Something changed

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

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

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

Sleep

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

Selfish

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

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

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

April come she will

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

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

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

Valentine's Day

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

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

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

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

Somewhere In Illinois

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

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

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

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

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

.

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

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

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

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

I candod beade

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

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

Shields up!

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

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

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

And so the new truck was named.

Down came the snow

Snow Down

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

Not my cat

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

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

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

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

Joker's Wild

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

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

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

Forgive us our trespasses

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

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

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

Brother of another

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

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

Scout

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

The Loft lets me down

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

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

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

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

When did "change" change?

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

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

January thaw

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

A New Year

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

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

Winding down the Festivus

Wrapping is in shreds, empty bottles await recycling, leftovers are devoured; it the holidays' last gasp. We celebrated everything, even Festivus, the holiday for the rest of us.

I used to work with some huge Seinfeld fans. They could quote episodes chapter and verse. While they never had very high strength-to-weight ratio aluminum poles in their cubes, they did proclaim Festivus miracles on occasion. Me, I just drank the wine. Not great, but not bad, especially after a couple of earlier glasses and some grievance airing.

So now it's time to clean up, put stuff away, take time off to toast the new year, and move forward. The seed catalogs are already arriving, days are getting longer, the Geib-style series 500 case I want is on sale and the exercise routine must be re-started. There's gift cards to spend, organizing to do, birds to feed and projects started in the fall that still need finished. It's as if Christmas is already just a memory. Where did it go?

Merry Christmas

Christmas. Such a Pandora's box. Every emotion, every dream, every hope. I struggle beyond the sorrows of Christmas Past and bask in the joys of the present. La Vigilia, (a traditional Italian Christmas Eve seafood dinner), the twinkling tree, the wine, the love of friends of family, the music of the candlelight vigil, the home-baked tidbits and liqueur-laced coffee, snuggling through A Christmas Carol or It's A Wonderful Life, drifting off to dream of the snow. Christmas. It could not be anything but.

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night. God Bless us, every one.

Christmas Eve....Eve

'Twas that night before the night before Christmas.....

The tree is lit, the presents are wrapped and beneath it. The rain has not yet turned to snow, but as long as there is spirit, there is hope. Streetlights blink a bright red and green just like in the song, their reflections glistening on the wet pavement. Even in the rain, or perhaps because of it, the world shines. My heart looks at Christmas through rose-colored glasses. So much expectation, so much joy. This year I'll greet old friends that I've not seen in years. The season will melt away the time, as it tends to do, and we'll fall into the familiar rhythm that never fully leaves a collective soul. Comfort and joy. We look forward while we're looking back. There will be time with more family, more friends, more music and merriment. A whirlwind of places and people and food. Then it will be over, leaving too soon. And that's why I relish the "eves'.

Here we come a caroling

It's cold, you're frozen. Gloved hands struggle to turn pages, you can't feel your toes inside your boots. And yet, so much joy..... Christmas caroling is an experience unto itself. Even if you sing carols in church, at parties or at home, wonderful as it is, "Caroling" it is not. There is a special breed of joy that comes from singing on someone's doorstep, lawn or street. You are a random act of kindness, a accidental ray of hope. Here in the Midwest, where December is six steps beyond chilly, home-made harmony hangs as great clouds of breath in the air before it floats skyward. People open their doors; they listen, they open their hearts. The spirit of Christmas washes over them and as if by magic, reflects back to warm the carolers' hearts as well. Sometimes there's cookies, hot cocoa or tea, sometimes a hug or a tear. Always, always there is love. If you have the opportunity to go caroling, whether in a neighborhood, a nursing home, a hospital or street fair, do not miss it. And if the carolers show up at your door, just say Merry Christmas! (Okay, maybe invite us in to warm up if we look really cold......thanks.)

