Going going gone

Nine days of escape, dodging hurricanes, gettin' on the water in between. Beaches and mother ocean, exotic flora, greedy birds and sunshine. Time to relax, play some music and embody the spirit of Margaritaville. But I can't be ready. Something is just not right. I must be forgetting something coz I'm finished packing and there's still room......

Forbidden Fruit

Apples. I got apples. Two little trees, loaded. Never have these trees set this much fruit. Ever since I planted them about five years ago, I tried to do everything right for them. I bought all organic sprays. Before bud I sprayed this, after flower it was that, while maturing something else was squirted on. And I got a few apples here and there. Last year the late spring hard frost killed most of the crop set, so maybe they'd just stored up a lot of energy for this year. Or maybe the bees just did a better job of pollinating. It sure wasn't my crop management, because I was busy and fell down on my job. No sprays, no feeding, no nothing. I kinda ignored them. And now look! Boughs are bending, two limbs even cracked and had to be removed. That not quite mature fruit was cooked down into apple butter. The rest seem to be hanging in there. The greenish yellow one is called Winter Banana. It has a mild, sweet, softer flesh. The red ones are Arkansas Black. Tart, very firm, a great keeper. Together, these heirloom varieties make an amazingly delicious pie. Is there any better use of an apple than pie? I don't think so.

Point of reference

Sometimes it gets lonely when no one around you shares any of your points of reference. For most of my adult life, the people I worked and socialized with happily shared at least one point of reference. Even though we were all different ages, races and economic backgrounds, music brought us together in a common thread. With that music came a certain view of history and pop culture, touchstones one and all.

For example, my husband and I caught part of the Democratic National Convention and the governor of Montana had just given a speech. Commentators were reviewing it, talking about how Montana will matter this year. My husband quipped, "Of course it will matter, where else will we get dental floss?" Without even a pause, I added, "Or pygmy ponies." Anyone at all even vaguely familiar with Frank Zappa would have said something similar and laughed just like we did. That same comment where I now work would have branded me even stranger than they already think I am. Beware, crazy musician in cube C674.

Beware: crazy, lonely, misunderstood musician with a wry wit trapped in cube C674.

What if?

Yesterday a friend said to me, "What if we all did whatever we loved to do and got paid for it?" Indeed. But who loves to clean the sewer? And get paid what? Enough? Even more perplexing, what do I love to do? Or rather, which of the things that I love to do? Seems so simple a plan, yet sadly, destined to fail. Actually, I do know people who like to do jobs others detest. One friend likes to iron. Really. I know, I don't get it either. Another enjoys cleaning. Unfortunately, there's not enough money or benefits to be made, so it's on to the cube farm. Very complicated. And once your passion becomes your meal ticket, will it continue to hold the same fascination? Do you pick something to grow into? Or something you may grow out of? Would you be allowed to change? I do have this ideal world, rural communal living sort of fantasy that rolls around in the back of my head whenever my job gets to be too much. Even there, someone would have to do the septic tank clean out. After all, how many musicians does one commune need?

Promises made, promises broken

Most of the promises I make to other people are kept. Most of the promises made to myself are promises broken. As a girl child raised Catholic, it is ingrained in your being that your concerns come last. Not that the nuns ever really said as much, they didn't have to. The system was geared toward the old ways. Years of that upbringing do not fall away easily, even after pop psychology, logic, rebellion and soul searching. There is a line somewhere between service and subservient. Giving of yourself to others is admirable, but there has to be something left there to give. Sometimes I feel all given out. So I'm making a renewed effort to keep some promises to myself. Quand je parle français comme j'ai fait dans l'université, je vous ferai savoir.

Today I prayed for courage.

Dictionary.com defines courage as:
courage–noun
1. the quality of mind or spirit that enables a person to face difficulty, danger, pain, etc., without fear; bravery.
2. Obsolete. the heart as the source of emotion. c.1300, from O.Fr. corage, from V.L. *coraticum, from L. cor "heart," which remains a common metaphor for inner strength. In M.E., used broadly for "what is in one's mind or thoughts," hence "bravery," but also "wrath, pride, confidence, lustiness," or any sort of inclination. Replaced O.E. ellen, which also meant "zeal, strength."
—Idiom
3. have the courage of one's convictions, to act in accordance with one's beliefs, esp. in spite of criticism.

