No one puts Baby in the corner

Dirty Dancing is one of those movies that every time I run across it as I'm switching channels, I have to stop and watch. Johnny is a little bit dangerous, quite a bit older, strong, handsome and has a good heart. Yet he finds himself falling for the little bit geeky, quite a bit awkward, not-pin-up-model girl. And they dance. It was an ugly duckling's dream. Even though I was already married and well into my 20's when Dirty Dancing hit the screen, it was magical nonetheless. I never became a rabid, uber-fan, but that character made me keep track of Patrick Swayze. There were good films and bad, cult classics, and TV. Outside of his profession, he lived away from fame's trappings on a ranch surrounded by horses, laughter, nature and his wife of over 30 years. He fought the good fight until the end and his death saddens me. Safe journey, Patrick, God bless.

Labor Day

How to have a perfect Labor Day: Sleep late, wake slowly to slants of sunshine falling through the blinds. Sip coffee, read all the paper, such luxury. Spend too much time in the shower, skip the hair drier entirely. Take a long walk, photograph everything, anything. Contemplate the papyrus; do others find them to be the fireworks of the garden? Enjoy tea. Read my book on the patio, fall into a delicious nap. Sip some wine while cooking dinner for friends, something easy, quick and fresh. Eat slowly, revel in conversation, share more wine. Do nothing stressful, do nothing hurried, live within each moment, enjoy it all.

Reflections

Reflections on water of angels
Unseen in the sky by day
And of spirits cast like shadows
Of clouds the eye does not see

But the heart knows

The moon pulls me as if I was the tide
Shows me the shadow's secret
It is a burden just to hold
Magic no one else believes

But the heart knows

Summer?

The sky is impossibly blue, the trees are a million shades of green and the water is clear and...... cold? Something happened to August; it turned into late September. For two weekends now the mercury (okay, the digital read-out) has barely topped 80 degrees. Today was a downright chilly 72. But as wrong as it feels, I'm loving it.

Sleeping with a breeze through the windows, the night full of crickets, it's like a different world. My dreams are filled with nature. I awake expecting to be staring up at the moon from a sleeping bag, but it's only the streetlight seeping through a crack in the blinds. Then I drift away again, to the river, the garden or to a desert I've never seen. Morning comes fresh, dew is thick. Mist rises slowly from the river valley. I want to revel in the cool and drink coffee while I warm myself in the sun. A day like this is inspiring. It begs to be painted. It cries for my company. What a shame to waste such rare and glorious days on work.

Job 12:7-9

Ask the beasts, and they will teach you;
And the birds of the air, and they will tell you;
Or speak to the Earth, and it will teach you;
And the fish of the sea will explain to you.
Who among all these does not know
that the hand of the Creator has done this?

While I attend church regularly, I am not so much religious as I am spiritual. Doctrine is often a deal breaker for me. I like Woody Guthrie's take on it. Once, upon checking into a hospital, he was asked, "Your religion?" "All of them." he answered.

There are beliefs I hold from many different religions. Christian, Catholic (their very own brand of Christianity), Native American, Jewish, Buddhist, Hindu, Taoist, aspects of each of these creep into my personal spirituality. Teachings and text from all can be thought provoking, inspirational and moving. But sometimes I run across a verse that is particularly relevant to my heart; one that speaks to my soul. Job 12:7-9 is one of these. When I am outdoors, surrounded by nature, I am certain that there is a higher power. It makes me sing.

Funeral for a friend

"That is goin' on my funeral list." Not that I really want a traditional funeral, but I do keep a list of songs that I'd like played on the day that my ashes catch the breeze. It's been going on ever since I was in high school; the list evolves and changes as new songs capture my imagination. Most of my friends think this is macabre. They are correct, as the technical definition of the word is, "having death as a subject : comprising or including a personalized representation of death." This does not necessarily mean it is depressing, though it can be if you believe it to be. There is something uplifting and comforting in the sad beauty of a haunting melody. Something that I've always wanted to share.

