Wilco + Fishman = Happy

Occasionally, long-time real-life friends who read my web musings express concern that I am slipping into depression. Again. The sentiment is not without credence from those who have seen me on the dark side before. It's not that bad, though, really. Some of my therapeutic journaling, songwriting, etc, tends to creep into cyberspace, making for a much more morose picture than is actually being painted. I just can't help writing in a minor key.

Today, however, today I am happy. No, not found-a-new-job happy. No, not bought-the-D-41 happy. But pretty-damn-happy happy. Yes, after selling out two shows that I did not get tickets to, Wilco added a third and Ticketmaster be damned, I have tickets in my hot little hand. We'll end up camping out in the bar for hours to snag the best gen-adm spot, but what else have I got to do on a Saturday in May? I cannot wait. This stands to be the concert highlight of the year for me, especially after listening the the astounding Winter Residency shows from the Riv this year. Wilco has never sounded better.

And now, neither have I. Part two of today's happiness equation is the new Fishman Matrix Infinity acoustic pick-up. Just when I was about to purchase an old Acoustic Matrix II, this turned up at the Winter NAMM show. Oooooh..... yeeeeeesssss. Adjustable tone & volume at the soundhole in an under-saddle pick up without hole cutting. But wait, there's more! It's re-voiced, more balanced string to string, has new switchable voicing and is far less "quacky". Had to wait until stock finally became available, then had it installed in my Sigma Anniversary along with a little neck adjusting and a new saddle, installed a forward strap button after all these years and brought it home for a trial run. It sounds like my guitar. Perfect. Or at least perfect enough. That's not an easy feat, to preserve the tonal qualities of an acoustic guitar when using an under-saddle, or any pick-up, without the aid of a mic. Fishman has done an excellent job of tweaking this thing. Playing through a Fender Acoustisonic amp, the natural qualities of my guitar shine. I like it.

Right now, I'm happy.

Ungiven

Strong but so fragile,
Protect me
When I lie down.
You say I am both
Earth and sky,
But you need more.
Beyond just water,
Sweet clear air
Is what you crave.
An ungiven gift,
Not withheld
But forgotten.
Pray we remember.

My Dad, the April Fool's Baby

Today would have been my Dad's birthday. Over twenty years now he's been gone. Finally, after all this time, the troubled teen years have faded and most memories of my father surface as warm and kind. He was 40 when I was born, already living a previous life as record rep, schelpping 78's from radio station to record store and back, then serving in the Army Air Corps.

His second life was the one I knew, as an airplane mechanic for Walston Aviation, at the time, the largest Cessna dealer in the world. His Walston service pins are still in my jewelry box. I loved the airport and I loved flying. Small craft still doesn't frighten me, they feel like home. While most kids were pretending to drive, steering from their daddy's laps, I was pretending to execute perfectly smooth touch 'n' go's from my Dad's knee. I grew up knowing about magnetos and plugs, drag and lift, and I could identify the different planes buzzing over our farm just by the sound of their engines. This was the best part of my childhood. Dreaming of the blue horizon. Dreaming of the happy times. Happy birthday, Joe.

Of fog and limoncello

Home-made limoncello is a wonderful thing. Sweet, fragrant, refreshing and all vodka. More than a little leaves those imbibing in a wonderful fog of well being and happiness. In a soft-focus world, everything is inviting, everyone is accepting, we are pretty and witty and charmed, oh my!

But beware the limoncello. Like those Long Island Teas I used to swill after a horrible day at work, you won't know what hit you until it's too late. I am a postergirl for the cause. Some, I'm sure, would say I have a problem. Mostly though, my friends and I just liked to escape once in a while, making memories dappled in fog and bright. Nights at the drive-in, sharing and sampling. All night band practice wrap-up at 4am. Concerts at an oft-visited venue where the bar-keep saw you at the door and had your drink ready before your hand was even stamped. Winery picnics on grass and patios with a single, perfect strawberry in every glass of champagne. Cooking six course meals with friends in some bizarre suicide-less recreation the The Big Chill. Sipping port and eating cheese, pears, dark chocolate and walnuts while openly weeping over the annual December airing of It's A Wonderful Life. With foggy memories so rich and sweet, why not enjoy the limoncello?