Usually, I do not pray for myself. So many other people in the world need prayers, good karma and positive energy sent their way. Struggling friends, ill family, war-torn countries, oppressed nations, the list is endless. Most often, I pray for peace and for the environment, figuring that if those two most global of problems were solved, everything else would just follow suit. Today was different. In a fit of desperate frustration, my mind silently cried out, “God, give me courage!” Courage to be who I am. Courage to follow my heart. Courage to say no. Courage to ask for help. Courage to forgive myself. Courage to pursue dreams.

Why courage? Because everything starts with one step, a hard step. The step that someone carved the words “Shoulda Coulda Woulda” into before the concrete dried. The step shrouded in fear. The step that’s wobbly, but the only way to cross the path. Courage moves feet, both physically and metaphorically. When faith and love need a push, courage does it.
So today, yes, today I prayed for courage.

Train, train

Through the drizzle, under the moody sky, here comes my train. It was early this day. Usually if I'm coming home around 8:45, it's scuttling back and forth across the road, moving cars from track to track in and out of the chemical plant. The gates come down, I stop, I stare. Over the years here, I've see it so often that I've claimed it as my own.

Trains are another of the many fascinations haunting the recesses of my mind. As a child in bed I could hear the train's whistle through the darkness as it crossed the county trestle, making its way from Edwardsville and Winchester to East St. Louis. In the spring and fall when my windows are open to the night, that same whistle blows down by the river. Besides the lonely sound epitomized in song after song, trains are a history. The old cars and engines are gigantic antiques, telling stories of hard work, pain and romance. In the blink of an eye, I can while away hours at the Museum of Transport in St. Louis County. Climbing on old steam and diesel engines like the child I am in my heart, I take pictures and daydream about a time when life was both harder and simpler. As with many other romanticized views of the past, it is most likely inaccurate, but then it wouldn't be a dream, would it? So go away, leave my train alone; let us have our fun.

Does it play in Peroia?

Wednesday, Dan Fogelberg's birthday, dawned a beautiful midwestern summer day. An uncommon day for August, the morning was cool, the breeze was gentle, and I was filled with the freedom that a weekday off work on a such brilliant morning provides. Guitar, CD's and coffee in hand, I headed North to Peoria. Why? Who knows. It seemed fitting. Decades had passed since I last saw Peoria in 1982. While everything around it has changed, the Illinois River remains a constant, just like the Mississippi of my childhood.

Having had enough of tall buildings and concrete, I escaped to a park outside of town, spread my blanket under a comfy tree, played to the river and did some thinking. What do I value? What makes me whole? What is it I am waiting for? Why? Why...... The answers held more truth than I was accustomed to hearing from myself, but in its very speaking, part of the weight I'd been carrying for so long was lifted from my shoulders. I needed to believe.

With that moment of catharsis, I headed off to a local winery for a late lunch. Red wine, cheese and bread, then playing more music on the patio. No one minded, no one knew or cared that I had not really played out in years. They hummed along, some sang with the older tunes. We did indeed drink a toast to innocence, to Dan, to time. Then at 5:30 (6:30 EST) I played the song I'd been saving all day, "The Reach". Someone whispered, "I love this song." Harmony ascended and as if on que, the golden late afternoon sun kissed the arbor, setting everything aglow. It was magic.

Back on the road, I took the long way home. It was a sunset to savor, a day to relish. Unbeknownst to him, Dan gave me a lot of gifts in his lifetime. Now even from beyond, he gave me one more. Thank you, Dan. Happy Birthday.

Recipe or Song?

As I stood peering into the fridge pondering dinner, I was hit with the realization that cooking and songwriting are familial beasts. Besides both being a creative outlet, the process can be surprisingly similar. Indulge me.

First, possession of some basic knowledge is necessary. You've learned other people's songs, you've cooked recipes from a cookbook. Then you have an idea, something inspires you. Nature, heartbreak, leftover roast beef. A lyric or melody rolls around in your head; you play it, repeat it, tweak it, refine it. You dig through the pantry, tasting and adding layers of flavor as one ingredient is transformed into a meal. The more you play your song, the better it becomes. If you're lucky, when you sing it for someone, they'll beam and want to hear more. Each time you cook the new dish, hopefully, it is received with praise and satisfaction. People ask you to cook it again. Comes a time when someone wants to learn your song. Perhaps you write it down, maybe they jam with you until they've got it down. When asked for the recipe of your new culinary creation, you have to measure out the ingredients and write instructions or have them join you in the kitchen to learn by your side. Next time, in someone else's hands, your song or recipe is never quite the same. It could be better, it may pale in comparison, but it is an honor that someone enjoyed it enough to make it their own.

