Sisters Janis and Kristine began singing together as the Oliver Sisters when they were in high school. Their penchant for blugrass and country rock later resulted in a name change to Sweethearts of the Rodeo, from the title of a Byrds' album.
They had a few top ten country hits in the 80's with Columbia but were dropped from the label for what Columbia deemed were disappointing sales. This song, a Jesse Winchester cover, is from their first album, Rodeo Waltz, for Sugarhill in 1993.
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Thursday, August 31, 2006
For the Sake of the Song: Townes Van Zandt
You'd probably find dozens of artists who say they were influenced by Townes' music. He was a Texan who was a consummate song writer and has been underappreciated by probably about everyone, except those artists who sing his wonderful songs.
This cut is from 1987's At My Window.
MP3 File
This cut is from 1987's At My Window.
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“When you finally go back to your old hometown, you find it wasn't the old home you missed but your childhood”
When I was growing up, we'd wander all over town. The railroad tracks used to be one of our favorite places. We'd walk the tracks, balance on the rails and jump over the ties with double zeroes. I don't remember why, but I think it was similar to the step on a crack break your mother's back refrain. The town railroad station was at our end of the tracks. Cars were often just sitting there, lined up on the many sidetracks, and we'd hoist ourselves up to the windows and sneak a peek. Sometimes we'd be walking and hear a train coming. We'd wait until we could see it then run to stand as close as we dared to the side of the tracks. I can still feel the breeze as the cars whooshed along that track. Once we put a penny on the track to see what would happen. That, for us, was an expensive scientific experiment as a penny had value at every corner store. I remember a stream coming out of a small pipe. The water was cold and clear, and we'd always stop to drink. We'd wander as far as we dared toward the other end of the tracks, but the tracks went on forever.
My town had a square. All the stores except the supermarket were there. We would stop at the drugstore for a vanilla coke or at the spa for a lime rickey. I loved the spa with its wooden booths and cardboard signs haphazard along the walls. My aunt used to take me there Sunday mornings after church. The movie theater, the scene of those Saturday matinees, stood dead center. Hank's bakery was there when my mother was young, when I was young and is still there today. A tiny cobbler's shop stood sandwiched between two stores, and I remember the sign in the window, the gray store front and the cobbler who used to work behind mounds of shoes. The pool hall was downstairs, beneath one of the stores. It did not welcome kids, but sometimes we'd open the door and listen to the enticing sounds from down below. Ben Franklin's, a kid's dream store, and Grants stood side by side. The Creamery had barrels standing outside and cheeses in the window. It always had the best smells. A small luncheonette with lots of stools was longer than it was wide. They used white paper to wrap their sandwiches. The Chinese laundry was where my dad took his shirts. I loved to watch the shirts being ironed and the steam rising from that huge ironer. It made the shop hot no matter the weather. The barber shop where he got his hair cut had two stools and was on the next block. It just needed Floyd to be complete.
The best part of the square was the police box. It was green and round, had lots of windows and stood there, on the street, in the center of the square, for years and years. Someone hit it with a car, and the town had to take it down. When they were looking for a town frozen in time for the movie The Brink's Job, they chose my town. If you ever watch that movie, look for the police box in the square.
My town had a square. All the stores except the supermarket were there. We would stop at the drugstore for a vanilla coke or at the spa for a lime rickey. I loved the spa with its wooden booths and cardboard signs haphazard along the walls. My aunt used to take me there Sunday mornings after church. The movie theater, the scene of those Saturday matinees, stood dead center. Hank's bakery was there when my mother was young, when I was young and is still there today. A tiny cobbler's shop stood sandwiched between two stores, and I remember the sign in the window, the gray store front and the cobbler who used to work behind mounds of shoes. The pool hall was downstairs, beneath one of the stores. It did not welcome kids, but sometimes we'd open the door and listen to the enticing sounds from down below. Ben Franklin's, a kid's dream store, and Grants stood side by side. The Creamery had barrels standing outside and cheeses in the window. It always had the best smells. A small luncheonette with lots of stools was longer than it was wide. They used white paper to wrap their sandwiches. The Chinese laundry was where my dad took his shirts. I loved to watch the shirts being ironed and the steam rising from that huge ironer. It made the shop hot no matter the weather. The barber shop where he got his hair cut had two stools and was on the next block. It just needed Floyd to be complete.
The best part of the square was the police box. It was green and round, had lots of windows and stood there, on the street, in the center of the square, for years and years. Someone hit it with a car, and the town had to take it down. When they were looking for a town frozen in time for the movie The Brink's Job, they chose my town. If you ever watch that movie, look for the police box in the square.