QuikTrip Coffee

Woe are the coasts, both East and West, for they know not the joy of QuikTrip coffee. I know, I know. Gas station coffee. Eeeew. Not so! Sure, I'd rather be sipping espresso at a sidewalk cafe in Italy, or at least having fancy cappuccino made in my own kitchen. But when you're already late for work, or on the interstate between small towns that only the locals can pronounce correctly, QuikTrip coffee is an island of caffeinated delight. 100% Arabica bean, different roasts and blends, even a darn good (gasp!) decaf. You can do the cappuccino thing there, too, but I prefer to get a flavor shot or two, there's about twelve to choose from, grab the dark or Italian roast coffee, then use the Steamer option on the cappuccino bar to top it off with steamed, frothy milk. Voila! C'est magnifique! So don't discount the pleasures of gas station coffee out of hand. You just might be missing the most economical fancy joe out there. Next week: White Castles, meat or mystery......

Remembering Dan Fogelberg

It's been a year now since Dan Fogelberg passed away. While he was always my favorite artist and a tremendous inspiration, I was quite shocked at the affect his death had on me. It came at a time when my emotional balance was already precarious. I retreated. As in the past, I sought refuge in music. My guitar once again became my best friend, and in my solace I resumed writing. I'd only played and written occasionally for some years; as I often put it, life got in the way. But when I wasn't playing, I was only part of myself. I didn't realize that until I came back to it. This all may have happened, as fate sometimes does, without the tragedy of losing Dan Fogelberg. But somehow, someway, it feels connected. It was the push over the edge. My own "Loose Ends".

One moonlit evening in June, playing on the back porch, this song crept to life. It ended up being a tribute to the man I admired most, to whom I owe so much. Many blessings, Dan. Many thanks.

Sparkling side of life

Like a crow, I am drawn to shiny things. Christmas is a heyday for me. Sequins and ribbons, tassels and swags, glass and tinsel. If it's red or green, trim it with gold; blue needs more than a touch of silver. The more twinkling lights, the better. I haunt the after Christmas sales and turn holiday trimmings into every day things, like the purple and silver glass bauble hanging from my truck's rearview mirror. Seems I've always been criticized for my affinity for a bit of bling. Catholic school nuns confiscated earrings that they deemed inappropriate. My husband loathed my silver flip-flops. But now it's the season where anything goes. So I'll decorate the tree to within an inch of its life and tie back my hair with gold ribbon, put silver non-perils on the cookies then dust them with irridescent sugar flakes. Time to enjoy the sparkling side of life.

Waiting

It is a season of waiting. Waiting for Christmas, waiting for cookies to cool, waiting for mail, waiting for the forcasted ice storm. This weekend I'll pack up bags and bags of cookies for his family, and one for mine. We'll wrap presents and make ready, as festivities are already beginning. In anticipation, there's much scurrying around. Where did the ribbon go? Do we have any ice melt left? Have you signed the cards? Which box has the bird ornaments in it? Did you put that sand in the back of the truck? Where did we put the mulling spices? But then, once the whirlwind subsides, once again we wait.

This year with a rare December week off work, waiting may be my greatest joy. A moment to read Charles Dickens aloud, to drink wine in the afternoon. Precious time to play carols sitting cross-legged beneath the Christmas tree. Stolen time to sled wildly if the snow indeed falls, or to skate even if it does not. Time to celebrate with family and friends, and still have quiet moments in between. Waiting can be agonizing, but this year it is a gift. For once I will gladly wait.

Adeste fideles

Adeste fideles, laeti triumphantes,
Venite, venite in Bethlehem.
Natum videte regem angelorum
Venite adoremus, venite adoremus,
venite adoremus Dominum

As a child of five or six, I was taught the Latin first verse of "O Come All Ye Faithful". I was too young to be required to take Latin in school, and Vatican II was eliminating the Latin Mass, but Adeste fideles was alive and well at Christmas. Being a small rural family, mostly isolated from grandparents, aunts and uncles, our holiday traditions were few, but important. A real tree decorated with ancient and home made ornaments, topped with a spire, draped in tinsel with a creche beneath. Mom's perfect spritz cookies. Dad's Polish Christmas carols on clay 78's. And Adeste fideles. When I learned that song, my father was so proud. It meant so much to him that I could share something from his childhood, and from my mother's as well. They both grew up with the high Latin Christmas Mass, the liturgy all chanted in Latin. There was incense, it was foreign, it was mysterious and holy. For them, that felt like Christmas. Adeste fideles brought back those memories and made Christmas feel like home. Today when I sing those mysterious words, they never fail to bring a tear to my eye. Tears for innocence lost, tears for my father, tears for Christmas past. But also tears of joy, for the love of Christmas.

