Summer Solstice

The longest weekend of the year. Summer solstice. A perfect day to float down the river, unhurried, stopping to swim, enjoying everything Mother Nature has to offer. Even with my usual proclivity to sleep late, we were on the river by 9:30 am.

With rains aplenty this spring, the upper Meremac was running well and very inviting. No portaging this trip. We put in somewhere above highway O, and hit some riffles almost immediately. The kayaks required very little paddling, allowing attention to wander with the wildlife. Birds dotted the trees like living Christmas ornaments; red cardinals, indigo buntings, yellow goldfinches and painted cedar waxwings sang and dived, eluding the camera lens but dazzling all eyes.

Further downstream was Fishing Spring. Had it been 90 degrees or more, the wading would have been more easily tolerated, but at a balmy 84.... well it was still worth the frozen toes. Water flowed from a small cave, ran from under a ledge and boiled up from the rough sand making a odd snow-globe of the pool's edge. Together they produced quite the spring branch, tumbling over rocks out to the river. Not to mention cooling the main channel down enough to make us float on down to the next gravel bar before taking our next dip.

One of our favorite river games is "guess the ruin" or "ruins stories". Most Ozark streams have several old cabins, ruins of defunct resorts, forgotten stairways leading to the river, and abandoned camps lining the banks. Some are documented, many are mysteries ripe for creative exploitation. Floating by these, we spin yarns of vacationers tripping out by rail or in model T's on old Route 66. Gangsters and their molls hiding out in the cool shade of rock-walled resorts, families escaping the city's heat at fish camp, company picnic grounds returned to forest years after a flood, the scenarios are endless. Some ancient structures, like this one, are actually a part of a going concern. Although seen from the river to be unused, this amazing rock wall and staircase seem to be a part of the still-active Cobblestone Resort. It didn't stop our imaginations from running wild.

On the way home, the skies cracked open and poured. We'd made it off the river just in time. After stopping at Supersmokers for BBQ, there was still enough daylight to put the boats away, unpack, clean up and hang out on the porch to sing the sun down. A day as close to perfect as possible. Such is the magic of the Summer Solstice, the longest day of the year.

Maudlin

Maudlin. Why I spend time in such a state is both a mystery and admittedly my own fault. I think too much. Things bother me. I dwell. Realization should grant power over the situation, and often does; rational emotive therapy and all that crap. However, the reality is that I’ve always felt deeply. Whatever it is cuts right to my bone. Delight, pain, rapture, despair, stillness, loss, hunger, satisfaction…. if boredom can be experienced passionately, I’ve done it. Makes for inspired artistry in times of creativity, or just a mess in the absence of muse or diversion.

So when that bittersweet sentimentality creeps in and lays heavy on my heart, it tends to settle in and stay a spell. Like a bad relationship, it’s symbiotic. We feed each other an addictive diet of romanticized sorrow that circles back and spirals around us, steeling a bond that shouldn’t be. It lurks behind my outwardly comic demeanor, visiting when I’m alone, unoccupied and unsuspecting. It colors my pallet with deep purples and midnight blues, pushing my brush into the pigment again and again to darken the circumstance.

And I know it. I feel it happening. Like watching the drama unfold in a seven hundred page sixteenth century novel, I am strangely removed, yet intimately involved, in the plot of my own life. This duality is an enigma, almost as impossible to convey as the feeling itself. Eventually, something unknown will pull me away and for a while I’ll be free. Until the next time.

Water

Water. The river, the ocean, the pump, the tap. A mostly legal vice. One I'm not giving up.

RuralGurl goes ink. Read the guest column here.

Just a sliver off a full moon

Tonight there's just a sliver off a full moon, a night on the cusp of magic. It drew me out to play suspended diminished chords in moody progressions by candle light on the porch. Dreamily, eerily, the music washed over the garden in waves, pulled like the tide over a thousand miles away. Dissonance, resolve, dissonance, resolve, dissonance. Never ending. When a breeze took the candle's flame and I was left alone with the moon, the song found its voice. Some progressions are only complete when they are left incomplete. Some mysteries are better left unsolved.

Make Love Stay

It's June, the brides are swarming like bees. Picking out gowns, registering at every store imaginable, making lists of love songs for the DJ to spin.

So many songs account the first blush of love, just as many detail the pain of love lost. Same with movies, books, etc. Then there is the rest of us. Common knowledge holds that the honeymoon doesn't last forever. It's up, it's down, it's fireworks, it's an icebox, it's exciting, it's boring, but it is. While most would have us believe that we are either wildly, passionately in the throes of heated romance or dead, there have been thoughtful, touching tributes to trying to make it through. Dan Fogelberg wrote, "Now that we know the fire can burn bright or merely smolder, how do we keep it from dying away?" Jeff Tweedy of Wilco sings that "You're gonna need to be patient with me."

But perhaps the most brutally honest depiction of making love stay was in the 1946 movie called "The Best Years Of Our Lives." Middle-aged Milly is speaking to her husband who has recently come home from WWII, after her 20-something daughter told them that they didn't know what it was like for her, because their lives had been perfect, they'd never had any trouble. First she says to her daughter, "We never had any trouble...." and then she turns to Al, her husband of 25+ years, "How many times have I told you I hated you, and believed it in my heart. How many times have you said you were sick and tired of me, that we were all washed up? How many times have we had to fall in love all over again?" And the look in their eyes reveal every word as truth.

Having once been a starry-eyed bride-to-be myself, I know that looking forward and seeing something less than idyllic just isn't on the agenda. But later, "when the lonely nights are over" and you're wondering "how do we make love stay?" you'll need to be ready to fall in love all over again.

Barefoot

One of the great pleasures of my life is walking barefoot in the grass.

Of a morning, coffee warm in hand, still in my white summer cotton nightgown, I'll head toward the garden. The dew is on the grass, cool against my toes. Breeze gentle on my bare arms, sun already warming my back, I check the blackberries. Fruit is already on the vines that I twine around the trellis, soon it will be ripe and luscious.