So while I sing Guy Clark's "Homegrown Tomatoes", I'll be pickling them, too.

Pickled Green Tomatoes
5 - 6 lbs of hard green tomatoes
3 heads of garlic
12 fronds or sprigs of fresh dill
1 carton of pickling lime
12 pint canning jars w/ lids and rings
For Brine
2 quarts water
1 quart vinegar (at least 5% acidity)
1 cup pickling or kosher salt (must not contain iodine)
6 tbs picking spice

-Wash and halve or quarter tomatoes. Use only ones not beginning to turn.
-Follow instruction on picking lime carton and soak tomatoes overnight in lime solution. (This is how they keep their crunch.) Thoroughly rinse at least 3 times. Lime is caustic, so take care not to splash and wash up afterwards.
-Put brine ingredients in a non-reactive pot and bring to boil.
-Pack tomatoes, garlic and dill into sterilized jars. Want hot? Add a hot pepper to the jar.
-Using a canning funnel, fill jars with brine to within a 1/4 inch of top.
-Release any bubbles in the jar with a knife or chopstick and wipe rim w/ damp towel.
-Put on lids and screw on rings until finger-tight.
-Process in a waterbath open kettle canner for 10 - 15 minutes. Remove with canning tongs.
-Set on counter to cool, when you hear them "ping" they are sealed.
-When cool, store for 6 weeks for full pickling, then enjoy!

If you are new to canning, pick up a Ball Blue Book. It is the best guide to home canning and freezing that's out there. Even if you learned at mom's side, give it a read.

Yet another tribute to Dan Fogelberg

Wednesday Aug. 13 would have been Dan Fogelberg's 57th birthday. No doubt he would have spent it sailing the Reach and points beyond. In concert, he often introduced his song "The Reach" by saying "this one here, folks, is one of my very favorites."


As written here before, Dan's music was often the soundtrack to my life. Wednesday will be no different. I'll pass it with friends, we'll sing his songs and our songs. Stories will be told, memories will be shared. This will be one of them:

A few days after Dan’s passing, Mike Marone did a special tribute show on “The Loft” on XM Radio. Dan’s songs, remembrances, interview clips, it was very poignant; you could tell he was a fan. It was dark, about 7pm, the snow was falling, I was driving somewhere. I never made it. I was crying so hard that I had to pull over in a grocery parking lot and sit there listening. After the show, I still could not move. The snow was coming heavy. Big, fluffy, beautiful snow, the kind that blankets everything in silence, the kind I love to walk in. So out I walked. It was calming, the Christmas lights twinkled, I bought a coffee and headed back to my truck. This is what I wrote, sitting there, watching the world turn white.

Songs On The Radio

There was a time when I gave my heart
With the innocence of a child
Thought it had been set aside
But I was wrong
So I grieve and cry as snow falls
Emptiness so hard to bear
Surrounded by the quiet
And his songs

Songs on the radio
Memories in my head
Tears fall on the steering wheel
Pulling over again
This man was not my lover
My family or my friend
Yet somehow he was all of these
How can this be the end?

Now the dreams I have are haunted
By an angel or a ghost
And the pain is there still heavy
In my chest
So I sing his songs in darkness
While I cradle my guitar
It will be dawn before I stop
And finally rest

Songs on the radio
Memories in my head
Tears fall on the steering wheel
Pulling over again
This man was not my lover
My family or my friend
But somehow he was all of these
How can this be the end?
Please don’t let this be the end.

She's back, but where is home?

My best friend called to tell me she was back; carefully or unconsciously she avoided the word "home". After a stint down South, her plans for the West coast were foiled, so back to the Midwest she came. It's where her family is, it's where some friends are, but as to being her home? If in her heart she can name her home, it would find me surprised.

