Ghost bird

Egrets stalked the road and adjacent field. It had been raining every weekend since Easter, fulfilling the old wives tale, and again nearly every day for two weeks. The Mississippi could no longer be held by its banks and it roamed where it willed, taking tiny creatures with it. You could almost hear the herons' laughter; dinner would be easy tonight. I parked where the asphalt was still dry, kicked off my sandals and waded silently down the road. Water ran like glass over my feet, it was still more clear than tea, neither yet turbid nor stagnant. Ahead of me, the egret stopped. Every click of the camera brought another turn of his graceful neck. We danced like this, both of us, wading and waiting, stalking one another until the rain began again.

Fall into The Gap

The Gap started it, blame them. Back in the '70's The Gap was THE place to buy jeans. Levi's. Real jeans. And when you walked out of The Gap, your jeans were in a nifty white plastic bag emblazoned with the Gap's logo and cinched with a cotton draw string . Everyone else had paper sacks. Grocery store bags, department store bags (sometimes with handy handles), specialty store bags, shoe store bags, they were all paper. It was a badge of honor to have a Gap Bag. You'd take something to school, anything, just to sling it over your shoulder and show that you were a cool kid. Soon all the "cool" stores were giving out plastic, draw string bags. Candies shoes (pre-Kohls, please!), Colonel Days, 5 7 & 9, if it was trendy, you got THE BAG.

Time wore on and bags de-volved. No more draw string, thinner, cheaper plastic and everyone was on the bandwagon. Even the 'Marts (K & Wal). Now they are everywhere, clogging landfills, endangering wildlife and filling up my pantry. What were we thinking?

March of the penguins

They marched across the plate like a tiny, edible army. "O-Ee-Yah! Eoh-Ah!." I thought I heard them chanting like the wicked witch's Winkie Guards; quite frightening for an appetizer. Must have been their pointy little "hats".

A wonderful friend at my old job made them special for me on my last day there. We were the olive girls; open a can of black olives near us and you could kiss them goodbye. Considering my obsession with all things penguin, a more perfect gesture could not have been made. Not only that, but they were delicious!

If someone tells you they ate a penguin at my party, do not be shocked. Now you know the secret.

Spinning

When your life changes, even if it is for the better, things spin. The world whirls around you, and when it stops, you keep whirling, like a mad dervish, carried on my a bizarre inertia. Routines are different, timing is off, I am preoccupied. It is a world trying to seek its balance. Change is like that. I'm happier, for now I'm wearier, and eventually, as any drinker knows, the spins will stop.

On the bliggity-blog

Okay, I admit it. I dig the Hulu. How could I not check it out when the ads are so good? Long having forgiven Denis for his Fogelberg bit (but it was funny), I'm always a fan of Leary's sharp tongue, bad attitude and quick, excellent delivery. He's the asshole (his words) you can't help liking. As for Hulu? Well, I'm bad about not setting the machine to record, so being able to pop over to Hulu and see Steve & Paul on Jimmy Fallon is a good thing. Maybe as a clip, maybe the whole thing, maybe just move the slider over and skip to the best part and that's it. Works for me. Still more of a You Tube fan, but for TV, Hulu's got my vote for now.

Floating fast

"Remember to remember me
Standing still in your past
Floating fast like a hummingbird"
- Jeff Tweeedy / Wilco

Maybe my goal in life is to be an echo.

Somehow the spirit flows through me, like sound through a canyon, and comes out as...... These pictures I take, these words I write, these songs I sing. All reflect the world that swirls around and inside me. Nothing is ever quite the same, yet it is. A grain of truth, a glimpse of memory, it all comes back, somehow. Somehow it echos.

Rain, rain, go away

If ever your town is in the middle of a drought, there is a solution. Invite us to come camping there. I have tent camped through flash floods, tornadoes, thunderstorms, wind sheer... you name it. It just seems to be our luck. Same goes for float trips; they are a recipe for rain.

Once, on the Meramec River, while floating with my husband and his brother up from Florida, it was raining so hard we could not see and the canoe was filling up. We pulled off to a gravel bar, unloaded the gear, turned the canoe upside down and wedged on end in a tree so we could sit under it. The river rose. We moved the canoe farther up the bank. The thunder and lightening began; the boat was aluminum. We lived to tell about it.

A different trip took us to Petit Jean State Park in Arkansas. The campgrounds are lovely and shaded, down in the hollow. It's a cool and protected place to pitch a tent, unless there is a thunderstorm. Thunder echoed all night off the cavernous bluff walls. Rain pelted the tent, blowing from all sides. Water seeped in from below. Then the wind began to move the tent. It was beyond frightening, AND I had to go to the bathroom. Finally, the wind ceased and the rain turned to a drizzle. In the morning, we struck camp, rented a room in the lodge and went to the laundromat. "Did you hear about the tornado last night?" we were asked. "Went right over the park." Peachy. But we lived to tell about it.

So if it's too dry down your way, let us know. Be be careful what you ask for.

Doe a deer

They are so cute. They are so tasty. Yes, I love deer. However, I have not had to contend with them coming into my yard or garden and eating every carefully planted fruit, veggie and flower in sight. Some of my friends who live in farther suburbs have and they are waging war with the bambies. Some communities are having special urban herd culling seasons. Shoot, (pun intended) I'm all for it. Venison is lower in calories and fat than beef and more flavorful. I've got quite a bit in my freezer now from a family friend's lucky autumn hunt. There will still be plenty of deer for me to photograph and to oooo and awwww over. Just like this one. Look at those ears! So cute. Hmmmm.... yum.

Creek dipping

My home has been this river for the last five days. Every morning it was there to greet me, every evening it sang me to sleep. A short walk from my tent the fish jumped, birds reeled, frogs chorused and water flowed. Just knowing it was there calmed me. Despite a few evening storms and rain, it was a vacation full of adventure, wonder and relaxation. Days had a natural rhythm, no alarm clocks to rudely jar me from my dreams. Nights brought stars and firelight, with time to stare into the flames and sky, pondering simple existence. Time moved slower, air was sweeter, sleep fell deeper. Someday I will live by the water, not just visit.