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
Hills of West Virginia: Phil Ochs
Phil Ochs has always been one of folk music's greatest tragedies.
You don't hear much about Ochs and his music. Most of his songs have limited appeal and are far too topical. He never had a big hit though Joan Baez did with his There But For Fortune. He recorded most of his albums during the 1960's. His musical output began to decline in the 1970's and seemed to mirror the dissolution of the anti-war movement. He fell into a horrific state of depression and sank deeper into drugs and alcohol. On April 9, 1976, at the age of 35, he hanged himself.
"It's not enough to know the world is absurd and restrict yourself merely to pointing out that fact...It is wrong to expect a reward for your struggles. The reward is the act of struggle itself, not what you win. Even though you can't expect to defeat the absurdity of the world, you must make the attempt. That's morality, that's religion, that's art, that's life."
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You don't hear much about Ochs and his music. Most of his songs have limited appeal and are far too topical. He never had a big hit though Joan Baez did with his There But For Fortune. He recorded most of his albums during the 1960's. His musical output began to decline in the 1970's and seemed to mirror the dissolution of the anti-war movement. He fell into a horrific state of depression and sank deeper into drugs and alcohol. On April 9, 1976, at the age of 35, he hanged himself.
"It's not enough to know the world is absurd and restrict yourself merely to pointing out that fact...It is wrong to expect a reward for your struggles. The reward is the act of struggle itself, not what you win. Even though you can't expect to defeat the absurdity of the world, you must make the attempt. That's morality, that's religion, that's art, that's life."
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Songbird: Jesse Winchester
Jesse Wichester has an interesting history. He left the US for Montreal in 1967 after receiving his draft notice. He became a Canadian citizen in 1973 but was unable to tour in the US until President Carter's 1977 general amnesty. His first album, Jesse Winchester, was a huge hit and included some of his most well-known songs: Yankee Lady, Brand New Tennessee Waltz and Biloxi.
In 1990, he announced his retirement from the stage but did record a new album in 1999. He has since returned to singing live and released a couple of live albums: Jesse Winchester Live at Mountain Stage in 2001 and Live in 2005.
I love this song with its quiet, almost understated, beauty. It is a cut from The Best of Mountain Stage, Live, Vol. 1.
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In 1990, he announced his retirement from the stage but did record a new album in 1999. He has since returned to singing live and released a couple of live albums: Jesse Winchester Live at Mountain Stage in 2001 and Live in 2005.
I love this song with its quiet, almost understated, beauty. It is a cut from The Best of Mountain Stage, Live, Vol. 1.
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"The whining schoolboy, with his satchel and shining morning face, creeping like snail Unwillingly to school. "
It's chilly this morning. The sun is elsewhere, but we expect its return momentarily.
Back to school time never meant clothes shopping for us. We always wore uniforms. In elementary school it was a blue skirt, topped with a white blouse and a blue tie, sort of a bow tie with legs. The shoes and socks were the only spots of individual taste. I really didn't mind all that much. It wasn't like I had to spend any time wondering what to wear. In high school it was a plaid skirt, white blouse, gray vest and gray blazer. The shoes had to be black loafers worn with nylons. I didn't mind that too much either, but I did hate carrrying the regulation green, lined with waterproofing school bag. It pulled shut with thin straps, and the only way to carry it was over your shoulder. The books were so heavy my hands and arms lost all circulation for weeks at a time.
I used to love my school bag, my elementary school, pre-green monstrosity school bag. It had buckles and pockets and made me feel important. I could carry it like a briefcase by the handle or attach the strap and sling it across my body. The front pockets were for pencils, but I never used mine. I always had a new pencil box with pencils, colored and regular, an eraser, a pencil sharpener, a small ruler and a protractor, which I thought was just an odd shaped ruler. Each year, the night before school started, my mother would lay out my uniform, and I'd pack and repack my school bag, testing it each time for the proper distribution of weight. I'd also sneak a few peeks in the mirror to see how snappy I looked. I was never disappointed.
Back to school time never meant clothes shopping for us. We always wore uniforms. In elementary school it was a blue skirt, topped with a white blouse and a blue tie, sort of a bow tie with legs. The shoes and socks were the only spots of individual taste. I really didn't mind all that much. It wasn't like I had to spend any time wondering what to wear. In high school it was a plaid skirt, white blouse, gray vest and gray blazer. The shoes had to be black loafers worn with nylons. I didn't mind that too much either, but I did hate carrrying the regulation green, lined with waterproofing school bag. It pulled shut with thin straps, and the only way to carry it was over your shoulder. The books were so heavy my hands and arms lost all circulation for weeks at a time.
