Damn you, full moon

Sometimes the full moon is not to be trusted. Will it inspire poetry or song? Will it push the ungrounded to murder? Or will it lurk just beyond the clouds, silently coercing stones to weep? The full moon is volatile. It always captures my imagination.

Many younger nights were spent in the shadow of the full moon, haunting back roads and graveyards. The headstones fascinated us, names and dates, beloved sister, mother, son. We told stories of imagined history, unrequited love, deaths both grisly and noble. Our backs against the cold ground, staring up at the moon, our minds were free to wander. Through the ages, through time and space, into our futures, beyond our past. Would the full moon take our breath if we dared to nod in slumber? Or would our souls seep from us into the graves below, forever intertwined? Damn you, full moon. Give me back my soul. Damn you, full moon. Give me back my youth.

Indian Summer: Forest Park Waterfall

Like a cormorant poses to dry his wings, I sat with my toes spread wide in the sun, waiting for my feet to be dry again. A long bout of wading had left them chilly and pruned, but oh, so happy. It was a glorious afternoon to be perched by a waterfall, even a man made one. The water still streaks and rushes, the sun is still golden and warm. Pine trees still cling to the island, the birds and cicadas still sing their songs. It's a refuge someone made, someone homesick for the mountains. A stream of dreams; if you build it, they will come. And they do. Seldom am I alone here, but I am glad to share. Share the kind wind, the joyful water, the lovely pines, the wonder and the peace of the city's waterfall.

This little piggy went to market

It’s true, I am pinkily challenged. Not only do I come by short pinkies genetically, but as a child, a precocious, stubborn, oblivious child, I made my way through a baby-gate and onto our farmhouse’s hot floor furnace grate. My left pinky bears the remaining scar from the burn, a scar that prevented full growth and turns the finger slightly inward. Usually I don’t think about my pinky. Why should I? I’m happy to be in possession of all my digits, considering the alternative. But sometimes, oh, I wish that pinky was longer! A couple of nights ago I went to see Lindsey Buckingham. The man has such a unique style. During his solo songs I went down front to stand and stare, watching his hands as they danced over the strings. While it’s his right hand work that puts him into the amazing guitar category, my hand ached as he easily reached a five fret stretch. I looked down at my left hand that had inadvertently tried to follow and make the pattern as I studied. The guy next to me, another player, was doing the same. “Damn, you’re gonna have to cheat that,” he said, “You got a pinky problem.” Yup. Tune it down, capo it up, cheat like hell, or pick a different song……

Gord's still gold

As I stopped in the middle aisle of the Fox Theatre, I almost felt the need to genuflect before taking my seat. Gordon Lightfoot was present. Gordon was a major influence on those of us who travel in the acoustic / folk / rock vein. Along with the other early influences of Dylan, Joni, CSN and Neil, he inspired us, and our subsequent heroes, with lyrics ranging from poetry to literature and showed us the power of acoustic rooted music. Nearly seventy, Gord’s still gold. His voice has worn, but is still expressive, and the less-is-more arrangements allowed his lyrics and melodies to sparkle. My husband lamented the lack of “Canadian Railroad Trilogy” in the set, but I was more than delighted to hear an emotionally wrenching version of "Song for a Winter's Night". The night was moving, driving me to pull out records I'd not listened to in years. The songs are still relavent, still full of strength and beauty, still inspiring. I should have genuflected, yes, I should have.

Autumn knocks

"The first breath of autumn blows through the trees....." (D.F. 2003) And I am both saddened and expectant. Every year I mourn the passing of summer. The long days, the sultry nights, the garden, the river, the seemingly eternal twilight. But when autumn knocks, it is a door that must be opened. Evenings are chilly, the air smells crisp, yet days are still warm enough abandon shoes and wade in the stream. The sun has gone golden, softening shadows that lengthen before our eyes. It makes me want to nap in the sunlight and purr. Soon there will be carpets of leaves to wade through instead of water and darkness will come to claim its increasingly early hold. Time to light the candles and the fire, pour the port and break the chocolate, time to sing the songs of autumn.

Way down yonder in the paw paw patch redeux

The paw paws are ripe. Our friends’ woods are yielding sticky messes of them now. You shake the trees, they fall from the sky and if you’re lucky they don’t split as they hit you or the ground. Ones picked off the trees are just a tad under ripe, ones that have been on the ground a while are often suspect. Ugly things, greenish brown and splotchy and the point between ripe and spoiled is a fine one. A perfect paw paw should be firm but not hard, give to pressure yet not be mushy and have a heady fragrance. In theory, you are supposed to be able to cut open the fruit and scoop out the flesh. However, like my other favorite forest-gathered treat, the persimmon, paw paws have many seeds and the flesh tends to cling. So scoop if you want, but the best way to get all the pulp off the seeds is with your fingers. Once all the work is done, though, the reward is sweet. The flesh is custard yellow, soft and distinctly tropical. Imagine mango mixed with a little banana, cream and just a hint of pineapple. It’s creamy, rich and leaves a sparkly feel in your mouth. While there are an increasing number of paw paw recipes out there, they are perhaps best eaten fresh to savor a flavor like no other. If you have too many, the seeded flesh can be frozen. Or better yet, live on the wild side and make some paw paw ice cream. Mmmmmmm.