The Mystery of the Grape Pez Iris

Most iris share a similar familiar floral scent. Sweet, flowery, a hint of vanilla and lemon perhaps. But one particular iris, one small, lavender iris with a yellow and orange beard, it smells like grapes. Fizzy grape. Nehi grape soda or grape Pez, and not just faintly. No, quite distinctly and profusely. They parade up the side of my driveway and greet me when I open the door of my truck or home. As I work in the yard, planting lantana and coleus in the big, square planters, their candy-sweet scent wafts to me, tickling my nose as well as my fancy. What could be more playful? What could be more odd? I imagine some elderly botanist, snickering mischievously over the unexpected propagation result. Grape! Grape? This will confuse them! Yes, it does. But I delight in it anyway, perhaps more so.

Grandma's Poppies

To the right of the back door, past the cistern and pump
In a bed near bearded iris of purple, yellow and rust
Not as far toward the old coop as the vegetable patch
And left of the grape arbor's new shoots barely coming back
Bloomed my grandma's poppies without fail every spring

Crepe paper orange flowers bobbed on wavy graceful necks
I would pull each tissue petal singing he loves me, loves me not
Tossed into the breeze, they flew like butterflies escaping
Waving goodbye to the farm and to the country way of life
When I picked my grandma's poppies upon each visit in the spring.

Some days she would remember me, some days I was my mother
But she could still name every shrub, every herb and tree and flower
Then she wanted me to take some, digging beside me in the soil
Wrapping roots in an old dishtowel that she dampened at the well
To protect my grandma's poppies that I took home with me that spring

Two hundred miles of rolling highway driven over neighboring states
With jars of pickles, the last quilt, hollyhock and cleome seeds
They looked so wilted, so tired, as I quickly dug them in at midnight
But by the morning they were happy, just as bloom today so bright
My grandma's poppies are her memory, and she is with me every spring

Something about trains

A recent outing brought me face to face with many a train. I love them. There's a nostalgia, a romance, a je ne sais quoi about them. Our language is peppered with train-centric phrases. Our career might be derailed, your plans may be sidelined, or your life could be a train wreck. Which isn't always a disaster. I was on a train that wrecked. Literally. Somewhere between Springfield and Alton Illinois, the Amtrak I was on hit an abandoned car on the tracks. No one hurt, just a crunched car. Which begs the question, if your car just happened to run out of gas on the railroad tracks, why leave it there? What were you thinking? Insurance? Insanity. Accident not withstanding, I still find train travel to be special. Perhaps I'm just a hopeless romantic, or perhaps there's just something about trains.

Feel the burn

Working in the garden Saturday earned me the first little sunburn of the season. I am an idiot. Had I been out boating or biking I would have remembered to slather on the SPF 70. Had it been a bright, scorching July day, I would have felt the heat and high tailed it back inside for a coating of 30. But it was breezy, clouds were puffy, the morning was cool and I'm just not used to being outside without sleeves yet. After all these years, You'd think I'd learn. But no. Old habits die hard.

As a teen, I was a sun worshiper. One summer, I had a routine. After a late night out and a few hours sleep, I'd wake up in the morning, spray my hair with Sun-In, put on a bathing suit, grab my spray bottle of baby oil, iodine and vinegar and head for the lawn to go back to sleep. Or read Rolling Stone and listen to KSHE cranking out their brand of classics. As the sun burned into my skin, the songs burned into my brain. It was the summer of the first Van Halen album, Jackson Browne's Running On Empty, Kansas, Styx, Journey, Trooper, Gerry Rafferty's Baker Street and Sammy Hagar. Perfect music to sun by. The original definition of wake 'n' bake.

Now I try to be careful. We know the sun is bad. But like so many other things that are bad for us, why does it feel so good? And like most things that feel so good, why does too much feel so bad? Why couldn't I have become addicted to something better for me, like lettuce or exercise? Once you feel the sun, I guess you can never go back. Hi, I'm the RuralGurl, and I'm a sun-aholic......

The lazy gardener

In previous years, I was a very industrious gardener. Every fall I planted new bulbs and never failed to "put the garden to bed". Now I am lucky to get the vegetable patch weeded before tossing some lettuce seeds out there. Priorities shift. Weather turns. Situations change. But I still love to dig in the dirt and smell the earth; it is still a tonic.

Now I am quite lazy, though. We have a second hand mini-tiller. Perennials continue to grow, little new planting needed. And today I bought seed tape. It is the ultimate in lazy gardening. Dig the trench, lay the tape in it, cover with dirt, water. No carefully dispersing individual seeds on hand and knees, no thinning the sprouts. While my conscience scolds me, my back and knees are thanking me. My chiropractor? Not so much.

The stone that will not roll

I don't know where it comes from and I don't know where it goes. My stomach is empty, my head is full, my eyes overflow and I pray that the stone crushing my soul will roll away. Battered by an unseen foe, sleep provides cruel refuge. I should fight. Stand up and face the overwhelming storm. Try and crest the wave; freedom always lies just beyond the breakers. But all the shoulds, all the shoulds only help to further sink the stone. The stone that will not roll.

The Art of Tea

It is no secret that my job is a source of aggravation, as well as income. Given this, anything that can bring a moment of harmony to the futility of my day is a welcome measure. After lunch, this respite is tea.

Deep within the desk drawer, behind the dried fruit, can opener, soup, nuts and cereal, hides my secret stash of tea. Even the simple act of opening the container provides a fleeting glimmer of calm. I sift through the bags. Is it a jasmine day? Or perhaps Earl Grey? Plum and mint, chamomile and Constant Comment, black, oolong, and green, even spiced chai; choices abound. Hot water from the coffee bar releases the familiar aromas. I cradle the mug, drawing small comfort, and pray that the phone doesn’t ring. As I inhale and sip, there is brief transportation to the first “good” Chinese restaurant in town, a picnic table in Arkansas at dawn, a best friend’s bedroom floor, my Mom’s kitchen table… anywhere but here. Slowly, my identity returns.

