clothes she had in the washing machine today.

Right. I’ve got all sorts of time for that kind of stuff in my life these days. Actually, SHE took MY clothes out of the washer to put her clothes in AND opened the dryer door so my clothes in there didn’t dry….but she had an “issue” with my messing with her clothes. This woman just came home from the hospital with a newborn baby (we did not know she was pregnant even) and has a less-than-two-year-old underfoot who must think his name is “Jesus Christ” because that’s what she’s hollering at him all the time. She said to me tonight, “I know I’m a loud mouth….” and I had to bite my lip to say “yes and you should be arrested for some of the things you say to your children.

She jumped on me the minute we returned from a nice dinner at Mary Ellen’s, complete with a couple glasses of wine. I almost wish I’d had a third glass of wine; I might not have held my tongue. I may be sporting a black eye as I type this now, but it might have been worth it. Life had not been kind to us lately, and it just didn’t feel right that this woman should beat up on me either.

But, I’m really not going to let her. Instead I’m going to be content to know I have wonderful friends who know I’m going through a rough spell and cook dinner for me and don’t yell at me. They are priceless. The she-beast who lives in the back apartment of this house will probably never know such friends. I pity her. She may need them someday.

No Need for Body Counts

2010-05-27T13:07:00.002-04:00

No, this isn’t an anti-war rant…although I could go there easily.

Recently a musician died that I once had a passing acquaintance with as we both grew up in the same town. I had a closer relationship with someone who once had played in several of his bands. Upon hearing of this musician's death we discussed how sometimes when one is rising to fame and fortune, others are left behind, sometimes unfairly and often not in the nicest way. Even though apologies eventually are extended and accepted – or at least that was so in this particular case – the truth is, it still happened and it still sucked.

A few days after this discussion another friend of mine and I were talking about another person’s rise in the corporate world. I cautioned my friend against blindly trusting this woman and my friend’s response was, “Well, she never would have gotten the position she has without leaving some bodies behind.”

Hmmm. Have we become so calloused as a society that we believe it is perfectly OK to leave behind a body count on our rise to success?

Certainly I can’t be the only person left who believes that not only can a person become successful without negatively impacting the lives of others, but the only folks who DESERVE success are those who don’t forget the ones who got them there, who remember what it’s like to walk in the shoes of others, who don’t let the money go to their heads, and who remember to give back as much as they take.

Expectations (and Blessings)

2010-05-26T10:15:00.000-04:00

Typically, my expectations of others are low. It’s easier for me to expect less; I’m disappointed less often that way.

Recently we’ve been absolutely BLESSED with the kindness of others when Chris had surgery to replace his weary knee. Because of my seizure disorder, I do not drive. Offers for rides to the hospital and later to the rehab facility were abundant. Every morning my phone rang with someone new asking … Did I need to go get groceries? Did I need a ride to the post office? Any prescriptions I needed? How was I getting out to see Chris that day? Was I interested in going out for lunch? Were my library books due back?

I learned how to say “yes”, which is not as easy as it may seem. I hate to impose on others, but I found that, as I like doing for others, others liked doing for me. And I enjoyed those glasses of wine with Mary Ellen, catching up with news of Janet’s grandchildren and her new camp, breakfast with Vince and listening to him read his latest work, eating Josh’s peanut butter cookies, visiting with Mark and Alice, running errands with Kathy, hearing Tim telling me what Rupert did when he spent the night with McKinley, laughing with Sharon about how well we make lemonade out of the lemons life hands us, venting with Denise and running into all our neighbors when I was walking Rupert who asked about Chris and offered rides or whatever. And then there are my many Internet friends who sent wishes and kept me company when I couldn’t sleep, and my musician friends who soothes me with their tunes. My son and his oldest daughter supported me via text messages, as is their way.

BUT….you must have known there was a ‘but’ coming…..surrounded by such support I allowed my expectation to be raised and to include everyone around us to treat us as we would treat them in a similar situation. We are truly blessed to have friends we treasure and family we love. This includes my mother-in-law. My husband is an only child. We have taken ‘Mom’ on two cruises (we paid)….including our honeymoon cruise….and on several vacations to Manhattan and other places. When she had surgery a couple of years ago, we took very good care of her….we wanted to do so, no questions asked, we took time off from our jobs and did this willingly and lovingly. Not because it was expected of us, but because we wanted to.

She did take us to the hospital the day of his surgery and did drive me back and forth the three days he was in the hospital. She also took Rupert for me the first day Chris was in rehab so I could spend the day there with him. I won’t say she made this easy in any way; she has a way of letting you know that it is an inconvenience for her (she wanted to be mowing her lawn instead one day).

Chris was told he was going to be released on a Friday and wanted her to take him home. (Don’t we all want our mothers when we’re not feeling well? Even I want my mother when I’m not feeling well, and believe me, she was a piece of work even when she was sober!) The MIL lives five minutes from the rehab facility. We had planned to have her pick him up, call me when they got close to home so I could take the dog for a walk, they could get Chris settled in at home and then I could bring Rupert in and he could get all excited about his favorite toy’s return home after two weeks away without any worry about Rupert knocking Chris down or jumping up on him. The MIL agreed. Then the release day was moved up a day early. When I called her to tell her this, she said she was “too busy” to do it that day.

“Too busy” really meant that she had an appointment three hours later than the time he was being released. It would have taken her twenty minutes to drive him from the rehab facility to our place, then another half hour at the most to drive back home. So we were asking her for an hour of her time at the most. Why did she need three hours before her appointment? She needed to make sure she had enough time to do her hair and makeup.

The truth is, she was “annoyed” (I could use other words here) that we had friends who helped us out…..and we were able to call one of those friends (thanks, Tim!) who brought Chris home last Thursday. Yesterday, Chris called her to let her know he was doing OK. She made a comment about wondering why he hadn’t called her sooner. Good thing I wasn’t the one on the phone as I might have said, “Phone lines work both ways.” And then in the course of their conversation she tells Chris that his aunt died while he was in the hospital, but she “didn’t want to bother him with the news then.” She hasn’t spoken to this sister in twenty years or so, but Chris and I have seen her and we would have liked to have known. I would expect a mother to act differently.

There I go again…..raising my expectations.

2010-05-24T15:01:00.002-04:00

Ahhhhhhhhhhh, yeah. Three days in the woods and a couple of nights where I actually slept all night and I’m a new person. It doesn’t matter that hubby is still fairly crippled by his knee replacement, although doing well. It doesn’t matter that Rupert may have caught one Frisbee too many while we were out there and hurt his jaw. It doesn’t even matter that he’s been puking ever since we pulled back into the driveway back here in the city. Or that it’s 80 degrees and humid here. There was a moment of respite this weekend in the woods when the sun was shining and it was sooooo quiet all we could hear were robins chirping. Ahhhhhhhhh. We’re doing it again soon.

Leash Laws

2010-05-19T08:11:00.003-04:00

I walk Rupert on a leash. For most of the year, we are walking city sidewalks in a busy part of the city early in the morning when there’s often a school bus stopping at one corner and folks who are late for work rolling through stop signs at other corners. When we walk later in the day, the streets are full of office workers racing back home.

Rupert walks well. He’s on a retractable leash and has been trained to sit whenever we say “wait”. He also does this without any verbal command at any corner; sometimes he does it when he sees someone coming at us that he’s not too sure about. He’s a wonderful judge of character.

He is very aware of other dogs, particularly those who are not on a leash. He immediately goes into protective mode, baring his teeth, barking at them, placing himself between me and the loose dog. These dogs, at least in our neighborhood, are often smaller dogs. One neighbor has three of them and often walks them on the same path I walk Rupert, all at the same time, all off leash. Another neighbor has two small dogs she lets out in her front yard without a leash. Her yard is somewhat hidden so we often come upon them and do not know they are out there doing their business. (Rupert isn’t fond of surprise encounters, either.)

Here’s my problem. These dog owners have an issue with me. The woman with the two yippy dogs snapped at me this week that I needed to get my dog under control (he was sitting and barking at her dogs at the time) and the man with the three dogs off leash yelled at me this morning that I should walk on the other side of the street because one of HIS dogs might run into the street to get away from my dog.

There are leash laws for reasons. I obey them. Rupert loves to be off his leash and would no doubt walk by my side, do his business and we’d have few problems. But I wouldn’t want to chance his running into the street after a cat or his chasing after another dog or doing anything dogs are apt to do. Why don’t other dog owners feel that way? It’s not “mean” to keep a dog on a leash. I think it’s lazy on these other dog owners’ part NOT to follow the leash laws. And I am never going to alter my route because someone can’t be bothered to teach his three dogs to walk on a leash. In fact, I’m going to report him. It just might save the life of one of his little poochies.

Heavy Silence Today

2010-05-17T09:45:00.000-04:00

Usually I welcome empty rooms and time stretching ahead of me without obligations that translates into hours left for writing or knitting or simply sitting still and thinking. But today I’ve had news of the death of two friends from long ago and for some reason, I’m not able to simply tuck this information away and move through the day again.

I’ve seen neither of these people in several years. One moved on to fame and fortune and would probably not have remembered me now. The other was a former boss I was once glad to have moved on from, but also happy that she once gave me a chance to prove what I could do. Neither were relatives or lovers. Both were more than passing acquaintances, less than best friends. Still, I am mourning them today, unexpectedly.

I am remembering quick smiles, guitar licks, cigarette smoke, crazy drives on winding country roads, chocolate milk shakes, auditors, changing ribbons in calculators, dances at St. Mary’s and PTO meetings. And two folks who made their marks on the world in their own way. I shed tears for them both today, even though they might have walked past me on the street all these years later. There was a time when we shared moments of our lives, moments that led me to where I am now. They are part of my landscape, part of the tapestry I’ve made my own. I will not forget Beverley or Ron.

Sweet Sounds at Sugarpearl

2010-05-15T10:21:00.001-04:00

If you’re lucky enough to be in the Hawley-Green neighborhood of Syracuse on a Tuesday or Thursday around lunchtime, drop by Sugarpearl at the corner of N. Crouse and Burnet (plenty of parking in the lot shared with Ra-Lins Department Store across the street) and list to some amazing music while enjoying a tasty lunch, too!

Sugarpearl offers vegan food so delicious you forget that it’s so good for you. I’ve become addicted to their power burgers. Once you eat one, you’ll never be satisfied with what anyone else serves as a veggie burger again. Plus…they have non-vegan offerings; try the Beastie Boy, a dynamic roast beef sandwich that is much more than a mouthful.

On Tuesdays you’ll be treated to cover songs and originals by Melissa Clark. Melissa plays everything from the Beatles to Johnny Cash, Paul Simon to the Kinks, Mary Chapin Carpenter to John Fogerty. Her originals have such a spark; you’ll notice other diners stopping conversations to listen to her compelling lyrics. And that gal sure knows her way around a guitar! She’ll have your toes tapping in no time!

Joanne Perry takes the stage on Thursday, playing her originals, too. Her songs stick with you; you’ll be humming them later in the day. Joanne’s voice will charm you. She often has special guests join her for a song or two, and that's always a treat. Who might it be this week? Wendy Ramsay? Dana “Short Order” Cooke? A member of her band “Joanne Perry and the Unstoppables?” Or another local singer-songwriter who happens to stop by for lunch? You never know.

Support you local musicians. Drop a coin or two into their tip jars, that’s how they get paid for this gig. Brian Francis plays on Friday. And Sunday there is a brunch with live jazz. Yeah. Drop by. Listen. Enjoy. It’s a touch of Greenwich Village, right here at Sugarpearl.

My Favorite Time of Year

2010-04-28T05:54:00.001-04:00

On every calendar I’ve owned the past ten years, May 1st has a big, red circle around it. It’s the day the campground opens, the day the water and electricity gets turned on, the first day we can spend the night in the woods again. I count the days until May 1st as a five-year old awaits Santa Clause, craving those long May and June days there when the kids are still in school and other campers haven’t really settled in yet. We are usually one of maybe four or five other couples living there this early in the season. It’s quiet. Everything is newly green and coming to life. It’s quiet. The lake glistens. It’s quiet. The smell of spring is intoxicating. And have I said how quiet it is?

I don’t think I could live right smack in the middle of the city as we do if we didn’t have this oasis to escape to in the summer.

But this year, our escape will be very different from previous years. I won’t have those ten-hour days when I could lose myself in whatever I was writing after hubby drove off to work; he’s going to be home for the summer recovering from knee replacement surgery. And we won’t be staying at the camper after this weekend, because of the surgery. It’s unknown when we’ll actually be able to move in for the summer.

Last weekend we raked leaves and took tarps off the camper we live in and our guest camper. My flower beds got cleaned up, the cupboards got stocked. We gathered kindling, made the bed with fresh linens, scrubbed winter dirt away. The owners of the campground actually turned on our electric early for us, so we could get it all ready for hubby when he’s able to go there to recover. We had a lovely day there, complete with the first camp fire of the season. Driving home to Syracuse, we felt as if we’d been away for a week.

I’m hoping this coming weekend brings us that kind of respite. Our heads are swimming with all the details of the knee replacement surgery hubby will have a week from Friday. My “to-do” list seems endless. We need to run away from it all for a few days, listen to the birds sing, drown in the peace and quiet of the awakening woods. I’m packed, I’m ready for quiet.

"Want" vs. "Need"

2010-04-27T10:17:00.000-04:00

For quite some time now, I’ve been mulling over the difference between what I need and what I want. Perhaps this is the result of not having had a “real” job for the past four years. I gave up my two vices as a result – buying books and CDs – and have had no problem visiting the library every week instead of adding more books to bookcases already stuffed or buying more CDs.

Or maybe I could blame the DVD my son raved about and said I should watch: “Capitalism, A Love Story”…a Michael Moore movie. I watched it and it made me think, reinforced my mission never to step foot inside a WalMart store. I applaud Michael Moore for making movies that make people think; there is so little of that any more. Perhaps my recent reading of “Ishmael” by Daniel Quinn and reflecting on his theory of Leavers and Takers plays into this, too.

I look around at the items we have accumulated in the ten years hubby and I have been together added to those things we had each salvaged from our first marriages. We have too much……stuff. I’d like to call somebody who’ll just come and take it all away. Hubby is much more attached to his stuff, and he’s taking a slower, “let’s go through it room by room and see what we need” approach.

Here’s where the “want” vs. “need” comes into play. We have an extensive music collection. I’m ready to give it up. I’ve enjoyed listening to all those LPS….have indeed moved those two hundred plus LPs about twenty freaking times as well as the boxes of cassettes and CDs. I’m ready to let someone else enjoy them and NOT move them another time. It’s the same thing with my books. I already cleaned out my bookcase. It’s empty, ready to go on Craigslist and I have seven boxes of books to be taken to the used book store. If I “want” to listen to music, I can go find live music somewhere to listen to. If I “want” to read a book, the library is just down the road. I don’t “need” all those books and CDs cluttering up space…..and I don’t want to pack them when we figure out where it is we want to go.

Needs are simple for me. A bed, a chair, a table, a lamp, my laptop will do it for me. I don’t care if I have a television. I’m tired of dusting candleholders, ceramic pots, wooden bowls. We have beautiful original art on the wall. I’ve enjoyed looking at it. But now I’d like to look at the ocean or woods someplace where it doesn’t snow. I’m ready to take the artwork down, sell it and move on. Let someone else enjoy it. I don’t “need” it. And quite frankly, I don’t even “want” it anymore.

I’m not one to shop, never have been. I literally have to be dragged to a store to buy new clothes, and even then I prefer to go to The Salvation Army Thrift Shop instead of Kohl’s. You will not find the floor of my closet littered with shoes. It’s not important to me to be fashionable. I “need” and “want” clothes and shoes that are comfortable. Period.

I am going to hang onto Grandma Priscilla’s green serving plate though. I’ve moved it several times already. I’ve been told it’s some kind of rare depression glass. I don’t know about that. I pull it out sometimes when we have company and put pickles and olives and other goodies in its little sections. I keep it because Grandma used to mix up finger paints for me in it. I “need” this plate.

Oh, maybe downsizing won’t as easy as I think it will be.

The Kindness of Friends

2010-04-25T05:23:00.001-04:00

My husband will have knee replacement surgery in a couple of weeks. He injured both of his knees in January of 2008. Surgery to repair a meniscus tear to his right knee was successful in February of 2009 so he had the same surgery done to repair the left knee right before Labor Day weekend last year. He has been in even more pain since then, as the ‘clean up’ of his knee joint resulted in bone rubbing on bone every time he walks. I can hear the bones in his knee scraping against each other now when we walk the dog. His knee often pops out on those walks. Some type of prescription pain medication is always tucked into the pocket of his jacket or sitting on the kitchen counter, next to his bed….never far away. Our routine has been determined by whether or not he’s had physical therapy that day, how intense his pain is. We haven’t been to Manhattan in two years now because he simply can’t walk the sidewalks there the way we used to. There’s a lot we don’t do any more, some because of the pain, some because of the way the painkillers dull his senses. Quality of life has changed drastically.

