When did October go?

The days of autumn are all but slipping away
When did October go?
My colors are fading into a mixed muddy brown
Where did October go?
The rain hasn't stopped for almost fourteen days
When did October go?
Wet leaves are slippery like the ice will soon be
Where did October go?

Why did I let it leave?
I kept trying to say good bye.
How could I let you leave?
Without giving it one more try?

Dark skies will shatter under lightning's flash
When did October go?
The stars may be hidden but the moon peeks out
Where did October go?
You're only but a shadow in my memory
When did October go?
I try to remember so my mind can see
Your face as you turned to go.

Driving the view

"Living it down just enough time to revel
When you're driving the view
The pace looks up when the burn goes down
Time and again when you're driving the view"1

Son Volt is a great autumn band. Maybe it's Jay's often dark lyrical imagery. Or his use of minor chords that melt into momentary major glimmer. Maybe it's their music's ability to break your heart while you smile; the juxtaposition of rhythm and emotion. Try as I might, it's nearly beyond explanation. You just have to feel it. Drive down highway 44 through the brilliant death of foliage with Son Volt and the fall wind washing over you. Then you'll know.

"May the wind take your troubles away
May the wind take your troubles away
Both feet on the floor
Two hands on the wheel
May the wind take your troubles away"2

1. Driving The View - Jay Farrar
2. Windfall - Jay Farrar

Autumn has captured me

People will say, oh, my favorite season is summer. Or spring or fall. Or how they hate winter. My favorite season is...... all the above. As a season winds down, giving way to the next, I tend to mourn. There is never enough time to enjoy it. I beg for one more snowflake, one more crocus, one more firefly in the warm evening. But then I give in to the joy of the new season and it becomes my favorite. Autumn has fully captured me now.


Every day on my drive to and from work, I pass through huge hills and river valleys. The trees are ablaze with color, turning my commute into a kaleidoscope. It is a joy. Air is crisp and fresh. Frost has nipped the grass. I dream of apples, pumpkins and mulled cider. An October picnic spent warming in the sun will melt away any chill, so will a fire and some port. I want to take it all in, I know it will be gone too soon. And my favorite season will change, again.

Farm Aid 2009

"Hello... We're Wilco. And we're here for the party as well."

Farm Aid was worth every precious penny, even with the astronomical service fee charged by Live Nation. Phosphorescent played to glowing reviews. Lukas Nelson (yes, Willie's son) absolutely blew everyone away with his searing Strat work. Jason Mraz managed mass audience participation in broad daylight. Gretchen, well, she was there for the party. Then there was Wilco.

Yeah, I'm a rabid Wilco fan, so my views are tainted. It was far from the best performance ever; it's hard to get a vibe goin' when you only have time for a few songs. But they definitely played to the St. Louis fans. Jeff actually claimed his local Belleville heritage, even though a bit tongue-in-cheek. (Not much difference than the rest of us.) "Heavy Metal Drummer" is like a polaroid from my, and many in the crowd's, past. And even though he's not a redneck as a gambling song might imply, Tweedy and friends rocked local fave "Casino Queen". "Hoodoo Voodoo" was a fitting ending, considering Woody Guthrie's lifelong crusade for the common man, and who is the backbone of these, if not the family farmer? Perfect choice.

Dave (does he even need a last name any more?) and Tim did their duet thing. Tim always mesmerizing on his D-35, Dave always.... the head of the cult-of-Dave. No one likes Dave Matthews a little. You either don't get him, or you're a follower. Plenty of followers in the house. Many left after his set. Their loss.

John Mellencamp probably had the best set of the evening. It had been years since I'd seen him and he doesn't seem to have changed all that much. High energy, belting it out, Miriam Sturm's amazing fiddle, and that weird song ending air punch thing. The audience sang on all the old songs, especially closer "The Authority Song". It was a crowd that's been with him since this Cougar days, and they love him still.

Uncle Neil was our conscience. He ripped off his Stop Factory Farms shirt (a wardrobe malfunction) to reveal a Go Family Farms one. "We need our farms back!" He shouted. Willie joined him for "Homegrown" and the haze began to rise from the crowd. But as much as Neil Young was the conscience, he was also the beauty. The man has written some of the most simple and gorgeous melodies and heartfelt lyrics in rock history as evidenced by his set ending number, "Comes A Time." More than one tear did fall.

It wouldn't be Farm Aid without the Willie Nelson wrap up. 76 and gliding through those wacky jazz runs and inverted chords like a monster. I stood loose-jawed, staring at the jumbo screen. His face may be craggy, but his eyes are always a-sparkle, his hands move like flowing water, and the hits just keep on coming. It's a patchwork crazy quilt kind of thing, one song begets another and another, bumping into the next in disjointed yet oddly coherent fashion. Not quite a medley, more of a stream of consciousness set, but it's Willie and so it works. By the end of it all, the stage was full of any and everyone "still left" on site for the feel-good gospel & Hank Williams sing-a-long. Sadly, Neil and Hank's D-28 couldn't make the finale. Even so, all in all, and all day long, it was one hell of a show.