Though she speaks fondly of many places she's lived, she has moved on. Some of those points North were home after a while, now they do not have that draw. At one point she expressed envy of my staid existence, the husband, the house, the mortgage, the steady job. At the same time my disquietude rose to the surface. Classic case of other side of the fence? Probably not. We've both been restless spirits, but forces of circumstance and emotion forged different paths. Still, we both wrestle with our demons. Still we console ourselves with art. Still we search. From the deepest corners of our souls, the question escapes: where is home?

Summer, slow down!

The dog days of August have barely just begun and I am already lamenting the passing of summer. There is a solid month left, plus most of September is nearly fit for swimming these days. Still, between work and other obligations, precious little time remains for weekend get-aways along a pristine river or hiding in deep forest shade. I desperately crave the water; my body aches to feel its calming caress, to hear its ageless song. A niche has to be carved out of time; requests for presence denied, everything else set aside. Damn it all. Damn it all and go down to the river. Somehow, some way, my soul will be restored.

Woodyfest Find #3

Anthony da Costa keeps winning awards. Last year he won both the Kerrville Folk Festival's New Folk competition and Falcon Ridge's Emerging Artist award. Little wonder. Riding home from Woodyfest, listening to his CD, my husband says, "That's amazing that he can write like that and he's what, 17?" I had to remind him that Jackson Browne wrote "These Days" when he was the same age. Some people just have "the gift". Add Anthony to the list.

Showcasing down at the Brickstreet, Anthony played an impressive set. Songs of love, loss, music and political relevance mixed with easy stage banter that eludes most younger artists. His sense of humor showed through and personally, I really like that. But what really blew the crowd away was his cover of "Draft Dodger Rag" at the Phil Ochs Tribute set on the main stage. He learned the song just that afternoon and nailed it that night, solid. The delivery was perfect, reality injected with wry humor. Phil's sister, Sonny Ochs, just beamed. He did Phil proud. Keep an eye on Anthony da Costa, we're going to be hearing a lot from this prolific, gifted young musician.

Lonely, but not alone

As evidenced by previous posts, I'm prone to being a victim of my moods. This morning something snapped, heading into church no less. I found that no matter how I tried, I could not pay attention to the readings. My consciousness drifted in and out of the sermon. Like a child, I drew pictures of wildflowers on the bulletin. Here I was, surrounded by people who really do care about me, escorted by a most loving spouse, yet in the mist of all this, the intensity of my loneliness was like a weight on my heart. While I recognized the emotion, the feeling of isolation, the reaction of withdrawal; it's something I was unable to shake. Perhaps it will wane in slumber. Perhaps it won't last. But how? Why? I'm tired; I'm torn. It's with me still.

Woodyfest Find #2

Jimmy Davis has been around a lot longer than that baby face of his leads you to believe. His album debut was back in 1987 and he hasn't looked back. Jimmy camps along his tour; saves money, meets people, sings and writes inspired by surroundings, memories, histories, imagination and new friends along the way. Sounds like a perfect fit for Woodyfest, doesn't he?

Jimmy was a Woodyfest virgin when he hit The Brickstreet stage on Thursday. Tough slot, Thursday afternoon. The weekend not quite started, hardcore festival goers filling the venue. With just his trusty Martin and the mandatory abbreviated set list, he stunned the crowd and left them wanting more. A natural storyteller, he regaled us with stories of his family and the inspiration sparked from talking to Jim Dandy as intros between songs. That storytelling flare shines through his songs as well. Vingnettes draw you in until you want to snuggle under his grandmother's quilt, or hide out in the Devil's Den like one of his characters. Besides crafting some great songs, the man can play. All too often solo acoustic players have a timid or sloppy attack; Jimmy's knows better. He's a seasoned and strong musician who knows when to charm a note or nail a chord. It was a pleasure to be introduced to his music. I know I'm in line for Jimmy Daddy's Acoustic Songs II. Check out Jimmy's tour schedule and if he's in your town, don't miss him!

4th of July

Sometime between work, drive, and Woodyfest, there was the 4th of July. Amazingly, the 'fireworks' setting on my little Optio W30 really does work when you use a beach chair umbrella as a monopod. The fireworks at my friends' party out in the country were pretty astounding. They couldn't even fit the booty in a wheelbarrow to get it down the road to shoot off.... no, it was such a cache that they had to take the pickup. It was better than many of the fireworks displays put on by my hometown when I was a kid.