Yes, we know he’s in for more pain and a recovery that is going to require weeks of physical therapy. A foreign object will be implanted in his body and part of his bone cut away. We’ve seen the videos, been to the workshops, gone through all the educational seminars necessary for this life altering surgery.

We appreciate the concern expressed by friends. We’re scared, too. But we’re choosing to keep a positive attitude and see this as the light at the end of the tunnel. There will be pain; there will be recovery. But in a few weeks, a few months, there’s the possibility that he can walk across the room again without pain. Or down to the lake at the camper. Or through Central Park. Or even through Price Chopper.

Still, the phone calls we’ve received with offers to help are greatly appreciated. I’m sure I’ll be calling. We can never go through such periods of our lives alone. We feel blessed to have the kindness of friends supporting us.

Lethal Dose Rocks the Cortland Youth Center

2010-04-19T13:02:00.002-04:00

Hubby and I wanted to surprise our son whose band, Ruination, was scheduled to play a gig at the Cortland Youth Center last Saturday night, so we drove down for a night of heavy metal music. This isn’t the type of music we typically seek out, but we’d hoped to grab some time with our 16 year old granddaughter, too, which was a pleasure, as it always is. However, Ruination was unable to play due to an injury to their bass player and the absence of their singer. We were disappointed, although it was good to have some time with our son and the other members of the band who came up to support the other two bands performing that night.

We stayed to hear Lethal Dose, expecting them to be loud and the typical metal that we really don’t choose to listen to. They are from Watkins Glen and I don’t know the individual members, although know my son rarely books acts to play with his band if he doesn’t feel they are good.

They were pretty awesome. Of course we couldn’t understand any of the lyrics (these bands all seem to scream), so we concentrated on the melodies. The drummer was kind of hard to hear, which may have been the fault of the sound system. It didn’t matter though. The two young men playing guitar were fantastic.

The star of the evening, for us at least, was the young woman playing bass. She certainly held her own and her playing was loud and clear, extremely complementary to the rhythm and lead guitars.

We did wonder how much physical therapy these young folks would have to endure in their later years as the end result of all that head banging.

And another observation: boys dance now and the girls stand around. It was definitely the opposite in my day. At least I think that was “dancing” that the boys were doing. It was certainly energetic and fun to watch.

It took us a few hours to regain our hearing but we truly enjoyed this gig….especially “The Viking Song”.

We hope to catch them again sometime on the stage with Ruination the next time we drop in for a dose of heavy metal.

I’m told Lethal Dose plays often at the Savoy in Watkins Glen, so if you’re into metal, check them out. If two old fogies like us liked them, you might just love them!

S l o w i n g D o w n

2010-04-15T10:39:00.002-04:00

Ahhh…..hear that? It’s the cardinal singing at the top of the tree in the back yard. Why does he sing? Because he can. And why are we slowing down? Because we can.

Sniff, sniff, sniff…..smell that? It’s the daffodils and all the trees that are budding.

Every time we walk the dog now, we can see something new and green unfolding. We can see it. Because we aren’t rushing down the street so hubby can get back to work. We’re taking alternate routes, even though Rupert is a dog of habit and doesn’t necessarily LIKE going in other directions. We’re “strolling” now, at least on these nice, sunny days we’ve been having.

Every day we do at least two things that move us forward to ‘what we want to be when we grow up’ so we aren’t stagnating while we wait for hubby’s knee replacement surgery to be scheduled. And we’re getting ready to move to the woods for the summer.

When we go out to hear music now, we enjoy it even more because we don’t have to hurry home or know we’ll be tired the next day because we can sleep a little later. It’s a guilty pleasure when we’re still in bed at 8:30 and not at a desk somewhere solving someone else’s problems. But – hey – we’ve paid our dues. The guilt goes away quickly, trust me.

Life is good out of the fast lane. We’re going to a Songwriter’s Showcase tonight at OCC; I’m sure I’ll be blogging about it later. If you’re interested in hearing what I thought about the poet Seamus Heaney’s lecture at Syracuse University this week, check out my writing blog. http://cobwebsarefree.blogspot.com/

And try it yourself, if you can, even for a day…..slowing down. It’s well worth it.

Wanted: Adult Guidance

2010-04-13T14:36:00.000-04:00

I had a meltdown recently. That’s not usual for me. I’ve been able to sail through most any troubled waters and always have been able to keep my eye on the safety of a shoreline, know the direction I wanted to travel. Perhaps age is slowing down my capacity to juggle change as easily as I once did. Maybe these past few years of not having had a “real” job has altered the ability I once had to look at a situation and simply know what to do. Or it could be as simple as it’s easier for me to solve other people’s problems than it is to solve my own.

We have some decisions to make. One thing that makes these decisions more difficult is that we feel the lack of the luxury of years ahead of us to change our course if we end up making the wrong decision and need to correct it. We’re getting older. Our bones ache, our health isn’t what it used to be and, darn it, we’re just plain tired. Major life changes are happening – welcomed, for sure, but scary none-the-less.

I’ve wished there was someone I could go to and say, “What do you think of this idea?” What I really want is ten minutes with my father or my aunt, the two most influential people in my life who have passed on and are no longer a phone call away. How I’ve missed their common sense these past few days! This feeling of being an orphan saturates my every thought. I’ve a younger brother, but he’s embroiled in his own worries and has never been one to offer an opinion on anything other than a second baseman being traded. Most of our friends are younger than we are, can’t really appreciate the unique issues sudden retirement thrusts upon you. Of course, there’s my mother-in-law, who has been absolutely wonderful, but not someone I can honestly talk to about moving away and get any kind of good advice from as she’d just say “don’t”.

Finally, after 57 years, I guess I feel as if I’m an adult, because there's no one left who's older than me I can go to for guidance. And the truth is, I don’t like that very much.

Ch,Ch,Ch,Changes…..

2010-04-05T14:29:00.001-04:00

Yeah, I’ve been hearing David Bowie singing in my head a lot the last couple of weeks. But it’s all good. Or it will be. I have faith that every change in our life paves the way for us to actually see what was there for us to do that we couldn’t see because we were so wrapped up in the way things were.

My hubby jumped off the hamster wheel his employers had put him on, cleaned out his office, turned in his keys and said good-bye. It was bitter sweet and a little ahead of the retirement schedule we had planned. However, my husband said it perfectly in his good-bye speech to his boss: “There’s comes a day when it’s time to move on, and today is that day.” I had never been more proud of him. Sometimes it’s the more difficult decisions that bring out the best in a person.

What amazed me was the concern expressed by others in our life! How wonderful it is to have such amazing friends! But we’ll be fine. Our needs are quite simple and we’ve lived in such a way to bring us to this point safely. We’ll be taking some time now to get hubby’s knees in better shape and through replacement surgery, spending the summer together at the camper (I cannot wait for this!) and then we’ll decide what happens next. Do we stay in the snow next winter? (I definitely vote “no” on that one!) What kind of fun jobs might we do to supplement social security? (I’m thinking we could run a miniature golf course someplace sunny.) What do we want to be when we grow up? (The possibilities seem endless.)

We’ve always led our lives with the motto “Happiness is the journey, not the destination.” So, I know we’ll be fine. It’s getting easier to convince those around us still trapped in various hamster wheels of their own that this is the case. Maybe they can see it in our smiles, in the way we shrug our shoulders and kind of giggle when they point out that we no longer wear watches because it really doesn’t matter to us what time it is. There is something to be said for living the simple life, and – hey – believe me, we have paid our dues. It’s time. We’re embracing this change.

Now….if I can only get used to him being around all the time and figure out when I’m going to write…..

First Love

2010-03-22T09:52:00.004-04:00

I'm the blond sitting on the ground, and I don't have a clue what I'm wrapped up in or why. And the other girl with the long brown hair was my best summer friend in those days -- ah the adventures we had!

No, she was not my first love.

But Inky was. Inky is the marvelous dog pictured here. I don't remember what breed Inky was. He was black as midnight, black as, well, ink. Always with us, but not in an obtrusive way. If we fell when water skiing, Inky would swim out to "save" us. If we jumped off the raft, he jumped with us. He hiked wherever we hiked. When we started kissing boys, there was Inky, our chaperon, sitting beside us watching intently....and if the boys started grabbing and we made a noise he didn't like, Inky was known to gnaw an ankle or two. We took advantage of that once or twice, I remember.

Our cottage was a few cottages away from Inky's family and he would walk me home some nights, stopping at the edge of the woods that marked the boundary of my family's property. I was usually walking alone, and I greatly appreciated his company. I'd talk to him, tell him my problems and wish that Inky was MY dog. I wanted someday to have a dog just like Inky.

It took me nearly 40 years, but I finally found Rupert. Still, when I discovered this photo on my friend's Facebook page, all my feelings for my first dog love came flooding back to me and I wanted to bury my face in Inky's fur again. I've missed that dog so much after seeing this picture. And I'm thankful to have known Inky, for he led me to Rupert.

Great Acoustics + Full House = Command Performance by Mark Zane and Friends

2010-03-19T09:16:00.004-04:00

Part Two: Onativia Church, LaFayette, NY

First Fridays at Onativia Church in LaFayette should not be missed. This lovely church provides the perfect stage, and Mark Zane brought his usual suspects with him to entertain on March 5th. Once again Mark packed the house and delighted us with his choice of covers and the originals we have come to love.

Bill Chernoff and Frankie Diamond accompanied Mark on guitar and provided engaging guitar leads throughout the night. We’ve come to anticipate an outstanding performance from Steve Pederson on bass; he never fails to live up to our expectations and was especially fun to watch at this performance, his bass notes clear and precise. Mary Snell added her lovely voice to several songs, giving us those goose bumps during the chorus of “Pink Houses”. When Mary and Mark sing “In Spite of Ourselves”, you forget for a moment that Iris DeMent and John Prine ever sang it. JimBob and another young man playing the ukulele helped Mark and Friends out on a rousing version of “Country Roads” that had most in the audience singing along, too. We enjoyed “Friend of the Devil” and “The Weight” very much, and sang Mark’s original “Walk it Off” as we headed to our car.

The hit of the evening? Every song rang true. It’s so wonderful to see a performance where those playing are comfortable, are enjoying themselves, are accomplished musicians and deliver a fine performance. Everything came together for this performance. It’s difficult to pick out a highlight of the evening; it seemed to be over too soon. We wanted to hear more and more and more.

If I had to pick a favorite song of the night, though, it would have to be Mark’s cover of “Hallelujah”. I never get tired of hearing him sing this. He always seems to get the words right. He nails it. And singing it at Onativia Church, where the acoustics are lovely and the words seem to swirl around the room with the notes chasing after them….the perfect song.

First Fridays at Onativia United Methodist Church in LaFayette. They pass the plate to pay the musicians. Be generous. They serve great desserts, too, for a donation. It’s a chance to hear great music without the noise of drunken laughter and loud conversations drowning out the music. Go. You’ll love it. Music starts at 7:00, goes until around 9:30. 6257 Dodge Road at the corner of Apulia Road. Just off Route 20. That cute little white church you always wondered about as you drove by. Well, check it out on First Fridays. You won’t be disappointed.

Put it on your calendar now – the First Friday of 2011 – Mark Zane and Friends will return. You’ll want to be a part of the full house then.

St. Patrick's Day Angst

2010-03-17T12:48:00.003-04:00

I hardly ever wear green on St. Patrick’s Day. Or any other day, actually. It’s not one of my favorite colors. I imagine there might be a touch of Irish blood running through me, as I am predominantly of English descent. Still, wearing green on St. Patrick’s Day was more than frowned upon in our house; it was absolutely forbidden.

Both of my grandfathers were born and raised in England, coming to the United States as young men to start new lives in the early 1900’s. One grandfather was actually sent here at the age of sixteen because his parents – he never saw them again – feared for his life. Life in the border town he lived in was suffering from the battling Protestants and Catholics. My grandfather wanted to take part in these battles. His father put him on a ship to America instead, with a note to a friend saying that said his son would be willing to tend to the cows on his friend’s farm in return for a bed and meals. This began a very successful farming career for my grandfather, as well as a life-long hatred of Catholics, particularly if they were also Irish. My other grandfather, although he had lived in a calmer part of England, shared the same views.

I was bombarded with this thinking as a young child, raised as an Episcopalian, told to wear orange to school on St. Patrick’s Day. I dreaded going to school on St. Patrick’s Day. I was even more of a misfit on that day.

One of my aunts married a Catholic; his last name was Sweeney. My grandfather refused to walk down the aisle and give her away. I was in third grade when the wedding took place and didn’t understand much of the conflict within the family then, only that my aunt stood her ground. That marriage lasted more than nearly fifty years, until my aunt’s death, and would still be going strong today. My grandfather realized his error in judgment later in his life.

My other grandfather, who scorned anyone not of "English stock”, also came to understand that diversity brought treasures into your life. My German Baptist grandmother probably had much to do with turning him around.

As a teenager, I was forbidden to attend dances at St. Mary’s School. And I wanted to go to those dances in the worse way. Other high schools played records at their dances; St. Mary’s had live bands. My boyfriends played in those bands. Of course, I went anyway. The only reason my parents did not want me to go was because Catholic kids went to that school – as if I had no classmates in my school who were Catholic? The Caugheys? The Kelleys? The Shanahans? They might have been in a Catholic church once or twice. I went to every dance at St. Mary’s that I could get to and I think this was one of the first times I felt justified in disobeying my parents.

There is no doubt in my mind that my grandparents’ strong religious views had a lasting impact on my own desire to learn about all religions and not judge any yet not subscribe to any particular religion myself. I’ve never found any that really fits with how I think anyway. And I’ve been quite happy living this way. If I had to choose, I’d be a combination of Pagan, Buddhist and Jew. I can only imagine what my grandfathers might have to say about that but believe they would have come to acceptance.

Today I do not wear green on St. Patrick’s Day and pretend I am Irish like most of the world does, although I am supportive of others who can. I would not think of wearing orange either. I wear whatever I want and think of my grandfathers who harbored hatred yet learned to cast it out of their hearts and be more understanding of those who were different. It gives me hope that it’s never too late for others to learn this, too.

Ishmael

2010-03-15T15:24:00.001-04:00

This is the title of a book by Daniel Quinn I’ve come to read later than others. My son finally forced it into my hands a couple of days ago. He’s been urging me to read it for a two or three years now. There was a time when we communicated most effectively by his saying “Mom, you have to watch this movie” and I’d rent a skateboarding indie film. I’d usually end up understanding some issue he was struggling with, often hearing a character in the film say what I felt Darek might be having trouble telling me. I’ll admit it: I saw some awesome movies I’m certain I would have passed over had it not been for his urging me to watch them.

The same might be said about this book, Ishmael. I am anxious to get to the library to borrow the sequels. And if they are not available, I may break my “no buying new books” rule I’ve had since I stopped working and make a trip to Barnes and Noble to get them.

I read this book in less than two days, picking it up every chance I got. After the first couple of chapters I said to my husband, “I’m not getting why Darek was so enthralled with a talking gorilla.” A couple of hours later my husband noticed that I’d finished more than half of the book. “I take it the gorilla stopped talking?” “Well…..”

It’s difficult to argue with the basic premise of this book. No doubt Darek knew I’d be drawn to it as a past employee and long-time advocate of Planned Parenthood. I see how it has shaped his current politics and the way he’s trying to live his life. More people should read it, that’s for sure.

My only disillusionment came this morning when I did some on-line research and found Daniel Quinn’s website. I realize that his book is a work of fiction, and yet it takes on a quality of “fiction that can change the world”. And in it he claims that prophets are not necessary, and yet his website is set up in such a way to make him appear to be – dare I say it? – a prophet. This takes away from the message of his book, just a tad, in my humble opinion. And that’s a shame.

Yet, I’m going to read more. And think more. Isn’t that what good books are supposed to make us do?

A Day With the Youngest Granddaughter

2010-03-13T10:53:00.002-05:00

Had an unexpected treat yesterday....an afternoon with Gwendolynn, seen here wide eyed and loving her world.

It's such a pleasure to see my son being a responsible dad. He is Mr. Mom during the week while Gwen's mom works and then lead guitar player in Ruination on the weekends. Life seems good for them. How could it not be with this little sweetheart around?

Great Acoustics + A Full House = Command Performance by Mark Zane and Friends

2010-03-12T10:16:00.003-05:00

Part One: Burritt’s Café, Weedsport, NY

This charming café located at the corner of NYS Routes 34 and 31B serves the best seafood bisque this side of Doug’s Fish Fry. We met my cousins there for dinner and stayed to hear Mark Zane and Friends play. I’d invited my cousins to meet us there (they live in the Auburn area, we live in Syracuse) because we don’t see each other often and it was a convenient meeting place. They are a little older then we are, much more conservative politically, but we love them and I’d been missing them.