Bon Iver Sunrise Graveyard Concert

I love Bon Iver. I love graveyards. I love sunrise.
I hate that I could not be there to experience all three.
Haunting melodies creeping on the fog through headstones
just as the sky blushed.
Amazing. Surreal. Inspiring. Perfect.

Bloody Angry

This work of art says it all for me. It was not called Bloody Angry, but it should have been. When the mood strikes, this is a perfect depiction of anger emerging from the darkness of my troubled mind. Or maybe just a portrait of pissed off.

Sometimes you just want the conspiracy to be done with. Stop with the demands, stop with the needs, stop with the wants, stop with the being nice. Stop with the have to, stop with the should do, stop with the could you. Just stop.

Let me hurt, let me be angry, let me find a way to take care of myself and heal.

Dan Fogelberg - Love In Time

Imagine my surprise to find how many people out there "get" Dan Fogelberg. The internet is an amazing thing. True, there are the rabid fans, the women for whom he is/was an "idol". But then there are the people who found something more in his music, his art and his actions. A preacher in Dallas, a NY Times Sports writer, a sound engineer, an IT professional, other musicians, a best friend. I have run into countless of these folks in the last few years, chatted with many and forged friendships with quite a few. It's amazing, really, how this man brought so many together.

Now, by the grace of his widow, Jean, he brings us together again. I won't retell the heart wrenching story of how this posthumous release came to be, but I will say that he put it together himself as a completed musical project before his death. This is not the cutting room floor stuff that many record labels scramble to scrape together and release as a post-mortem money maker. This is Dan. Hopeful and reflective, full of imagery and emotion and in love. So in love.

I remember an interview I heard or read once where Dan was asked why he rarely spoke publicly about his life. He replied something to the effect of how he didn't need to, if you listened to the songs, it's pretty much there. And it is. Couched in artistic license and the poetry of great lyric, but the story of Dan is still there. The girl who's heart he never won, championed causes, nature and spirit, family, divorce and finally, true love. "Love In Time" is for all of us, but it was really for Jean. Hers was his love in time.

Wrapped Around The Equinox

The last day of summer hid behind gray clouds
Mourning the loss of its season
Skies shuddered and wept and moaned out load
Praying for a a final reprieve
But in the mist of the equinox all daylight escaped
Leaving no regrets to linger
And the darkness of night fell as soft as the rains
Like a blanket of comfort and calm.

The first day of autumn rushed in with the dawn
Blinding and orange all bright
Summer returned as if it had never been gone
Coaxing mist from the river's rise
While the sun played its game of trick the season
Leaves were attempting to turn
For time wrapped around the equinox just teases
And glimpses what is to come.

Mary Travers, my first folk hero

When I was six, Sister Mary Joseph, in full Dominican habit, sat cross-legged on the floor with her first grade class strumming an old classical guitar and singing.... "I'm being swallowed by a boa constrictor and I don't like it very much!" We giggled and squealed with delight. Then she sang "Puff The Magic Dragon", which I'd heard on the radio, and I was totally hooked. Throughout that fall, if we were especially good, Sister would open up the record player and put "Peter, Paul and Mommy" on the turntable. Through the magic of music we went to the zoo (zoo, zoo), had a song to sing (O!) and learned the mystery of "The Marvelous Toy".

When I saw PP&M on TV, it was so exciting! I wanted to be Mary Travers. I wanted long blond hair. I wanted to sing. I wanted to sing with boys! Then I heard the other songs. "Leaving On A Jet Plane", "If I Had A Hammer", "Blowin' In The Wind", "Lemon Tree", "Stewball". I learned them all. A few years later, when I began to play guitar, I learned them all again. When I heard that Mary Travers had passed, memories of all those songs and how much they meant to me and taught me in those very early years, flooded back. Somehow, I just don't think I'd been the same person had I been raised on Barney. RIP, Mary, and thank-you.

Feeling a bit prickly

Some days are prickly. Everything sort of rubs the wrong way, claws are out, hissing is only moments away. But like thorny plants and puffed up cats, it's just a defense mechanism against unwanted intruders. Deep within there's a soft center.

The cactus wren is not deterred by the spines of the saguaro, it depends on it. Goldfinches thrive on thistle. Once past their sharp exteriors, there's sweet blackberries, soft rose petals, and fragrant honey locust blossoms. Beyond my moody, prickly, stress hides a girl who really just wants a snack, a pillow and a nap. Nothing personal.

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.