Bethalto used to have a "homecoming" fair on Labor Day weekend and a some-other-kind of fair over 4th of July. I guess it still does. Midway, games, mud, wood chips, funnel cakes, contests, etc. Our church always had this big food and beer booth (Catholic, of course) and ladies from the 140 Club would fry up about a million of their famous chickens to serve. Parishioners were expected to donate either their first fresh tomatoes to sell as sides or their first born children to serve and clean. Like bingo slave duty and mandatory fashion show babysitting, I mostly got out of having to help, being the precociously mouthed wild card that I was. Unfortunately, the tomatoes were sacrificed for our Lord's luncheon sales. This left me time to ride the tilt-a-whirl and play skee ball until my money was gone, then sneak off to the arboretum to hang out under my favorite trees and read, write or sketch until it was time for the fireworks. Poor little fireworks. A few roman candles and about eight sky-worthy shells; maybe a few peonys and if we were lucky a couple of spiders. But it was what we had and we ooooo-ed and aaaaaahhh-ed like it was New Years in Chinatown. Sometimes, I guess it's okay not to know any better, if only to preserve what's left of the magic.

Woodyfest Find #1

One of my favorite things about the Woody Guthrie Free Folk Festival is discovering new artists. Could be someone truly new, just on their first record. Could be someone who's been around for a while, but under my radar. Could even be someone who's been at the fest before, but had a gig at the same time I was working or seeing someone else at a different venue. No matter what the situation, I always drive home listening to CD's by folks I'd never listened to before. This year was no exception, the new crop was fresh and tasty! Here's the first find that totally blew me away.

Alexinder Gunn is just 21 years old, but writes like he's lived a lifetime or two already. Maybe he has an old soul, maybe it's other-worldly wisdom, but he sure has a lot to say and I am happy to listen. His songs can be ethereal, touching, achingly sad and full of heartfelt hope all at the same time. "I Know Your Here (A Song to Woody Guthrie)" is his fitting tribute to one of his many influences. It captures how many a musician feels, especially at Woodyfest. Listening to Alexinder, you know he is real; you can hear where the music comes from. When you watch him play, and he closes his eyes and slightly tilts back his head to hit that high note, you are captivated by his voice and emotion; drawn in to his world. And you won't want to leave. Click on the link above to check out some of his tunes. You will not be disappointed.

Happy Birthday ,Woody! aka Woodyfest: part 1

Been gone so long..... not long enough.

The Woody Guthrie Free Folk Festival was blessed by weird magic this year. Most folks suppose that Woody and Bob Childers were up there arranging it. "Oh, c'mon, God, give 'em a break, it's Woody's birthday for, uh... your sake!" At any rate, juju aside, The rain came and went, came and went again, and for five days the show always went on. From the beginning Wednesday night with Country Joe McDonald's Woody Guthrie Tribute, (and yes, the encore was indeed THE cheer and Rag), straight through to Judy Collins' ethereal main stage wrap-up set, and Sunday's "Hoot for Huntington's", there was good luck, great music and wonderful friends. Saw lots of Woodyfest first timers that we hope will be back next year, and hung out with long time once-a-year buddies, catching up, talking shop and sharing memories. Photos from the fest will be posted on Eye Spye and more stories from Okemah to come.

Back to the real world. Dang.

Blogging off to festival land

It's that time of year, July. Hottest month of the year. Hey, I have an idea! Let's go to Oklahoma where it's even hotter.... Yeah, I thought these people were crazy, holding a five day music festival in a hot state, in a hot month; you can just see the glue melting on those acoustics' bridges. But then I went. Woodyfest is different. It's free except for camping or evening outdoor venue parking and the artists all donate their time, only travel and lodging are paid. It's a labor of love in the name of Woody Guthrie. Held in Woody's home town of Okemah, the whole thing is a trip. Though small by folk fest standards, it's perfect for what it is and the time and space available. Three main venues and a fourth for ongoing open mic, main campground pickin' all night long, quieter lakeside camping, and friendly people everywhere. Really friendly. Amazingly friendly. Did I say they were friendly? Not quiet used to that living in the city. So if you wander on down to Woodyfest next week to see Judy Collins, Country Joe McDonald, John Gorka and a host of regular, rotating and new artists, you will be counted as friends. Not to mention have one hell of a good time. Stop by the CD sales booth and say hey, that's where I'll be. Until post-fest, summer up!