Outdoors with the trees again

Growing up, we did not have air conditioning. We had window fans or we had the shade of the great outdoors. The front yard had three Chinese elms, which often had clothesline strung between and blankets spread beneath. On the other side of the driveway, by the hand-pump well, was the sycamore tree. An immense giant shedding thin strips of bark and fuzzy balls galore. There were more, a silver maple down the drive and another outside my bedroom window, another elm by the barn, a line of poplars marching by the half acre garden and of course, the peach trees. Much of the summer was spent under the trees. Even the mending, washing and snapping of beans were hauled out to the shade. But the best use of shade was recreational. Reading, writing, playing guitar, drawing, napping.... no better place than beneath a shady tree. Until about mid-July when everything is parched and begging for mercy. Get out and enjoy some quality tree time while you can.

Wish I was more like Sinead

I wish I did not want what I haven't got.

There is no reason on earth for me to have a Martin D-41. But, oh, how I want it. Every justification imaginable has passed my thirsty lips. An investment. Resale value is killer. Wanted one since I was 14; that's 41 backwards, so fate is telling me something. The last guitar I'll ever buy. Such a deal on this used one, might never run across such a deal again. Interest sucks so bad right now that I'd make more money on the guitar's appreciation than I'm making on it in the bank. My husband has vowed not to kill me if I buy it. My truck will last at least two more years. Not much makes me happy, this would make me happy. I lost 40 lbs, here's a reward with no calories. Fits my playing style better than a D-28 or a D-35. Swear. Would not be afraid to play it like some people. Still kickin' myself hard for not pulling the trigger on the last used D-41 I passed on. Coulda, shoulda, woulda is for people who don't dream.

It makes me intensely angry that I desire a material thing this badly. Here I am trying desperately to unclutter my life and yet my greed is palatable. I am ashamed.

But I still want it.

Easter

Easter is as early as anyone living will ever see it again, so they say. The first day of spring has come and gone. Daffodils are about to burst into bloom, redbuds, forsythia and saucer magnolias are right behind. Right behind in the cold.

Tomorrow churches will be filled with little girls shivering in cute spring dresses and sandals. Overflow brunchers won't be milling about outside waiting for their table. Like a 60 degree Christmas without snow, Easter just won't seem right this year.

The spot where I had the best Easter ever is currently under water. Flood waters have engulfed the picnic grounds at Meramec State Park. The first Easter I spent with my husband, long before we married, he thought he'd take me to his church. It was a huge congregation and there was no room to attend except via closed circuit TV in the church's already packed basement. No, I said, not gonna do it. So we swung back by the house and grabbed charcoal and a cooler, tossed in wine, little baby filet mignons, beer, potato salad, chips & dip and some other stuff, and headed out to MSP. Here we were in our church clothes, drinkin' and grillin', KSHE's "Easter with the folks" blarin', frisbee flyin'. It was beautiful and warm; I kicked off my shoes, stripped off my hose and ran through the grass like a child. He told me the story of his friends' nearly doomed Easter float trip. I told him about dying eggs with onion skins, coffee, tea and beet and spinach juice. We sang with the radio, watched the river and napped on a blanket in the shade. Ever since then, I have wanted to relive that Easter. Nothing has ever come close.

C'mon, Darlin', let's go home.

It had been the worst day of his life
Beaten, without sleep, alone
His head on the table, tears would not come
Hallucinating the touch of a lost lover
As she brushed aside his hair
Gracing his neck with a forgotten kiss
As her hands teased the worry from his shoulders
He knew this was not a dream
"C'mon, Darlin', let's go home."
The anger, frustration, shame and fear
Finally flowed from his bloodshot eyes
Fists pounded, he could not shout
Save to list his failings in delirium
She grabbed the fists and held them
"Don't. Don't do this to yourself."
Gently she uncurled each clenched hand
Softly kissing first one palm, then the next
And held them to her breast.
Her gaze was absolution, her touch, redemption
"C'mon, Darlin', let's go home."
It became the best day of his life.