In the evening, sun waning, the grass is warm beneath my feet. The sun of the day tells its story in the blades, tickling my ankles as I make my way toward the herb garden. There's oregano, parsley and rosemary for the pasta, some dill and chives for the salad. Their fragrance wafts ups as I snip and gather, inspiring recipes not yet dreamt.

As the moon rises and the white flowers bloom, the dew falls. Moonflower perfumes the stillness and the lightning bugs appear like ghosts from the other side. The grass on my feet is once again cool, soothing after a long day. It restores me like a hymn to the darkness. For a while I'm whole.

Wine Whine

It's no surprise that the wineries are calling to me. They combine much of what is right in my world. Working with the land, often family owned operations, craft in the making, art in the vinting, aroma, texture, creativity, food, calming vistas, conviviality, usually some music and a good wine buzz is just icing on the cake.

While cozying up in front of a crackling autumn fireplace with your sweetie and a glass of port is softly romantic, the warmer months let the wineries shine. Colored bottles sparkle in the sunlight. Birds sing and swoop to perch at table's edge, waiting for a crumb. Picnic blankets are spread on lawns, lovers resting heads in laps, watching clouds and stealing kisses. Laughter peals and ripples from group to group, that giddy sound that only a cocktail of sunshine and champagne can bring. Acoustic music wafts over the hillside and people sing in spite of themselves, suddenly unconscious of inhibition, and it's beautiful.

My husband and I had our third date at a winery. On a little patio covered with vines, dappled sun peeking down on us, he got me drunk on champagne, fed me strawberries and held my hand while we took in the sweeping view of the Augusta vineyards. It was the first of many winery trips that year, that decade, this lifetime. Eventually, I learned to love complex wines, and I learned to navigate our complex lives. But when we go back to the wineries, we're free of all that. It's just pure pleasure. No wonder the wineries call to me.

Jill of all trades

Like most folks, I'm not really an expert at anything. Music, cooking, gardening, art, photography, lit and (gasp!) "management" I am pretty darn good at, but throw me into a room full of people and I can hold my own with all but the most pretentious of the narrow minded.

At one point I'd entitled my Monster resumé "Jill Of All Trades". While a person should feel good that they know enough many about many different subjects to jump in and be useful almost anywhere, being well rounded is no longer a sought-after characteristic. Not in the job market, not in life in general it seems. Pity. Folks who are well read and have varied life and/or job experiences are far more interesting, vibrant and valuable. They provide bang for the buck at work and are more fun to have a beer with after the whistle blows. Diverse, yet well rounded coworkers can find common ground on which to build relationships with one another. This in turn creates a culture of acceptance and teamwork, something employers always say they are striving for.... but are they? Like the Tootsie Pop commercial says, the world may never know.

Today it smelled like summer

Today it smelled like summer
Heat radiating from the warm moist ground
Like the fire from my skin where last we touched.
It's been so long since the endless days
Of lying in grass and dreaming at clouds
Waiting for sunset on the water
To bring us the moon.

I cannot fear the summer
Hours of sun to heal the pain of winter
Like the time that passes to mend my jagged soul.
It's been laid open for these hard months
Of restlessness and wondering in silence
Wishing for winds on the water
To somehow bring you back.

Rain Songs

Rain. The love/hate relationship continues. Depressing, refreshing. Flowers, floods. Welcome, stop. "If the rain comes they run and hide their heads, they might as well be dead, if the rain comes....."

Since we did not have a camping trip planned for the holiday weekend, I'm a bit surprised that it rained. Usually, merely packing the tent into the truck brings on storm clouds. We've camped through a tornado in Arkansas, flash floods in the Ozarks and driving rain wind sheers that flattened the tent in Oklahoma. Canoed and kayaked in the same. We've had to find a hill to park on to tip the accumulated water out of our boats on top of the truck. Today's picnic under a park pavilion during a downpour and hail storm was just par for the course. Seems the rain and I are inextricably intertwined.

Here comes the rain again, so rock me on the water before the deluge while I listen to the rhythm of the falling rain. I'm covered in rain, 'cause the sky is cryin' like a box of rain. And it will rain when I die, when it will be the ashes, the rain and I.

You're my starlin', darlin'

My garden is full of starlings. For some unknown reason, I've developed an affinity for them. The poor things are so misunderstood. Mostly they are thought of as "pest birds" to be driven away so that the songbirds can feed. But these iridescent birds do have a song, several in fact, and can also mimic other birds and sounds like their cousins, their mynas. Mozart had a pet starling and proclaimed his song to be beautiful. I can see why.

Very late in the winter, while I was at the Botanical Garden, I heard a mysterious bird song above and just ahead. One bird. It was enchanting. When I looked to where it was coming from, there was the starling. As I drew nearer, it flew to the next tree, urging me forward. Its tune was in my head, rolling around like an unfinished symphony. I followed the starling all through the garden as the sky began to dim. At home, even now, the song is still in my mind. You're my starlin', darlin', singing to me all night long......

The girl, the cop and the grievous angel

Perhaps fueled by the warm wind through the truck windows whipping my hair asunder, or by the memory of Jeff Tweedy sporting that Nudie Suit on Saturday night, I popped "Gram Parsons Archive, Vol. 1: Live at the Avalon Ballroom 1969" into the CD player again. What a great record. Perfect for a sunset drive.

So I pull up to the stoplight singing, music blaring, and one of St. Louis City's finest pulls up along side. Oh, shit. What did I do now? Seatbelt. Check. Full stop. Check. Anything in the car that shouldn't be? Nope. I'm still singing and I do the sidelong glance. The officer is giving me a wave, but the cherries are not on. I look over and smile, hoping for the best as his shaded gaze met mine. Early 30's, looking like a Marine on leave, he smiles back. "Burrito Brothers..." he nods his approval, "All right!" The light turns, he gives a little salute-like wave and is off.