Just a few:
Mark's Song - Eastmountainsouth
On & On & On - Wilco
For A Dancer - Jackson Browne
Keep Me In Your Heart For A While - Warren Zevon
Birds - Neil Young
Give Me Love - George Harrison
Something For The Pain - Pierce Pettis
The Last Nail - Dan Fogelberg

Serendipity via Thousand Oaks Winery

Serendipity is one of my favorite things. When good things happen out of the blue it's like the creator is handing you a special gift. So it was as we meandered down highway 51.

It had already been a memorable weekend, celebrating a friend's birthday with an exquisite meal and music and detouring off the main drag to find amazing BBQ in an unlikely Missouri town. Then after taking a left and heading northward toward home, I spied the sign. Thousand Oaks Winery. "Winery!" I shrieked. "Where?" the hubs asked, suddenly paying attention. "Right there." I pointed at the drive, having made a U-turn. We crunched over the gravel road through the forest, wondering what might await us; then we emerged from the woods into an Ozark oasis. Lake, huge patio, shady umbrellas, and as we turned the corner, an outdoor brick oven for making pizza and bread the old world way. The owner was feeding the fire. He greeted us warmly, and took us inside to taste. The wines were good, the reds will be even better with more bottle aging, and some made its way home with us. Even more impressive was the experience. The folks at Thousand Oaks are knowledgeable, neighborly and gracious. Besides a conversationally paced tasting, they took the time to show us the operation, the new wines, and the view. We talked about their upcoming music and events and my guess is that we'll be back to enjoy one.

These are the joys of the road less traveled, of life lived a little bit slower, of the beautiful serendipitous gifts given to us if we open our eyes and hearts and minds. And for these, I am eternally thankful.

Happy Birthday, Dan

This time last year I was in Peoria, making friends, watching the river, singing The Reach with unexpected harmony and surprisingly good red wine. This year on Dan Fogelberg's birthday, I'll be at work, listening to his posthumous release, "Love In Time" on my lunch break.

Most people don't understand why I still cherish Dan's music. Maybe they get why I'm into Neil Young, the Beatles, the Eagles, Poco, Jackson Browne, Son Volt, Wilco or the Jayhawks. Chances are they have never heard of John Gorka, Pierce Pettis, Michael Fracasso, Peter Bradly Adams or Richard Shindell. There's a golden thread that runs through the whole lot, it's honesty, pain, harmony and heart. It's love unrequited and lost; it's stories of darkness and light, of nature and spirit, of hope against hope and love again found. It's the way the songs make you feel, what they bring out of your soul. Not everyone will understand, but for the few who do:

We are not meant to be alone.
Even though I crave it for my mind,
even when I need it for my sanity,
even when quiet is all
that will quell the storm,
my heart knows when to return.
Standing together, twin forest trees,
history like roots intertwined.
A simple touch, a stolen glance,
a sentence that doesn't need finishing;
there is a comfort in sharing,
a gift in laughter.
Solitude loses its definition
without comparison.
No, we are not meant to always be alone.

Sam Baker and songsillinois

It can be a hard life out in cyberland. Does anybody listen? Does anybody care? We'll soon find out.

One of my favorite music blogs is Songs:Illinois.
Not just because I'm originally from there. Not just because I like a lot of the music he champions. But BECAUSE he champions. There is a passion in the writing of his blog. A passion for music, for art, for fun, for all that makes life worth living. At least what makes it worth living for me. And now he's on strike. Sort of. In the latest post, an amazing piece on Sam Baker, we are urged to pre-order Sam's new CD. When enough are ordered, Songs:Illinois will return.

Like he is a fanboy of Sam Baker, I am a fangirl. Just saw him at Woodyfest a few weeks ago and was floored again. He is both one of the funniest and most intense artists I know, not to mention being the kinda guy who would give you the shirt off his back without a second thought. His songs hit you in the truth, make you forget to breathe; they are honest and stunning in their poetic strength. Once his songs are in your ears, they will never leave. I swear it.

Where gluttony meets art

A while back I challenged a photo-savvy friend to embody the seven deadly sins. Gluttony is probably the sin we actually see the most. Not pointing fingers, I am just as guilty as most mid-coast dwellers. Going out to eat is a prime form of entertainment, as is the fun of cooking and sharing a meal. You don't have to look for a place to eat in my area of the country, they practically litter the streets, opening and going out of business at an alarming rate. Unfortunately, it seems the ones that survive are the various McBurgers. For all those calories, you could almost eat a pound of sugar, or this third grade art project called Cake.