I wasn’t sure they’d take to Mark’s music and actually expected them to make an excuse to leave at some point during the gig. We had a front row seat. My cousins were soon singing along to the covers Mark played and listening closely to the lyrics of this originals. They were so tuned into him, one cousin leaned over after Mark played “Knuckleheaded Fool” (go to www.myspace/markzane1.com to hear this song) and said to me “He looks so young! I can’t believe he’s been married three times!" I was glad that Mark then explained that he teaches sociology and his songs were not all autobiographical. My cousins each ended up buying a CD and asked me to keep them posted on future gigs Mark might have at Burritt’s. They particularly liked his cover of “House of the Rising Sun/Amazing Grace” and hope it finds its way onto his next CD. His originals made their way into their hearts, too. Later they told me they sang, “Is There a Banjo in Your House?” as they were driving home.

The café was standing room only by the end of the night. The sound system at Burritt’s is first class. The audience doesn’t miss a note. Steve Pederson’s bass rang clear and it was so nice to hear him. Steve adds such a delightful accompaniment to Mark’s guitar. Steve and Mark are perfecting their stage moves; my cousins were amazed that Mark and Steve didn’t trip over any wires as they were jumping and moving their guitars up and down in sync. We love the guitar ballet them perform! Paul Marconi and his harmonica added the perfect touch to many a song. Paul seems to get better and better each time we hear him play. Frankie Diamond jumped up there on stage with the boys, too, and played some very nice lead guitar. (If only Mary Snell hadn’t been sick and could have been there to sing a song or two.)

Before we knew it, the night was over and we were driving home, “Ruby” and “Bethlehem” and “Utica” playing still in our heads. No matter how many times we hear these songs, they always sound fresh, the message is still there, they entertain and make you think and stay strong. And the tunes are so catchy; you just have to keep on humming them!

Thanks, Mark and Friends, and the wonderful staff at Burritt’s café, for an evening to remember!

When Good Employers Go Bad

2010-03-11T14:40:00.003-05:00

I've seen in coming. In the name of change, no one was paying much attention to what was going to happen when something was questioned. If there's a relaxed, laid back atmosphere to a workplace, it can be a lovely thing. However, sometimes this causes responsibilities to get blurred.

The workplace I'm writing about has undergone a change in management. Basically, some "young guns" have assumed power after about a two year time period when the business appeared to run itself as its founder was ill and subsequently passed away. These youngsters, while successful in areas of the business they may have run, have very obviously never opened up a book on managing personnel.

One of the soundest pieces of advice I ever received was from my mentor, Frances Mercer, my Executive Director at Association for Retarded Children wayyyyy back when. She never, ever reacted to a complaint about staff until she had heard it three times from three separate sources. Even then, she would have a talk with the person the complaint was about before taking any action. This one piece of advice is directly responsible for any success I've ever had in the world of human resource management. It's a piece of advice I wish I could pass along to the young men trying to manage a workplace now who are reacting rather than managing situations, and perhaps not listening proactively.

No employee -- whether it's their first day on the job or their ten thousandanth day -- should ever be put in the position where they are blindsided by an employer regarding their job performance. That should only happen on episodes of Survivor. I would caution others who work for employers who do not consider coaching their employees a vital component of managing. Who wants to work any place where communication is not open, honest and effective? Sure it might be fun to have everything seem laid back, but not when it's your back's against the wall and someone else has put it there unfairly and no one has heard "the other side of the story".

And, trust me, there's always another side to the story. Often, it's the side you haven't heard yet that holds the largest amount of truth. If the "young guns" trying to run this company don't learn this soon, they aren't going to have much of a company left to run. Once good employees leave because they aren't treated fairly, word gets out. It's a smaller world than we think. There are some egos that need to be reined in here. Before it's too late.

A Tuesday at Sugarpearl

2010-03-09T14:46:00.003-05:00

I write better while listening to music. As I write this, I'm sipping tea at Sugarpearl Espresso Bar and Lounge, located at the corner of Burnet and Crouse in Syracuse, NY. It's been a lovely addition to my neighborhood.

While sipping my tea I am absolutely enjoying listening to my friend Melissa Clarke's cover of James Taylor's "Steamroller Blues. It's making my toes tap. She knows how to work the guitar, that's for sure! It's one of my favorite blues tunes, when done right, and she's doing it right.

So -- you might ask -- isn't this a distraction, to be listening to live music and writing at the same time? Oh, yeah, definitely sometimes. But in a good way. Usually I can still find my words and scribble away. I've written the first two stanzas of a new poem before turning to this blog post while listening to Melissa. I listen to CDs at home while writing, why not live music? It inspires me in an entirely different way.

I once wrote an entire poem beginning to end while listening to the Barrigar Brothers play at the Red and White Cafe in DeRuyter last summer. I enjoyed them tremendously, although they cast me curious glances throughout the evening. I like the poem I wrote, hardly edited it at all.

Mark Zane has often found me scribbling in my notebook while watching him perform. I think singer-songwriters in particular understand: when the muse arrives, we open our arms to her, wherever we might be. Mark has even written a song about this called "Is There a Banjo in Your House?" Hopefully it will appear on his next CD. It is about the odd times that inspiration strikes us.

I find inspiration in the rhyme schemes of others, in subjects they've been drawn to write about, in the magic woven between their lines.

And so I'm loving this Tuesday lunch hour at Sugarpearl. Melissa has been singing some Beatle songs, a lovely, haunting version of Mary Chapin Carpenter's 9/11 song "Grand Central Station, some Leonard Cohen, Lucinda Williams and John Prine covers as well as her outstanding originals: "Spirit of America", "What's In Me" and "Women at Work" (and I apologize for probably getting the titles wrong.) I loved one she wrote about her mother-in-law who is suffering from dementia, which takes on the tone of a modern day love song; its lyrics pull you in, take you into the pain of such a relationship, and the joy.

What a delightful treat this was for me today, in addition to the sun shining for the second day in a row. I could nod my head and believe it when Melissa sang, "Here comes the sun...do, do, do, do."

I'll be back another Tuesday...even if it may mean skipping my writing group. Thanks, Melissa!
And thanks Phyllis and Deb for providing lunch time music for the neighborhood.

Stay Tuned....I'm Not Done Yet

2010-03-06T06:32:00.003-05:00

Changed my mind. Rethinking the finding another job....for a number of reasons. It seemed I had what might have been the perfect gig for me, part-time where I could make my own hours in a small, non-profit environment, but the woman who had the job decided not to leave it. Oh well. I can keep my eye out for other opportunities.

So....I'll continue to write.

And I've lots to say. Mark Zane has been playing some awesome concerts at Burritts Cafe in Weedsport and last night at Onatsvia Church. We had the pleasure of seeing John Prine recently in Ithaca. I've been wandering down to Sugarpearl to hear Joanne Perry sing and Melissa Clarke starts singing there next week....and I'll be reading poetry at their Open Mic next week.

I'm too tired from a wonder night at Onatavia last night...have to check the spelling on that before I do another post on it. It's a wonderful venue. I said it before when we were blessed to see Donna Colton play there last summer. First Fridays....go if you get a chance. I'll post directions when I write about last night another time.

Just wanted you to know I'm back.

And So It Ends.....

2010-02-16T09:44:00.002-05:00

Benjamin Franklin said, "Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing."

When I stopped working four years ago, it was largely due to health reasons but also to give myself an opportunity to write. I got healthier; I wrote. My writing took me places I never expected to go, including into the fray of a writing group whose members have become an alternative family to me. I will miss them.

There was a compromise made when we decided to live on one half of our income. I stopped buying books and new music. We no longer traveled or helped the kids out when they couldn't pay their phone bills. My cooking skills improved as we dined out less. Chris came home for lunch every day. I've worn the same blue jeans for the last four years (happily, I have to wear a belt with them now, and need to add a new hole to keep them up.) We haven't bought new underwear, new furniture, new linens for the bed.

Yet, we've been happy. I haven't had to deal with office politics and Chris hasn't had to deal with me dealing with office politics. I didn't have to fire anyone in four years. That felt good. We made a bunch of new friends getting involved with songwriting people, going out to hear more live music, going to poetry readings. We adopted Rupert and he's taken us on a delightful puppy ride, has turned into the dog we both always wanted. Yes, we're happy.

BUT......you knew there was a 'but' coming, didn't you? I stopped doing much of anything worth writing about. I've spent so much time with my head down in my office, I've lost track of what's going on in the world. Recently I realized how much I once liked going to work every day and making a difference in someone's life. My poetry certainly hasn't done that. My novels still sit on the shelf in my office.......and so.....

I'm searching the want ads, trying to find a place where I might fit in and weave the magic I know is still within me to make an agency, a small company, a physician's office run efficiently, to focus staff on working coherently, to motivate employees and employers to listen to one another and work together for the common good. I was good at it once; I can do it again.

Maybe words for my poems will come again at night and I'll start losing sleep again.

So, I am ending this blog. For me it was my "morning notes"....my adaptation of Julia Cameron's "The Artist's Way", a book I could never fully dive into, although I found some inspiration there.

Thanks to those of you who have read me whether you've left me a comment here or sent me an e-mail. I've always appreciated it! I wish you sunny days ahead.

OCC Songwriters....

2010-02-12T08:52:00.002-05:00

What a pleasure it was to attend the Onondaga Community College Songwriters Night! Such talented musicians sharing their songs and talking a bit about what they wrote and why.

A youngster in the audience wanted to know how the songwriters wrote their songs and the discussion went something like this (I'm doing some paraphrasing here...sorry, guys).

Dan Cleveland: I'll have a snippet of words, a phrase that runs around in my head and then I'll build a song around it, find a melody.

Sean (I can't remember his last name) : I work on chord progressions, find out what key I'm playing in, build it in a scientific way and then add lyrics.

Mark Zane: I always hear the melody first, sing nonsense words to that melody for awhile until other lyrics begin to take place of the nonsense words, then I work on other lyrics.

Brian Francis: I sacrifice a bunny.

Rewriting

2010-02-10T08:44:00.002-05:00

"Books aren't written. They are re-written." Michael Crichton

The same may be said of poems and songs.

We all have different styles of writing, but I sincerely doubt that any song I've ever heard at the Songwriters Woodshed is the writers very first draft. I know that my poet friends and I wrestle with our words in isolation, struggling to polish them and when we glimpse that first sparkle, only then do we feel it might be alright to actually show a poem to someone else.

I am constantly rewriting, even poems that have been published never seem "done" to me. I have to force myself to hit the "save" button, walk away from the desk, convince myself that I will never find a better word than "agonize" and move on to something else.

Lately I've been dreaming in words. When I'm first waking up, wondering if it's 3:00 a.m. or if I've been blessed with a full night's sleep, there will be a snippet of a poem right there for me to catch. I'm getting better at actually writing it down, keeping a notebook by the bed. And I've turned these snippets into reasonable poems....but usually not without a ton of rewording. The original concept remains the same, however.

I've asked myself several times why some of the songwriters do not appear to be more open to critique of their work when presented at the woodshed. I think I understand now, at least I think I understand how some of them might feel. The concept is of a song is theirs. They've lived with it, reworked it, spent hours or even weeks trying to convey the emotion they felt, something experienced, or to tell a story that's important to them. And when they finally feel they've "got" it, they play it in front of this group and then -- wham -- that group wants to add their take....all in good faith with the desire to make it better....when the author already feels it's almost as good as it's going to be. Not a word gets rewritten.

I haven't been to the Songwriters Woodshed in a few months because I felt the critique hasn't been meaningful, was too picky, not worthwhile. But I think now it's not the critique that was the problem. It was the quality of the songs being critiqued: they were too good, too finished. They don't need much rewriting, so there's not much for the group to focus on. I hope next time I go to hear more raw material, more that needs to be rewritten.

"You have to write down what you'll abandon." Leonard Cohen.

So true.

Best Lyric I've Heard in a Long Time

2010-02-08T12:33:00.002-05:00

I don't even know where I got this tape...it's a compilation. There's a song done by an artist called Franklin Pierce called "Deep and Meaningful" and the lyric that caught my attention as I'm writing today is:

"You were so deep, you're almost underground."

The Old LPs I'm Listening to This Week....

2010-02-05T13:22:00.003-05:00

How Come The Sun.....................Tom Paxton
Tom Rush......................................Tom Rush (has Panama Limited on it,, love that song)
Politics............................................Tom Paxton
Child of the Future.......................The Steve Miller Band
A Live One....................................Loudon Wainwright III
Mr. Bojangles................................Jerry Jeff Walker
After the Gold Rush.....................Neil Young
Still Crazy After All These Years..Paul Simon
Collection: 15 of the Best..............Queen
A Salty Dog...................................Procol Harum
Still the Same Ole Me.................George Jones
After Bathing at Baxter's............Jefferson Airplane
Nashville Skyline..........................Bob Dylan
In the Wind....................................Peter, Paul and Mary
Honeysuckle Rose........................ Willie Nelson and Family
Pink Cadillac..................................John Prine (can't get enough of this one...)
In Search of the Lost Chord........Moody Blues
Hold Out.........................................Jackson Browne

A New Poem

2010-02-04T08:40:00.002-05:00

DO AS I SPEAK, NOT AS I DANCE
in memory of Priscilla and others who almost got it right

Release yourself
Claim defeat
It won’t cure you
What startles us, makes us needier
The softer they are, the closer they fly
And the late larks only get the snake
Life’s too long to hold a secret
Toss pepper over your elbow
Do think twice
Throw that toddler in with the bath water
Count hatched chickens and every penny tossed
Grab your umbrellas, honey, it’s raining crickets
Just like Grandma always said it would someday
And these little pictures grew big rears
Heard and often seen
Found in the last place looked
Right where they left us
Afraid we’d turn out just like them
Afraid maybe we wouldn’t
Apples to raisins
An eye for your tooth
Truth in lend me your nose
I’ll take Manhattan

What's In A Name? Remembering Dad....

2010-02-03T15:02:00.002-05:00

A friend of mine just lost her father. Whenever I get news such as this, I am reminded of my own loss. Usually my mind takes me directly back to those last hospital days, the funeral, the eulogy I delivered, all the dysfunctional family moments. However, as time passes, I find myself remembering some of the other moments that encompassed life with Dad. I’m hoping my friend finds comfort in similar moments she’s had in the past with her dad, not just these last days.

My father was never one to get names straight, often making up strange versions of real names or giving someone a new name. After we had seen the movie “The Graduate”, we went to our local music store and he asked for the album by “Simone and Carbuncle”, the guys who sang that song about Joe DiMaggio and Mrs. Robinson. (Yes, I saw that movie as a teenager with my dad; my mother had just left us and my dad and I were seeing a lot of movies together in those days. It was that or another run at “The Sound of Music”….)

I have one brother, Alan, and my father called us both “Rob Al”. That was so he wouldn’t get us mixed up. When my son, Darek, was born, Dad decided that “Silas” was a better choice of a name for him and called him that for so long that we finally had to ask him to stop because Darek wasn’t answering to his own name. (In Dad’s last years, the cat that kept him company on his bed was named Silas.)

Dad never got a handle on my daughter’s name: Livia. From the day we first took her to visit her Grandpa he christened her “Libia” and there was no going back.

One evening I was returning from our cellar with a load of laundry. My son was playing with Leggos or trucks or something in one corner of the living room but Livia, who was no older than four, was sitting crossed legged on the floor intently watching television. This was not usual as I had tuned into a new station in anticipation of a pending presidential press conference. I had missed the beginning of the speech, arriving back in my living room just in time to hear Ronald Reagan say these immortal words (at least in our family) as he pounded his fist against the podium in front of him: “And we intend to take strong measures against Libya.”

There was a howl from my daughter, instant tears and she turned to me, sobbing, “What did I do wrong? Why is the President so mad at me?”

Of course I was laughing, which made matters worse, and immediately called my dad, and the family has laughed about this on several occasions since. We still call her “Lib”. For years she turned the channel of the television or left the room if Ronald Reagan was on the screen; I’m betting she doesn’t vote Republican largely because of this episode, too.

But that’s the memory I’m thinking about today, the lasting impact Dad’s crazy way of renaming all of us still has on our lives. So much better than remember those hospital days.

Wonder Dog Misbehaves

2010-02-01T10:02:00.002-05:00

I’m a bit befuddled this morning after my walk with Rupert.

We walk at least three times a day, usually taking the same route through the neighborhood. Rupert is very protective, and that’s exactly why we have a dog. He is a mixed breed: part black Lab and part pit bull. We have spent hours training him to be a well-behaved, dog; he’s earned his Good Citizenship Degree from Pet Co. He can be scary looking, but once you get to know him, he’s a sweetie pie. He's extremely loyal, loves to play, is eager to please.

This morning he was doing his usual sniffing of trees and utility poles – we call that Rupert picking up his “pee mail” – and we were making our rounds with no problem. Someone from the alcohol rehab house on our block bounded out of the house and was running down the street to catch up with some folks ahead of us. Rupert started getting upset about his behavior and I took him to the side of the house and settled him down. No problem. We continued on our walk.

There was some kind of work crew on Hawley Avenue putting up new utility poles and I short leashed him through that section of the street, just in case, and we had no problem.

Rupert sniffed his way past the church and I saw a young woman approaching who we’ve passed a dozen times before. She wears a funky cap and is always pleasant. I do not know her, but we always say hello. I short leashed Rupert, had him by my side as she passed, more because it’s winter and the sidewalks are narrower. I did not think I needed to take him off the sidewalk. Bad decision on my part.