What the hell was that? Dumbfounded, I hit the accelerator. More, please.

Wilco makes me a happy girl

Wilco made me one happy girl Saturday night. Or maybe it was the Tanq & tonics..... no, well....okay, it was both. Even without those refreshing beverages, Tweedy and company played the best I've ever seen them. Perhaps I was temporarily blinded by a stray reflection off a spangle on Jeff's Nudie suit, perhaps it was still a residual high from Friday's acquisition road trip, but the night was transforming. From Misunderstood through an unexpected encore played after the house lights had already come back up, Wilco just plain rocked. No matter that the band's home base is Chicago, St. Louis fans will always claim Tweedy as their own, so every show has that homecoming audience vibe. The crowd sang and shouted along, the older the song, the more hearty the participation. Oddly, for once I did not come out of the show saying how they didn't play this or I wish they'd played that. Not that every song I wanted to hear was covered, not even close; it just did not occur to me. I was so....... satisfied. That doesn't happen very often, I'm usually just too jaded for joy. It's nice to be a happy girl.

The days are just packed

Road trip! While I detest city traffic, a road trip is another story. Some of the best times I've had have been in a vehicle between here and there, seemingly out in the middle of no where. Discovering new places, enjoying the countryside, singing with the radio, talking about nothing. The day dawned sunny and warm, the breeze was cool, the coffee hot, the Loft was playing Jackson Browne, what could be better? Off we went.

About four hours away sat the guitar I had to have. We had some time to spare. A snack here, an outdoor flea market there, the beauty of spring everywhere. And an alarming number of roadkill armadillos. We didn't used to have armadillos in this part of Missouri, but they've been migrating. Don't know how they found their way, seems they're too stupid to even get out of the way of cars. But besides all the 'possum on the half shell, there were hawks and meadowlarks, indigo buntings and owls, turkey and escaped guinea hens, all kinds of wildlife to see.

Then there was Caveman BBQ. In Richland, Mo a cave was converted into a restaurant. Very weird, very kitch, pretty amazing. The owner drives you up from the parking area through the woods, past now-defunct, old time resort cabins and up to the restaurant in a cave in a bluff over the Gasconade River. The people were nice, the food was good, but the experience was the thing. The view of the river and valley from the balcony was stunning as was the railing made of wagon and mill wheels, gears and wrenches. The owner did it all himself, a labor of love. Advancing in age, the owner wants to sell. Wish I had a winning lottery ticket.

I used to think I'd need a winning lottery ticket to own a 40-series Martin. Then again, who knew I'd ever have a "real job"? When I bought my Sigma Anniversary, it was about as much money as I had to my name. This time I did not cut it as close to the bone, being (in theory) a responsible adult. So off across the state we road tripped, and back we came with the precious cargo. It's a beautiful D-41, open and warm with incredible sustain, beefy bass and clear ringing trebles. The previous owner called it a "she", so far be it for me to attempt luthier gender reassignment. A "she" she will remain. My first girl guitar.

The Stars Align

Sometimes you just have to wait for the stars to align. For years I have lusted after the Martin of my dreams. I even wrestled with the emotion, the guilt of desire for excess. It just made me want it more. After a trip to Nashville landed me in Gruhn's, I knew it was coming on time.

The D-41 haunted me. I played D-28's. No. Tried D-35's. No. Tried other body styles like jumbos, 00, 000; no, I am definitely a dreadnought kinda gal. And the only one that would do is a 40 series. (Okay, the D-28 Marquis Madagascar was pretty darn cool, but still....) Like a woman obsessed, the shopping in earnest began. Craig's List, eBay, brick & mortar, shops all across the US with web presence, I stalked them all. The longer I looked, the more extensive the list of qualifying factors became. Maybe it was an unconsciously vain attempt to exclude myself from the market. Maybe I'm just picky. Fate intervened.

Somehow, a guitar I saw on Craig's disappeared. Then, a month later it turned up on eBay. The economy sucks, and a luxury instrument is a hard sell right now. It didn't go. This was a sign. Friday I'm driving across the state to play it. If all goes well, and I believe it will, it's coming home with me. My mid-life crisis just got a little more manageable. The stars are about to align.

Mother's Day Tribute

Hills roll very gently through the middle of Illinois. As I drive through the farmland, a feeling swells inside of me, even though I'm long since gone. It was once my home. That cannot change. Cresting over the highway horizon, the prairie opens up and welcomes me, knowing the visit will be short and loving me just the same. Illinois is like my mother, and it's there that she still lives.

Mom grew up on the farm. Acres of wheat and corn to seed, tend and harvest, animals to raise and slaughter, garden to plant, weed, gather and can to put by. It was not an easy life for a girl in Illinois at the tail end of the depression or during the war, but living on the farm was a blessing. There was food, there was family, there was church. They got by. When things improved, Grandma made sure her kids were better off than she, getting them the best education available. Mom became a nurse. Not just any nurse, an RN, which back in 1956 was something special. Starched hat complete with pin, red lined navy cape, and a profession to last a lifetime.

But she never gave up on her rural roots. After marrying and getting pregnant, she and Dad bought a small Illinois farm. Not enough to crop, but room for chickens and pigs, cows and horses, and a huge garden for her to grow vegetables for putting by. Room for me to run. And so she taught me what her mother taught her. How to work the soil, how to bake and sew, how to can up tomatoes and beans, make pickles; how to read, how to pray. These are the lessons that I will never forget, things that I cannot deny any more than the fullness of my heart as I see the waving prairie stretch before me down the highway.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom. Happy Mother's Day, Illinois.