Amazing how something so simple can be such a lifeline.

Easter and the Barefoot Contessa

Long before Ina Garten bought a little specialty food store bearing the name, and even longer before she launched her empire, I was the Barefoot Contessa. It was one of my father's favorite nicknames for his only little girl, who reveled in the feeling of grass between her toes. (Dad loved Bogart movies.)

When I remember the happiest times of my childhood, my days of Contessadom, they are forever intertwined with Easter. Easter was my dad's holiday; Easter was Polish. Every year he would tell us of his mother making up the basket of food, the Swieconka, and how they took it up to church to be blessed. There were tales of his days playing polka music on the radio in the 30's (across the river at WEW?), of all the different ethnic neighborhoods in East St. Louis in the 20's and 30's and of Easter Mass at St. Adalbert. I loved these stories, as they were so few and far in between. Not unlike myself, my father was plagued by ghosts and stirring up the past often brought him more sorrowful than fond memories; Easter was one of the rare moments that his family history, my family history, would come to life.

Then to celebrate, we'd have the feast. Real Polish sausage from Madison, ham, beets, burnt flour Polish green beans, chalka raisin bread, vinegar potato salad, stuffed cabbage, perogies, ham and be sure to leave room for dessert! It was enough to last our tiny family for days. I can only replicate a fraction of it all, but whenever I brown flour or wrap up a golabki, it's Easter again. Even though my childhood and my father have both long since passed, I will forever hold those Polish Easters as timeless in my heart. And Ina be damned, I will always be the "real" Barefoot Contessa.

Why do they laugh?

We don't have kookaburras here (okay, we do have kingfishers, but not the same kind) and I can't recall ever hearing one laugh at the zoo. Robins, we have, tons of them. All laughing. This time of year, morning are filled with birdsong, and above the din laughs the robin. HA! Ha ha ha ha ha ha! They do have other vocalizations, many songs, chips and cherts. But in the morning they laugh. Is it because they found food? Are the worms funny? Maybe they're watching me stumble out the door, half awake, poorly juggling purse, lunch, gym bag and coffee. I'm sure that's quite a sight. Perhaps it's an inside joke, one that only robins know. Or is it the same joke the kookaburras tell? Maybe all birds hear it and robins are just an easy mark. Why ever it happens, their infectious laughter brightens even the dreariest April shower morning. Like so many things in life, maybe we just don't need to know why.

Fear, Fearless & the Moon

Here comes the moon again, stirring up thoughts unthinkable. Drawing me to the well, daring me to drink, then teasing me with a rope just a fraction too short. It's maddening.

In the glow of moonlight, I am fearless. The blue shine and shadows transform me like the sip that bridges tipsy to drunk. There is no going back. Beautiful, powerful, graceful and light; I believe. But as the sun brings the morning, fear rides its coattails. The cruel day crushes certainty. Soon the warmth will lull me into submission, erasing my memory, supplanting my vision, returning the spectrum of normal, demanding worship.

When will the sun realize that it is the moon's enabler?

What is this, Chicago?

It is just plain wrong for it to snow on the day of your baseball team's home opener. Whaddya think this is? Chicago? Apples in bloom, tulips and daffodils everywhere, 22 degrees wind chill.

True, I'm not a big baseball fan. Really not much of a sports fan at all, but there are some fundamentals that I grew up with. Baseball season is hot. Football season is cold. Basketball season is always indoors, so it doesn't really matter when you play. Hockey is played on ice, so even though it's indoors, it should be cold for it. Horse racing, dry. Swimming, wet. Golf, hot. Bowling, drunk. It all seems pretty cut and dried. Yet it seems like every year the sports seasons are getting more and more muddled. Kind of like the school year, pretty soon all sports will just go all year long. Where on earth will we find enough beer? Or hot chocolate, as the case may be? Hot chocolate at a baseball game; it's just wrong. Unless you're in Chicago.

A Wish for Fish

Fridays in Lent can mean only one thing in St. Louis. Fish! Church fish fry, to be exact. While I'm still waiting for a Japanese-Catholic (?) church to have a Lenten sushi dinner, there are plenty of other options to explore. Each church seems to have a specialty, so each Friday we seek out a new experience. This year, here's where we've had fabulous fish so far:

Right in our neighborhood sits St. Andrews Catholic Church. When we moved here, it had its own school, but cutbacks left the playground empty. The parish is still going strong, though, and their fish fry is always a tasty, good bet. You can get squares or tails (cod or catfish) baked cod, and usually jack salmon (whiting). What sets St. Andrews apart is the mac and cheese. Very cheddary, thick but still creamy, and baked with a golden-brown crusty top. Sometimes it's so good, you have to get it for both your sides. Also, dessert is included and someone there makes a super-moist red velvet cake with cream cheese icing. Better get there early if you want some.

Not much farther down the road is Seven Holy Founders CC. You got your squares, but catfish nuggets step in for the tails here and don't pass them up. Pieces are big, breaded lightly, and not over-cooked like so many nuggets are. Even better are the shrimp. Big shrimp, a little more coating, not cooked to rubber, and lots of very horseradishy cocktail sauce. SHF special side is au gratin potatoes. Yes, they come from a mix, but they are a cheesy change of pace. Dessert here is extra, but you may not have room for it, especially after a couple of beers.

Much in the media this year, next up is St. Cecilia's (you're breakin' my heart) Mexican Fish Fry. Squares, tails, shrimp... all good, but the draw is the Mexican entrees and sides. All hand made, all amazing. The chili rellenos were roasted peppers filled with queso, lightly battered and fried to firm but gooey goodness. Potato flautas were crisp outside, moist inside, and served with a roasted tomatillo sauce. They also had tostadas and quesadillas, which we did not try, but looked yummy. Dessert is included and if you hit it right, you just might find a slice of flan on the table hiding in between the gooey butter, bundt and angel food cakes. Expect a long wait, but as the line snakes around the school's gymnasium, you can buy home made pico de gallo & chips and Corona and enjoy entertainment like traditional Mexican dancers or a maricahi trio.