She said “Good morning” to me and Rupert lunged at her, nipped at her arm. Had she not had a heavy winter coat on…oh, I can’t type what I think might have happened. I apologized and she went on her way. I think I was more upset than she was. I made that dog lie down and stay there on that snowy sidewalk until he started shaking from the cold and said ‘Bad dog’ just once in that tone of voice my children know oh so well and Rupert, too, knew I was at the end of my rope. When I couldn’t stand being cold any longer, I short leashed him and we headed for home. No more sniffing, no snowball tossing and catching, just walking straight home.

He is sleeping downstairs, hasn’t come up to see what I’m up to here in my office upstairs. Guess he knows he’s on my $##@ list this morning. But I’m wondering why someone speaking to me is interpreted as aggressive behavior by him. Perhaps I am spending too much time alone? He’s fine when friends drop in, and we have folks here often. I’m puzzled. Any suggestions?

"Under My Thumb"

2010-01-30T14:28:00.002-05:00

I am listening to the Rolling Stones today. At the moment I have “Sympathy For the Devil” blasting way too loud. I am wishing beyond hope that I could dance to this, but even before it was discovered I have issues with disintegrating discs in my lower back, I wasn’t much of a dancer. I’m singing along though, although some might have issue with my definition of “singing” if they could hear my screeching.

I’m reminded of a friend of my first husband’s, the only one of his friends I actually liked, whose name was Mike. Mike and I shared a love of music. He had an extensive collection, similar to mine. However, I had very little music of the Rolling Stones and he offered to record some for my listening pleasure.

“There’s just one condition,” he said. “I refuse to record ‘Under My Thumb’ for you.”
I could not imagine why. It was definitely one of the songs I’d scratched onto the list he had been scrutinizing. I imagined myself dancing around to it once the kids had gone to sleep and my then husband had driven off to the bars and I had the house to myself.

Typically I am drawn to songs with interesting lyrics. The Stones don’t really fill that criteria for me; they are much more about the sound and the rhythm. I remember at that time NOT wanting to listen songs with lyrics about how people were dealing with love gone wrong….I just wanted to dance when no one was looking, work out some of the anger I was hiding, some of the excess energy I had in those days. I wanted to wear myself out so I could go to sleep and not think about all the steps I had to start taking to get out of my lousy marriage and on with my life.

I remember pleading with Mike to add that song. “No way,” he said. “It degrades women. I hate that song. I just won’t do it. Especially for you.” I think that his words somehow spurred me onto taking the first steps I needed to find my way out of that marriage and I’m so glad I’m where I am today.

He warmed my heart that day, made me hope that someday I’d find someone just like him (and I did) and consequently, every time I hear that song now, I’m reminded that good men do exist. It’s the next song on the LP I’m playing. I’m going to turn it up loud and dance and sing. Yeah, the lyrics suck….but I know I’ll never be under anyone’s thumb ever in my life. And I’ll always thank Mike for not putting that song on the tape he made for me way back then.

Sweet Music at Sugarpearl Espresso Bar and Lounge

2010-01-29T07:38:00.002-05:00

This blasted back pain has kept me from doing so many of the things I love lately. It’s about all I can do to walk Rupert and tend to my “housewife” chores. One of the things I’ve missed most has been going to Sugarpearl to listen to musicians I know perform during the lunch hour.

Sugarpearl Espresso Bar and Lounge is a funky little café owned by one of my neighbors a few blocks away. They serve primarily vegan food that even a meat lover like moi can appreciate, along with a gigantic cup of tea perfect for warming my hands after my walk over there. I often read poetry there, sometimes hosting their Poet Provocateurs evening of spoken word, recently moved to the second Wednesday of the month. I’ve been fortunate enough to make new friends here, run into old friends, catch up on my knitting while resting on the sofa in the back room, listen to friends play music or simply find a haven from my everyday life.

For several Wednesdays from 11:30 until 2:00 p.m., Mark Zane played while he was taking a break from his teaching job. How spoiled I was to settle down on the sofa and just shout out whatever it was I wanted him to play for me!

Today, after almost a two-month absence, I journeyed down there to hear Joanne Perry play so many of her originals that I’ve come to love. When she asked for requests, I had a difficult time limiting it to only two or three, not wishing to be greedy. “From Here Ever After” is a song of Joanne’s I never seem to tire of, but I was so pleased that she played “I Dream In You” again for me, too. And, of course, her “One Moon Away” and “Shaky Ground” and “Memorial Day” would already be huge hits if the music world was a fair one. I loved her version of “The Dimming of the Day”, a favorite Richard Thompson tune, also. And then Wendy Ramsay played a cover of a Lori McKenna tune and did “Rebound”, one of her originals she can never sing often enough, plus others I’ve forgotten now because my brain is too tired to remember it all. But I loved each and every note played and sung, especially the harmonies of these two singer-songwriters. Ah, it was simply a lovely way to spend a wintry afternoon, and I was so happy I’d ventured out!

So, my neighborhood buddies, you’re missing some amazing music at lunchtime if you’re not dropping by Sugarpearl! Tuesdays, Thursdays and Friday. And Sunday jazz brunch, of course. You already know Phyllis and Deb know how to cook! Why not come join me for lunch next Thursday, when Wendy Ramsay will be the featured artist? I guarantee you’ll love her quirky originals. I’ll save you a seat. And then come back another Thursday to hear Joanne, or a Friday to hear Brian Francis, Barley Wine on Tuesday or whoever they get to take Mark’s place on Wednesday. Just come on down…..you’ll leave smiling, I promise! Where else can you get live entertainment, tasty food that’s good for you, and that wonderful neighborhood atmosphere? Sugarpearl.

Orphan

2010-01-28T11:06:00.001-05:00

I realized today that’s what I am: an orphan.

My mother, granted not much of a mother, passed away in 1999. I’d be telling lies if I didn’t say that I still long to tell you we had a typical mother/daughter relationship, that her lessons were many, that I miss her and wish I could talk with her every day. I certainly miss the thought of her, wish we could push a “reboot” button and try again.

My biological father, a ghost from the surface of my childhood, is long gone, vanished into a pool of resentment that I have surfaced from because, had it not been for him, my love of books might not have blossomed, and for that I owe him thanks.

My real father, the man who raised me through thick and thin, has been gone for six years now. His illness lasted a very long thirteen years. As I listened recently to friends dealing with parents going into nursing homes, etc., I recalled planning weekend events around when we’d visit with Dad. Today I wish visiting with Dad meant anything other than pulling the weeds around the plaque in the ground at the cemetery in Owasco.

And two years ago I lost my Aunt Gretchen, my mother substitute. She knew when it was time to give me a call, usually at the very moment when my hand was on the phone to call her. And she usually knew what words to say to mend whatever was falling apart. I still need to talk to her every day and there’s no one else to take her place. If there was some huge disaster, her husband would come to my side, but he wouldn’t “be there” as she was. No one else ever could be.

I’m the oldest sister, the oldest cousin, the one others come to for direction. Often I am a good listener, and I’ve been through the woods a few times, even coming out the other side with only a few bumps and bruises, so my advice can be worthy at times.

But I’m feeling those old orphan blues today. No one to talk to. No one who really understands. That’s why I like listening to music so much….and today I put in Loudon Wainwright III’s “The Last Man on Earth’” CD. And listened to his song “Homeless”. He must have felt the same way the day he wrote these lyrics:

“When you were alive I was never alone
Somewhere in the world there was something called home
Now I feel like I’m homeless
But I will be alright
I’ll get through the days
I’ll get through the nights.”

It's what we orphans do.

Words and Laughter

2010-01-27T10:55:00.002-05:00

The writing group had a life-enforced hiatus then met again yesterday....all of us attending for the first time since November.

I am always stunned by how quickly the hours pass. We critique each other's work, argue politics, discuss deeply personal situations we discover ourselves in and pass along ridiculously funny conversations we've had. We share our lives with each other at all levels, with our writers' ears and eyes and hearts.

Their critique of my work is the treasure I carry home with me, inspiring me to think again, hear what I really wish to say, push the words around until the message is what I meant it to be. And they do so in such an amazing way. The only way I could ever thank them properly is to try to do the same when it's my turn to speak about their magical writing.

I've come to cherish our lunches, especially the stares -- and sometimes glares -- from folks at neighboring tables when we burst into laughter and start howling at one another, often not acting our age. I am often more comfortable in the midst of these folks than I am with any other family or friends, and I imagine the others feel the same, so we tend to let down our hair and anything goes. Others out for business lunches tend to cast us jealous looks occasionally. We don't bother to quiet down; we've paid our dues.

It's how we are. Happy to be writers who have found like souls to discuss our work with, to agonize over the snail-paced journey to publication, to rant and rave about where we fit in the world, to toss ideas about and catch the ones that explode. On Tuesdays with these writers who are more than friends and even more than family, I can be absolutely me and they love me all the same. As I do each of them.

And we'll meet again soon. I am a lucky lady.

sub-mit

2010-01-22T09:42:00.002-05:00

verb: to yield to governance or authority; to subject to a condition, treatment or operation; to present or propose to another for review, consideration or decision; to surrender.

It’s what we have to do as poets if we want anyone to read our work. No one comes knocking on our door to ask us if we’ve written any good poems lately. We have to send poems out into the ether and hope someone reads one and considers it worthy of publication in their magazine or journal. It’s a daunting process, to say the least. However, after looking at the notebooks stacked in my office and having a vision of my daughter tossing them all in a dumpster after my funeral (after she’s quickly skimmed through each searching for any hidden twenty dollar bills that is), I decided that I had to work harder to make that not happen.

The birth of a new granddaughter and the arrival of a teenaged granddaughter into my life may have been the fuel behind this decision….I’d love to have their Nana’s words in print to keep them company when I’m merely a memory…and so I’ve been hunkered down researching my best options and preparing manuscripts and writing cover letters and such. It’s way too much like having a real job to please me.

This certainly isn’t much like writing at all. It’s draining and difficult, frustrating, exciting and dreadfully time consuming. I try not to imagine a flutter of rejection letters coming my way, although that possibility is all too real.

Most of these poems are not new. As I told my friend and fellow poet Mary Ellen at lunch yesterday, “I have a more difficult time writing poetry when I’m happy.” And I’m just too darn happy these days.

I recently re-read a Carol Shields novel, I’ve forgotten the title, and the main character is a poet going through a mid-life crisis. While I’m past mid-life crisis time, there were a couple of lines that I hoped did not describe me now: “…though I still dabble a little, poetry is part of my past now. What I don’t bother to explain is that having written away the well of myself, there is nowhere to go.”

I’m hoping that now I have submitted so much of my former self in my older poems, perhaps the art of accepting rejection will stir my muse into refilling that well I feel I may have emptied.

Playlist For the Month

2010-01-14T10:03:00.003-05:00

I know...3 posts in one day....a new record for me. But I'm making up for all the time I've lost dealing with this pain in my back. Anyway, we're transferring our LPs onto CDs and these are the LPs I am listening this month as I write....it's such a strange collection, I thought I'd share it:

These are the names of LPs, not individual songs:

American Beauty....................... Grateful Dead
Tumbleweed Connection..........Elton John
Ruby, Don't Take Your Love to Town....Waylon Jennings (he looks about 18 on the LP cover)
Born in the USA.........................Bruce Springsteen
Very Young and Early Songs...............Cat Stevens
Tunnel of Love..........................Bruce Springsteen
Delta Momma Blues................Townes VanZandt
Brothers in Arms....................Dire Straits
Buffalo Springfield Again.......Buffalo Springfield (someone listed as Steve Stills here)
Vanilla Fudge...........................Vanilla Fudge
It's My Way.............................Buffy Sainte-Marie
Stephen Stills..........................Stephen Stills...duh
Hums of the Lovin' Spoonful....Lovin' Spoonful
Redeye.......................................Redeye...............haven't a clue who they are...anyone????
High Tide and Green Grass....Rolling Stones
Bruised Orange.........................John Prine
Santa Ana Winds......................Steve Goodman
Poet in My Window..................Nancy Griffith
Hank Wilson's Back..................Hank Wilson (Leon Russell)
From Every Stage....................Joan Baez
Best of Ian and Sylvia..............Ian and Sylvia Tyson
Shine on Brightly......................Procol Harum
Ladies of the Canyon...............Joni Mitchell
Wear Your Love Like Heaven..Donovan
Stagefright................................The Band
Nantucket Sleighride...............Mountain
Freewheelin'..............................Dylan
Wednesday Morning 3AM......Simon and and and and his backup singer
Sweet Baby James...................James Taylor
The Pilgrim..............................Larry Gatlin (where did THAT come from?)
Maid of Constant Sorrow......Judy Collins

P.S. Hubby and I have discovered that we probably own between us every LP, cassette and CD Neil Diamond ever made and neither of us has yet to hum "Sweet Caroline" while showering.

Oriana Babysitting Gwendolynn

2010-01-14T09:35:00.002-05:00

Newsflash II....

Remember Oriana? You would have had to have been a reader of mine from my AOL Journal days. She stayed with us for a few months when my son and Kate lived in an apartment that only allowed one dog (they have two...Kyuss, was older, calmer). You'd know all about the operation that saved her life that caused us so much worry and the days she and Rupert romped through the halls of our second floor Green Street apartment...playing and then not playing. Rupert and Ori tolerate one another for short periods of time, neither one willing to let the other be in control for very long. But they do love one another, always happy to see each other again when they've been apart. They love to play. Kyuss, the old man of the three of the dogs, usually lets them have their fun and just finds a quiet corner.

We admit....we wondered how Oriana would adjust to having little Gwen around. But we knew Oriana is totally devoted to Kate and Darek, as she is to us, too.

And, as the saying goes, a picture is worth a thousand words.

Metal Man Meltdown

2010-01-14T08:31:00.001-05:00

Newsflash....heavy metal guitar playing dudes make good dads, too.

Hindsight

2010-01-13T09:37:00.002-05:00

I’m saddened, but not surprised, by recent news of severe cuts in staff at the medical practice where I once worked. My rule of thumb has been not to talk about work to friends I still see that I made during my tenure as Director of Human Resources there. I’ve been retired now for five years.

Today I break that rule.

I worked for eight years to help that practice become the “best”. One of the reasons I chose to leave was because my definition varied from others in management. Basically, my belief was simply that we became the best by making the practice better: better staff, better services, better everything possible, focusing on quality of patient care. Others felt becoming best meant growing bigger. My theory of embracing competition and not worrying about younger doctors moving in because being the best would always mean maintaining patients was frowned upon, jeered at, considered old-fashioned and harmful to the practice. The “right” way of thinking, I was informed, was to gobble up other practices and become one giant conglomerate of services so there would only be one place for people to go.

And so buildings were built or acquired. Staff was added. I interviewed until I could no longer tell one candidate from another, could no longer remember who had been hired for what position. That was not why I had wanted to work in Human Resources. I’d wanted to make a difference in the lives of others. I’d wanted to help people learn to make differences in other people’s lives, specifically help this staff learn to provide topnotch services to patients as a coherent team. How could I do that when I couldn’t even keep up with the number of staff needed to service the growing number of doctors and clinicians and technicians and administrative staff needed to keep this huge machine operating? Oh yeah, they did finally provide me with an assistant….and she was absolutely marvelous, kept me sane and did the work of eight people…..but every day I realized I was fighting a battle that was going against my grain. I wasn’t making anything better. I was a glorified recruiter. There was no time for staff development -- my forte. There was no real interest for it, either. Staff was just the cogs that made the wheels turn. It had become a factory. That was what really turned me away. To me staff was the bread and butter, the individuals who became the heart of a practice, who connected with each patient and brought something special to that practice.

This practice is laying off staff now…..and not staff that can’t perform their jobs. What is worse, and makes my stomach turn, is that they are demoting staff, too. Staff who have given their all and performed well are being asked to take pay cuts and do jobs they used to do plus those of the ones that have been let go. I know, they should be grateful they still have jobs. I’d be saying that too, if I didn’t know some of the choices that have been made in past years that led them to this path.

My message? It’s simple. In all walks of life, it’s always quality that’s better than quantity. I’ll take one pair of green Chuck Taylor high-top sneakers that never make my feet hurt and that I wear almost every day over a closet full of fashionable shoes any day.

We can find the best, keep the best, maintain the best. In business and in our personal lives. It’s not that difficult. It comes down to making better choices, to remembering that every choice has a ripple effect and considering how hard that ripple might be lapping back at us in ten minutes, ten months or ten years.

I’m reminded of the words of one of my mentors, a physician who passed away a few years ago. He was once associated with the medical practice now forced to lay off staff. He would often remind his partners, “It’s not about the Bentley parked in the driveway.” I can almost hear him sobbing today.

My Other Miracle

2009-12-28T11:22:00.001-05:00

I don’t use these words lightly. And, although I’ll be blogging more about the new grandchild Gwendolynn and the pure magic of my being present during her delivery, that’s not the only gift I’ve received lately. I’ve been blessed by the arrival of another granddaughter, a true delight.