Way down yonder in the paw-paw patch

Our friends own woods. Wonderful woods. Amazing woods. It is a pocket of solitude disguised as a subdivision. If I lived there, most of my time would probably be spent down by the creek, playing songs to the coyotes and frogs. But the woods are a lot of work, and that would be my downfall. There's trails to clear, non-native invasive vegetation to control, perennials to plant in the verge between lawn and wood, vandalism to clean up; it's a never ending labor of love that I could only aspire to. Lucky, they are happy to share their little slice of paradise with us from time to time. We were lucky enough to catch the paw-paws in all their glory of full flower. Hundreds..... no, thousands of them. Like delicate brown bells, the blooms danced in the breeze, enticing the bees and inspiring us to dream of the sweet, custardy fruit that is still many months away.
As rare as a brown flower in nature is a green one. You just don't see wild jack-in-the-pulpit every day, let alone while strolling through your own back yard. Our woods friends can do just that. I fantasized myself Georgia O'Keeffe, studying the fascinating flowers in the dappled, golden light of a fading afternoon. Graceful lines swirling around and over, sheltering its hidden prize. Sturdy and yet ephemeral, surveying the surroundings, nodding in agreement that it is good. So easy to be lost in the woods, even if only in thought.

The day was over too soon. We said our good-byes as the red tailed hawk waved from his ride on the thermals. When we return there will be a host of new treasures offered up from the wood, maybe even some freshly picked fruit. Paw-paw ice cream, anyone?

You, too, can Fumanchu

When the girl isn't busy trying to be rural, it's usually music or food that brings her out of her shell. Friday was a lucky day, it was both.

On the way to the Emily Kaitz concert at The Focal Point in Maplewood, we stumbled into the first night open of a new pan-Asian-fusion-y place called Fumanchu. I was really in the mood for "dirty Chinese" (you know, storefront fried rice of negligible origins eaten out of a greasy box while sitting someplace not quite legal), but Fumanchu's door was open so....what the hell?

It's all about the small plates, sushi, fushi (rolls made without fish) and bowls. The appetizer list is extensive, the sushi list not so much. We tried the Fumanchu sushi roll; spicy tuna, snow crab, smoked salmon & kiaware garnished with hoisin, & wasabi aioli. The spice of the tuna stood out, as did the unmistakable flavor of smoked salmon. The crab was sadly lost in the mix. Still, it was a standout munchie. As was the fushi wrap of Grilled Ginger Marinated Beef with mango cream cheese & scallions and Korean BBQ sauce. Ginger & beef always sit well together on my palate, and the fruity mellow cream cheese dually complimented those flavors. It was melt in your mouth good. Korean BBQ Pork Ribs from the appetizer list were three in number and meaty if a little dry, but the Peanut-Ginger-Lime Gremolata that they were stacked upon was the perfect Asian slaw, sweet & tangy.

Both of us being dumpling fans, we also ordered the Shumai Dumplings with pork. Opening day jitters brought us instead the Vegetarian Potstickers. That was serendipidous, as they turned out to be the better choice of the two. Not too doughy, they arrived to the table in a steamer, hot, flavorful and moist. The plum sauce was average, more than acceptable. Similarly presented, the Shumai Dumpling had a ginger-spicy pork filling, but was wrapped in a won-ton wrapper that needed more time in the steamer. It was served with Dragon Tail Sauce, which by name you'd have thought would be hot. It was satisfying, but could have been much hotter to our tastes. To make up for the error, they brought us out a complementary serving of Asian Guacamole. A fun twist on guac, using what seemed to be a pre-fab base accented with Asian herbs and spices. The fresh cilantro was welcome and the crispy won-ton chips with black sesame seeds were a nice touch, but not something I'd order again.

The endless appetizer list offered many things we would have liked to try, such as Honey Marinated Lamb Chops, Dynamite Mussels, Spicy Japanese Eggplant, Chicken Yakitori and Kobe Beef Sliders with Tempura Onion Rings. We also would have liked to try the Bowls; noodles or rice topped with beef, chicken, shrimp or tofu and a host of pick your poison ingredients and sauces, but were beginning to run out of time and still wanted to try dessert. We shared both the Ginger Creme Brulee and a Raspberry Mousse Wonton. The wonton was a bit like a sopapilla, and the raspberry mousse was as light as flavored air, not too sweet, plenty to share. The Creme Brulee was also sharing size. Its top was carmeled crisp for the fun of cracking into the creamy custard. It was very rich, even buttery, but did not have the punch of ginger that I'd expected. Still, I'd have it again.

Next time, we're going to get the Fumanchu You. "Let our chefs prepare non-menu items and favorites for you, until you can't take anymore! (Requires entire table participation) $32. per person." Oh yeah, we can eat a lot of Asian small plate stuff. Like Homer Simpson in an all you can eat do0nut shop. Scary.

Fu Man Chu seems to be a new offering from the folks that brought us BARcelona in Clayton. You'll find a full bar, tall tables, normal tables and booths in the old Grateful Grill space. Tin ceiling, old wood plank floors and that wonderful bar is still there. A lovely deck with low Asian table seating is out back and there is a host of well trained, polite wait staff eager to earn their tips. Give them a try, we're glad we did.

Of May Apples and Morels

The woods are alive in the spring with delights for all the senses. Birds greet the day with a chorus of song. Bushes bloom with perfume of lilac, azalea and viburnum. Pathways seem to be lined with every hue of flower; bluebells, tall phlox, spring beauties, trilliam, dog tooth violets, columbines, firecracker pinks and if you get down to the ground and peer under the leaves, may apple blossoms. Looking down from above, you'll miss them as they hide under the spreading umbrella of the may apple leaves. Like so many other treasures of nature, you have to know where to look.