The Snow / Silent Night

Runaway Train

The holiday season is rollin' by fast like a runaway train. My house is not clean and guest-worthy, space has yet to be made for the real Christmas tree, neither "It's A Wonderful Life" nor "A Charlie Brown Christmas" has flickered onto my TV so far. But that will change. This year I have a week off in December. Even though I'm five years off the retail track, a week off during the holidays is....... just plain weird. Weird but welcome. I have visions of ice skating, gathering giving and watching the tree twinkle while sipping a glass of port. Hopelessly romantic, that's me. Unfortunately, I fear that they will be just that, visions. Time has a way of slipping, the train has a way of rolling, and I feel like Nell Fenwick tied to the tracks. Where's Dudley Do-Right when I need him?

Holly and Ice

Holly frozen clear with ice
Cold and shining bright
Dripping tears of crystal
As I sing Silent Night

Holy Night in beauty sleeps
Underneath the shell
Waiting for the winter sun
To break the frosty spell

But never more as lovely
Can the holly ever be
Frozen in holy silence
Revealing peace to me

Cookies of Christmas Past, just not mine

I am not Italian, but I bake a mean biscotti. Cantucci di Prato, Buon Natale Biscotti, cookies spiced with rosemary and lemon, ginger and cinnamon, saffron and nuts, even dried apricots, blueberries or cherries. Sometimes dipped or drizzled in chocolate, sometimes plain, always twice baked in the old fashioned way. When I first started giving them for Christmas, I often had to explain what it was and how best to eat it. Outside of The Hill, few people in St. Louis were up on their biscotti back then. Now they are ubiquitous. Every coffee bar, cafe and even Costco has biscotti for sale. Still, every year I bake them. It's expected now, biscotti from the Polish gal.

Growing up my family's traditional Christmas cookie was the spritz. My mom could crank that cylinder with lightening speed, squeezing out perfect trees, wreaths, stars and bars. Try as I might, I never got the hang of it. So some years I made sugar cookie cut outs, usually oatmeal scotchies to go with them, but nothing special. Then back in the early '90's I saw a holiday baking magazine with biscotti recipes inside. Wasn't that the cookie I had with my cappuccino in that Italian restaurant? Light bulbs went on above my head like a halo. I've made them ever since. It's become an old family holiday tradition, just not from my family's history. Maybe in a past life I was an Italian girl.

In thanks

To tell you the truth, I'm not feeling very thankful right now. But I should be. As my mom would say, there's always someone worse off than you. The simple fact that I have a camera to take these photos, a computer to type this blog and a phone line to upload it, puts me in a pretty lucky percentile. There's a roof over my head and food on the table; there's family and friends to share them with. Tenuous as it may currently be, for now I am employed. It's been a creative year, full of new stories and songs and even a new guitar. Any one of these things would be enough to make one give thanks, having all of them, and more? Well, that's an embarrassment of riches. Whether or not my heart feels thankful, I cannot control. Emotions are a tricky business. Sometimes they reveal, sometimes they betray. Sometimes you're the only one who can talk yourself down from the ledge. Without denial, without persecution, washing over the day, the month, the year. As they come and go, you grasp; constantly wrestling, struggling to temper emotion with reality. The reality that there is an abundance in this life to celebrate in thanks.

Autumn respite

Late autumn sun fell across the yard just in time for sunset. Squirrels raced around the tree trunk in their crazy dance. All the birds came alive to feed before nightfall. The red-bellied woodpecker's crimson cap flashed brightly as he nipped peanut after peanut, making the downy wait his turn. Cardinals chipped their one-note song between hasty bites. Finches, chickadees and sparrows darted in and out in a flurry of feathers. I watched from the kitchen window as the light continued to dim. It was nice to be inside, warming my hands on a mug of earl grey, sharing this fleeting scene with the creatures I treasure so much. These lovely moments, stolen from the day, echoed quietly until the sun fell below the horizon and darker hues colored the sky. I finished my tea and went on with my work, thankful for everything simple and true. Thankful for the world in my own back yard.

