Of May Apples and Morels

The woods are alive in the spring with delights for all the senses. Birds greet the day with a chorus of song. Bushes bloom with perfume of lilac, azalea and viburnum. Pathways seem to be lined with every hue of flower; bluebells, tall phlox, spring beauties, trilliam, dog tooth violets, columbines, firecracker pinks and if you get down to the ground and peer under the leaves, may apple blossoms. Looking down from above, you'll miss them as they hide under the spreading umbrella of the may apple leaves. Like so many other treasures of nature, you have to know where to look.

And so it is with morels. I've never been good at finding morels, living instead off the kindness of friends who would rather share their bounty than reveal their secret hunting ground. Locally the season is almost over. Farther north should still be going after a good rain. A few years ago, morels even started showing up in select grocery stores. Well, that does take some of the fun out of it, but take advantage while the season's still here. Morels have a culture all their own; not just a distinct texture and flavor. A great deal of folklore and more than a smidgen of mysticism define the morel. They bring good fortune, they are an aphrodisiac, they insure good harvest, they make women conceive male children, dried and powdered they are in love potions and health tonics... sounds like they could save the world! Personally, I think that a little butter and garlic and a saute´pan is magic enough to save my morel world. From the forest to the kitchen, salute once more the spring.

'til we meet on the other side -G'bye, Bob Childers

Until I went to the Woody Guthrie Free Folk Festival, I knew nothing of Bob Childers or his music. I was more than saddened to hear yesterday of his passing; I felt like I'd lost a friend.

Like so many others who fell under his spell, once you dig Bob it's a forever thing. His music is honest, Red Dirt Poetry. Tinged with sadness, exuding hope, singing about life the way people live it. Call it roots, red dirt country, folk, americana, rainbow rock or what have you, Bob's songs would always hit you in the deep down spot where your soul was thirsty. Listening to his music makes you feel a little more alive, even in the wake of sadness like today.

But the music was only part of the magic of Bob, or mostly a reflection of it. He was just a damn good guy. Kind, gentle, honest, self-effacing, quick with a smile and ready to laugh, often at himself. His genuine thankfulness for those who showed appreciation for his art was touching. Any time with Bob was memorable. Woodyfest will not be the same without seeing the bleary-eyed, but reliable, Bob squinting against the Oklahoma sun at Mary Jo's Pancake Breakfast (see above photo).

Travel safely, Brother Bob. Say hi Woody for me. See you on the other side.

The Bottle Rockets Rock Record Store Day

You can't listen to The Bottle Rockets without smiling. And foot tapping. And singing along. Real people making real music that anybody who's ever spent some time livin' can relate to. So when my friend at Euclid Records told me they were doing a set there for Record Store Day.... what better way to start a Saturday?

Stripped down, they still rocked. From the lyrically challenged version of 1000 Dollar Car ("don't buy your music on the internet, just look up lyrics") all the way through to a bleary-eyed Gotta Get Up audience sing-along, the boys did what they never fail to do, make the people happy. Best of all, we were treated to one of the new, yet to be recorded songs from next year's forthcoming record. You're gonna love it. Promise.

But that was only the start of Record Store Day! Five more bands played, plus special DJ Spins and great grub from local eatery Highway 61 Roadhouse. (Which was quite fitting, since the Roadhouse occupies a building just down the street that for years housed Streetside Records, a now defunct local indie chain that I used to call home.) All this plus give aways, ear candy and goodies galore! Hey, it just warmed my heart so see so many people in a record store again. Shopping, buying, trading, chatting, it was magical. Don't let this be your only trip to your local indie record store this year! Stop in often, talk to the record schleppers, tell 'em what you like and let them turn you on to stuff you won't be able to live without. One less fancy frappuccino a week could get you a used CD that won't be gone in 22 sips and has zero calories. You can do it, I know you can, you won't regret it. See ya at the record store.

Kmart?