I used to love my school bag, my elementary school, pre-green monstrosity school bag. It had buckles and pockets and made me feel important. I could carry it like a briefcase by the handle or attach the strap and sling it across my body. The front pockets were for pencils, but I never used mine. I always had a new pencil box with pencils, colored and regular, an eraser, a pencil sharpener, a small ruler and a protractor, which I thought was just an odd shaped ruler. Each year, the night before school started, my mother would lay out my uniform, and I'd pack and repack my school bag, testing it each time for the proper distribution of weight. I'd also sneak a few peeks in the mirror to see how snappy I looked. I was never disappointed.
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
Ellen's Tune: Bill Morrissey
Every now and then I need my Bill Morrissey fix. He writes remarkable songs filled with perfect phrasing and just the right turn of words. He sings them with that distinctive Morrissey sound.
This cut is from Night Train.
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This cut is from Night Train.
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“The night walked down the sky with the moon in her hand.”
I think the man in the moon has two different faces. Some nights he looks content, smiling, as he bends just a bit to look right at us. His other face, when his mouth is open in that oh kind of circle, is his surprised face. I like that one. From that perch of his, you'd think nothing could surprise him. I know it wasn't Neil's giant leap. My man in the moon was surprised long before that. Maybe the green cheese story took him back just a bit, and Galileo with that telescope of his might have added to the shock. He might also be thinking Luna is a pretty silly name for a man. Plain old man in the moon is more than enough.
The sky at the beach is lit by a million stars, and when the moon is full, sea grass shadows wave across the sand. A night walk is mystical. If you sit for a bit and are patient, you get to wish on a falling star. Sounds are magnified. Waves roar in rhythm then dwindle to a gentle lapping when they reach the sand. The night birds are more welcome than the raucous gulls. They sing alone, and you can hear each song. The sound of laughter pours from the open windows and doors near the beach. Vacations blur the line between asleep and awake, and to fritter away any of that free time by sleeping seems wasteful. The real world will intrude soon enough.
I, though, am blessed with the gift of time.
The sky at the beach is lit by a million stars, and when the moon is full, sea grass shadows wave across the sand. A night walk is mystical. If you sit for a bit and are patient, you get to wish on a falling star. Sounds are magnified. Waves roar in rhythm then dwindle to a gentle lapping when they reach the sand. The night birds are more welcome than the raucous gulls. They sing alone, and you can hear each song. The sound of laughter pours from the open windows and doors near the beach. Vacations blur the line between asleep and awake, and to fritter away any of that free time by sleeping seems wasteful. The real world will intrude soon enough.
I, though, am blessed with the gift of time.
Monday, August 28, 2006
Black Eyed Molly: Stan Rogers
Stan Rogers sang of the Maritimes and the seas. He sang traditional songs which celebrate Canada and its people.
"His own songs, generally set in traditional formats, spoke eloquently for the many ordinary lives that, taken together, reflect the diversity of the Canadian experience. Rogers gave resounding voice to those who work closest to the land and the sea - to sailors, fisherman and farmers - as well as to the dispossessed and the disaffected. His themes were universal - honor, loyalty and hope - but his terms of reference and his images were evocatively specific and his sense of Canadian history equally poetic and heroic."
Stan Rogers died on June 2, 1993 in a fire aboard an Air Canada DC-9 at the Greater Cincinnati Airport.
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"His own songs, generally set in traditional formats, spoke eloquently for the many ordinary lives that, taken together, reflect the diversity of the Canadian experience. Rogers gave resounding voice to those who work closest to the land and the sea - to sailors, fisherman and farmers - as well as to the dispossessed and the disaffected. His themes were universal - honor, loyalty and hope - but his terms of reference and his images were evocatively specific and his sense of Canadian history equally poetic and heroic."
Stan Rogers died on June 2, 1993 in a fire aboard an Air Canada DC-9 at the Greater Cincinnati Airport.
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The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face: Peggy Seeger
Peggy Seeger, half-sister to Pete, was married to Ewan MacColl. He was one of the most influential folk artists who not only wrote enduringly beautiful music but also extensively collected traditional British music. He wrote more than 300 songs, and this is one of his most well known.