The Grape

I drive a purple truck. A twelve year old purple truck. A twelve year old purple truck with a dinged back bumper that's missing a passenger side mirror. And I still love it.

Someone had special ordered it, low options, two door sport, economical rear-wheel drive, and then abandoned it. No one wanted it; no one but me. It's as if I'd placed the order myself. My favorite color, it was perfect. It was me. Funky-rural, rural-freaky, my purple truck.

Back when I bought it, my boss owned a truck nick named "The Beast". Somehow someone in the office took the idea and applied it. "The Grape" it has been ever since. The Grape has been around, crowded with people, product, equipment, instruments, camping gear, presents, wine, groceries, goodies, ten miles or a thousand. It's been wrecked, resurrected, admired, cursed and praised. Secrets kept silent, music played loud, memories remain. Yes, The Grape has been a good friend.

Though it's aging, I just can't give it up. I've looked at Vues and Equinoxes, Trailblazers and Rav4's, but none of them are quite me. Middle aged, a little dinged up, but still rural-funky-freaky, music blaring, people staring; I am my old purple truck.

Good bye, Anheuser-Busch

Beer is not usually my alcoholic beverage of choice. I'm more a wine and spirits kinda gal. Give me a full bodied, complex red wine and I'm a one happy girl. I'm also quite fond of Polish vodka, British gin, Mexican tequila, Italian Amaretto and French Pastis. Once in a while I'll try a craft beer, some microbrew thing, unfiltered wheat or toasted dark as coffee, but not often. So you'd think InBev's acquisition of Anheuser-Busch would mean nothing to me. You would be wrong.

The buyout is undoubtedly good for some people on both sides of the coin, bad for others. But it is devastating for St. Louis. Setting aside the economic impact of impending layoffs, the city will be losing part of its identity. Since 1852, Anheuser-Busch (then Bavarian Brewery) has been a fixture on the South side. People looked to A-B as a business leader, a place to find a "good job" that they could keep until retirement. Though growing by leaps and bounds, back then A-B was still a family company headed by the Busch's. That family feeling extended beyond the gargoyle-topped doors of 721 Pestalozzi Street, out into the community. A-B bought the Saint Louis Cardinals baseball team and built them a grand home downtown, the sadly demolished architectural landmark, Busch Stadium. They brought us the Budweiser Clydesdales, ambassadors of brewing history. They built the Bevo Mill, the Feasting Fox and Grant's Farm and opened them for everyone to enjoy. Like thousands of others raised in the St. Louis metro area, I cheered as August A. Busch, Jr. rode the antique beer wagon, pulled by the clydesdale hitch, around Busch Stadium before the big game. And I wept with millions as that same hitch bowed in solomn memory of those lost on 9/11 during A-B's 2002 Super Bowl ad.

True, A-B has not been a family owned company for some time, Gussie passed on in 1989 and things have never been the same. The Cards were sold in 1996. A-B became it's own corporate behemouth, but still a huge part of St. Louis both in collective memory and reality. Now I, like many long time area residents, feel betrayed. It was just business. That's the way the world is today. I have no claim on the company, no reason to grouse. But I'm still sad; an era has passed. Good bye, Anheuser-Busch. Rest in peace, Gussie, we still miss you.

Awaiting the first snow

Quietly, I await the first snow. Nights are long, sunsets are streaked in pink. Autumn is escaping in anticipation, leaving me more than a shade unsettled. Last winter was so dispiriting. This one has to be better. When the first snow falls, I want to run into its brilliance and let it wash my heart clean. I want to feel the joy of winter, the magic of crystal skies, the peace of a silent, moonlit Christmas night. Somehow the first snow will make all things new, new in a way that spring could not restore. Still, I know that tears will come. I can feel them welling behind my eyes as I sing of the bleak mid-winter, but they will pass and leave me restored. Restored by the joy and peace of the first snow.