It's a hard habit to break. Kmart was a great place for a kid from the sticks to shop. Giant bags of fresh popped popcorn, blue frozen slushie drinks, a mechanical horse you rode for a nickel, goldfish, bouncing balls, whole aisles of cheap plastic toys..... life could not have been better for a four year old. Like Woolworth's, Kmart was the big time. The big city. Dad could buy an oil filter for the Pontiac, mom could find a new nightie, and if I was basically good but begged mercilessly, I could wind up with something to shut me up.

Over the years Kmart has remained a stop along my shopping route, picking up on-sale laundry soap here and a tee-shirt there. Martha Stewart cafe curtains still hang in my kitchen, right next to the Williams-Sonoma bowls. Doesn't bother me to mix Kmart jeans with Nordstrom sandals in the same outfit. But I do prefer to be the one doing the mixing. Today my husband and I stopped by the newly remodeled Kmart for some sale goodies and found the Internet Cafe. ??????? What sort of odd parallel universe had we stumbled into? Kmart Internet Cafe? Ooooooo, with free printing! So the hub says, "This is not Kmart." I answered, "Yes, it is." inspecting the machines. "Three stations out of six are out of order." Now that's MY Kmart.

Spring is more than a promise

When I look at the calendar I feel like spring is almost gone. Never mind that it's still arriving. Saucer Magnolias are stunning right now and my Virginia Bluebells are carpeting the shade garden in hues periwinkle and sky. Sweet man that he is, my husband picked handfuls of daffodils and hyacinth from the yard, just to cheer my day. I'd like to clear my date-book, chuck out all meetings, all responsibilities, all plans, and just live the evolution of spring. Take a sabbatical. Stare at the sky. Drink coffee on the patio and watch the birds feed. Drive to the mountains to witness the retreat of the snowline. Sit by the river and feel it swell up to my toes. Learn from Mother Earth. Breathe the quiet stars. Step away from the clock, away from the calendar. Enjoy the spring before its gone.

The Bottle

Every ring of the phone is a knife
Cutting deep, forging scars upon scars
Just when the blood had finally stopped
Now, you bring it back.

Pride is foolish, there's no virtue
To the patience that I've lost
And the honor that I've stolen
Has come at such a cost.
So I shy away at safe passage
Negotiations ill advised
Blindly running, going nowhere
And I hold the thoughts inside.

Trying hard to ignore the pain gnawing
Grinding teeth, steeling nerve against nerve
But the harder I work to forget the past
You have to bring it back.

Pride is foolish, there's no virtue
To the patience that I've lost
And the honor that I've stolen
Has come at such a cost.
So I shy away at safe passage
Negotiations ill advised
Blindly running, going nowhere
And I hold the thoughts inside.

Spring Rain

Hyacinths are blooming, perfuming my yard, my doorstep and my house. Their fragrance astounds me with its delicate beauty and endless reach. It wafts on the breeze through my bedroom window to soothe my fitful dreams then gently wake me before the sunrise. It is a scent that instantly brings a smile to my face and calms my soul.

Many years past, on a trip to Arkansas, in a strange little shop, I found a lotion called Spring Rain. I bought the shower gel and lotion as a vacation treat. Road weary, my husband and I pulled into the cheapest motel we could find in the driving rain. It was clean and quaint, a crackerbox with not much more than a bed and a shower. After a long day, any shower is welcome. The Spring Rain was heavenly. I'd never smelled anything like it. I felt restored, soothed, calm and peaceful. Outside the rain had slowed to a drizzle. All the motel dwellers had opened their doors, breathing in the scent of the fresh earth. People sat out front visiting with strangers, watching the rainbow brighten and fade. We joined them, then walked down the street and ate the best catfish ever fried. The moon lighted our path home through the puddles and the cool night air. A magic moment, a miracle day. Still, every time I use Spring Rain, I remember that day and feel that same sense of calm, the same feeling that the hyacinths bring to me. The beauty, the smile, the peace, the promise of spring.

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