Right across the street from my church is St. Joan of Arc. The squares are, well, squares, but the tails, the baked (lemon pepper, yum!) and the shrimp are always a cut above. Slaw here is vinegar & oil, a welcome change to the creamy standard fare. For the die hard St. Louis bar fan, you can grab up some cheese toasted ravioli or fried mozzarella sticks with meatless marinara dipping sauce. What really makes the day here is the Irish potatoes. New red potatoes, not over-boiled, tossed with butter and parsley and just a tiny bit of salt. Fresh baked bread was there the Friday I stopped by, too. Simple perfection. Desserts here are extra, but hey, it's for a good cause, so fork it over and fix that sweet tooth with some extra chocolaty brownies.

Last but not least, is St. James The Greater serving both "The Hill" and "Dogtown" neighborhoods. While the parish's roots tend more toward the Irish side, the sides say "Italy". Squares, tails and baked are there, the fried shrimp have a bit of garlic in the breading, but don't miss the pasta sides. The white sauce is creamy, full of garlic and comfort food at its best. The red sauce is a chunky marinara, plenty of garlic and spices with just the proper hint of sweetness to balance it out. Get there early for the surprise treat, home made clam chowder. Big, juicy clams, potatoes and aromatics suspended in a light, creamy base, fully flavored by the clam liquor and a host of secret spices. You have to pay extra, but it is worth it. I'd like to buy a vat of it, myself. Dessert is also included here, and there were some really different choices, like a pumpkin mousse pie with a gooey butter cake top, sprinkled with pecans. Amazing. I'm very tempted to make a repeat trip on Good Friday. The ladies made sure to remind me that they would be open.

If none of these are in your part of the greater St. Louis area, but you still want to give it a go on Good Friday, hit the "Fish Fry Finder" page that KTVI Fox2 has up. There are churches, VFW's, American Legions and many other clubs and organizations getting in on the Fish Fry Frenzy. Many even happen when Lent is nowhere to be found. Help your neighbors, fill your tummy and have some fun. See you out there.

The little mac that could

Once I was offered a job at the Mac Store. They were opening up their first St. Louis location, I was pissed about something or another at the job I had at the time, and applied. Unfortunately, it was as a 3rd key gig. Not enough to pay the rent. But sometimes I think about it, like now as the Conficker virus threatens and PC folks are scrambling for protection.

While I don't keep up now like I should, at one time I was quite the Apple weenie. Mac magazines littered the living room along with Billboard, Rolling Stone, Performing Songwriter, Frets (RIP) and Gourmet. I salivated over all the new machines, software upgrades, clock chippers and icon makers. If there was a way to push a mac further and faster, I knew it. Extension conflicts? Clean up? Done and done. At home or at work, from Performas, to Duo-docked Power Books, to iMacs to a G3 Wallstreet Power Book, to a warhorse Sawtooth G4, my macs were stable, fast and reliable.

Then it got too easy. OSX came along, processors, hard drives and external drives grew, and life got simpler. The intuitive use of Apple, became even more so. Plug and play, indeed. I didn't have to be a weenie, I didn't even have to keep up to be happy. My G5 iMac came to me two years old and it's still got room to grow. It's an accounting office, a recording studio, a publishing house, a communications center, a photo studio and a movie house. What more could a girl want? Oh, yeah. That.

Folk in St. Louis: It's a big ol' Martin love-fest

The last two weekends in St. Louis have been a folk fan's banquet and a big ol' Martin guitar love-fest t'boot. March 21st brought John Gorka and Susan Werner to the Sheldon Concert Hall. I've been a fan of John's since hearing him on the Legacy compilation CD way back in 1989. He, Cliff Eberhardt, Pierce Pettis and Bill Morrissey restored my faith in "folk" or "singer/songwriter" music that year. His lyrics were sad and a bit wry, with deceptively simple melodies woven through the mood. Susan first came to my attention through a little concert series put on by Jill Stratton at Washington University in the mid '90's. I was instantly attracted to her wit, (or as she puts it, "smart mouth", amazing musicianship and vocal range, and common experience (raised Catholic, played guitar in church, had to run away from it, yet still strangely drawn). Double bills are never long enough, especially at the acoustically perfect Sheldon. With such a growing catalog to choose from, there'd be no way to cover them all. But John managed to sneak in "Angel With Your Hair" and Susan did "Movie Of My Life" so it was all good by me. And as a special treat, we got to see them play together at the end of each other's sets. It was fun and joyful for them as well as for the audience.

While Michael Peter Smith from Chicago is part of an older school of folk, with comtemporaries like the late Steve Goodman and John Prine, his brand of sometimes funny, sometimes sadly haunting acoustic music fits right in with Gorka and Werner. His songs have been covered by Steve Goodman, Jimmy Buffett, Suzy Boggus, Trout Fishing In America and the Clancy Brothers among others. Michael played March 28th at The Focal Point. Armed with his trusty D-35, (that was EQ'd to perfection!) he did not disappoint. Fan favorites like "Sister Clarissa", "Panther In Michigan", "Famous In France" and my favorite, "Zippy", kept the audience singing, crying and laughing from start to finish.

So next time you hear about how horrible the ticket prices are for the "big" concerts, how far away you have to sit, how much you have to pay for parking, how people talked through the whole show... Support the smaller tours instead. Up close, personal, gratifying and worth every penny. Leaves you enough change to have dinner out and buy a CD, too. They'll even sign it for ya, just ask.