Feeling anti-social

Sometimes I just get to feeling anti-social. Not the kind when I'm depressed, not the kind when I'm not well. Although, both could be a factor. Spurts of creativity can do it, so can want of a quiet, home cooked meal. Other times, I'm tired of being "on". When you've got a reputation as the class clown and you turn up sedate, people ask what's wrong. So I say that I'm tired or queasy or just thinking. It's not their fault, no reason to offend. But for once I'd just like to tell them, I really would just like to be alone.

Sir Paul

Some of you are lucky enough to have Sir Paul in your own backyard. Some of us are not. You just don't know how much I wish I'd been there. The man is a living legend. The man is an inspiration. The man still sounds amazing. The man is...... F@#!ing Paul McCartney!!!!

Again. How is Jimmy Davis not totally famous?

Tell me again, why is Jimmy Davis not totally famous? There's just not enough exceptional things to say about him without sounding either trite or like a star-struck fan. But really, he's just that damn good. Period.

Vocals? He sings all out with power and emotion. Guitar? Don't let that fabulously EQ'd all koa Martin fool you, Jimmy Daddy rocks. Dead on right hand technique that is seamless. Stage presence? So much energy, so intense, fun narrative and insight and that mischievous smile... Songwriting? He can make you laugh and cry, sometimes in the same song. His stories draw you in; you get to know, love or perhaps even fear the people he writes about. Jimmy has a knack for turning a phrase, just when you least expect it.

With all this going for him, I just don't understand why more people don't know about Jimmy Davis. Every time I see him, I am blown away. You should be, too. Check out his tour schedule and do yourself a favor, treat your ears and your heart to some Jimmy Daddy today!

Happy Birthday, Woody Guthrie

Every year for the last many, in the middle of July, right around Woody Guthrie's birthday, I make the trek to Okemah, OK and the Woody Guthrie Free Folk Festival. Woodyfest, as it is affectionately known, is a different breed. It's free. Attendees pay to camp or park at the main stage, (but not both) but from then on out, the music is all without charge. The artists are not paid to play there. Lodging, a meal and travel, yes, but their time and performance is donated. So only people who really want to be there play there. And once they get the Woody bug, they come back again and again, whenever their schedule allows. It's a real treat to be a part of this odd band of true hearted troubadours. They play with joy, they sing with passion, they beg you to think, they inspire you to act, they break your heart, then turn around and make you laugh. Just like Woody did. Happy birthday, Woody, my world would not be the same without the music you inspired.

The Drive

My hair is tangle as I fly down the highway
All the windows down
Nothing but the sound
Of bluegrass on the radio and my easy smile.
Sunshine in my eyes and sweet green forest on the wind
Singing high and lonesome
Along with all the old songs
Until the record ends and I'm back in your arms.
Eight more hours is more miles than I can count
Driving west forever
Until I meet my lover
Underneath the moonlit midnight summer skies.

Of feathers and Neil Young

"Feathers fall around you and show you the way to go..." Sometimes a songwriter tends toward particular imagery. It makes you wonder why. "There you stood on the edge of your feather, expecting to fly...." Birds and feathers. Freedom and delicacy; power and magic. "Big birds flying across the sky...." The spectrum is fascinating, seeing how something so simple, so common, becomes mythic. "See the bluebird fly, easy as a dream..." We've all seen them, dreamed of flying, felt our spirit soar with them as they wheeled across the sky. Or been moved by the soft intricacy of a fallen feather. What enchantment held Neil?

I Am A Patriot

My favorite patriotic song. Maybe someday we'll all be free.
Happy 4th of July.

Light a candle

As a recovering Catholic, there are some things I miss about that Church. Most of them have to do with Mary, statues/art, saints and mysterious ceremony. The Evangelical Lutherans, while big on music, rather very open minded (especially at my church), lack in the lore of mystery. When I was small, I would save up my money so that every week I'd have a silver coin to put in the slot (pennies were not good enough for her) and light a candle at the feet of the Virgin Mary. I would kneel there, staring at the flame, and pray very hard for her to intercede, to whisper in her son's ear, to let Jesus know what I said with all my heart. Somehow, I was sure that the candle made all the difference. Somehow, I still do.

