Cookies of Christmas Past, just not mine

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

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

In thanks

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

Autumn respite

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

The Grape

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

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

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

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

Good bye, Anheuser-Busch

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

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

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

Awaiting the first snow

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

Trappings of our youth

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

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

Top of the world

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

Just my imagination

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

Mississippi Sail

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

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

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

River Dreams

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

To touch a dream

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

Beauty of October

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

Jackson Browne at 60

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

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

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

Hit the road

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

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

Damn you, full moon

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

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

Indian Summer: Forest Park Waterfall

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

This little piggy went to market

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

Gord's still gold

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

Autumn knocks

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