The Weed

I am a weed
Unwanted in prim gardens
Left for dead
Then blooming unexpectedly
In poor soil
Where someone stops to wonder
At quiet beauty
That few others ever see

I am a flower
Hiding on the forest floor
Peeking out
To bask in the pale sunlight
Of early spring
Pick me and I'll perish
Before your eyes
Have time to remember me

I am a wildflower
Fragile and ephemeral
Stubborn as a weed
Growing in a sidewalk crack
Allow me space
To spread my roots and tendrils
Uninterrupted
And I will bloom just for you

House of stone

In a park, by a lake, near a waterfall, in the woods, sits a house. What is left of a house. A house of stone. Grass carpets the living room and bed rooms, honeysuckle sprouts where breakfast was served. Understory trees stand cooking dinner in the kitchen for the birds and squirrels. Though modest by today's standards, it was quite the country home in the days of history past. Life was simpler; life was hard, but not without reward. Imagine cooling off on a summer's day in the shade of your very own bluff, splashing in a waterfall that's walking distance from your back door. Cooling milk and butter in the well by the side porch, picking berries from the woods for cobbler in July, living a life dictated by the seasons. Days in the stone house were numbered. Progress hastened its demise. Still, when I see its remains, it is alive. Alive with memories of someone else's mind.

For the birds

Birds are a tremendous joy in my life. I could stand at my kitchen sink, staring out the window at the feeders for hours. They fascinate me. Flight. Imagine it. In dreams I have flown like a bird; swooping, diving, circling, climbing, wheeling away with the night. Even though it is just their way of life, sometimes they look so elated, like they are having so much fun. And if flight was not enough, there is song. In the morning they greet the day with seemingly endless verse; at night they sing down the sun. If only all my movements and communication were marked by such effortless beauty. If only I could be a bird.

What was the Foxfire Resort?

Somewhere on a blacktop farm road, around or between Prairie Creek, Little Flock and Rogers, Arkansas, sits Foxfire. As we sped past, I looked, but it was not enough. I needed to turn back and see more. Crumbling before our very eyes, the old red-barn style resort still spoke with a certain charm. A peek in the windows showed dust and disrepair of a recent variety. Someone made a go of it there until at least the early 1990's if the old "Natural State" poster is any indication.


An outbuilding housed a laundry, but there were no washers or derelict driers to be found. It was also supposedly the entrance to the pool, which quite oddly disappeared without a trace as well. The main building was still hung with signage telling guests where to check in and where the bathrooms and shower rooms were. Pieces and parts littered the grounds. A rusting refrigerator motor here, broken windows there, siding and overgrowth everywhere.

A newer house, seemingly occupied, set back behind the old buildings, so we did not want to trespass too aggressively. Still, I wished I'd seen if they were home. Did they own it? Who used to own it? When did it open? When did it close? Where on earth did the pool go? What were their plans for it now? After regretting the questions left unsaid, my imagination still ran with what could have been at the Foxfire Resort. Vacationing families, weekend adventurers, road weary drivers, lovers meeting secretly in mid-week. All now forgotten but the dust and ghosts. Someone must remember it. If you do, let me know.

Sweet peace

For three perfect days, I awoke to the sounds of the lake. Wind rustling through the still bare willows and oaks, water lapping against the dock, ducks, geese and songbirds getting ready for spring; it was what my soul needed. The unusually temperate weather allowed for porch sitting, both early and late. There is nothing like playing guitar and sipping late morning coffee on the deck while the work-a-day world spins haplessly around you. The rest of the day can wait. Time is still, the air is fresh; moments lost in thought are a treasure. For three perfect days there was sweet peace.

Just want to bang on the drum all day

Work was a four letter word today, and not one of the good ones, either. Just did not want to be there. Had other things on my mind. Anyplace would have been better. Okay, not anyplace, but pretty darn close. So I fired off an email to a friend two cubes down that said simply, "I don't wanna work, I just want to bang on the drum all day." She replied, "If you only knew how many times a day that song pops into my mind!" So I got coffee, I went to the bathroom, I walked around with paper in my hand so I'd look like I was going somewhere for a reason, I hid in a different friend's cube talking about driving, rock 'n' roll biographies and suicide for a while, I went and got some water, I cruised the fax machines looking for incoming, and I thought about Todd Rundgren.

Back in the record daze, I went to a convention and ended up meeting Todd and getting to sit around and talk for a good while. It didn't hurt that I fell into both the Todd-is-god school of production and the Beatles freak legion. He was gracious, intelligent and the epitome of geek-cool, even before there was such a thing. We gabbed about apple computers, over-stacked acoustic guitars and vocals, the echo chambers below the Capitol building, the Beatles and the Phil Spector wall-of-sound among other things. It was memorable, indeed.

And then I returned to my windowless, doorless, lifeless cubicle. No wonder I just want to bang on the drum all day.

Birches

Every time I see a birch tree, I think about the Bill Morrissey song, "Birches". Hopelessly romantic, I would seek to burn them and dance in the light as well. But even before Bill's song entered my world, I was enchanted by birches. They were few and far between where I grew up, so whenever I spotted their white bark, I was always drawn. Delicate layers, pale and peeling like lace, birches seemed to be the bride of trees. As a child, I would gently peel the bark, trying to preserve a note sized section. Writing on birch bark transported me to ancient times; I was elite, a Russian princess or maybe a chosen Ojibway hiding the scrolls. Now I am content to gaze in fascination, freezing moments in photos and memories. Still, hopelessly romantic.

Something changed

80% of the time, lyrics came first. Always. I started making up songs before I could even play a note. It's what kids do. I just never grew out of it. But even when I began playing guitar, lyrics nearly always came first. Poems set to music. Occasionally a whole package would present itself, notes and words seemingly already married. Very rarely would a melody enter my head without a lyric attached.

Past tense. Something strange happened last June. On the night of the full moon, everything changed. I didn't know it then. It was chalked up as one of those rare occasions when a melody alone demanded attention, most likely precipitated by the phase of the moon. Until it happened again. Driving, humming, humming what? And again. Surely, it's something I've heard before that I am unwittingly plagiarizing. So I play it for my husband, a couple of friends. They can't place it either. So it continued. Creativity as I know it was turned on its head.