She’s almost sixteen. I haven’t seen her since she was an infant, although occasionally I’d get a school picture. There has been, well let’s just say “strife” between my son, who is her father, and this girl’s mom. And I’ve kind of been waiting in the shadows for something to be resolved, waiting all these years to meet her, for one of her parents to bring her to my door. She lives with her mom. I’m not one to rock any boats, especially for children. Don’t laugh, but I can be very, very patient when it comes to not disrupting the lives of others. And so I waited until I felt the time would be right to connect with her.

And isn’t it marvelous that there’s this thing called Facebook? I was able to introduce myself to her via Facebook, didn’t have to wait for her mom or her dad or anyone else to decide she could meet the rest of her family. I just sent her a message….Hi, let me tell you about your grandmother, do you want to get to know each other? And then this miracle happened – she wrote me back!! Again and again and again.

My granddaughter (I am cautious about using her name or posting her picture as I don’t want her mother to be rattled….trust me, she is drop dead gorgeous….) and I have so much in common. She knits! I so wish I’d been the one to teach her, as my grandmothers taught me, but I’ll have time to teach her patterns and finishing and stuff down the road. She loves music and art…we share a favorite artist (Georgia O’Keefe). As I was going to the library the other night, she was texting me books she thought I should read…..and they were books I actually WANTED to read! She’s an animal lover, too. And yesterday she told me she had a migraine. That’s something we have in common that I wish we didn’t….but still….it’s amazing to me. She types to me in complete sentences, is smart, has a sense of humor and manners.

I can’t wait to meet her face to face. When my son texted me to tell me the baby was coming, I immediately got a text from her that read: Nana! Nana! Nana! Did my dad tell you the baby is coming today!

She seems perfect in every way. I know she won’t be: after all, she’s my son’s daughter. But I can’t wait to meet her. I look forward to hearing from her every day….and she’s so good about communicating in some way every day. She’s lifted me up. She’s my miracle granddaughter.

Look What Santa Brought Me!!!!!!!!!

2009-12-25T14:19:00.002-05:00

Gwendolynn Mary Kotas

Born 12:24 pm on 12/24/09 at Lourdes Hospital, Binghamton

to Katie Downes and Darek Kotas (my son)

7 lbs, 1 oz, 20 inches....perfectly healthy

I had the absolute honor of assisting Katie through her natural childbirth...it was one of the, if not THE highlight of my life.

This Week's Playlist

2009-12-23T16:40:00.005-05:00

And not a Christmas song upon it....

Love at the Five and Dime.... Nanci Griffith
Yellow Coat.... Steve Goodman
The Old Laughing Lady.... Neil Young
Turnstyled, Junkpiled ....Townes VanZandt
Woman of Heart and Mind.... Joni Mitchell
Man Under the Bridge.... Mark Zane
Outside Woman Blues.... Cream
Bring It On Home to Me ....Animals
Time Has Come Today.... Chamber Brothers
Drive South ....John Hiatt
She Belongs to Me.... Bob Dylan
Essence.... Lucinda Williams
Who Knows Where the Time Goes ....Eva Cassidy
See Here, She Said.... Kate Wolf
Out Behind the Gypsy’s ....Tom Paxton
Panama Limited.... Tom Rush
Speed of the Sound of Loneliness ....John Prine
Universal Soldier.... Buffy St. Marie
I Don’t Need It To Rain ....Tim Buckley
Expecting to Fly ....Buffalo Springfield
I Like to Sleep Late in the Morning..... David Bromberg
Strange Weather.... Tom Waits
Kings and Queens.... Loudon Wainwright III
Traveling Soldier.... Dixie Chicks
Houston...... Mary Chapin Carpenter

Rocking at Creekside Books and Coffee

2009-12-21T16:52:00.002-05:00

I lived in Skaneateles until I was seven. My grandparents lived there until I was a teenager. In many ways, it’s still “home” to me. So it was with great pleasure that we drove there Saturday night to hear Mark Zane and Friends perform at Creekside Books and Coffee (about a block from our house on W. Austin Street, almost in the spot where I broke my arm when I fell off the handlebars of my brother’s bike when we were racing to catch the ice cream cups the guy on the train threw at us every Friday when the train passed through town…..ah, the good old days.)

Of course I bought a book – Knit One, Bead Too – and enjoyed a delicious chicken curry wrap before settling down to hear Mark and the gang play. It seemed like a full house there listening to him perform. I wish I’d gone up to the second story there in the café as I was having trouble hearing him. Being familiar with his songs was helpful. I love hearing Mary Snell sing, and Mark invited her on stage for a couple of songs. I couldn’t hear her belt it out on “Pink House” as I have in the past….I love it when she does that and the goose bumps raise up on my arms. Next time we go there, I’ll be sure to get a better seat. I love hearing these two sing together.

Paul Marconi sat in with Mark, too. I had an easier time hearing his harmonica, when he played. He seemed to be having trouble with them. That was too bad. When he did play, his additions were perfect. I wanted to hear more of Mr. Marconi. (I know, I can call you “Paul”, but I like saying “Mr. Marconi”.)

Jim Bob and Mark did another rousing rendition of “Country Roads” and Jim Lewis added his voice to Christmas carols. It’s always heartwarming to see Mark share his love of music with others. This show was yet another wonderful performance. We left humming “Hambone” and “Ruby” wishing we had his “American Hunger” CD with us….we should probably purchase another copy of the CD to keep in the car.

This pic…hubby took it on his cell phone…shows Mary Snell, Steve Pederson (we could hear his bass fine…and that was an added pleasure, for sure!), Mark Zane, and Paul Marconi and I wish I could remember what song they were playing but I don’t. It might be their cover of Neil Young’s “Rocking in the Free World” but I’m not sure.

Anyway…thanks Mark Zane and Friends for another amazing evening in my “home” town!

Why I Love My Neighborhood

2009-12-20T15:16:00.002-05:00

Vultures among the reindeer.....only on Hawley-Green. Happy Holidays!

Missing Out

2009-12-17T07:35:00.002-05:00

Yesterday I missed my Wednesday lunch at Sugarpearl listening to Mark Zane play his lovely tunes. Last night I missed the ladies of song playing at Sparky's. Today I will not be able to wander over to Sugarpearl to hear Joanne Perry strum her guitar and sing of lost loves and heartbreak and I could use a dose of that today. But it's simply not possible. There's too much pain to manage.

I've had my fair share of emotional pain. My mother was an alcoholic, I was raised by my father (not my biological dad, but he was the best part of my life ever) and stayed with him after they divorced, I married and divorced an alcoholic, had two children, a brilliant and talented boy who even at 37 continues to be challenging and a delightful girl who was my haven of sanity until she turned 30 and decided she no longer needed me and removed herself -- and my granddaughter -- from my life. I watched my father wrestle with a long illness and the aunt who was my mother substitute do the same. I survived several lousy relationships before finding the safety of Chris.

Add to that the whirlwind of the human resources world I worked in at the time where other people problems were dumped upon me to help solve and where I caused some problems myself, especially when I had to have those "we're going to let you go" talks.

Yes, I've had my share of emotional pain. But I learned to cope. I wrote a ton of lousy poems, and a couple of pretty good ones too. And I got through most everything as well as any human being could. I didn't lose my nickname of "Sunshine" and could still find the good thing in any situation.

BUT......(you knew there was a "but" there, didn't you?)......for over one solid year now I have been living in constant physical pain. My shoulder, although considerably better, still smarts, will never return to what is normal for most folks. Even though I'm able to knit and type again, it's not without some pain. And the leg pain I have....well, it doesn't seem as if that's going away any time soon either. I have not had a pain free day since....well, I can't even remember. And I can't do the things I used to do to distract me when emotional stuff was bringing me down......cook something elaborate for dinner, bake something scrumptious for dessert, put on music and dance like a fool, take Rupert for a long walk. That all involves standing and/or walking. And there's just too much pain when I do that.

Write some poetry, you say? OK....as soon as I figure out some good rhymes for the only word that escapes my lips these days....you know, the one they still bleep out on television? The rhymes I come up with: duck, truck, buck....well, maybe I'll end up with a country song or something. Let me go work on that and stop whining.

Meltdown

2009-12-16T08:40:00.003-05:00

I missed writers group yesterday. At 9:15 AM I crawled out from beneath the covers and called Mary Ellen to tell her I wouldn't make our 9:30 meeting. I just couldn't do it. There was no good reason. I'd gone out to dinner with a gang of former co-workers I refer to as "The Olive Garden" girls the night before...an uneventful dinner, home early....but I could not sleep afterwards and had gone downstairs and watched TV until 3:30 AM or so. If you know me, you'd know that watching television is a last resort for me, especially that time of day/night. That should have been my first clue.

I typically experience what I've referred to in the past as my "meltdown" in February, when it seems as if winter has lasted a snowflake too long and there's nothing to look forward to and everyone else around me is grouchy, too. This year it slammed into me last weekend when the temperatures dropped suddenly and the ice drizzled in, when I packed away my Plowshares stuff and put my knitting needles to rest awhile, when my leg pain returned full throttle and it seemed impossible to get warm again, when I tossed a poetry manuscript in the trash feeling it was pure putrid paltry pukey....well, you get it. Nothing's working for me at the moment. Not even the comfort of sleep.

I'd read two of the pieces we were supposed to critique for the meeting yesterday the night before and something happened that never, ever happens to me: I had absolutely no opinion of either piece. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. No reaction to typos, a tense out of place, a "this is great dialogue" or "you could find a better word here". Nothing. No reaction to more of the antics of Jeffrey and Ethel as they arrive in Romania on their search for lost ancestors, a story I've been reading of Jeffrey's for over two years now and am quite fond of and anxious to see come to its conclusion; I always relish Jeffrey's lively story telling. No reaction to Vince's new story about Lila who goes to the beauty parlor that serves as a morgue, too; it was only words on paper, nothing else, although I had so looked forward to this idea we'd discussed in Sparky's a few weeks ago coming to life with Vince's special flair in creating characters that make you want to laugh out loud. And Mary Ellen had written nine new poems.

I'd submitted a very short story about a drive-by shooting I'd dashed off to get rid of some of my anger (read prior posts if you're wondering about that) so it wasn't that I hadn't contributed in that way to the group. I just knew that I could not be "there". Because I don't know where I am.

All I can manage to do these days is scoop up the dog's poop and put a meal on the table. I've even stopped making the bed....because I'm usually crawling back into it. It's the only place I can be warm for even a moment.

And it's only December.

What If?

2009-12-14T10:39:00.002-05:00

Hubby has hooked our turntable and cassette player up to this laptop and is in the process of turning our LPs and cassette tapes into CDs....at least the ones we haven't already purchased as CDs. It's kind of a slow process, but he's having fun doing it. I've been sitting in a rocking chair nearby and reading while he's spread out here in the music room working on this project. He has headphones on while he does it, but every once in a while he sings along and I chuckle.

This weekend I found three tapes my brother made, one while he was in college and two when his sons were very young. On these tapes he sings some Loudon Wainwright, old John Prine, and several tunes he wrote himself. It's difficult to tell his songs from the others. Hubby kept asking, "Who wrote this one?" I felt really proud to say, "Al did." These gems were every bit as good as the excellent songs we hear at the Songwriters Woodshed every month or others we hear about town.

We decided to make a CD for Al's December birthday of his "greatest hits" from these tapes I had found and spent the afternoon doing just that.....including a rousing version of Old MacDonald Had a Farm with my nephews singing back-up. He'll love it. I even found an old photo of him with his long, hippie hair to put on the CD cover. (Don't worry about the secret being out.....he never reads this blog.....too busy following the sports world as he's the sports editor of a newspaper these days and my blog doesn't interest him.)

One original song of Al's, written about the lake we spent our summers splashing around in, made me cry, even though I've heard it often, though not in several years. As I listened to Al's songs, most written in the early 1970's, I could not help but wonder what path his life might have taken if he had not inherited all those "take responsibility seriously" genes. He has the voice, he knows his way around a guitar and can twist words into songs you'll want to hear again. Sports and music were his loves. I used to call him "Super Jock" and he's made a good, steady life for himself out of his love for sports. Sometimes I fear it's too steady.

Still, when I listened to these songs, particularly the one about Skaneateles Lake, and hear him sing "where I wrote all my early songs".....I had to wonder, might he have wanted to pursue a life in music, keep on writing his songs, playing his music? Does he have moments in his life now when he picks up his guitar and strums it and can't help but ask himself, "What if?"

Plowshares

2009-12-03T07:54:00.002-05:00

This weekend is the annual Plowshares Craft Fair and Peace Festival sponsored by the Syracuse Peace Council. I have a booth there, the only place I sell my hand knit and/or crocheted creations. All week I've been putting price tags on the hats, fingerless mittens, scarves, baby booties, purses, sweaters, etc. that I knit on the camper deck or in Chincoteague or other places we have traveled to over the year. As I pull something from a storage box, I remember a conversation I might have had as I was knitting, the sunshine that day, what music I was listening to. That's been the fun part of the rather tedious process of deciding how much something might be worth: if it was up to me, I'd give it all away.

No rag rugs will be at my booth this year. When I first started, twelve years ago, I only sold rag rugs that were made from all the work clothes I had ripped up and made into rugs after losing my job due to a merger. I sold out that year, and last year I again sold out all my rugs. A shoulder injury earlier in the year made it impossible to make any rugs this year to sell; the ones I did manage to make went for a housewarming gift for Mary Ellen and a thank you gift for hubby's work associate who loaned us his beach house in Chincoteague for vacation. This will be disappointing to those who know me as "the rug lady" at the craft fair, but maybe they'll like some of the new items I'm making.

This festival is our holiday. We don't celebrate the holidays in the traditional manner, not following any conventional religion and not immersing ourselves in the frenzy of holiday shopping. We will enjoy seeing the other vendors at this festival we usually only see once a year and bartering them, we will welcome the customers who return every year to see what I'm making now, because each year it's something different as everything is one-of-a-kind, and we will end up making new friends, too.

I'm tired. It's a lot to get ready. But I'm excited, too. It will all be over by Sunday night. And then I'll be feeling like the little kid who waited so long for Santa Claus and is either thrilled that he brought her exactly the right gift or disappointed.........ah, somethings never change, no matter how old we get.

Too Much

2009-12-01T05:25:00.002-05:00

I should know better.

Shortly before 3:oo AM, I got out of bed after tossing and turning for an hour or so. I kept thinking about the items I still had priced for this weekend's craft fair, redesigning my booth in my head, remembering I had to update my computer inventory. So I got up and started working on it.

Then I emailed my writing group and bowed out of our meeting later today. I think I've missed one meeting in the three years we've been meeting, but I know I'll be too tired to be fair about critiquing their work, or too darn ornery to take any criticism of my work nicely.

And I'm scheduled to do a poetry reading at tomorrow night, too. After dinner with some former co-workers I haven't seen in awhile. What was I thinking?

In my head when I was asked if I could do something and I heard the date, I just said, "Yes, that's before Plowshares (the name of the craft fair, the only one I do each year.) I can do that." But it all seems to fall into this week, when I am impossibly busy.

And if there's anything I've learned in these glory days of being "retired" it's that it is perfectly acceptable to say "NO" sometimes.

It's tough admitting I am no longer Super Woman able to juggle a dozen balls at once and never a hair out of place. If I'm honest with myself, I probably never was. There's always something that has to give. And I'm no longer willing to let the important things falter....my health, my marriage.

So....no writing group today, possibly no poetry reading for me tomorrow, no dinner with old friends, no going to hear Mark Zane play at Sugarpearl, no OCC Songwriters Showcase this week as I finish up all those little details to get ready for the weekend I both dread and cherish. Ha, it only took me 57 years to prioritize. Imagine that.

Telling

2009-11-20T11:48:00.000-05:00

Recently an old friend from high school read my blog, surprised that I so freely expressed my feelings. It made me realize how much I’d changed. Thankfully.

I’m reminded of that today, still reeling from the drive-by shooting in our neighborhood and the varied reactions, particularly when I hear things said such as “I can’t tell my children about this,” or “I hope the press doesn’t report this.”

It reminds me of my mother saying “What happens in this house stays in this house.” I’m sure I’m not the only child of an alcoholic that heard something similar on a daily basis.

As an adult I learned that secrets hurt, that healing comes with telling. Perhaps that’s why I keep no secrets, at least about myself. I’m a pro at keeping those of others because I began keeping my mother’s at such an early age.

Our writing group has pledged to work on short stories to submit by January 15th and I’ve been struggling with this. Not because I don’t like writing short stories; I’ve several under my belt. I just couldn’t think of anything new I wanted to write about. I brought nothing to our last meeting and have been beating myself up about it.

This morning I wrote a short story about the drive-by shooting. And I sent it to a couple of folks NOT in the writers group to critique because I thought I couldn’t take it to the group. Why? Well, one member of the group lives in the house next to where the shooting happened and basically wants to forget it happened and get on with her life (her choice and I respect that) and another member of the group belongs to a neighborhood association group that tends to look the other way when crime issues rear up. And I address that tendency in the story, not necessarily in a subtle manner. I did not wish to offend.