And so it is with morels. I've never been good at finding morels, living instead off the kindness of friends who would rather share their bounty than reveal their secret hunting ground. Locally the season is almost over. Farther north should still be going after a good rain. A few years ago, morels even started showing up in select grocery stores. Well, that does take some of the fun out of it, but take advantage while the season's still here. Morels have a culture all their own; not just a distinct texture and flavor. A great deal of folklore and more than a smidgen of mysticism define the morel. They bring good fortune, they are an aphrodisiac, they insure good harvest, they make women conceive male children, dried and powdered they are in love potions and health tonics... sounds like they could save the world! Personally, I think that a little butter and garlic and a saute´pan is magic enough to save my morel world. From the forest to the kitchen, salute once more the spring.

'til we meet on the other side -G'bye, Bob Childers

Until I went to the Woody Guthrie Free Folk Festival, I knew nothing of Bob Childers or his music. I was more than saddened to hear yesterday of his passing; I felt like I'd lost a friend.

Like so many others who fell under his spell, once you dig Bob it's a forever thing. His music is honest, Red Dirt Poetry. Tinged with sadness, exuding hope, singing about life the way people live it. Call it roots, red dirt country, folk, americana, rainbow rock or what have you, Bob's songs would always hit you in the deep down spot where your soul was thirsty. Listening to his music makes you feel a little more alive, even in the wake of sadness like today.

But the music was only part of the magic of Bob, or mostly a reflection of it. He was just a damn good guy. Kind, gentle, honest, self-effacing, quick with a smile and ready to laugh, often at himself. His genuine thankfulness for those who showed appreciation for his art was touching. Any time with Bob was memorable. Woodyfest will not be the same without seeing the bleary-eyed, but reliable, Bob squinting against the Oklahoma sun at Mary Jo's Pancake Breakfast (see above photo).

Travel safely, Brother Bob. Say hi Woody for me. See you on the other side.

The Bottle Rockets Rock Record Store Day

You can't listen to The Bottle Rockets without smiling. And foot tapping. And singing along. Real people making real music that anybody who's ever spent some time livin' can relate to. So when my friend at Euclid Records told me they were doing a set there for Record Store Day.... what better way to start a Saturday?

Stripped down, they still rocked. From the lyrically challenged version of 1000 Dollar Car ("don't buy your music on the internet, just look up lyrics") all the way through to a bleary-eyed Gotta Get Up audience sing-along, the boys did what they never fail to do, make the people happy. Best of all, we were treated to one of the new, yet to be recorded songs from next year's forthcoming record. You're gonna love it. Promise.

But that was only the start of Record Store Day! Five more bands played, plus special DJ Spins and great grub from local eatery Highway 61 Roadhouse. (Which was quite fitting, since the Roadhouse occupies a building just down the street that for years housed Streetside Records, a now defunct local indie chain that I used to call home.) All this plus give aways, ear candy and goodies galore! Hey, it just warmed my heart so see so many people in a record store again. Shopping, buying, trading, chatting, it was magical. Don't let this be your only trip to your local indie record store this year! Stop in often, talk to the record schleppers, tell 'em what you like and let them turn you on to stuff you won't be able to live without. One less fancy frappuccino a week could get you a used CD that won't be gone in 22 sips and has zero calories. You can do it, I know you can, you won't regret it. See ya at the record store.

Kmart?

It's a hard habit to break. Kmart was a great place for a kid from the sticks to shop. Giant bags of fresh popped popcorn, blue frozen slushie drinks, a mechanical horse you rode for a nickel, goldfish, bouncing balls, whole aisles of cheap plastic toys..... life could not have been better for a four year old. Like Woolworth's, Kmart was the big time. The big city. Dad could buy an oil filter for the Pontiac, mom could find a new nightie, and if I was basically good but begged mercilessly, I could wind up with something to shut me up.

Over the years Kmart has remained a stop along my shopping route, picking up on-sale laundry soap here and a tee-shirt there. Martha Stewart cafe curtains still hang in my kitchen, right next to the Williams-Sonoma bowls. Doesn't bother me to mix Kmart jeans with Nordstrom sandals in the same outfit. But I do prefer to be the one doing the mixing. Today my husband and I stopped by the newly remodeled Kmart for some sale goodies and found the Internet Cafe. ??????? What sort of odd parallel universe had we stumbled into? Kmart Internet Cafe? Ooooooo, with free printing! So the hub says, "This is not Kmart." I answered, "Yes, it is." inspecting the machines. "Three stations out of six are out of order." Now that's MY Kmart.

Spring is more than a promise

When I look at the calendar I feel like spring is almost gone. Never mind that it's still arriving. Saucer Magnolias are stunning right now and my Virginia Bluebells are carpeting the shade garden in hues periwinkle and sky. Sweet man that he is, my husband picked handfuls of daffodils and hyacinth from the yard, just to cheer my day. I'd like to clear my date-book, chuck out all meetings, all responsibilities, all plans, and just live the evolution of spring. Take a sabbatical. Stare at the sky. Drink coffee on the patio and watch the birds feed. Drive to the mountains to witness the retreat of the snowline. Sit by the river and feel it swell up to my toes. Learn from Mother Earth. Breathe the quiet stars. Step away from the clock, away from the calendar. Enjoy the spring before its gone.

The Bottle

Every ring of the phone is a knife
Cutting deep, forging scars upon scars
Just when the blood had finally stopped
Now, you bring it back.

Pride is foolish, there's no virtue
To the patience that I've lost
And the honor that I've stolen
Has come at such a cost.
So I shy away at safe passage
Negotiations ill advised
Blindly running, going nowhere
And I hold the thoughts inside.

Trying hard to ignore the pain gnawing
Grinding teeth, steeling nerve against nerve
But the harder I work to forget the past
You have to bring it back.

Pride is foolish, there's no virtue
To the patience that I've lost
And the honor that I've stolen
Has come at such a cost.
So I shy away at safe passage
Negotiations ill advised
Blindly running, going nowhere
And I hold the thoughts inside.