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“The drops of rain make a hole in the stone, not by violence, but by often falling”
I could hear the rain on the roof last night, and one branch, moved by wind and weather, brushed the side of the house. My imagination conjured the man with a hook who roamed the streets on dark nights scratching windows and doors. Last night, though, I didn't hide under the blankets. I just listened for a bit and then drifted off to sleep.
It is still raining, and the sound sends me back to the summer I was twelve. We vacationed on an island. I remember the ferry ride, the small town with the white storefronts and our house. It was remote, at the end of a dirt road. We had each other and a radio for company, and, at twelve, I preferred the radio. It was an old one which sat on the kitchen counter. We'd sit on the floor, play games and listen. One rainy day, after a whole morning of together time, I wanted a bit of space and took my book to the car. The only sound I could hear was the rain hitting the windows and beating on the car roof. Lying sprawled on the back seat, I read for hours then fell asleep.
My house in Africa had a tin roof. I was surrounded by the sound of rain. I loved it.
It is still raining, and the sound sends me back to the summer I was twelve. We vacationed on an island. I remember the ferry ride, the small town with the white storefronts and our house. It was remote, at the end of a dirt road. We had each other and a radio for company, and, at twelve, I preferred the radio. It was an old one which sat on the kitchen counter. We'd sit on the floor, play games and listen. One rainy day, after a whole morning of together time, I wanted a bit of space and took my book to the car. The only sound I could hear was the rain hitting the windows and beating on the car roof. Lying sprawled on the back seat, I read for hours then fell asleep.
My house in Africa had a tin roof. I was surrounded by the sound of rain. I loved it.
Sunday, August 27, 2006
“'Tis the last rose of summer Left blooming alone; All her lovely companions Are faded and gone”
Each day my house becomes an interior set for Lawrence of Arabia. I have no grass in my front yard so it has reverted to its earliest incarnation, a sand dune. Gracie and her friend Cody play every morning on that dune, and they send dust billowing in the air. It blows down the street, and to my neighbors, it must resemble those sand storms you see only in the movies. If I added a camel to the mix, they'd start looking for an oasis. My front rooms get such a layer of dust you'd surmise no one has lived here, for years. Today was the worst so I reluctantly decided to clean one small area which led to another small area which led to the living and dining rooms. I washed floors and polished every surface. I hated every minute of it.
It was cold in the house this morning, 64 degrees cold. If this were winter, I'd have made a beeline for the thermostat; instead, I went the sweat shirt, slippers route. The sun has yet to make an appearance. A visit long enough to warm the house would be appreciated.
This week is summer's swan song, a week of lasts: the last play, the last concert on the green and the last summer barbecue. The beach chairs and the picnic basket are soon destined for their winter quarters in the cellar. I'll miss summer.
It was cold in the house this morning, 64 degrees cold. If this were winter, I'd have made a beeline for the thermostat; instead, I went the sweat shirt, slippers route. The sun has yet to make an appearance. A visit long enough to warm the house would be appreciated.
This week is summer's swan song, a week of lasts: the last play, the last concert on the green and the last summer barbecue. The beach chairs and the picnic basket are soon destined for their winter quarters in the cellar. I'll miss summer.
Saturday, August 26, 2006
“Since wearing a slip and a bra in Ed Wood I have much more respect for women.”
I never had training wheels. No one I knew ever had training wheels. We just had dads who would hold on to the bikes and us until gravity was no longer an issue. I did, however, have a training bra, and I still have no idea why. I get where training wheels make a heck of a lot of sense. Learning to balance and pedal at the same time takes practice. What I can't figure is why those particular body parts needed training. They seemed to be doing just fine on their own, and gravity wouldn't become an issue for decades. It's not as if practice made perfect here.
Garter belts were instruments of torture. If you didn't hitch the back and front of the stocking exactly right, you'd risk life and limb as the garter would flip up and cause bodily harm. I think I still have scars.
I remember my first pair of heels and the trouble I had staying aloft. On just about every step, my ankle would turn, and I'd nearly lose my balance. I don't know why they didn't make training heels. Those make sense.
I don't know if the first bras burned during the sixties were regular or training models, but I do know why they were burned. I'm just surprised there were no garter belts joining them.
Garter belts were instruments of torture. If you didn't hitch the back and front of the stocking exactly right, you'd risk life and limb as the garter would flip up and cause bodily harm. I think I still have scars.
I remember my first pair of heels and the trouble I had staying aloft. On just about every step, my ankle would turn, and I'd nearly lose my balance. I don't know why they didn't make training heels. Those make sense.
