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.