Spring Rain

Hyacinths are blooming, perfuming my yard, my doorstep and my house. Their fragrance astounds me with its delicate beauty and endless reach. It wafts on the breeze through my bedroom window to soothe my fitful dreams then gently wake me before the sunrise. It is a scent that instantly brings a smile to my face and calms my soul.

Many years past, on a trip to Arkansas, in a strange little shop, I found a lotion called Spring Rain. I bought the shower gel and lotion as a vacation treat. Road weary, my husband and I pulled into the cheapest motel we could find in the driving rain. It was clean and quaint, a crackerbox with not much more than a bed and a shower. After a long day, any shower is welcome. The Spring Rain was heavenly. I'd never smelled anything like it. I felt restored, soothed, calm and peaceful. Outside the rain had slowed to a drizzle. All the motel dwellers had opened their doors, breathing in the scent of the fresh earth. People sat out front visiting with strangers, watching the rainbow brighten and fade. We joined them, then walked down the street and ate the best catfish ever fried. The moon lighted our path home through the puddles and the cool night air. A magic moment, a miracle day. Still, every time I use Spring Rain, I remember that day and feel that same sense of calm, the same feeling that the hyacinths bring to me. The beauty, the smile, the peace, the promise of spring.

Wilco + Fishman = Happy

Occasionally, long-time real-life friends who read my web musings express concern that I am slipping into depression. Again. The sentiment is not without credence from those who have seen me on the dark side before. It's not that bad, though, really. Some of my therapeutic journaling, songwriting, etc, tends to creep into cyberspace, making for a much more morose picture than is actually being painted. I just can't help writing in a minor key.

Today, however, today I am happy. No, not found-a-new-job happy. No, not bought-the-D-41 happy. But pretty-damn-happy happy. Yes, after selling out two shows that I did not get tickets to, Wilco added a third and Ticketmaster be damned, I have tickets in my hot little hand. We'll end up camping out in the bar for hours to snag the best gen-adm spot, but what else have I got to do on a Saturday in May? I cannot wait. This stands to be the concert highlight of the year for me, especially after listening the the astounding Winter Residency shows from the Riv this year. Wilco has never sounded better.

And now, neither have I. Part two of today's happiness equation is the new Fishman Matrix Infinity acoustic pick-up. Just when I was about to purchase an old Acoustic Matrix II, this turned up at the Winter NAMM show. Oooooh..... yeeeeeesssss. Adjustable tone & volume at the soundhole in an under-saddle pick up without hole cutting. But wait, there's more! It's re-voiced, more balanced string to string, has new switchable voicing and is far less "quacky". Had to wait until stock finally became available, then had it installed in my Sigma Anniversary along with a little neck adjusting and a new saddle, installed a forward strap button after all these years and brought it home for a trial run. It sounds like my guitar. Perfect. Or at least perfect enough. That's not an easy feat, to preserve the tonal qualities of an acoustic guitar when using an under-saddle, or any pick-up, without the aid of a mic. Fishman has done an excellent job of tweaking this thing. Playing through a Fender Acoustisonic amp, the natural qualities of my guitar shine. I like it.

Right now, I'm happy.

Ungiven

Strong but so fragile,
Protect me
When I lie down.
You say I am both
Earth and sky,
But you need more.
Beyond just water,
Sweet clear air
Is what you crave.
An ungiven gift,
Not withheld
But forgotten.
Pray we remember.

My Dad, the April Fool's Baby

Today would have been my Dad's birthday. Over twenty years now he's been gone. Finally, after all this time, the troubled teen years have faded and most memories of my father surface as warm and kind. He was 40 when I was born, already living a previous life as record rep, schelpping 78's from radio station to record store and back, then serving in the Army Air Corps.

His second life was the one I knew, as an airplane mechanic for Walston Aviation, at the time, the largest Cessna dealer in the world. His Walston service pins are still in my jewelry box. I loved the airport and I loved flying. Small craft still doesn't frighten me, they feel like home. While most kids were pretending to drive, steering from their daddy's laps, I was pretending to execute perfectly smooth touch 'n' go's from my Dad's knee. I grew up knowing about magnetos and plugs, drag and lift, and I could identify the different planes buzzing over our farm just by the sound of their engines. This was the best part of my childhood. Dreaming of the blue horizon. Dreaming of the happy times. Happy birthday, Joe.

Of fog and limoncello

Home-made limoncello is a wonderful thing. Sweet, fragrant, refreshing and all vodka. More than a little leaves those imbibing in a wonderful fog of well being and happiness. In a soft-focus world, everything is inviting, everyone is accepting, we are pretty and witty and charmed, oh my!

But beware the limoncello. Like those Long Island Teas I used to swill after a horrible day at work, you won't know what hit you until it's too late. I am a postergirl for the cause. Some, I'm sure, would say I have a problem. Mostly though, my friends and I just liked to escape once in a while, making memories dappled in fog and bright. Nights at the drive-in, sharing and sampling. All night band practice wrap-up at 4am. Concerts at an oft-visited venue where the bar-keep saw you at the door and had your drink ready before your hand was even stamped. Winery picnics on grass and patios with a single, perfect strawberry in every glass of champagne. Cooking six course meals with friends in some bizarre suicide-less recreation the The Big Chill. Sipping port and eating cheese, pears, dark chocolate and walnuts while openly weeping over the annual December airing of It's A Wonderful Life. With foggy memories so rich and sweet, why not enjoy the limoncello?

Outdoors with the trees again

Growing up, we did not have air conditioning. We had window fans or we had the shade of the great outdoors. The front yard had three Chinese elms, which often had clothesline strung between and blankets spread beneath. On the other side of the driveway, by the hand-pump well, was the sycamore tree. An immense giant shedding thin strips of bark and fuzzy balls galore. There were more, a silver maple down the drive and another outside my bedroom window, another elm by the barn, a line of poplars marching by the half acre garden and of course, the peach trees. Much of the summer was spent under the trees. Even the mending, washing and snapping of beans were hauled out to the shade. But the best use of shade was recreational. Reading, writing, playing guitar, drawing, napping.... no better place than beneath a shady tree. Until about mid-July when everything is parched and begging for mercy. Get out and enjoy some quality tree time while you can.