I don't know if the first bras burned during the sixties were regular or training models, but I do know why they were burned. I'm just surprised there were no garter belts joining them.
Friday, August 25, 2006
Folk Is the New Black: Janis Ian
A Janis Ian song was a popular posting a short while back, and it elicted several comments. In one of the comments, her new album was mentioned. I bought it that day.
This is the title song from that album.
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This is the title song from that album.
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Sundown: Gordon Lightfoot
Gordon Lightfoot is one of the consummate singer-songwriters, a master craftsman in song and verse with a career stretching back to the 1960's. His voice and style are wonderfully distinctive.
This song, the title cut from a 1974 album, was a big Lightfoot hit which means it also appears on Gord's Gold and Gordon Lightfoot - Complete Greatest Hits.
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This song, the title cut from a 1974 album, was a big Lightfoot hit which means it also appears on Gord's Gold and Gordon Lightfoot - Complete Greatest Hits.
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"If dogs could talk, it would take a lot of the fun out of owning one."
The house is cold and sunless. If this were winter, I'd be adding socks and a sweatshirt; instead, I relish the change from the August heat. The sky is gray but not rain gray. No cats lounge in the doorway, their usual morning haunt. They are on beds, curled into balls to keep warm. Gracie has played with her dog friend Cody, been in and out a few times and is now taking her morning nap. I can hear her deep breathing. The birds are loud this morning, and a woodpecker is tapping on a pine tree close to the window. I think it's the same bird I keep shooing away from the side of my house. A slight breeze brushes the leaves and their tips flutter, soundlessly.
A cool day sounds perfect for just a bit of shopping, maybe an antique store or two. I don't have much money, but that hasn't ever stopped me. Serendipity is all in the looking.
The weather is cool enough for Gracie to come along with me for company. She is the co-pilot. I drive and converse. Gracie acknowledges these one-sided conversations with an occasional lick on my cheek but usually finds looking out windows far more interesting than the blatterings of any human, even her own. She abides stops with an unending patience, and I keep a few treats on hand to thank her. We might even share a bit of lunch. Gracie, I suspect, finds lunch the highlight of any jaunt.
My dance card, once filled with summer plays and concerts, is nearly empty. Summer will soon slip into fall, my favorite season of the year.
A cool day sounds perfect for just a bit of shopping, maybe an antique store or two. I don't have much money, but that hasn't ever stopped me. Serendipity is all in the looking.
The weather is cool enough for Gracie to come along with me for company. She is the co-pilot. I drive and converse. Gracie acknowledges these one-sided conversations with an occasional lick on my cheek but usually finds looking out windows far more interesting than the blatterings of any human, even her own. She abides stops with an unending patience, and I keep a few treats on hand to thank her. We might even share a bit of lunch. Gracie, I suspect, finds lunch the highlight of any jaunt.
My dance card, once filled with summer plays and concerts, is nearly empty. Summer will soon slip into fall, my favorite season of the year.
Thursday, August 24, 2006
Blowin' in the Wind: The New World Singers
The New World Singers, Gil Turner, Bob Cohen, Delores Dixon, and Happy Traum, were the very first to record this song, in 1962. According to the Smithsonian Folkways site, the story goes that Dylan approached Gil Turner backstage at a New World Singers' performance with the words to Blowin' in the Wind, and asked if he could sing it for him. Turner was so impressed that he asked Dylan if he could take the song upstairs to the stage and perform it with the group, and he did.
This song is from Broadside Ballads, Volume I. It was originally released in 1963 on the Folkways label but has been re-released by Smithsonian Folkways.
MP3 File
This song is from Broadside Ballads, Volume I. It was originally released in 1963 on the Folkways label but has been re-released by Smithsonian Folkways.
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No Regrets: Tom Rush
This is from 1999's No Regrets: The Very Best of Tom Rush though the song No Regrets was first recorded in 1968.
Tom Rush was a huge part of the folk revival of the 60's. He started his career singing in clubs around Cambridge and Boston. His album, The Circle Game, is credited with ushering in the era of the singer-songwriter.
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Tom Rush was a huge part of the folk revival of the 60's. He started his career singing in clubs around Cambridge and Boston. His album, The Circle Game, is credited with ushering in the era of the singer-songwriter.