However, I’m having second thoughts now. It feels too much as though I’m protecting my alcoholic mother all over again by not telling what’s really happening. I need to stay an adult. I’ve worked too hard to become one.

So, I’m telling.

The Ruin of The Day

2009-11-19T08:14:00.001-05:00

Yesterday might have been the perfect day.

In between laundry, dog walking and sundry household chores, I enjoyed meeting hubby for lunch at Sugarpearl and being serenaded by Mark Zane who plays there every Wednesday from 11:00 – 2:00. (Joanne Perry plays on Thursdays, Brian Francis every Friday.) I encourage you to grab lunch and listen to them play for you. The food is great and you’ll wish you had a two-hour lunch break once you start listening to the music.

After dinner I enjoyed an evening with the ladies of song at Sparkytown: Melissa’s original “Here In Me” (it was BETTER than a Mary Chapin Carpenter tune); Jo’s delightful rendition of Loudon Wainwright’s “Hotel Blues”; Joanne’s original “From Here Ever After” (a song I can personally never hear enough of, it’s sooo good); Donna’s “Beautiful Mistake” I heard for the first time but will always remember and long to hear again and again; Judy’s cover of one of my favorite Richard Thompson’s songs, “Wall of Death”; and Wendy – who always pulls a surprise out of her bag – marvelously working her way through “Downtown” and getting Sparky to dance. It was the perfect way to end a day. I felt so peaceful and relaxed, ready to settle in with my book, Rupert and Chris, get a good night’s sleep.

“You might want to call Mary Ellen,” hubby said to me when I walked in the door.

I didn’t think this was so odd. My friend and fellow writer used to live a few houses down our street but recently bought the house that sits almost directly behind ours. I went into the kitchen to see if lights were still on in her kitchen, to see if she’d still be up, not really hearing what Chris said next, the words not really registering with me. Perhaps I didn’t want them to register.

“There was a drive by shooting. Someone tried to get Stephen. No one was hurt though.”

Stephen is the neighborhood bully. He lives in the house next to Mary Ellen. When she was first looking at the house, being neighborly she waved to him in his upstairs window; he exposed himself to her. I have kicked him out of our yard on several occasions and called the police twice, once resulting in his arrest. Less than a month ago the police staged a stake out in our driveway waiting for Stephen to return so they could arrest him on some outstanding warrants. The neighborhood breathes more easily when he is in jail; he never seems to stay in jail very long, though. We know he’s around when we hear firecrackers at midnight. In fact, Mary Ellen thought the four shots fired at Stephen sitting on his front porch last night were more firecrackers he was setting off. One of those bullets is lodged in the house, very close to Mary Ellen’s house, very close to the alley she and I walk down several times a week as we go back and forth to each other’s house for writing group or whatever.

I couldn’t sleep last night. And I really needed to, as I’ve been exhausting myself lately. When I’m exhausted, my words take longer to surface and other health concerns take center stage.

If my daughter was speaking to me, she’d begin one of her famous rants about how unsafe my neighborhood is and I’d have nothing to say in return this morning. Even my mother-in-law’s house that sits in what I’ve always considered a glorified “trailer park” housing development with no sidewalks looks good to me today. Rupert is still burrowed beneath the covers of the bed and hasn’t been out for his morning walk. Is he trying to tell me something?

The Voices In My Head

2009-11-17T07:48:00.002-05:00

I can't hear the voices that usually talk to me when I'm doing dishes or walking the dog or folding laundry. This isn't a good thing. The voices I hear are good voices -- not the kind that tell you to go out and shoot your neighbors. Mine are the voices of the characters in the piece I'm writing: Mariah, Kaylyn, Eliot, Nash, Louisa and Albert to name a few of them. And they are all silent at the moment.

I can't get Kaylyn and her boyfriend off the sofa in Mariah's apartment in Manhattan. They're stuck there. I don't know where they go next. They haven't "told" me. I can't seem to get them to tell me.

Maybe going to my writing group this morning will help. I'd really like to go to the bus station instead and buy a ticket to New York City, spend a day wandering around imagining all the things my characters might want to do, and then come home again. I'm certain I'd know what to write then. But....that's not going to happen anytime soon. Because there's dishes to do and a dog to walk and laundry to fold. And if those voices would just come back, it'd all be so much easier to handle.

What I'm Listening to This Week.....

2009-11-16T08:51:00.000-05:00

White Winos…Loudon Wainwright III
Dear Mary….Linda Thompson
Hate It Here…Wilco
Watershed…Indigo Girls
Won’t Give In…The Finn Brothers
Killing the Blues….Allison Krause
Wayfaring Stranger…Peter, Paul and Mary
Up the Devil’s Pay….Old 97’s
Sailing to Philadelphia…Mark Knopfler/James Taylor
In China or a Woman’s Heart…Kate Wolf
Song for Adam…Jackson Browne
As Cool As I Am…Dar Williams
Goodbye Earl…Dixie Chicks
Galway to Graceland…Plainsong
After You’re Gone…Iris DeMent
Going Home…Mark Zane
The Coming of the Snow…Rod MacDonald
Half A Million Miles…The Kennedys
My City of Ruins…Bruce Springsteen
Family…Dar Williams
Some Days You Gotta Dance…Dixie Chicks
Our Town…Iris DeMent
Walk Away…Dust Poets
Girl With the Weight of the World in Her Hands…Indigo Girls
Under the Fallen Sky…Jackson Browne
Sound of Your Voice…Barenaked Ladies
Cowboy Man…Lyle Lovett
Grey Street…Dave Matthews Band
Play Some Skynryd…John Eddie
Invisible People…Peter, Paul, and Mary
Give Me Back My Country…The Kennedys
Anyway…The Roches
Stop the War…Rod MacDonald
Some Walls…Peter, Paul and Mary
Make A Wish…Mark Zane
Homeless…Loudon Wainwright III
Muddy Roads…Kate Wolf
Everybody Knows…Dixie Chicks

Words and Music Songwriters Showcase at Jazz Central - 11/13/09

2009-11-14T08:10:00.001-05:00

Ah, what a Friday the 13th! Jeffrey Pepper Rodgers hosting with Sean Patrick Taylor, Gavan Duffy and Mikey Powell.

I sat next to Mikey Powell’s grandmother and his mother sat beside her. We chatted quite a bit, about Mikey’s migraine and how pale he looked, about songwriting and poetry and the usual stuff folks talk about when they’re meeting for the first time. Grandma was a delight, so proud to be there to hear Mikey play. I was excited to hear him, too, having fallen in love with his song “Old Picture Frames” that gets some air play on Blue Moon Café, a local radio show I listen to on Sunday mornings. His lyrics are pure poetry. I was certain his performance would be magical, and I wasn’t disappointed. His songwriting style reminded me so much of John Prine, I was not at all surprised when he ended his show by singing a cover of Prine’s “Angel From Montgomery”. It was wonderful that this youngster is able to pay homage to Mr. Prine by writing songs equally as appealing. (Hubby and I will be going to see John Prine play at the State Theatre in Ithaca in February….my anniversary present….can’t wait.)

Sean Patrick Taylor, a musician I had not seen before, played some interesting tunes as part of the first set, sharing the stage with Jeffrey and Gavan. Jeffrey did many of his songs that I absolutely love….I’ll get the titles wrong and that’s not fair to him so I won’t attempt to name them...other than “Fly”. I love his song about humming his way back home, about being a dog for a day, and of course the one where he plays a wooden box and sings about that sycamore tree. Every time I see Jeffrey play I am reminded of what a fine musician he is in addition to writing amazing lyrics.

But I have to be honest here….and if you were in the audience, wouldn’t you agree with me? Gavan Duffy stole the show, folks. Even though he was nervous – he told us all about not having performed in front of a live audience for several decades – once he found his way into his first song, he had us all caught up in his words and rhythm. “Last Call for Alcohol” was a rip-roaring success….it was begging to become a sing-a-long, but I think the audience was too absorbed in listening to what the next verse was going to be about to sing along. I could have listened to Gavan play all night. I hope he’ll do more gigs like this in the future.

It was a grand time, a lot of musicians supporting other musicians, superb words and music in an inviting venue. Check it out sometime. You’ll leave humming a song you haven’t heard before that will stay with you long into the night.

Knocked Out

2009-11-13T13:33:00.002-05:00

I should be writing about the delightful concert Dana "Short Order" Cooke and his friends -- Chris Weiss, Judy Stanton, Jeffrey Pepper Rodgers and Wendy Ramsay -- performed last Friday night at Onatavia Church just outside LaFayatte as part of their First Friday concert series.

Or telling you about the amazing lunchtime sessions Joanne Perry has been doing the last two Thursdays at Sugarpearl Espresso Bar and Lounge.

But I'm still recovering from nights of no sleep and obsessive worry about our sick dog. I know, he's only a dog, but you know, Rupert's like a child to us, the one that Chris and I really should have had.

Rupert is a survivor. He's actually named for my favorite participant on the television reality show "Survivor"...we met that Rupert in Central Park one day quite accidentally. Our Rupert was the sole surviving puppy from a litter of eleven; the rest had died of parvovirus. For the most part, Rupert has been a healthy, happy dog, suffering from mild asthma in the summer which limits his Frisbee catching on hot, humid days. He is eager to please, extremely intelligent and a loyal companion.

Last Saturday morning he began vomiting shortly after our morning walk. This is the only accident he ever has inside, and that's very rare. We thought he might have had a little bit of a cold, went about our day. And then around ten o'clock that evening the diarrhea began. Hubby slept through most of it. I walked up and down Green Street every hour or so with Rupert as he relieved himself, thankful that it wasn't snowing or raining or bone cold. This continued all day Sunday and again all through Sunday night.

By Monday morning I didn't know my name. Hubby came home from work early and made me go to bed and he took over the poop detail. Poor Rupert was at the point then where he was no longer squatting outside; he just sat down and let go. I was cooking rice and chicken to replace his usual dog food but Rupert had stopped eating and drinking completely. On Tuesday a repairman was here to do some work on our roof and Rupert did not even lift his head from the bed when this man was running around on the roof outside the bedroom window.

A trip to the vets led to Rupert having fluids pumped in via IV and a bunch of meds administered. Our vet at Shop City Animal Hospital, Heather Danboise, is the best I've ever seen, and she gave Rupert the usual tender loving care. He even kept his tail at a slow wag while she had the thermometer shoved up his butt. It's as if he knows she makes him feel better.

He's on the mend. His eyes are bright again, his fur soft to touch, his bark back when someone rings the doorbell. He's eating and brings me the ball to toss, and I'm happy to stop writing and toss it for him today.

Another time I'll write about some of the other stuff going on. But today, I'm glad that Rupert is doing well and that I have a cold nose butting against my elbow as I type this. I'm going to go play now.

Torch Songs and Porch Songs: November Songwriters Woodshed

2009-11-05T09:25:00.000-05:00

Even though it was a smaller group than usual gathering for the November Songwriters Woodshed at Sparkytown on Tuesday night, the songs presented didn’t disappoint. If I didn’t know better, however, I’d have said there had been a theme for the evening, as four of the seven songs presented were about lost loves. And two of the songs took place on porches.

The first of what I’m calling “torch songs” was titled “A Thousand Times a Day” and the first lines about wanting to be just friends drew me in. After the relationship ends, the singer only thinks about the lost love “a thousand times a day”. It was nice to have Dana contribute a song. In my opinion, he needs to do this more often; it adds polish to his critique of others when he presents his own work to them in return.

“I’m On the Rebound” was a very nice change from mostly folk melodies and I long to see Wendy perform this one on stage; her energy can make this one special. Chris’s song (not my hubby, another Chris) about autumn and a photo on the wall reminding the singer of a lost love generated a bit of conversation regarding the meaning of “water under the bridge” and what that represented, although I felt several of us got it the first time. I don’t remember the title of this piece and do not have the lyrics to look back at today; however, the song has stayed with me.

Sometimes there is a division of the sexes in the room after a song is done that is vividly apparent; you can almost see it in the air. The men do not understand the lyrics written by a woman sometimes. It’s not a matter of intelligence, it’s more genetics, I believe. One such lyric last night that I found magical that had some of the guys shaking their head was from a song called “From Here Ever After” written by Joanne: Did I know my own skin? (I always love it when I turn to hubby and ask if he understood it and he paraphrases back my understanding of it; that’s why he’s my husband and I love him bunches.) Sometimes it’s not about the story; it’s about the emotion of the song.

A quirky song from Tom, a newcomer to the group, about lawn decorations, “Exterior Decorator”, made me chuckle but needed a little more work. It was easy to picture the yard he was describing.

Songs that seem transparent on the surface but may not be so simple appeal greatly to me, and I think we may have heard one in “Don’t Be No Fool”, written by Gavan, a musician that intimidates me by his memorable rhymes and guitar picking. I often ask myself “what’s he really saying?” It’s always a delight to hear his latest work, even if I can’t figure it out. Maybe we’re not supposed to.

And that leads me to my favorite of the night, one of the “porch” songs. This song, currently titled “Vacherie, Louisiana”, paints a portrait of a moment in time. For me, the song was a lonely man that life was passing by until someone stopped to take his picture and made him feel important for a minute. No one else saw it that way, and that’s ok. There were lots of other interpretations. And isn’t that the way a really good song should reach us? Shouldn’t it keep us thinking, keep us wondering, keep us rolling the words around in our heads, humming the tune? I loved it.

Thanks again, gang, for the tunes, for the way you inspire without even being aware of it. Sparky, I hope the music never truly dies at Sparkytown because it belongs there. See you all next month!

The Woods, Writing and Politics

2009-11-04T11:09:00.002-05:00

My writing group went on a retreat yesterday, meeting at the camp of one of our members, an hour’s drive away. It was a glorious fall day and we were all welcoming the break from our usual routine. We settled into comfy chairs around a wood stove, pulled out the pieces we’re currently working on and took our turns reading and offering critique. I swear our words sounded more elegant out there in the woods, our critique more concise, our ideas more sound….this environment suited us all just fine!

The “camp” is a spacious house, sprawling across grounds that include several other little buildings such as lean-tos and a gazebo. I could easily picture myself sitting in that gazebo and finishing a poem. There’s plenty of room – inside and out – to gather together OR to find that quiet time that writers need so much. We can’t wait to figure out a time when we can all go back there again, maybe for a longer stretch of time. We know our words will flow there.

As usual, we enjoyed lunch together, too….and talk turned to politics. We had a mayoral election yesterday. It was particularly painful for us, as someone we know was a candidate for the party many of us support. Some of us were finding it difficult to support this particular candidate, however, and had not voted for her in the primary. At lunch time none of us had yet voted; we were still conflicted on how we were going to vote and even IF we were going to vote. We had a rather spirited conversation, weighing the pros and cons of the other candidates. I was even considering casting a write-in vote for one of the members of our group! I loved our conversation; we've learned how to disagree agreeably. It was heavenly.

I did end up voting. I was more terrified of Grandma Priscilla’s rage from the grave haunting me if I did not exercise my right to vote – one she worked so hard to earn for women, as she once was unable to cast her vote herself – that I did not choose to ignore this election in protest as one member of my writing group did, and as I, too, was tempted to do. I did something else that even this morning I cannot believe I did, and those of you who know me well will laugh or cringe or think it may be time to do some kind of intervention when I tell you what I did indeed do in that voting booth: I pulled the lever and voted for a Conservative Republican candidate. (He lost.) I know. I almost can’t believe it myself. Still, I think he was the better candidate. It is the first time in my life I have strayed from the Democratic ticket. I hope it is the last. This guilt is almost too much to carry.

But at least I voted.

A Family Affair...Arlo Guthrie Comes to Town

2009-11-02T13:37:00.004-05:00

My brother Alan gave hubby and me an early Christmas gift last evening: tickets to see Arlo Guthrie and Family perform at the Center for the Arts in Homer, NY.

What a wonderful evening! Arlo, his son, three daughters, a son-in-law and several grandchildren sang songs various members of the Guthrie family had written, including several Woody Guthrie songs. What fun they had on stage! How proud Arlo was of his offspring singing a song they had written or playing a guitar -- there's no way the pride on his face could have been faked. In true folk style, this family was sharing tradition with the audience, in almost perfect harmony, sharing stories of how the songs came about and what it's like to live within the swirl of a family like the Guthries. What it was like was right there on all their faces, especially at the end when they sang "This Land is Your Land", certainly a song they've all heard a zillion and two times...yet they sang it for us as if it was fresh off the presses and they love singing it, you can tell. Their smiles sparkled and their voices entranced. We all left that lovely little church that's been converted into an art center with smiles on our faces, peace in our hearts.

I kept thinking that my brother, a talented writer and musician, should have been born into the Guthrie family.

Thanks, Alan. It was the perfect gift, one to be long remembered and cherished.

It Could Have Been Rupert.....

2009-10-30T10:09:00.003-04:00

I like to cry when I eat spicy foods, watch chick flicks or read beautifully written novels, NOT when I read about police busting down doors of innocent people’s homes resulting in a dog getting out and run over by a car and killed. The police thought the dog was guarding drugs or guns, believing the barking to be that of a pit bull; it was a Pomeranian. They were responding to a “possible shots fired” call. We get those often in my neighborhood, though it’s usually only the yahoos behind us on Gertrude Street setting off fireworks.