Wish I was more like Sinead

I wish I did not want what I haven't got.

There is no reason on earth for me to have a Martin D-41. But, oh, how I want it. Every justification imaginable has passed my thirsty lips. An investment. Resale value is killer. Wanted one since I was 14; that's 41 backwards, so fate is telling me something. The last guitar I'll ever buy. Such a deal on this used one, might never run across such a deal again. Interest sucks so bad right now that I'd make more money on the guitar's appreciation than I'm making on it in the bank. My husband has vowed not to kill me if I buy it. My truck will last at least two more years. Not much makes me happy, this would make me happy. I lost 40 lbs, here's a reward with no calories. Fits my playing style better than a D-28 or a D-35. Swear. Would not be afraid to play it like some people. Still kickin' myself hard for not pulling the trigger on the last used D-41 I passed on. Coulda, shoulda, woulda is for people who don't dream.

It makes me intensely angry that I desire a material thing this badly. Here I am trying desperately to unclutter my life and yet my greed is palatable. I am ashamed.

But I still want it.

Easter

Easter is as early as anyone living will ever see it again, so they say. The first day of spring has come and gone. Daffodils are about to burst into bloom, redbuds, forsythia and saucer magnolias are right behind. Right behind in the cold.

Tomorrow churches will be filled with little girls shivering in cute spring dresses and sandals. Overflow brunchers won't be milling about outside waiting for their table. Like a 60 degree Christmas without snow, Easter just won't seem right this year.

The spot where I had the best Easter ever is currently under water. Flood waters have engulfed the picnic grounds at Meramec State Park. The first Easter I spent with my husband, long before we married, he thought he'd take me to his church. It was a huge congregation and there was no room to attend except via closed circuit TV in the church's already packed basement. No, I said, not gonna do it. So we swung back by the house and grabbed charcoal and a cooler, tossed in wine, little baby filet mignons, beer, potato salad, chips & dip and some other stuff, and headed out to MSP. Here we were in our church clothes, drinkin' and grillin', KSHE's "Easter with the folks" blarin', frisbee flyin'. It was beautiful and warm; I kicked off my shoes, stripped off my hose and ran through the grass like a child. He told me the story of his friends' nearly doomed Easter float trip. I told him about dying eggs with onion skins, coffee, tea and beet and spinach juice. We sang with the radio, watched the river and napped on a blanket in the shade. Ever since then, I have wanted to relive that Easter. Nothing has ever come close.

C'mon, Darlin', let's go home.

It had been the worst day of his life
Beaten, without sleep, alone
His head on the table, tears would not come
Hallucinating the touch of a lost lover
As she brushed aside his hair
Gracing his neck with a forgotten kiss
As her hands teased the worry from his shoulders
He knew this was not a dream
"C'mon, Darlin', let's go home."
The anger, frustration, shame and fear
Finally flowed from his bloodshot eyes
Fists pounded, he could not shout
Save to list his failings in delirium
She grabbed the fists and held them
"Don't. Don't do this to yourself."
Gently she uncurled each clenched hand
Softly kissing first one palm, then the next
And held them to her breast.
Her gaze was absolution, her touch, redemption
"C'mon, Darlin', let's go home."
It became the best day of his life.

Someplace Else I'd Rather Be

We are prisoners of our own making. Fueled by necessity, social mores, greed and yes, even fear. As a child I was acutely aware that we were only a paycheck or two away from real poverty. This unfortunately instilled in me a need for security, much to my soul's detriment. Reliable housing, health insurance, a steady job with benefits, enough take-home pay to live without carrying credit cards balances, these are all very sensible things. All very admirable accomplishments. Still, there's someplace else I'd rather be. Security leaves very little room to take a chance. It leaves very little room for dreams. Little time for travel. Little time for living.

So I gave away my clothes.

Not all my clothes. My business wardrobe. A small step, but a first step. I finally realized that I don't ever want a job again where I have to wear suits, hose and pumps. Ever. "Business casual" is bad enough. I do not desire a career path. I desire my own path. Too bad I desire health insurance for myself and my spouse as well. Someday I hope to reconcile my conflicting desires. Until then, slog onward.

Heavy Blankets Cover Lonely Girl

The windows have been open, the days are warming. Nights are still cold, but enjoyably so. Blankets, quilts and afghans pile on the bed. As my Dad used to say, it "makes for good sleepin'." My Mom used to tell about sleeping between two feather beds at her aunt's farm. As a child my bedroom window was rarely closed, even in the deepest of winter. The night air smells of chill, earth and the river. It calms me. The layers of heavy blankets are a comfort. A friend of mine who works with special youth says that weighted blankets are a technique used to calm and settle the agitated. I can see that. I can feel that. Yes.

Finally......Spring! (Almost)

This winter has been long. Depressing. Unsettling. And now, just maybe, now it is almost over. As I was loading the bird feeders this afternoon, I almost stepped on the crocus popping up out of the snow. The sun was bright, the birds were doing that territorial singing thing, my parsley and chives showed greening in the herb garden and here stood the crocus, defiant in the face of the melting snow. Thank God.

Sure, I still have an almost irrepressible urge to call in sick from work for good, grab my guitar and run away from this life as I know it. Yes, I'm still likely to crawl into a bottle of Norton and drink myself into an evening of oblivion. And probably I've not cried my last tear for lack of knowing why. But finally, spring seems imminent. Finally, daylight savings time is here. Finally, I might write a song that's not in a minor key. Finally..... it's spring. Almost.