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“Why do brides wear white? Because it's the most popular color for kitchen appliances”
My house is filled with appliances. Some are vital to my personal well-being and, maybe, just maybe, my continued survival. First on that take with me to the bomb shelter if I had a bomb shelter list is the coffee grinder. I press the button, hear the whirr, sniff the fresh grounds, make a pot, take my first sip and sense heaven. Next on that list is my microwave. Without it I'd starve. My stove is near obsolete. I use the oven once in a while, but the top burners have been inactive so long they have spiders' webs upon spiders' webs, generations of them. The directions for any foods have to say when using the microwave....Next on that list is my CD player. I need my music, enough said. The washing machine pops up fourth. You'll not find me with a wash board and tub. The dryer, though, is too insistent and brazen to be on the list. No clocks made the list either. I don't really care what time it is. I just divide twenty four hours into light and dark, day and night. The panini grill is on the list as is the bread machine. Those two go together like love and marriage. I suppose the TV could go on the list but only with a DVD player. Bomb shelters can get pretty boring without a bit of entertainment. The last item on my I need these appliances list is the blender. It makes the best drinks, and I suspect that no bomb shelter is bearable without one.
I just hope the electricity works.
I just hope the electricity works.
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
Alone and Forsaken: Emmylou Harris
This is a cut from the album Timeless: Hank Williams Tribute. I have never been a Hank Williams fan, but the music from this album made me realize what a huge, wonderful musical legacy he left.
The Emmylou interpretation makes this song almost a lament, a folk ballad. That is Mark Knopfler on background vocals.
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The Emmylou interpretation makes this song almost a lament, a folk ballad. That is Mark Knopfler on background vocals.
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“There are some things you learn best in calm, and some in storm.”
My sister's birthday is coming soon. I'm sorry to say I don't remember her being born, but I do remember Hurricane Carol. The two events happened to coincide though I used to believe it was a cause and effect relationship. Though I was only seven, I vividly remember that storm and its ferocity.
I remember being entranced by the wind and leaning on the picture windowsill to watch the trees bend to the ground and the leaves fly. It wasn't fear but curiosity and awe which kept me there. I watched the tree across the street, the biggest tree I knew, fall to the wind. The noise was tremendous. The lights flickered for a while and finally went out, keeping the hurricane the sole entertainment. During the eye of the storm we went outside with my dad. I was thrilled to be outside during a real hurricane, eye or not. The street was littered. We were the only ones outside, and our voices echoed. My dad checked out the tree damage, and we walked through its branches. I remember having to climb over what had been the highest branches. I can still see those branches with their leaves sodden and stuck to the road.
I know my sister arrived home from the hospital a few days later. Men came, cut up the tree and hauled the pieces away. I watched from across the street. The stump of its trunk was all that was left, a permanent reminder of my first hurricane and the biggest tree I knew.
I remember being entranced by the wind and leaning on the picture windowsill to watch the trees bend to the ground and the leaves fly. It wasn't fear but curiosity and awe which kept me there. I watched the tree across the street, the biggest tree I knew, fall to the wind. The noise was tremendous. The lights flickered for a while and finally went out, keeping the hurricane the sole entertainment. During the eye of the storm we went outside with my dad. I was thrilled to be outside during a real hurricane, eye or not. The street was littered. We were the only ones outside, and our voices echoed. My dad checked out the tree damage, and we walked through its branches. I remember having to climb over what had been the highest branches. I can still see those branches with their leaves sodden and stuck to the road.
I know my sister arrived home from the hospital a few days later. Men came, cut up the tree and hauled the pieces away. I watched from across the street. The stump of its trunk was all that was left, a permanent reminder of my first hurricane and the biggest tree I knew.
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
Owensboro: Natalie Merchant
Natalie Merchant, once the lead singer for 10,000 Maniacs, left the group in 1994 to start a solo career. She had a hit, Carnival, from her first solo album, Tigerlily, in 1995. She then formed her own indie label, Myth America Records.
This song is from 2003's The House Carpenter's Daughter, the first release on her own label.
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This song is from 2003's The House Carpenter's Daughter, the first release on her own label.
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Betty and Dupree: Josh White
Despite being one of the great bluesmen of his day, Josh White never got the recognition he deserved and is still relatively overlooked.
His life and career read like a novel. Born in South Carolina in 1915, he left home after his father's death, the result of a beating by whites because of unpaid bills. At the age of 17 he began his solo career.
He had a lot of firsts: first Black to perform at the White House, to perform in segregated venues, to have a million dollar record and to have a solo concert tour; however, his leftist leanings led to a McCarthy committee blacklisting in the early 1950's.