Trappings of our youth

Those of a "certain age" may fondly remember particular trappings of our youth. Turntables, gatefold LP's, lids, standing glass and water beds. Often, all of the above would come into play simultaneously in the orchestration of a perfect evening. While turntables and LP's are making a comeback, (and if you have to ask about the next two on the list, then you just don't need to know), water beds are considered quite the dinosaur.

Finding sheets for a standard, king size, free-flow mattress type waterbed can be a challenge, not to mention an expense. Especially if you don't want percale. Same with mattress pads, good ones are few and far between. But those who are hooked on them, seek out the elusive bargains to feed their water bed habit. Nothing is quite as warm and inviting and quite as comfortable on the back. So imagine the horror of finding a leak in your eighteen year old water bed! Holy crap! What's an aging hippie to to? Do they even sell free flow water bed mattresses any more? Why yes, Virginia, there IS a Santa Claus, and he still brings water bed parts to all good little girls' and boys' parents and grandparents who refuse to grow up. And at less than a quarter the cost of a traditional "good" mattress and box spring. The day is saved. The money is saved. Maybe I should celebrate by playing some old LP's, quaraphonic ones......

Top of the world

While politics only creep into my blogging occasionally, I have been pretty vocal about my political and societal views all my life. Back in Catholic grade school I was a thorn in Sister Donna Marie's side. How on earth could a 5th grader formulate her own opinion.... on anything? By 7th grade I was a full fledged lefty at odds with both family and church. In high school I supported NORML and Planned Parenthood, MUSE and WWF. My little heart bled liberal. Still does. I'm probably more of a socialist than a Democrat when you get right down to it. But these days, I'll take what I can get. When I first heard Barack Obama speak, I said to my husband, "Wow. Now here is someone who could inspire a nation." And that he did. In his powerfully elegant way, he ignighted the spark of hope within people who felt silenced and forgotten by the current administration. Our country needed to hear his positive message for change, "Yes, we can." It's a step in the correct direction, a step toward rebuilding the middle class, a step forward into the future. When the election was called for Obama, I was on top of the world. Today, I'm back in the trenches, but that moment still shines and will endure in our nation's history. I hope and pray that the momentum continues and that the change does come.

Just my imagination

Had I taken a different path in life, I might have lived in a bluff-top mansion overlooking the river. The view would be nothing less than inspiring from the window lined great room, its ceiling built tall with reclaimed antique barn timbers. On the far wall, a fireplace made of stones would chase the autumn chill away. But hopeless romanticism does not happiness make. Many a shredded relationship first began to unravel in the lap of luxury. No economic class is immune to depression. Rich or poor, people wake up in the morning, or not. I will never be able to stop my imagination from spinning the tales of what if, but I know I’d still be who I am, for better or for worse.

Mississippi Sail

Those who can't do, teach; those with no boat, bum. Once again, I am a grateful sail bum. Lock and dam 26 on the Mississippi River gives us a 38 mile stretch called Alton Pool. Tugs and barges share the water with cabin cruisers, speed boats, fishermen, jet skis and yes, sailboats. Watch out for the wake, steer clear of the big boys and you have a yourself a paradise right outside the back door.

Saturday's sun rose chilly and bright, a glorious autumn day. The turning leaves of maple, oak, birch and hickory promised a show, the cooler promised a picnic, and the river promised to roll. Our friends welcomed us aboard, and as the day warmed, we were off. While the winds let us down, keeping us from doing much actual sailing, we were undaunted. The river was kind. We motored up the pool, taking pictures, snacking and talking, enjoying each others' company and the glorious day.

From the river, everything has a different point of view. The bluffs stand tall and inviting; colored like a crazy quilt, a patchwork with no rhyme or reason, yet so perfectly designed. Ballooning spider webs catch on the rigging, streaming behind in a gossamer flag. Food tastes so much richer, drinks are sweeter, the air is fresher, our senses are exhausted. You could barely want for more. Maybe just for another day like this before the snow.
For more expedition pictures, click to eyespye.