The Odyssean Nightmare of Plumbing

Under the sink, under the car, behind any machine, for any home repair that involves more than putty and paint I am all for hiring someone who knows what they are doing. You'd think we'd learn our lesson after 10 trips to the hardware store and days of not speaking in civil tones, but no. Every home repair, no matter how simple, turns into an Odyssean nightmare. First you fix the original problem, then the fix doesn't quite work, then you get that part figured out and in the mean time another issue uncovers itself and the process begins again. Skip the Starbucks or McDonalds for a couple of weeks and the money for the plumber will magically appear. And no one has to get mad at you for no good reason.

Now I like orchids

Being a hapless houseplant killer, I never thought much of orchids. Didn't dislike them, just never thought about them much at all. I'd see them in the indoor plant section of the garden center and say to myself, "Gee, that's pretty; wonder how long it'd take me to kill it?" But this weekend I stumbled upon the Orchid Show at the Missouri Botanical Garden. WHAT on earth was I thinking? Or not thinking? Why had I not fallen in love with orchids until now? They are fascinating. All the more so coz I know I can't grow them. I can, however, shoot them. Check out some of the enchanting flowers from the display here: Eye Spye

The Path

In front of you, in front of me, never easy
So apparent, still deceptive, so we go
Sometimes blindly, often frightened, but together
Even as one of us lags behind

And when I need to walk alone
Don't take it as a slight
It's just the way I'll always be

Walking slowly, running madly, catching breath
Hold my hand, push away, meet again
See the sunrise, sweat the midday, watch the sunset
And drink in the moon along the path

Critter Crossing

The ice and snow doesn't seem to phase most of the critters around. With all the leaves down it's even easier to spot them as they dart across the lawn. Squirrels and birds are a constant, raccoons and skunks amble through, once in a while a lost fox. I've seen coyotes in the park down the street and of course tons of deer. Enough to have venison for dinner well into May given a suburban round-up permit and a rifle or bow. Watching the critters out the kitchen window while I cook is a great pastime, but they are just too fast for me to snap. All that remains is the crosswalk.

The Grid Went Down

Sunday the wind was fierce and the grid went down. We have that problem a lot. More so since Ameren took over Union Electric a while back. They don't spend as much time maintaining the lines, trimming the trees, etc. so when the power goes out it's down for the count. Growing up in the country we expected outages to happen. A little bit of ice or wind and we'd be out for a day or more. But we prepared for the inevitable, lots of water jugs, charcoal, blankets, flashlights, kerosene lamps, books and games. Now we are so tied into the grid, what do you do? Easy for me. Light a candle, grab a guitar. Or cook up something toasty on the gas stove. And there's always many books to choose from. Sometimes I think it's good to go without the grid for a while; but I'd rather do it by choice.

I knew the bride when she used to Rock 'n' Roll

Sometimes it's hard not having kids. People seem to be waiting for an explanation. With women having babies later and later in life, well-meaning friends tell me there's "still time." Uh, no. Truth is, outside of when I was about four years old, and then a very short window of time in my early 30's, I've never wanted to have children. The maternal instinct just sort of passed me by. I have a niece, I have friends with kids, they're great and I love 'em, but it's not my gig. Maybe I'm too selfish, maybe I'm too bi-polar, maybe it just wasn't meant to be. About the only instinct I've ever felt strongly throughout my entire life is the need to be creative. And what is creativity if not a birth of sorts? Writing, painting, drawing, photography, gardening, cooking and especially music; the outcome of this, these are my children. But unless you are some famous, childless artist or rock star, people just don't get it. Not everyone can be rich and famous; not everyone should have kids.

Dan Fogelberg - Sometimes a Song.

Today I bought the "new" Dan Fogelberg single from iTunes, "Sometimes a Song". It's classic Fogelberg. Deceptively simple melody, clean guitar work, lyrics that ache with emotion, signature layered harmonies. It's one of those songs that make you smile, makes you want to cuddle up with your lover in front of the fireplace on a chilly Valentine's Day and sip a lovely glass of port. It's a bittersweet thing for me, hearing this song that he wrote for his wife for Valentines Day in 2005; knowing he had so much more music to give, grieving that the muse is now still. But Dan will live on in our hearts and minds and souls through the legacy of his music and through those he inspired as well.

100% of proceeds from all digital sales of "Sometimes a Song" will be donated to the Prostate Cancer Foundation. Untold thanks to Dan's wife, Jean, for sharing this intimate gift with all of us. Me? I'm off to learn it by tomorrow so I can pick it for my sweetheart on Valentine's Day, one Dan fan to another, because sometimes a song really is the only way to show him how much he means to me.

The Gate

Imprisoned by the undefined feeling that gnaws
Deep within the well of emotion beyond consciousness
Living where no one sees the possibility or aftermath
Of laying the forbidden bare to the sea and the sky.
Freedom is escape and escape is impossible, unthinkable
Uncomfortable silence in guilt blankets all desires
Only few have had both and paid dearly at sunset
When the gate closed as death for the very last time.

Blue Ridge Pottery Obsession

It all started when I saw a set of dishes at an antique mall back in '88 or so. Beautiful, sunny, hand-painted yellow flowers on a ripply edged plates. They wanted $280.00 for an incomplete set. It spoke to my re-emerging ruralness, to the carefree country girl stuck in the city. I loved it. I had to have it. But I also had to have car insurance, so it stayed in the booth. I flipped the plate over and wrote down what was stamped on the back. "Blue Ridge. Hand Painted. Underglaze. Southern Potteries, Inc. Made in USA." Complete with a mountain and a little pine tree. Thus began my obsession. I bought a collector's guide and scoured flea markets, antique malls, yard and estate sales. Now my world is filled with over 50 different designs, from my original beloved "Sunny" on a Colonial plate, to this maple leaf china cake tray in "Tussie Mussie". Back before the eBay boom, plates went for as much as $10. to $25. each. Now, like much of the collectibles market, not so much. Still, I look for Blue Ridge everywhere. Like the Kovels say, "Buy what you love." Yep, I love it.