"Josh was hailed at various times as king of the blues singers, king of the folksingers, king of the political singers, pioneering black sex symbol, "Presidential Minstrel" to the Roosevelt White House, and king of Cafe Society."
This cut is from a Smithsonian Folkways album called Classic African American Ballads
MP3 File
His life and career read like a novel. Born in South Carolina in 1915, he left home after his father's death, the result of a beating by whites because of unpaid bills. At the age of 17 he began his solo career.
He had a lot of firsts: first Black to perform at the White House, to perform in segregated venues, to have a million dollar record and to have a solo concert tour; however, his leftist leanings led to a McCarthy committee blacklisting in the early 1950's.
"Josh was hailed at various times as king of the blues singers, king of the folksingers, king of the political singers, pioneering black sex symbol, "Presidential Minstrel" to the Roosevelt White House, and king of Cafe Society."
This cut is from a Smithsonian Folkways album called Classic African American Ballads
MP3 File
“I have recently taken up two new sports: roller skating and ankle spraining, in that order. I am getting quite good at both.”
I used to love to roller skate. My friends and I would walk up the hill to our parking lot and skate round and round pretending we were at the skating rink. We'd get to that lot, sit on the curbstone and attach our skates to our shoes, always shoes as sneakers never held for long. The keys would hang on strings around our necks, and we'd have to stop periodically to retighten the clamps. My skates had brown leather straps, and when the holes in those straps got too big, I'd hammer and nail a new one. We parking lot skaters were easy to identify. Each of us bore the scourges of the street, scraped and scabby knees and elbows.
When we got older and more sophisticated, starting around the seventh grade, we'd go to a real skating rink with lights and music and a softer floor. We'd go to the Bal-a-Roue. No more keys around our necks, we'd graduated to shoe skates. No more scrapes or scabs, we'd just dust our backsides, the tell tale sign of an inexperienced skater. It never mattered that I was always dusty. Falling was fun and trying to get back up near hysterical. Sometimes we'd do a snakeline and woe-be-tide the last few skaters who'd go too wide. When the couples skated, we'd grab a coke and watch. The couples seemed to be the best skaters of all. They'd be hand in hand or arm and arm and dancing to the organ music. Some even skated backwards. That glitzy ball would be shooting holes of light all over them as they skated. I was in awe.
I never learned to skate backwards with any finesse. The Bal-a-Roue closed before I could perfect my technique, but I know I would have been awesome under those dancing lights.
When we got older and more sophisticated, starting around the seventh grade, we'd go to a real skating rink with lights and music and a softer floor. We'd go to the Bal-a-Roue. No more keys around our necks, we'd graduated to shoe skates. No more scrapes or scabs, we'd just dust our backsides, the tell tale sign of an inexperienced skater. It never mattered that I was always dusty. Falling was fun and trying to get back up near hysterical. Sometimes we'd do a snakeline and woe-be-tide the last few skaters who'd go too wide. When the couples skated, we'd grab a coke and watch. The couples seemed to be the best skaters of all. They'd be hand in hand or arm and arm and dancing to the organ music. Some even skated backwards. That glitzy ball would be shooting holes of light all over them as they skated. I was in awe.
I never learned to skate backwards with any finesse. The Bal-a-Roue closed before I could perfect my technique, but I know I would have been awesome under those dancing lights.
Monday, August 21, 2006
Here in California: Lucinda Williams
This is a cut from Treasures Left Behind: Remembering Kate Wolf. I think it is my favorite track from the album.
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The Nervous Wreck of the Edna Fitzgerald: Four Bitchin' Babes
It's Monday, the one day of the week which needs help, coming as it does after the weekend so I'm presenting another fun song from the Four Bitchin' Babes: Christine Lavin, Patty Larkin, Megon McDonough and Sally Fingerett.
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"Half the fun of the travel is the esthetic of lostness."
I never win anything. I buy all the raffle tickets the schools sell and come up empty. The few, and I mean few, times I've played the instant lottery nothing on the card remotely matched. Though I've never bought any of the million dollar tickets, I've already mapped out how I'll spend my fortune, just in case. Let's see, a million each to my sisters and brother. With all that money, sharing the bounty is only right. A family trip is on the list, including a nanny for the baby. We'll visit exotic places and ports of call that have never seen or even heard of a cruise ship. The memories will pile up, one on top of another. It will become the trip of legend. They'll return home laden with enough souvenirs and pictures to relive the adventure over and over again while I keep on traveling. Every next stop will be a closed eyes pick on a spinning globe. My family and I will keep in touch by phone and e-mail, and we'll see each other at Thanksgiving and Christmas. Sometimes I'll fly to them and sometimes they'll fly to me. I figure I'll go home when I finally get tired of washing out my underwear.