This Old Guitar

Most players have an outdoor or camping guitar. It's "the beater". Already mojo'd up with dings and scrapes, another would only add to its character. Mine is my oldest guitar, a late '60's or very early '70's "Jadee". My parents bought it for me already well used back in '75 or '76; my first cannon. A Gibson Hummingbird copy, a big dread with a big sound. Back then I didn't know a lot about guitars, except that mine sounded a lot better than most of my friends'. Now I know why.

Extensive internet searches have brought up nothing for the Jadee moniker, but the history of Japanese copy guitars of that era is getting to be well documented. This guitar is solid top, back and sides, grain goes all the way through, no laminates. Adjustable bridge, like many early Sigmas, typical of that period. Logo and decoration all inlaid mother of pearl. The headstock still has the Gibson mustache, so it is said to be pre-lawsuit. Interestingly, the label, while stating "Made in Japan," also says, "Constructor de Guitarras. Jadee. Modelo No 684.6". Made for a Spanish speaking market? Or like the Ibanez, just trying not to be so Asian? Many factories were putting out amazing product during this "golden age" of Japanese production, guitars that blew the socks off of the lesser entry-level price point instruments made in the US.

But the best feature is how it still plays. The action has always been low, the neck profile slim as well. It's always sounded warm; matter of fact, that's how I got into buying D'Addario Phosphor Bronze strings, to edge up its brightness. After all these years, the bridge was just beginning to lift, so earlier this year I took it in for a glue job and had new tuners, a new saddle, and some fret replacement done. Probably spent as much on it as my parents originally paid for it. A total bargain. While I love my Martin, my Sigma, my Ovation and even that 2 x 4 of a Fender 12-string, this old guitar has a part of my heart. Don't think I'll ever let it go.

Love of the game

Baseball is not my game, but I respect it. I understand why people are into baseball. Having played ball in school, I certainly understand the players' love of the game. And that is what you get to experience at a independent league game; you feel their love of the game. They play their hearts out, hoping for a break, not making much money, and loving it.

Last night the Gateway Grizzlies played the Evansville Otters. It was a hitter's delight, 24 between them both. Not that the pitching was poor, it wasn't, these guys were just connecting like crazy. We were right on the third base line, and in Frontier League parks, that means you're just a few feet from the action. Even for someone like me, who usually finds watching baseball to be slow and tedious, when you can watch the players' faces, hear their chatter, feel the energy as they round third and their disappointment as the pop fly that was lost in the lights is miraculously caught, well, the game takes on a new angle. It's like you're part of it. It makes you love the game.

If you've never been to an independent league game, or a farm club series, find one near you and spend the evening in fun and amazement. There's games, raffles, sometimes music, give-aways, the food and beer is cheaper, (BTW, the food at the the Grizzlies home, GCS Stadium, is way above average. Get the pulled pork or pulled chicken nachos, yum!) there's stuff for the kiddies to do, and of course team swag to buy so you can share your new-found passion. You won't be disappointed.

Can I have some of your purple berries?

Years ago I planted a row of blackberry slips along the fence in our backyard. Now they are a thicket. Even though I prune out the old canes and train the new ones on trellises, it’s hard to keep up. On a summer day I’d swear you can actually see the shoots growing, trailing their way along the ground. It’s always a desperate chase to catch them before they are set in their ways.

Last year there was a killing frost in April. Not many berries. This year they seem to be making up for lost time. In spring the briar had so many blossoms that it looked to be covered in snow. Now the vines are heavy with fruit. Blackberries ripen in succession; at first just a very few to tease the taste buds. Then the fruit begins to flush. Every other evening, an hour of my time is devoted the berry patch. Glossy, black fruit hides under leaves, eluding all but the most thorough examinations. The quiet time lets the mind wander, songs with berries bubble up and I sing to the birds as I pick. Wooden Ships, Blackberry Wine, Raspberry Beret, and tunes of my own making about thorny briar berries. It is relaxing, it is itchy, it is tasty. By the time I’ve finished, my hands and lips are purple, just as they were as a child when I picked boysenberries and ate more than I brought home. Now there’s more in my basket than my belly. Berries for ice cream, berries for trifle and berries for pie. Especially pie. Mmmmmm. Pie.

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.