What could make everything change? Change nearly in an instant, over night, with only the full moon to blame? Was there actually an evolution so gradual that I just didn't notice everything slowly turning upside down? No. Something happened. An odd magic, a twist of reality, something drastic yet natural, something beyond definition. Something.

Sleep

Sleep. It seems that there is never enough time for the quantity of it which I desire. And I desire a lot. Please don't wake me, let me hibernate. Quilts and afghans pulled above my head, warm and dreaming, stretch, sigh, curl up again, repeat. Today was rare. Somehow the luxury of an afternoon nap became a reality. Once asleep, guilt over tasks left behind is forgotten. Plans for dinner are irrelevant. Control is gone. Such a gift, to be able to let go; to dream even as the sun shines on the scurrying world. The week will be there waiting for me when I return, greedy of time, always pressing for more. But for now, it has to wait. Don't spoil the afterglow. Stretch, curl up again, repeat. Sigh. Sleep.

Selfish

"I'm so hard to handle, I'm selfish and I'm sad ....
....I wish I had a river I could skate away on"

Joni Mitchell has a way of bringing to light what most would hide and accepting it, if not being proud in the process. From her heart to her sleeve to her paintings and songs, that unabashed honesty flows. We are who we are.

I recognize my selfish streak, my hard to handle tendencies, my stubbornness. Reigning it in can be a chore when the mood strikes at an inopportune time. My father used to tease me in his best Garbo, "She vants to be alone!" when I'd withdraw. Sometimes it made me giggle; sometimes I would just brood. Sometimes I still brood. It's part of who I am, not the whole, but a part. Might as well put it out there on my sleeve, in honesty.

April come she will

Morning birdsong is beginning. Robins are flocking. Buds are swelling. The calendar still says it's winter, but signs point to spring.

There is no control over the seasons. They will ebb and flow at their own pace, teasing us with a few warm days, only to freeze the world again by Thursday. I can lament winter's passing and our paltry one and a half snows all I want, but it is to no avail. Spring has the blessed freedom to do as she pleases.

So I give in, seed catalogs scattered on the floor, as I sit cross-legged, sipping tea and pouring over blueberries, basil, heirloom tomatoes and beets. I long to work the soil. Sun on my back, fragrant earth beneath my knees, tiny green shoots growing into salads and pesto, ice cream and pies. It won't be long. I know winter will come again, perhaps next week, but spring is immanent. She'll come what may.

Valentine's Day

Love can be forever; it can last infinitely. Or not. Ask anyone who has ever been in love. In other words, ask anyone. Rare is the individual who has never been in love.

Nothing non-alcoholic, nothing legal, can impair judgment as much as falling in love. Under the influence, you can convince yourself of anything. It's dangerous. It's exhilarating. Hormones, endorphins, serotonin, adrenalin. You're a superhero, a psychic, a goddess, a god; you're unstoppable, invincible and immortal. You believe in infinite love.

Perhaps that is why few marriages stand the test of time. When love changes, and it will, people are just not ready. They refuse to accept it. They continue to seek the rush until the chase leaves them crushed. Admittedly, some things were never meant to be, but others?

Infinite love does exist. It takes a good portion of leeway, continual attempts at understanding, repeated forgiveness, sympathy, empathy, patience and humor, but it's there. Sometimes.

Somewhere In Illinois

The world smells like a wet screen door
1978 in Illinois
Woven with patches, white paint peeling
Where the cats have clawed

Rain stopped just after nightfall
Still dripping from bare trees
The sycamore groans, gravel crunches
It’s almost like going home

Then you come to me on the full moon
As clouds skirt the starless sky
Bringing me nothing that I’ve asked for
But everything I desire

And I’m back on that sad old porch
Familiar as my minds own eye
The screen door creaks, you’re there again
With me one more time

Just barely time to say goodbye
As the rain comes back to fall
The moon disappears, and you with it
Somewhere in Illinois.

.

"Death is there to keep us honest......"

"......and constantly remind us we are free." DF "Ghosts"

Cemeteries are a reoccurring theme for me. Odd, I suppose, for someone who wants to be cremated. But these were the playgrounds of my youth. Lush and green, lakes with swans and ducks to feed, paths to walk, trees to sit under. Years later, my imagination wandered through endless moonlit graveyards, full of unrequited romance and Hitchcockian terror. Now as I ramble through the quiet stones, my thoughts still linger over unknown stories, broken angels and the ghosts of days left behind. I can't help but be drawn in.

After the last snow, I took these photos in a graveyard not far from my house. Dan Fogelberg's "Ghosts" provide the soundtrack.

I candod beade

I candod beade ad I wand my bandkie......

Having a cold sucks. My lips are chapped, my nose is raw, there aren't enough Puffs Plus with Aloe Lotion in the world, let alone my house. Someone needs to bring me a pillow and some nice hot tea, cover me with a home made afghan or quilt, rub my back and read to me. Nothing I have to do is getting done; no energy to change guitar strings or play, no voice to sing, and the bathroom is not getting cleaned today, either. Soon as I lower my head, the cough will begin, so I fight to stay upright until the dextromethoriphan kicks in, only then will I rest. Of course, a little whiskey might improve the process. The Dextro-Daniels medicinal cocktail. Afterall, what is Nyquil? That's really livin' on the edge, huh? Makes me feel like a rebel without a schnoz. Appearently, my breathing isn't all that suffers when I have a cold. Yep, this sucks.

Shields up!

I name things. Or rather, things I own tend to name themselves. Every vehicle I’ve had has emerged with a unique name. My new truck is no different.

The dealer nearly gave this thing away. They are so desperate to make a sale in this economy. After finding out how much the Chevy Volt technology was going to cost next year, (as much for a small car as I paid for my small house!), I decided to pull the trigger, coz The Grape wasn’t getting’ any younger. I'd keep my beloved old truck and run it into the ground but still get a new 2008, while the gettin' was good. I wheeled and dealed and walked out a winner.