This bothers me greatly, as many of you may understand, as Rupert is part Lab, part pit bull. If you ring our door bell – even if he knows you well – the first thirty seconds of your visit to our house, you may wonder if you want to step inside our door. Of course, once he knows it’s you, all is fine. But if that same group of police officers had come to our door and heard Rupert, he’d never have had the chance to escape – I’m certain he’d have been shot dead the first time he showed them his teeth.

Rupert never once destroyed a sock, a shoe or even one of his own toys as a puppy. He’s never been a destructive dog. Protective, yes. Once we came home and the curtain that hangs on the half window of our back door was on the floor and many items on a bookshelf we have near that door were also on the floor. We know that someone had tried to break in our house and Rupert scared them away. He did his job. Now every time I set a pan on my hanging pot and pan holder over my sink, he starts barking and howling – I believe the scratching sound the pots make going on the hooks is what he heard at that back door by our kitchen when someone tried to break in. He would scare me, if I didn’t know what a sweet dog he truly is.

I’d like to think that we know the police who patrol our streets well enough for something like this to never happen to us, but I’m really not that confident. Just last month I called 911. I was out walking Rupert and witnessed four young men orchestrate an ambush of a woman pushing a child in a stroller. Another woman walking with these men proceeded to beat the daylights out of this woman on the hood of a car parked on Green Street while the baby cried in the stroller and the men stood by and cheered. Here’s how the 911 call went:

“Do they have any weapons?”
“I don’t know.”
“Does anyone need medical attention?”
“I don’t know.”
“We can’t send anyone to the scene unless there are weapons or someone needs medical attention, ma’am.”

OK. I guess next time I should lie and say “shots fired” and then make sure I lock Rupert up in the basement.

Tea with the Ladies of Song

2009-10-29T09:14:00.003-04:00

I left the house last night expecting to host an Open Mic Poetry Night at Sugarpearl and found out they'd changed it to the first Wednesday of the month instead of every Wednesday (yeah!) and had forgotten to tell me. No big deal. I called a friend who had mentioned she might be coming and gave her the update, pulled some poetry I was editing from my bag, ordered a cup of tea and settled in at a table for some quiet time. At the very least, I knew I could enjoy the company of the Sugarpearl staff and edit my work without Rupert's cold doggy nose butting up against my arm, his way of trying to convince me that throwing the ball would be more fun than rearranging words on paper. If I was lucky, Joanne would arrive, we'd have tea and a nice friendly chat on a chilly evening. It can't get much better than that.

And then the door opened and there was a familiar face. It was Judy, a very talented musician I always enjoy listening to at the Woodshed. I'd never seen her at Sugarpearl, but everyone else in the world loves coffee, so why shouldn't she stop in for a cup on a chilly Wednesday night? Or was she there for the poetry reading? Yes. She was going to listen to me read. I was shocked. Humbled. OK, let's be honest. I was absolutely terrified. Her lyrics often make me gasp, they are so good. I was so relieved the event had been cancelled, so I could get used to the idea of having her in a future audience. She ordered coffee and we had a delightful chat, got to know each other a little bit. I'm still in awe of her talent.

I'm always surprised when people show up to hear me read. Joanne did indeed arrive, and then Wendy came, too! These two ladies often delight me with their music. I love hearing them strum their guitars and play the songs they've written, often dealing with situations in their lives that are heartfelt. They make you feel their pain, take you right to the moment. I try to do that with my poetry, too. I feel a connection with them. I never tire of listening to them and hope to never bore them, either. They honor me when they offer such support.

We had a nice little chat about various things. I'm definitely the outsider, yet it does not matter. I have such respect for their talent and the way they blend their passion for words and music into their lives. They always inspire me. And I do look forward to actually reading for them sometime soon.

Going Back To Bed

2009-10-28T09:19:00.002-04:00

Ssssh. Don't tell anybody.

It was raining this morning. Pouring. We walked Rupert as usual. Chris drove off to work, I dried Rupert off and he curled up in the Barcalounger for his morning nap. I went upstairs, took off my soaking wet socks and the sweat pants I'd worn for the walk because the pant legs were soaked and had made my way into the bedroom to make up the bed and start my day.

The flannel sheets welcomed me back, my pillows still bunched up from too short a night's sleep....AND....the bed was empty....hubby safe at work and the hairy beast snoozing away downstairs. It was still dark and dreary outside. No emails demanded response. Denise is working today, Mary Ellen and Jeffrey are out of town, the mother-in-law staying in her end of town today, I could wait awhile before printing out poetry for the Open Mic tonight and any household chores can certainly wait.

I climbed back between those sheets, something I'm not usually inclined to do, as I'm one who has a difficult time napping. I stretched out and enjoyed the full width of the bed, not my usual position of nearly hanging off the edge as hubby likes the middle of the bed and Rupert often sleeps between us. And I fell fast asleep, had a lovely dream about a circus in Afghanistan, not surprising as I'm re-reading The Kite Runner and Water for Elephants currently.

But I'm feeling a little bit guilty for indulging in this rainy morning pleasure.

So, don't tell anyone, ok?

Looking Back

2009-10-27T14:10:00.001-04:00

In a waiting room today I overhead a woman telling a teenager to enjoy herself now because these were the best days of her life. I literally wanted to puke. Or take that teenager aside and tell her the truth.

I’m not one to want to look back on what others might refer to as “good old days” very often. To begin with, those days simply weren’t all that good then and certainly don’t seem that way to me now. I don’t understand the “life was so much simpler then” comments I sometimes hear from others, accompanied by deep sighs of contentment. I guess their bowl of cherries came without any pits.

The truth is, I’d much rather look forward. I think today is one of the best days I’ll ever have, and that tomorrow is going to be even better. I’ve been that way too many years to even think about. And I hope I stay that way, no matter how many times someone calls me Pollyanna.

That’s not to say that I never do look back, because sometimes I do. And I’m often puzzled by the tricks memory plays on us, how people can remember events so differently. I think we’re wise to hold our memories up to the light and reflect on choices made. When I do that, I always find myself happy with whatever path I ended up taking, because each path led me to exactly where I am today, which is exactly where I want to be, and I could not be happier to be here.

I’d tell that teenager to learn to trust her own instincts, assure her that she’ll know when she’s happy and what the best days of her life are, she won’t need anyone else to tell her, just give it time.

Mark Zane and Friends at the Blue Frog Coffeehouse

2009-10-24T15:03:00.002-04:00

What a shame folks in Cortland spent a rainy Friday night huddled beneath umbrellas at football games instead of sitting inside the cozy Blue Frog Coffeehouse listening to Mark Zane and Friends play. Those of us delighting in the tasty goods at the Blue Frog were treated to a fantastic show by Mark accompanied by Steve Pederson’s masterful bass and Frankie Diamond’s enticing electric guitar along with harmonica riffs courtesy of Paul Marconi and magical vocal harmonies tendered by Mary Snell.

These musicians worked so well together under Mark’s gentle guidance, one would never know they didn’t play together every night of the week. Perhaps they should; they have a certain chemistry that was a pleasure to witness. Mark is the most generous musician I’ve seen in a long time, and when he invited Jim Bob up on stage to sing “Country Roads” with him, the magic only Mark can work came to life once again. You had to be there to see it unfold. I could never find the right words to explain it. Next time, come in from the rain, sit a spell, listen and see it for yourself. It’s well worth your time.

Mark played many of his original tunes from his American Hunger CD and some from his “next” CD, one that cannot be released any time too soon for me, for these songs are amazing and I want them playing in my office as I write. I especially love his newest anthem to this wife, “I Got a Woman”. His tribute to one of my favorite Arthur Miller plays, called “Me and the Devil”, is becoming hard to forget, too. I’ve said it before, and it’s worth saying again: his lyrics force you to think about a situation, long after he’s played his last note. He doesn’t tell you how to think, he just reminds you that there’s more than one way to look at anything.

The Friends helped play some toe-tapping cover songs, too, by Springsteen, the Moody Blues, Dylan, and Neil Young. Paul and Frankie did a fine job on some Townes VanZandt tunes. But I have to say my favorite of the evening was a cover of song by White Lion called “When the Children Cry.” I had never heard this song before, probably because I was too busy during the time period it was first recorded NOT listening to the music my kids played back then. Mary Snell did the singing and Mark played guitar while sitting on a stool beside her. Their performance was riveting, Mary’s vocals quickly quieting the room, drawing you into the song and insisting you hang on her every word. Mark’s guitar playing gave you a glimpse into his metal-playing past and sounded as if the entire band was backing Mary at times. Listening to them, you couldn’t help but forget everything and anything around you. There was only the song, only that moment.

How rare that kind of moment is, yet there it was, at the Blue Frog Coffeehouse, on a windy, rainy Friday night, when Mark Zane and his Friends took the stage. I was so happy to have been in the audience for such a special performance. Thanks to all who made it possible!

Birthday Greetings

2009-10-19T15:24:00.004-04:00

Yesterday would have been my father's 78th birthday.

I can no longer pick up the phone and wish him a happy birthday or drive over to spend the day with him.

I spent the day furiously vacuuming my house, dusting the cobwebs away, scrubbing the counter tops, putting all our clutter of the week away.

My grief spills over still.

Knit Wit on Green Street

2009-10-16T11:29:00.001-04:00

We're still taking pictures and I'm trying to get them to "work" on a new blog....but if you want to see some of the creations I'll be taking to Plowshares in December, check out my other blog...Knit Wit on Green Street. (You can access it from my profile.)

Loyalty

2009-10-16T07:44:00.002-04:00

We had lunch this week with a friend from out of town who loves to go to one of our favorite spots in the neighborhood. She's been in the swirl of a merger at her place of employment. After more than twenty years with her company, she's hoping to hold on to the job she once loved dearly, having gone above and beyond to bring success to both herself and her company.

I've been watching from the sidelines as this drama has played out, knowing too much from the human resources world. All I could do was rework a resume for her and try to make her see the writing on the wall. A number of times she would ask me, "Doesn't loyalty count?" I never had a good answer; it was a question I wrestled with too often myself as the value of an employee's loyalty has seemed to diminish in the work world. Many who grew up believing you'd always have a job if you showed up every day and gave 110% still ended up being downsized.

Our friend likes going to this neighborhood spot because the waitress is so wonderful....bubbly, willing to make substitutions with a smile, never forgets that we're in a hurry and need a receipt for the meal, always has something funny to tell us and makes us feel at home. She's a huge draw for the place, runs a Trivia night and we were anxious to know when the next night would be. Our friend was wondering if she'd be in town when they had the next Trivia night; our waitress said she hadn't figured out when she'd be having it yet but she'd be sure to let us know. This was said with the usual huge smile and our conversation switched from trouble in the workplace to how nice it would be to work in a small place like this restaurant.

And then the check was delivered to us, by our waitress, who had come back into the room a totally different person. I noticed she was holding back tears. She said, quite calmly, "I just wanted you to know that I will not be hosting Trivia night. My hours have just been cut so a family member of the owner can have more hours here." And she walked away.

"See? It's everywhere!" our friend having employment issues exclaimed.

I was proud of the waitress for handling herself so professionally. And very annoyed at the owner of this restaurant for several reasons. To begin with, this kind of news should NEVER be delivered in the middle of noon-time rush. The quality of this waitress shone through because she stayed and continued her job with grace when she could have thrown a temper tantrum and turned your quaint little dining room into who-knows-what. More importantly, she's done a TON to grow your business, and now your partner, who folks like but who certainly is not a waitress, will be hard pressed to keep up the pace.

I understand financial concerns lead to necessary decisions that are no doubt difficult to make. But it leads me back to that question that keeps floating around in my head that never has a good answer. "Doesn't loyalty count?" I think this waitress deserved better.

Turner to Cezanne

2009-10-15T07:50:00.004-04:00

Last Friday hubby took the afternoon off and we went to the Everson Museum's exhibit of fifty-three masterpieces from the National Museum of Wales. This exhibit will be here until January. If you live in Syracuse, find the time to go see it. Even the young man who yelled at me (yes, truly "yelled") for being too close to the paintings couldn't spoil my absolute joy in seeing this collection. (And, young man.....you can't really appreciate the pencil lines in Turner's astounding watercolors unless you look up close.....I'm old and can't see much with my bifocals.....give me a break.)

One of the few happy childhood memories I hold dear is that of sprawling on the living room floor or my mother's bed with her art books surrounding us. My mother would carefully flip through pages until she found the painting she wished to "review" with me that particular day and then she'd tell me about the technique the artist used or tell me stories about the artist's life. I learned as I grew older that some of what she told me was fiction fueled by alcohol, but much of it was based on her knowledge and love of art.

And there at the Everson were many of the very paintings we had studied: "The Good Samaritan"; "La Parisienne"; "The Conversation". As I wandered the rooms, VanGogh, Millet, Renoir, Manet, Pissaro, Bonnard, Meissonier, Daumier all "spoke" to me, inviting me into their lives, as they had when I was a child full of dreams of living in Paris and writing poetry, a dream I have not yet let go.

Then I saw Claude Monet's "Waterlilies", well positioned and nicely lit on a back wall. My mother loved these paintings most of all and had told me how he had fashioned his own pond in his backyard so he wouldn't have to leave his house to paint them. I had always wondered if this was true or not....and there on the plaque near this painting were words describing how he tended to the lily ponds on his property. It brought tears to my eyes....not only to view the astounding beauty of the painting.....but to realize, once again, that sometimes truth could be found in my mother's words.

President Obama Wins Nobel Peace Prize!

2009-10-09T07:56:00.001-04:00

YES! YES! YES!

This Week's Playlist...

2009-10-08T09:12:00.002-04:00

Man Under the Bridge....Mark Zane
Hate It Here....Wilco
Did She Jump....Richard/Linda Thompson
Goodbye Earl....Dixie Chicks
Give Me Back My Country...The Kennedys
Empire State....Dana "Short Order" Cooke
The Day I Saw Bo Diddley in Washington Square...Willie Nile
Bethlehem...Mark Zane
Galway to Graceland....Plainsong
The Married Men...The Roches
When I Was Young...The Animals
Outrageous...Paul Simon
Dimming of the Day...The Five Blind Boys of Alabama
If I Ever Leave This World Alive....Flogging Molly
Firecracker....Wailin' Jennys
Sound of Your Voice...Barenaked Ladies
When the Spell is Broken...Bonnie Raitt
In My Life...Judy Collins
Last Tears....Indigo Girls
Long Walk Home...Bruce Springsteen

When Did People Get So Mean?

2009-10-06T16:04:00.001-04:00

I’m not one to keep my mouth shut when it comes to politics, as many of you know. If I was someone who dwelled on labels, I’d have several attached to me that might indeed raise fear and loathing in others: green, tree hugger, pro-choice, feminist, and….here it comes……liberal.

I’m not against paying taxes. I just wish there were boxes on my tax return I could check so I could say how I wanted my money spent: “yes” on making our schools better and “no” on weapons of any kind, for example. I still like Jerry Brown’s flat tax idea.

Have we forgotten that almost all of us are the offspring of immigrants? My grandfather was sent to America because he lived too close to the battles of the Catholics and Protestants in the United Kingdom. He took easily to farm work, became a successful dairy farmer, came to own several dairy farms. Was it easier for him because his accent was not so difficult to understand and his skin color light?

As a consumer of healthcare services and one who worked in healthcare for twenty years, guess what folks? The system needs fixing. Desperately. It’s too late even. We’re already paying the price for those who have gone too long without healthcare.

So where is this rant leading? Lately I have been bombarded with emails bashing President Obama and his policies. I’ve deleted many, asked to be excluded from lists, even called a cousin and tried to have a conversation about why such emails frighten me, especially the ones that appear to be extremely racist and full of incendiary language and information that simply isn’t factual.

Many of these emails dwell on what our founding fathers envisioned for our country, except for one huge omission: the separation of church and state. Those patriots founded a new nation based on the principal that everyone was free to practice the religion of their choice, after living in an environment where one religion was the expected, accepted way of life. They knew from experience this did not work; thus, separation of church and state.

Emails I’ve received lately imply that the only “good” American is a Christian. I have to wonder if “good” may also mean “white”. My outrage is tempered by my sorrow, my fear.

“Thou shall love thy neighbor as thyself.” (Roman 13.9)

I wonder why I never see that in any of these emails.

Friends

2009-10-05T09:12:00.005-04:00

"Make new friends, but keep the old....one is silver, but the other gold" Here's some of my "gold".

What I'm Knitting....

2009-09-30T11:14:00.007-04:00

Mittens out of sock yarn
A funky scarf

An earflap hat
Fingerless mittens

A beret....

Mark Zane and Friends at the Red and White Cafe

2009-09-29T16:00:00.003-04:00

Mark Zane and Frankie Diamond played Saturday night at the Red and White Cafe.

The Red and White Cafe, DeRuyter, NY....check it out, it's a great place to go!