River Dreams

These past four nights I have dreamed of rivers, of rivers I've never seen. Wild and racing, deep in a canyon, I crossed the first one riding in a ski lift or sky chair sort of contraption. At first I feared falling, but as the scenery unfolded far below, fright gave way to awe. Its beauty was staggering. The second night found me running beside a river. Low banks were sometimes grassy, often earth and stone. Water burbled up little inlets, making pools where I stopped to drink before dashing onward toward something undefined. Oddly enough, the third river flowed into, not out of, a cave. I followed it, wading back, back, back into darkness; no flashlight, but somehow knowing my way. Soon I was in a lighted room filled with brilliant stones. Turquoise, cat's eye, quartz, hematite, coral and opals glowed on either side of the water, seemingly their own source of light. Last night I sat high on a bluff, overlooking a mighty river. It was much like the Mississippi, the Missouri, the Illinois or the Ohio, but yet was none of these. As I sat watching the water, each season came and went in the span of an afternoon. I awoke from the winter cold, clutching for my blanket. I'm not sure that I want to know what it all means. Some things should just stay a mystery.

To touch a dream

Dreams are clouds in my mind. Lovely, untouchable, ever changing, yet always there. Everyone dreams. Some people chase their dreams, some actually catch them, some live them, some die never having tried. I have no illusions; my dreams will always be clouds. But to touch a cloud? Yes, on a mountain I have walked among clouds. Their thickness enveloped me, quieting the path like a heavy snow. Sunlight diffused, the landscape glowed, it was surreal. Surreal as a dream. To touch a dream? Perhaps.

Beauty of October

Autumn fires are burning
the leaves reduced to ash
Hopeful and expectant
still afflicted by the past
Crisp air takes my breath
almost guilty at my joy
Problems not forgotten
but today I cannot cry
Time will salve the wounds
scars will someday fade
But the beauty of October
Is enough for me today

Jackson Browne at 60

Now that he's shaved off that crazy gray beard, Jackson Browne does not look even close to 60. He's part of that Dick Clark, Bela Fleck, Leo Kottke thing. Even after seeing him un-touched-up at the Fox Theatre Sunday, I'd still "say yeah".

Seems I've always been a huge Jackson Browne fan. That whole So-Cal crew wave, with him, Dan Fogelberg, the Eagles, et al, washed me out to sea and I never really made it back to shore. But I must admit that while I've got all the JB stuff, I haven't been as drawn to most of it in the past 15 years. Sure, every record had a couple of bright spots, but not a consistant, back to back listen like, say, "Late For The Sky". His new CD, however, has him back in my ears. "Time The Conqueror" is Jackson Browne's best work in years. So I was happy to hear most of the new songs live.

While it was unfortunate that he omitted the rally cry of "Drums Of War" ("Why is impeachment, not on the table?") the show hit most of the rest of the new songs. Title track, "Going Down To Cuba" which he did on the Cobert Report, "Giving That Heaven Away", "Off Of Wonderland" and my favorite, "Just Say Yeah." JSY is the kind of love song that you wish someone would write about you. It's sweet and simple and makes you remember how it was when you started to fall in love. Charmingly, Jackson forgot the words (okay, so he IS 60) and started the whole thing over. Oh, God bless him. Made my evening. I'm still saying "yeah".

Hit the road

Supposedly eleven people were downsized today from my place of confinement... uh, employment. Three we knew from a different department, then the rumors started to fly about the others. By the time I left for the day, the folks in my area were all a-twitter yet unscathed, but I'm sure that tomorrow when I walk in the door, I'll hear who it was. Or have someone waiting for me with the dreaded box. That's what they do, give you a copier paper box and tell you to clear out and hit the road. No one's safe in today's economy and the industry that I unfortunately stumbled into after my last job ended is no different. But you can't dwell on it or live in fear. Prepare, maybe; let it paralyze you, no.

If we had a national health care plan, I wouldn't even worry about it. Hell, I would have quit where I'm at long ago. Between guitar lessons, gigs and tips, personal chef opportunities and some other odd jobs, I could easily cobble together enough self employment to make ends meet. But we need health insurance and it's too damn expensive to buy on a cobbled income. (And it would cost way more than five thousand dollars, so don't be fooled, friends.) So if I get "the box" I'll head on down the road to Quik Trip or Trader Joe's or someplace else that's always hiring and offers health insurance. Even in a bad economy, a former retail management refugee can always make a comeback. Just go with the road.

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.