Paw Paw Ice Cream
3 cups whole milk
3 cups cream or half-and-half
3 cups granulated sugar
3 lemons, juiced
3 oranges, juiced
2 cups mashed paw paws

Mix together milk, cream and sugar. Place ingredients in ice cream freezer and turn until mushy. Add the juice of lemons and oranges and mashed paw paws. Turn freezer until frozen, then let stand one hour and pack freezer. Enjoy!

Plant & Krauss

You can take Robert Plant out of Led Zeppelin, but you can't take the Led Zeppelin out of Robert Plant. Tonight at the Fox Theatre in St. Louis, a restrained Plant showed us why a Led Zeppelin without him would be a bad idea indeed. Even in the understated environment of the Raising Sand tour, he posed and postured, waved the mic stand and once even managed to sling the mic. At times he looked like he was going to break out of his skin, about to kick, gesture grandly, wail like a banshee or dance, but all that was mostly held back, much to the dismay of STL's classic rock mecca inhabitants. No matter, as the music was the thing.

Plant and Krauss have an odd chemistry. Their voices melt together finely, sometimes changing character so much as to lose distinction. Much of Raising Sand constructed the set, showcasing this vocal phenomenon. Their version of "Killing The Blues" is possibly the best cover of it ever, and tonight it was note-perfect. The one- two punch of "Please Read The Letter" and "Gone Gone Gone" hit the audience with both band and vocal excellence that left everyone smiling. Some of the best moments, though, were when they helped each other shine. Alison Krauss was stunning on "Down To The River To Pray", aided in lush harmony by Plant, Stuart Duncan and Buddy Miller. And girl still plays a mean fiddle. A reworked "Black Dog" was spooky, "Battle of Evermore" seemed to be the night's fan favorite. They could have played all night, as far as this fan is concerned. When you have royalty creating magic, everything is never enough.

Mast To My Sail

The mast to my sail, I depend on your strength
Hold me up, let me breathe in the morning sun
And I will urge you on.

The anchor to my wave, I need your focus
End my aimless drifting, let me rest safely
And I will rock you gently.

The sky to my cloud, you are my only home
In you I live, let me dapple shadow and light
And I will adorn you.

The life to my heart, we were destined to be
In sky and stars, let me be with you always
And I will love you

Billboards and Greenbar

Since returning from vacation, I've sort of been working on the house. We have way too much stuff and it needs cleared and organized. Last night I was sitting on the floor of the living room sifting through a box of old magazines and papers. It's something I hate to do; it leaves me emotionally spent. Perhaps this is why it never gets done. Finding a stack of long expired business cards welled my eyes with tears. Today I tackled another trunk filled with useless memories. Under the first layers of outdated spare mac parts and manuals lay some of the last vestiges of my previous employment: reams of greenbar computer paper and stacks of Billboard magazines. Reports, data overload, financials for a business long gone, a calendar with in-store appearence dates marked, upcoming release and concert information, a Chris Isaak backstage pass, charts scribbled with circles and stock counts, it was like a music retail archeological dig. Most of it will be gone when the recyling is picked up, as if Pandora's Box had never been opened.

Sometimes I wish I could erase my past, other times I enjoy a good cry or a hearty laugh. I guess I should be thankful that I can remember it at all.

Sittin' On The Dock Of The Bay

Watching the sun set, dangling feet, scolding birds. I could have stayed until all the stars came out, but my friends drew me away to walk off dinner on the beach. As the sky darkened, we crossed the dunes. There was a ring around the moon that lit our way down to the water. White caps rolled in over my ankles. Salt kissed my cheeks. We stood staring at the sea, mesmerized. It became a part of us as the night surrounded us, a velvet blanket of crashing sound and mist. Finally, we tore ourselves away. I wish I could have stayed.

Broken yet perfect

The beach was littered with broken shells. Abalone glowed in shards of pearl, tangerine, gold and green. Sand dollars made nothing but change. One small piece of what was once a tremendous shell had been tumbled by the sea into a smooth rock. Everywhere I walked lay beautiful, broken homes. They begged a story like remains of pottery found at the site of an ancient city. Where did they come from? What was inside? Why did it break? These natural vessels of white and tan, russet and cream that churned with each breaking wave were a constant source of fascination. The closer I looked, the deeper I could see. Such fragile beauty, so complete in their imperfection, broken yet perfect. Just like us.

Changes in latitude

Sailing off the coast of Florida.... now that's a vacation. I am blessed with friends and family who live in paradise and are happy to share. They open up their homes, hearts and yes, even boats to this poor, weary midwesterner seeking escape from the upper latitudes.

It was a perfect day. Sun and breeze, not unbearably hot, porpoise jumping. Plenty of time to anchor for a picnic lunch and jump out to play in the water. My friend calls it "island time". Life not dictated by an alarm clock, but by the rise and set of the sun, by the tide, by the stars, by the internal clock that is forever out of wack in our closed up, windowless, little cubicles of the work-a-day world. A day on island time is worth more than a month in the city. Two months. More. A day on the water? Priceless.

In the pines

I love long needled pines. White, Loblolly, Longleaf, there's something about them, how they offer a bed and filter the light. Little is more inviting than the soft carpet beneath a stand of these trees. Long brown needles cover the ground like a handwoven blanket, obscuring hard edges of rock and earth. Sunlight is diffused by green boughs until barely a glow remains. Branches catch each breath of air; it sings and whispers to me. Come. Come lie beneath the grove, drink in the shadows and green. Come rest your head in the quiet and dream in shelter. Come, says the grove, as I thankfully give in.

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.