Updated Playlist

2009-09-23T13:01:00.002-04:00

When I begin a new project (or start getting ready for my annual Plowshares exhibit of my handknit goods) I start burning CDs to help me get through it. Here's what's on my latest playlist:

I'm Not Ready to Play Nice....Dixie Chicks
It's Alright Ma (I'm Only Bleeding)...Dylan
Casualty Officer...Mark Zane
50 Miles of Elbow Room...Iris DeMent
I Married A Magician....Dust Poets
If I Should Fall Behind...Bruce Springstein
Whistlin' Past the Graveyard...Tom Waits
Motherland...Natalie Merchant
Yellow Coat...Steve Goodman
Watershed....Indigo Girls
In the Winter....Janis Ian
Splendid Isolation...Warren Zevon
Chelsea Avenue....Patti Scialfa
Flying Shoes....Lyle Lovett
Sailing to Philadelphia...Mark Knopfler
Stranger Song...Leonard Cohen
Joy...Lucinda Williams
Perfectly Good Guitar...John Hyatt
On With The Song...Mary Chapin Carpenter
Bone in My Ear...Bruce Cockburn
Free Man in Paris...Joni Mitchell
Have Hope...Mark Zane
Evening Ride...Donna Colton
I Don't Know Anything...Marc Ryan
Sam Stone...John Prine

A Picture's Worth A Thousand Words?

2009-09-22T15:02:00.002-04:00

this is why I never took a road test....

Forest Lake

2009-09-22T08:46:00.004-04:00

Where Rupert and I would like to be walking again this morning....

Hope

2009-09-21T08:01:00.004-04:00

When I stopped working, one of the things I promised myself was that I would surround myself only with people I really liked, who shared the same passions I did, whose politics matched mine most of the time and who I could be with without having to bite my tongue or filter my thoughts when I was around them.

For the most part, I've been successful in my mission. I spend most of my free time with artistic people who understand that staring into space for an hour trying to come up with the perfect word to rhyme with "mustard" is not to be considered a total waste of my time. It's quite refreshing. Occasionally someone will make a comment that I'm too much of a Pollyanna, still too liberal for my own good, or some such thing that I can usually smile away. Differences are okay with me...it's what makes the world go around and I embrace them.

But not when differences become mean-spirited and just plain nasty. I have two dear cousins I don't see often who choose to communicate with me via email...mostly forwarded jokes. I once thought this was a waste of time, but, hey, it's still keeping in touch, and that's better than losing track of them completely. Or so I'd told myself. They're family, after all. I've noticed over the last year, however, that their emails have become much less humorous and much more political in nature. I read some, just deleted some based on the subject line, even dashed off a couple of emails to them asking them not to send this kind of stuff to me, reminding them that I'd been a liberal Democratic too long and they were not about to convert me now.

This morning I deleted 22 -- yes, 22 -- emails all aimed at convincing me that we're doomed to live in a socialist society, that I'll die before I get an operation I need, that all my freedom is being taken away because troops are coming home, etc.....and believe me, the words I've just typed are extremely tame compared to the language found within these emails that are full of language I can only call nasty, combative, racist, and, what's most alarming of all to me, just plain ignorant.

I'll admit I do tend to look at the glass as half filled. I do look for the good in people. I often give folks the benefit of the doubt. I trust. Sometimes it doesn't work out. But I still have faith in President Obama. He's only had a short period of time to undo mistakes that were made over a very long period of time. I wish more people would take the time to listen, to suggest alternative ideas instead of slinging arrows.

If we wish to be outraged at something, why are we not screaming about the reporter who spent nine months in jail for throwing his boot at then President Bush....he missed him.....while Dick Cheney, certainly responsible for the torture of human beings....is off giving speeches and being honored here and there. Certainly this is more unsettling than someone working hard to try to fix our health care system.

I still have hope I'm not alone in feeling this way.

An Enchanted Evening Listening to the Women Sing

2009-09-18T09:17:00.001-04:00

I know. I said I wouldn’t attend a gathering that was exclusive. But, hey, I’m a woman, exercising my right to change my mind. And I’ve had several lines of a poem I’m revising rattling around in my head that begins “sister songs, so full of grace”, so I felt an almost urgent need to be within a group of women singer- songwriters, hoping to be inspired to find a way out of that poem.

Their gathering in no way mirrors the Songwriters Woodshed, and that was a nice contrast for me. They take turns playing their own material or whatever else they wish to play. Others play along, add harmony. I so wished I’d learned to play guitar or could carry a tune. At times it was damn near painful only being able to sit there and tap my foot.

It was a delight to hear some songs by songwriters I was not familiar with as I am not fond of listening to the radio. Once I stopped working, buying CDs became one of the vices given up and the library’s selection of music is…well….pedestrian at best. I enjoyed hearing some “new” voices, at least for me.

I hadn’t expected to be taken down two very emotional memory lanes with their music that left me rattled far into the night.

Eugenia played and sang so beautifully in Spanish, reminding me of the month so very long ago….in 1988, in what seems now like another lifetime for me….when I lived in Bolivia for a month as part of my job then. Tony, Kathy and I would sneak out of our quarters at night and wander down side streets we’d been told not to go on to listen to local music. I was instantly taken back to LaPaz when Eugenia strummed her guitar, wondering what had happened to those two old friends and the others who had been with us on that trip. Was the gentleman who crafted one of my silver bracelets still making his amazing jewelry in his tiny little shed? Was his donkey still as ornery? Did it still smell so green there? How was it possible I’d done all that? And why did I not remember more of the Spanish I’d had to learn to exist in those lush surroundings? Why had I never made it back there?

And Jo sang a rendition of Tennyson’s “Crossing the Bar”. She did it in honor of someone she knew who had passed away. I’d never heard it done as a song. I know the poem by heart though. It was Grandma Thelma’s favorite. I recited this poem at her funeral, the first eulogy I was asked to do. I was in my twenties then and foolish enough to believe that this would be the only eulogy I’d ever have to deliver.

I thoroughly enjoyed Joanne’s version of my all-time favorite Lucinda William’s song “Essence” and thank Melissa for playing Mary Chapin Carpenter’s haunting “Grand Central Station”. Although I find the original work I hear from these musicians always to be very good, Wendy’s “Put On Your Seatbelt” was by far the best song I’ve heard from almost anyone in a very long time. I think it knocked everyone’s socks off…..I’m so glad she decided to sing it.

I loved the easy atmosphere found with this group and hope to find myself in their midst again. Maybe by then I’ll have finished my poem and can share it with them.

Wondering.....

2009-09-16T09:51:00.004-04:00

We walk Rupert in the morning at the same time the kids gather for the school bus. It seems odd to us that they appear at every corner. We remember having to walk to ONE corner to meet the bus in the “old days”.

Our neighborhood is so diverse….we passed two Afro-American teens, backs to one another, their cell phones blazing in the early morning light as they texted away (to one another?) on one corner, nodded to an Indian boy rushing to meet his bus, said hello to the younger Chinese kids who wait in the church parking lot who rarely speak but spin their sparkly smiles our way, and crossed the street in order to pass by the Iraqi kids on another corner because we’d noticed a grey car parked there on our way by earlier, parked on the wrong side of the road and just sitting there. We wanted to be sure everything was OK.

The young Iraqi boy, I’m guessing he’s around twelve, stopped me and said, “The police just went into that house and now they are standing there waiting.” Two younger Iraqi girls waited near him. We pass them most mornings, run into their parents in the laundry room we share, but don’t really know them well. I looked back at the grey car, recognizing that is was indeed a police vehicle and noticed several police men with bullet proof vests surrounding one of the houses on our block we have long suspected of being a drug hub.

“Do you want us to stand with you here until this is over?” I asked the young man. These kind of drug busts are fairly common in our neighborhood, typically end quickly and non-violently. I hoped the police wouldn’t be doing this at this time of day if they had feared it ending any other way. The girls seemed completely unconcerned. Had the boy been entrusted with their safety? Was he frightened?

He shook his head. “No, I am not scared.” He stood taller and thanked me and we slowly walked the half block home, letting Rupert take his time sniffing around every tree and telephone pole until it the drug bust was over.

All morning I've wondered.....what might this young Iraqi man have witnessed in his old neighborhood that makes a drug bust nothing to be scared about?

Writers Group Meets Today!

2009-09-15T08:42:00.002-04:00

I cannot wait to see the gang! We take summers off to escape to cooler places or deal with families. Our first meeting is always a casual lunch at Sparky’s where we catch up on neighborhood gossip and what’s going on in each of our lives that we don’t already know. No one has to read anything or offer a critique, so we’re more relaxed. No one has to offer an excuse as to why they haven’t been writing anything either.

Mary Ellen and I have been writing during the summer…at least in our heads. We share a backyard fence now and have seemed to be back from our camps at the same time this summer, so we’ve talked about our poems a bit. I don’t know what Vince is working on. Jeffrey has kept me up to date via email on his memoir. We still haven’t replaced Deb, Denise or Demetri – the three former members who all moved away. If we do decide to replace them, we need to look for people whose names start with a letter other than “D”, I reckon. We miss these folks…..they’ve been gone awhile. We talk about having others join us, but we’ve become so comfortable with one another, it seems as if it might not be right to let anyone else come in. And could anyone really replace them anyway?

There are similarities and contrasts between the writers group and the songwriters circle. I think the writers group has more fun. We meet more often. Perhaps because we are smaller, we handle more material. I like the structure of the songwriters circle better and often wish one of the writers would run the group as efficiently when one of us gets off on a tangent and the others fail to bring us back to task.

I’ve missed these fellow writers. When we share our writing…in its rawest form with every flaw…we grow to know one another better than spouse or family often. I feel safe with them. They respect my politics, often share my convoluted view of the world. I know I can say anything at all around them and they’ll agree or just shrug it off as me being me. They are my sanctuary. And today I get to have lunch with them. I am indeed a lucky woman.

Old Friends

2009-09-14T11:12:00.003-04:00

"Old Friends, sit on the park bench like bookends...."

Yeah, it's a Simon and you-know-who song, and don't worry, I'm not going into a tirade here again.

I had the privilege of having breakfast over the weekend with an old friend. It always feels so good to see Ginger, like pulling on the cardigan sweater you keep in the back of the closet, the only one that makes you feel warm on those days when you think you're coming down with the flu.

We met in the strangest of circumstances. It was nearly thirty years ago. I'd been physically assaulted and was in the hospital, literally fearing for my life. I begged them to put my in the psych ward, the only locked doors in the place, the only place I knew I could get a good night's sleep. My roommate there was Ginger, who'd had enough of the world at that time and had ended up being rolled into my room the night I arrived. We spent two weeks locked up together, talking, letting her friend Maggie sneak us in hot fudge sundaes, swapping therapy session stories and ranting about the therapist when each of our sessions resulted in the exact conclusions even when the issues we'd each raised had been extremely different. We scorned the so-called professionals there, plotted to assist a young woman's in escape from the ward (and succeeded!), and became fast friends.

We don't see each other often. I think it'd been a couple of years since we'd last seen each other, even though Ginger lives about three miles from where we camp. Saturday we met for breakfast and my new favorite spot, the Red and White Cafe in DeRuyter. We caught up on kids, grandchildren, our animals and retirement plans and life in general, met her latest dog, made vague plans to get together soon, waved good bye.

I carry her spirit with me still. She got me through some tough times; I like to think I helped her along the way, too. And we'll do it again someday. Gladly.

September Songs......Continued From Previous Post

2009-09-11T11:53:00.002-04:00

In July hubby and I were treated to a lovely evening at the home of Mark and Alice Zane. After a tasty dinner, Mark grabbed his guitar and said he was going to play me the song he would be taking to the next Songwriters Woodshed so I could tell him if I liked the lyrics. How delighted I was to get a sneak preview of the next Mark Zane masterpiece!

And then he started playing a graceful melody and singing lyrics that startled me: it was a poem I had written. I was numb. Why was he doing this? Was he making fun of me? I’m a poet, not a songwriter. I think there is a huge difference between the two arts. I waited for him to stop playing and go into the song he had really written. He continued to play, the melody entranced me and I was speechless. If you read this blog regularly, you know I am a huge fan of Mark’s music. And there he was, singing one of my poems. I was honored, humbled.

About ten years ago, the Marketing Director at the oncology practice I worked for asked me to write a poem for a dinner being given by the Research Department for folks participating in a clinical trial. She asked me on a Monday morning and I read the poem at the dinner that Thursday night. It was well received by most. My boss at the time and I had our usual falling out about it. She felt I should have written about “heroes”; I had a different definition of a hero in my heart. The poem remained on the desks of several staff…..which may have merely been a means to suck up to the HR woman….but it was also picked up by other research programs in other states. The emotion of the poem touched some.

“The Urge” has a cadence, because I knew I had to read it out loud and it’s easier for me to do that with a rhythm and a rhyme if a poem has no personal meaning to me. And that’s probably why Mark chose to set it to music. Still, we knew that the songwriters group would NOT know what to do with it. It had no “arc”. It didn’t “say” anything. There is no chorus, no bridge, only three short verses. And the music, written mostly in minor chords, might be said to not match the lyrics, though I personally loved the contrast, finding it almost hymn-like.

It wasn’t a hit with the group, almost exactly as we expected it not to be. It may not have been fair to them to even present it, but it did generate a discussion about the melody. Sometimes the group gets hung up on critiquing lyrics only, so that was nice. The critique of my lyrics actually thrilled me…..as Wendy said, “You’ve been initiated!”….even though some of the lines rejected were the same others quoted as being the most meaningful to them. That’s perfectly fine with me: I want my words to mean different things to different people.

My delight came when Mark commented that he thought the group would know it wasn’t one of his songs and another songwriter said he thought it sounded like a Mark Zane lyric. THAT was music to my ears! Mark, my sincerest thanks. And, again, thanks to the group for allowing me to listen in every month. You always inspire….

September Songs

2009-09-10T19:34:00.002-04:00

After a month’s hiatus, the songwriters gathered again at Sparkytown last Tuesday. More about the songs later. First I want to share an exchange made by two of the musicians that I was so glad to hear. I’m paraphrasing here, but you’ll get the drift (and I’m not using names as I didn’t get permission):

Musician: Can you tell us what you meant by the verse that began……..?
Songwriter: I’d rather not get into the logic behind the song. I’d rather it be about the emotion of the song.

Yes! The song did not require explanation….it was about embracing possibility, and having possibility embrace you in return. Or at least that’s how I interpreted it. Someone else may have found a different meaning. And isn’t that the purpose of some songs? Not every song is supposed to have a clear cut beginning, middle and end; not every song should tell a complete story or mean the same thing to everyone. How nice it was to have a songwriter actually say this.

Many of the songs presented at the Words and Music Songwriters Woodshed are of the folk genre, which indeed do tell a story. And that’s fine. I love folk songs. I’m also drawn to those mystical lyrics that make you wonder what in the world was happening in someone’s life to make them put those words down on paper at that time (think of Leonard Cohen) ….and what could be learned from such words. It’s what makes music interesting to me, listening to lyrics that reflect an experience someone else may have had that I might identify with on some level. This song about possibilities spoke in volumes, possibly because I could fill in the blanks with my own experience. I didn’t need the details of the songwriter’s experience to make it real. I didn’t need the logic.

Other songs performed touched me also, particularly “Tuesday’s Song”, which included a line about Memorial Day. There was some discussion about the use of this holiday in the song. I felt it quite appropriate to use this for the day a relationship is over, for would that not be a memorial day? I loved the song….and boy, that gal can sing!

“One Drop of Rain” had delightful lyrics with surprises tossed in to keep you listening for what came next and a melody that pleased. It was a very catchy tune. Another melodic wonder with lyrics to match was “Make the World Go Slow”. Although there was some discussion about whether references to actual locations, in this case Lake Champlain, were good or bad for the song, I love this songwriter’s use of local venues and towns. His lyrics are always interesting, make you think and never bore me with worn out clichés.

One of the talented singer-songwriters in this group never fails to amaze me with his rhyme schemes and complicated songs. “Hang Onto Me Baby” was a delight…..and it always seems to me as if he sings each and every note he plays on his guitar.

“In Your Head” was painful to hear….not because it was not a wonderful song, but because it was so real, you understood exactly what the singer was going through. It reminded me of Bonnie Raitt’s “I Can’t Make You Love Me.” I just wanted to hug the songwriter afterwards. The song gave me chills.

The two youngest members of the group delivered two very strong songs. “Before It’s Too Late” was about not making the same old mistakes….and the words rang true. And my hat is off to anyone who can write Abraham Lincoln into song lyrics and make it interesting; “Hold Me to the River” did just that!

My disappointment of the evening was that one of the songwriters came empty handed. He’s been working on a lovely piece, “The Olive Tree”, and I’d hoped we would get a chance to hear it again. I hope his lack of a song to share was only due to his not having enough time to work on anything and not discouragement of any sort.

Oh…..yeah…..I almost forgot. One of the songwriters wrote a melody to a poem I’d written. We presented it to the group. I’ll have more to say about that in another post, so stay tuned.