As part of a package, I had to take the truck back up to the dealership and have the Crystal Fusion windshield stuff put on. I was describing it to my husband, “It makes water sheet and rocks and stuff bounce off your windshield without chipping or cracking it.” He laughed, “It’s a force field?” I laughed, “Yeah, but I couldn’t afford the transporter upgrade.” We could not help ourselves. “Shields up!” “Does it have photon torpedo headlights?” Laughter was leaving us breathless. “Where is warp speed button?” “Oh, no! Klingons and Romulans aren’t covered in the warranty!” "Open all hailing frequencies." “Hello, On-Star? This is the Starship Equinox…..”

And so the new truck was named.

Down came the snow

Snow Down

Finally, the snow came down.
Wave after wave of powder,
A swirling mist covering the night.
Cloud filtered moonlight
Reflects eerily upon every hill.
Each tree becomes a study
In black and white.
The morning will bring the plows,
The traffic and the grey.
Until then,
A pristine world lies in wait.

Not my cat

Cats do not like wasabi. Other than being a foregone conclusion, why on earth would I know this? Because the not-my-cats are still on the prowl.

Don't get me wrong. I love cats. Growing up on the farm, we had between three and thirteen cats at any given time. Not only were they pets; (Dove, Rikki, Reesie, Bangor, Dutch, Magneto and Piper to name a few) they roamed the acreage and kept the mice down in the barn. It was their job. Out in the country, that's how it was. Even here in the city, I'd have at least one now, were it not for my husband's aversion to the idea. But then there are the not-my-cats. They are beautiful. One is some kind of Himalayan or Long Haired Persian or Siamese, the other two are fluffy and dark. But they are a hazard.

Our bird feeders hang over a shade garden, next to some Korean Spice and Spirea bushes. Loose neighborhood cats think of this as their all-you-can-pounce buffet. In the spring, a large black fluffy feline (yes, the one in the picture) quite literally flew through the air and snatched a cardinal off of the feeder. I have no idea where it came from or went to after, as he streamed horizontally across my field of vision like a low flying plane. Super Cat! He and his friends also decided that the flower bed along the back of the house (that the drier vent just happens to keep toasty warm on cold winter days) was their new litter box. N-n-n-n-no. So we sprinkled wasabi powder on the soil. The not-my-cats get it on their paws and fur, then lick....... They stay out of the flower bed now. Yes, they do.

If I ever manage to win over my husband' s objections, perhaps I will get a nice fluffy kitty and name her Wasabi. The poetic justice would be far too succulent to pass by.

Joker's Wild

Duck bathing with a "rubber humanie". I laughed my arse off. There was much to strike my fancy at Terra Studios, but this bit of whimsy tickled me down to the ground in a fit. Much does.

Contrary to my artistic penchant for melancholy, people label me the class clown. Can't say that I disagree with that assessment. All through school, (and now even at work), I was always the one getting in trouble for everything from satirical commentary to practical jokes. Anonymously penned "fake" expositions crossed teachers' desks, leaving some in fits of giggles and causing others to glare at me as I smiled my best "Who, me?" Cheshire grin. One year, on April 1st, I parked my truck three blocks away then hid in my office while employees told my assistant how I'd been fired and that the dreaded district manager was up in the office and wanted to talk to him. The poor guy nearly had a heart attack, but we still laughed until we could not catch our breath. Any gathering is fair game, hence our church choir's motto, "What happens in the choir loft, stays in the choir loft.". We laugh as much as we sing. Humor, whether used as a shield, a weapon or an invitation, has always been my forté.

Recently, a friend, commenting on my absence from a weekly gathering, told me that the group just was not as fun without me. She meant it; I was touched. Sometimes you wonder, like George Bailey, would the world be better off without me? It's good to know that someone's movie really would be different if I wasn't in it. Thank you, Clarence. Have some wings.

Forgive us our trespasses

Ruins are my downfall. If it’s uninhabited, falling down or past its use, then I want to poke around and investigate. Old crumbling buildings, industrial complexes that have made nothing in years, schools long void of children’s voices, cabins in the woods with overgrown or nonexistent pathways to their doors, rusting rail yards, forgotten roads leading to nowhere, bridges that cross only memories of water…. These fire my imagination like nothing else.

Unfortunately, in order to preserve these treasures before they turn to dust, trespass is usually required. In my travels I obey the conservation edict, “Leave nothing but footprints, take nothing but pictures, kill nothing but time,” but where I go seems more dictated by a lesser known verse that Woody Guthrie wrote to his iconic “This Land Is Your Land.” One of the verses you didn’t learn in school goes:
“As I was walkin' - I saw a sign there
And that sign said - no tress passin'
But on the other side .... it didn't say nothin!
Now that side was made for you and me!”

For me there is no moral dilemma. It’s do unto others. If I came home from work and someone was in my garden taking pictures of my irises, I would greet them, yes, question them, and as long as they were not taking anything but pictures, I’d more than likely offer them a cup of tea and sit down and talk gardening or photography with them for a while. And I’d feel honored that they found my garden inspirational! However, there is a difference between legality and morality. Someday I’m sure I’ll be run off, if not hauled in, for finding artistic inspiration in the “wrong” place. Until then, beauty is where you find it. Click here to see today’s adventure.

Brother of another

I am an only child, so I don't know what it's like to have a sibling. Not really. Some of my friends are close to their brothers or sisters, others have relationships that are downright contemptible. The dynamic remains a mystery to me. Yet, as an "only", growing up I was sort of adopted into my close friends' families. This gave me sisters and brothers both big and little. I was looked after, teased, pestered, spied on, picked up, turned in, hated, loved, envied, pitied and/or admired, all depending on where I was on any given day. And in true sisterly fashion, I gave as good as I got.