Someplace Else I'd Rather Be

We are prisoners of our own making. Fueled by necessity, social mores, greed and yes, even fear. As a child I was acutely aware that we were only a paycheck or two away from real poverty. This unfortunately instilled in me a need for security, much to my soul's detriment. Reliable housing, health insurance, a steady job with benefits, enough take-home pay to live without carrying credit cards balances, these are all very sensible things. All very admirable accomplishments. Still, there's someplace else I'd rather be. Security leaves very little room to take a chance. It leaves very little room for dreams. Little time for travel. Little time for living.

So I gave away my clothes.

Not all my clothes. My business wardrobe. A small step, but a first step. I finally realized that I don't ever want a job again where I have to wear suits, hose and pumps. Ever. "Business casual" is bad enough. I do not desire a career path. I desire my own path. Too bad I desire health insurance for myself and my spouse as well. Someday I hope to reconcile my conflicting desires. Until then, slog onward.

Heavy Blankets Cover Lonely Girl

The windows have been open, the days are warming. Nights are still cold, but enjoyably so. Blankets, quilts and afghans pile on the bed. As my Dad used to say, it "makes for good sleepin'." My Mom used to tell about sleeping between two feather beds at her aunt's farm. As a child my bedroom window was rarely closed, even in the deepest of winter. The night air smells of chill, earth and the river. It calms me. The layers of heavy blankets are a comfort. A friend of mine who works with special youth says that weighted blankets are a technique used to calm and settle the agitated. I can see that. I can feel that. Yes.

Finally......Spring! (Almost)

This winter has been long. Depressing. Unsettling. And now, just maybe, now it is almost over. As I was loading the bird feeders this afternoon, I almost stepped on the crocus popping up out of the snow. The sun was bright, the birds were doing that territorial singing thing, my parsley and chives showed greening in the herb garden and here stood the crocus, defiant in the face of the melting snow. Thank God.

Sure, I still have an almost irrepressible urge to call in sick from work for good, grab my guitar and run away from this life as I know it. Yes, I'm still likely to crawl into a bottle of Norton and drink myself into an evening of oblivion. And probably I've not cried my last tear for lack of knowing why. But finally, spring seems imminent. Finally, daylight savings time is here. Finally, I might write a song that's not in a minor key. Finally..... it's spring. Almost.

The Odyssean Nightmare of Plumbing

Under the sink, under the car, behind any machine, for any home repair that involves more than putty and paint I am all for hiring someone who knows what they are doing. You'd think we'd learn our lesson after 10 trips to the hardware store and days of not speaking in civil tones, but no. Every home repair, no matter how simple, turns into an Odyssean nightmare. First you fix the original problem, then the fix doesn't quite work, then you get that part figured out and in the mean time another issue uncovers itself and the process begins again. Skip the Starbucks or McDonalds for a couple of weeks and the money for the plumber will magically appear. And no one has to get mad at you for no good reason.

Now I like orchids

Being a hapless houseplant killer, I never thought much of orchids. Didn't dislike them, just never thought about them much at all. I'd see them in the indoor plant section of the garden center and say to myself, "Gee, that's pretty; wonder how long it'd take me to kill it?" But this weekend I stumbled upon the Orchid Show at the Missouri Botanical Garden. WHAT on earth was I thinking? Or not thinking? Why had I not fallen in love with orchids until now? They are fascinating. All the more so coz I know I can't grow them. I can, however, shoot them. Check out some of the enchanting flowers from the display here: Eye Spye

The Path

In front of you, in front of me, never easy
So apparent, still deceptive, so we go
Sometimes blindly, often frightened, but together
Even as one of us lags behind

And when I need to walk alone
Don't take it as a slight
It's just the way I'll always be

Walking slowly, running madly, catching breath
Hold my hand, push away, meet again
See the sunrise, sweat the midday, watch the sunset
And drink in the moon along the path

Critter Crossing

The ice and snow doesn't seem to phase most of the critters around. With all the leaves down it's even easier to spot them as they dart across the lawn. Squirrels and birds are a constant, raccoons and skunks amble through, once in a while a lost fox. I've seen coyotes in the park down the street and of course tons of deer. Enough to have venison for dinner well into May given a suburban round-up permit and a rifle or bow. Watching the critters out the kitchen window while I cook is a great pastime, but they are just too fast for me to snap. All that remains is the crosswalk.