Presto, it's pesto!

Basil loves the sun. While I languish in the heatwave, twelve continuous days near 100 degrees, the basil grows stronger. Grass dies, flowers wilt, all begging for water from the evening hose. Eggplants, peppers and tomatoes happily bloom. These plants, like their companions of basil and cilantro, crave the heat. They are fruits and leaves of a different climate, transplants in our Midwestern world. As summers grow longer and hotter, they thrive. Sometimes I am glad of this, as I grind up the garlic and pine nuts, stream the olive oil and add the freshly picked, wrinkled, fragrant leaves. My home smells like a Genovese kitchen. Global warming be damned, I'll just make more pesto.

1987 was not so Bad

Today the news is full of Michael Jackson's death. While I was not his biggest fan, this terrible news takes me back. 1987 was my first year in "the industry". That's the year that music became a business, not just a passion.

"Bad" was far from my favorite record that year. 1987 brought us U2's "The Joshua Tree", Sting's "...Nothing Like The Sun", Lyle Lovette's "Pontiac", REM's "Document" and the guilty pleasure of "Dirty Dancing", all which still reside in the basement CD stacks. It was the year I turned onto Suzanne Vega, Los Lobos, Michael Hedges, Sonic Youth, Steve Earle, The Replacements and The Flaming Lips.

I had a hard time keeping Gun 'n' Roses, Phantom of the Opera, Bon Jovi, Beastie Boys, Def Leppard, INXS, George Michael, and Eric B & Rakim in stock. But "Bad", we had enough of. We were already talking about his so-called decline. The record was just not performing to expectation, at least not to that of our buyer's in New York. I had "Bad" coming out my ears and even after Christmas, CBS/Sony wouldn't take them back. They were hard lessons to learn. 1) Even if you are responsible, you are not in charge. 2) In most big companies, they don't want to hear anything from the front line, even if they say they do. 3) If your company's "in bed" with a vendor, ain't nothing you can do about it; there's something bigger going on.

So 1987 did have some great music. There was also Prince, Mellencamp, Robbie Robertson, The Smiths, The Cure, Geroge Harrison, Public Enemy, Sinade, Hiatt, Sisters of Mercy, Sonic Youth, Zevon, The Meat Puppets, kd Lang, the BoDeans and Bougois Tagg (anybody remember them?). And I learned many a lesson about corporate politics. So I guess 1987 was not all that "Bad."

Countdown

If I were queen, fireworks would not be relegated to a couple of holidays and the occasional (sorry Cards) home run. These midnight lights' magic far outweigh potential danger. Anything that stops a thousand people dead in their tracks to ooooo, aaaaaah and squeal like delighted toddlers should not be rationed mercilessly. We could have Roman birthday candles and anniversary displays. Every concert at your local "shed" could end with a bang; mom would know when to go pick up the kids. Some would say that the over use would render fireworks less special. I disagree. Does one tire of a single flames' entracement? Or get bored watching a campfire lick skyward? Does the Milky Way fail to marvel astronamers just because it's repeatedly visible? No. Magic does not lose it wonder, not if you believe. Stare into the night sky and believe.

Ghost bird

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

Fall into The Gap

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

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

March of the penguins

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

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

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

Spinning

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

On the bliggity-blog

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

Floating fast

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

Maybe my goal in life is to be an echo.

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

Rain, rain, go away

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

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

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

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

Doe a deer

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

Creek dipping

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

The Mystery of the Grape Pez Iris

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

Grandma's Poppies

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

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

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

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

Something about trains

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

Feel the burn

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

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

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

The lazy gardener

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

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

The stone that will not roll

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

The Art of Tea

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

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

Amazing how something so simple can be such a lifeline.

Easter and the Barefoot Contessa

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

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

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

Why do they laugh?

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

Fear, Fearless & the Moon

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

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

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

What is this, Chicago?

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

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

A Wish for Fish

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The little mac that could

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Weed

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

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

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

House of stone

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

For the birds

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

What was the Foxfire Resort?

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


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

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

Sweet peace

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

Just want to bang on the drum all day

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

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

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

Birches

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