So it was hard to hear that one of those little brothers was sick. Even though he grew up to be quite the responsible man with wife, kids and the whole nine yards, he will forever be imprinted in my mind as the pesky kid bothering his sister and me while we dolled up to go out, or waking me up too early when I was hung over the next morning. How could time have played such a cruel trick? He'd been ill for quite some time, but over the holidays he took a drastic turn for the worse. Now, he's got a new liver to show for it. It's too early for predictions, but preliminarily things are looking good. We continue to pray. Let's hope the good news continues. Anyone who says you won't miss what you never had obviously never met the little brother that was never mine.

Scout

"To Kill A Mockingbird" is this year's Big Read. The idea is to get everyone in town to read the same book, then get out in the community to events to discuss. I could not be happier, since it's one of my favorite books and movie. To celebrate and generate interest, Scout came to St. Louis. Mary Badham is still pixie small, never lost her Southern accent, is gracious beyond words and just about the cutest grandma around. She spoke with passion about the film, her experiences while making it, and of her relationship with Gregory Peck. He was, indeed, a kind and noble man and a father figure to her, not only during the making of the film, but throughout the rest of his life. It was fascinating to hear her tell how scenes were shot and what ended up on the cutting room floor. After a question and answer session, Mary had to catch a plane, but they screened "To Kill A Mockingbird" for the crowd that remained. Young, old, black, white, hippie-kids, suits; the crowd was diverse and a message from the book resounded off the walls of the University City Library. "I think there's just one kind of folks. Folks." - Scout (chapter 23)

The Loft lets me down

I have never seen anything positive come from a buy-out or a merger. One (eventually) killed my job, one killed the King of Beers, and now one has reduced my favorite radio station to a pale shadow of its former self. I am just not happy.

Many years back, my brother-in-law gave me an XM radio for Christmas. Very quickly I stumbled upon the Loft. It was acoustic-ish, but not folk, it played deep album tracks from my old '70's favorites (Fogelberg, Browne, Zevon, Mitchell, Young, etc) and from then newer artists (Ryan Adams, Jayhawks, Son Volt, Wilco, Rocky Votolato, Ben Harper, EastMountainSouth, John Gorka, Casey Chambers, Michael Penn, Ray Lamontagne, Gomez, and so much more). Talk was minimal except for Pete Fornatale's Mixed Bag Radio and a few special features/events and the Loft Sessions provided tasty live treats on a regular basis. There was a special vibe that flowed throughout the day. Mike Marone started off the wake up sets easy, then the shows would build from there, cresting in the afternoon/evening drive, then settling down for the night shift. They kept it eclectic, you did not really hear "the hits"; they would dig three and four tracks into a new release and really give you a feel for the record. I listened to The Loft daily. Turned my friends onto it, many bought into the XM thing after listening in my truck. Hearing those non-hit tracks resulted in CD purchases. By all accounts, their programming and marketing was succeeding..... until now.

Things weren't so bad right after the merger of XM & Sirius. A new DJ. A new show. But then the programming of the old shows began to change. More songs being repeated. More "hit" songs. More "hit" artists. Good luck hearing anything from Jackson Browne that couldn't be heard on regular FM radio, let alone Dan Fogelberg, Steve Goodman or Harry Nilsson. I don't know what the edict was that went out, and I'm sure there's a gag order that goes along with it, but now The Loft is gentrified, homogenized and politicized. It changed the vibe, it changed the flow, it changed The Loft. I'm sure glad the CD player in my truck still works, coz The Loft is letting me down.

ed. 1/13...... Did Mike Marone read this last night? After weeks of disappointment, and abandoning the wake up sets for my own tunes, I was in a rush to get out the door this morning and forgot the CD, so I turned the radio on. Much to my delight, my morning drive consisted of:
Dan Fogelberg "Someone's Been Telling You Stories", Warren Zevon "Johnny Strikes Up The Band", 10cc "Dreadlock Holiday" and Jenny Lewis "Carpetbagger". Maybe there's hope for them yet. Thanks, Mike.

When did "change" change?

Often, I do not know which way to go. Sometimes I feel like I have not been certain of anything since I was seventeen. Didn't know how to get what I wanted, but at least I knew what it was. It's been much less clear since then. Things like jobs, money, shelter, transportation and insurance all conspired against me. In other words, I had to become a responsible adult. And adults hate change.

I can remember a time when I welcomed change. Some kids dreaded the new school year, I was happy to have a fresh start. I changed boyfriends like some people changed their underware. When things started to go south at a job, I'd go out and find another, and do it quickly. The thought of moving to a new place was exciting. Now it's all terrifying. Just making the initial contacts in a job hunt takes a day of psyching up. Reaching out to a new acquaintance is met with the determination of forcing oneself to eat brussels sprouts. When did change become so confoundedly scary? So off I go, to psych up and eat some tiny cabbages. Hopefully, the fear will subside and turn back into excitement. Maybe I can turn back the hands of time and be sure of what I want again. After all, it's only change.

January thaw

Bars of ice surround my muse; together we await the January thaw. Quite to my dismay, the new year has yet to allow much solitude. While my head is full of phrases and snippets, completing a cohesive thought is a struggle. Even a blog entry seems a daunting task. Perhaps it is the head cold I'm fighting (or the meds used to ease it). Perhaps it is the stress of a workplace filled with uncertainty as rumours fly of more impending layoffs. Perhaps it is the quickly filling calendar or the lack of winter snow. Whatever the reason, my mind is a muddle, pacing an icy fence-row. In time it will melt, or crack and shatter with spectacular effect. Freedom and solitude cannot be far away.

A New Year

It is another year. A new year.
Stretching out before us lies an unwritten book,
as fresh and pristine as midnight snow.
We fear to tread and ruin its fragile beauty,
yet our deepest desire is to run forward
through it with abandon, laughing.
Like that snow,
may this new year welcome you into its mystery.
May you greet each day without fear
as hope and laughter fills your heart.
Let this be the year.
The year you walk in beauty;
the year we live in peace.

Many thanks and blessings to you, my friends.
Happy New Year!