The Grid Went Down

Sunday the wind was fierce and the grid went down. We have that problem a lot. More so since Ameren took over Union Electric a while back. They don't spend as much time maintaining the lines, trimming the trees, etc. so when the power goes out it's down for the count. Growing up in the country we expected outages to happen. A little bit of ice or wind and we'd be out for a day or more. But we prepared for the inevitable, lots of water jugs, charcoal, blankets, flashlights, kerosene lamps, books and games. Now we are so tied into the grid, what do you do? Easy for me. Light a candle, grab a guitar. Or cook up something toasty on the gas stove. And there's always many books to choose from. Sometimes I think it's good to go without the grid for a while; but I'd rather do it by choice.

I knew the bride when she used to Rock 'n' Roll

Sometimes it's hard not having kids. People seem to be waiting for an explanation. With women having babies later and later in life, well-meaning friends tell me there's "still time." Uh, no. Truth is, outside of when I was about four years old, and then a very short window of time in my early 30's, I've never wanted to have children. The maternal instinct just sort of passed me by. I have a niece, I have friends with kids, they're great and I love 'em, but it's not my gig. Maybe I'm too selfish, maybe I'm too bi-polar, maybe it just wasn't meant to be. About the only instinct I've ever felt strongly throughout my entire life is the need to be creative. And what is creativity if not a birth of sorts? Writing, painting, drawing, photography, gardening, cooking and especially music; the outcome of this, these are my children. But unless you are some famous, childless artist or rock star, people just don't get it. Not everyone can be rich and famous; not everyone should have kids.

Dan Fogelberg - Sometimes a Song.

Today I bought the "new" Dan Fogelberg single from iTunes, "Sometimes a Song". It's classic Fogelberg. Deceptively simple melody, clean guitar work, lyrics that ache with emotion, signature layered harmonies. It's one of those songs that make you smile, makes you want to cuddle up with your lover in front of the fireplace on a chilly Valentine's Day and sip a lovely glass of port. It's a bittersweet thing for me, hearing this song that he wrote for his wife for Valentines Day in 2005; knowing he had so much more music to give, grieving that the muse is now still. But Dan will live on in our hearts and minds and souls through the legacy of his music and through those he inspired as well.

100% of proceeds from all digital sales of "Sometimes a Song" will be donated to the Prostate Cancer Foundation. Untold thanks to Dan's wife, Jean, for sharing this intimate gift with all of us. Me? I'm off to learn it by tomorrow so I can pick it for my sweetheart on Valentine's Day, one Dan fan to another, because sometimes a song really is the only way to show him how much he means to me.

The Gate

Imprisoned by the undefined feeling that gnaws
Deep within the well of emotion beyond consciousness
Living where no one sees the possibility or aftermath
Of laying the forbidden bare to the sea and the sky.
Freedom is escape and escape is impossible, unthinkable
Uncomfortable silence in guilt blankets all desires
Only few have had both and paid dearly at sunset
When the gate closed as death for the very last time.

Blue Ridge Pottery Obsession

It all started when I saw a set of dishes at an antique mall back in '88 or so. Beautiful, sunny, hand-painted yellow flowers on a ripply edged plates. They wanted $280.00 for an incomplete set. It spoke to my re-emerging ruralness, to the carefree country girl stuck in the city. I loved it. I had to have it. But I also had to have car insurance, so it stayed in the booth. I flipped the plate over and wrote down what was stamped on the back. "Blue Ridge. Hand Painted. Underglaze. Southern Potteries, Inc. Made in USA." Complete with a mountain and a little pine tree. Thus began my obsession. I bought a collector's guide and scoured flea markets, antique malls, yard and estate sales. Now my world is filled with over 50 different designs, from my original beloved "Sunny" on a Colonial plate, to this maple leaf china cake tray in "Tussie Mussie". Back before the eBay boom, plates went for as much as $10. to $25. each. Now, like much of the collectibles market, not so much. Still, I look for Blue Ridge everywhere. Like the Kovels say, "Buy what you love." Yep, I love it.