Did I mention the RV?
Did I mention the RV?
Sunday, August 20, 2006
“Smell brings to mind... a family dinner of pot roast and sweet potatoes during a myrtle-mad August in a Midwestern town."
A rainy Sunday morning in the summer is one of the best of all days. I get to stay home in my cozy clothes and not obsess about all those errands I should be doing. Three Sunday newspapers fill my morning and spill into the afternoon, and I make breakfast, a real Sunday breakfast. I have eggs, over-easy, bacon and toast, the same breakfast my Dad always made when you visited. He'd go buy the Sunday paper, stop for a few donuts then come home and make breakfast. It was always bacon and eggs, and the eggs were always over-easy. The toast was a personal responsibility. I can see my Dad standing over the stove as the pans sputtered and popped, the way pans do when there is too much grease. He'd have a kitchen towel thrown over one shoulder and use it to wipe his hands. He'd wield that spatula, turn and and hold out a plate for retrieval because he didn't leave his station to deliver. The eggs were always perfect with just the right amount of brown and plenty of yolk.
Today screams nap. Daytime darkness does that so do Sunday's, probably a remnant from the days of big Sunday dinners with the family. My mother would cook a huge meal of almost holiday proportions. My favorite was roast beef, mashed potatoes, corn, peas (canned asparagus for my Dad) and gravy. Every Sunday until I went to college we'd eat dinner together. After that, we got too busy in different directions. Once in a while, we'd have a quorum for supper, but dinner became a holiday event.
If I wished on a falling star, I'd wish for just one more of those Sunday dinners from my childhood so I could memorize us all. I didn't pay enough attention when I was younger.
Today screams nap. Daytime darkness does that so do Sunday's, probably a remnant from the days of big Sunday dinners with the family. My mother would cook a huge meal of almost holiday proportions. My favorite was roast beef, mashed potatoes, corn, peas (canned asparagus for my Dad) and gravy. Every Sunday until I went to college we'd eat dinner together. After that, we got too busy in different directions. Once in a while, we'd have a quorum for supper, but dinner became a holiday event.
If I wished on a falling star, I'd wish for just one more of those Sunday dinners from my childhood so I could memorize us all. I didn't pay enough attention when I was younger.
Saturday, August 19, 2006
"I still get wildly enthusiastic about little things.... I play with leaves. I skip down the street and run against the wind."
In the late 60's, I and just about everyone else I knew thought decor meant plants and candles. The candles created the atmosphere and conveniently hid the blemishes on the mismatched, cast-off furniture. Plants hung from every window and served as curtains. Spider plants were the universal as one spider plant quickly became more than enough spider plants to decorate my entire three room apartment. Macrame was the plant hanger of choice. Room dividers hung from doorways and had to be beaded. It was an unspoken rule. A few of the dishes matched but most didn't. Food tasted the same regardless. It was my junior year, and I was living off campus, illegally. My roommate and I had found an apartment in a run down section of the city, but we thought it grand. We were on our own for the first time in our lives and loving it. We came and went at our own choosing and were accountable only to each other. We had a few parties, and the police were never called. That place was near perfection.
It wasn't until far later that I realized my little apartment is deserving of a historical marker. Though we lived there only a single semester, it was one of the important stopping spots in my life. We had no one looking over our shoulders or keeping tabs, but we still stayed responsible. At sometime, during that semester, we crossed over that invisible line into adulthood, and I had missed the fanfare.
It wasn't until far later that I realized my little apartment is deserving of a historical marker. Though we lived there only a single semester, it was one of the important stopping spots in my life. We had no one looking over our shoulders or keeping tabs, but we still stayed responsible. At sometime, during that semester, we crossed over that invisible line into adulthood, and I had missed the fanfare.
Friday, August 18, 2006
Mr. Bojangles: Nina Simone
Okay, I know, I know there's the Dylan version, but come on, listen to this and tell me it isn't just about perfect. You feel the sadness as Nina sings the words. I don't think music can do better than that!
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Hallelujah: Jeff Buckley
This is the Leonard Cohen cover from Jeff Buckley's 1994 debut album Grace and is considered by most as the ultimate cover of this song.
I really love this song, but it almost seems a lament for the career Jeff might have had. His life and his music were cut short in 1997 when he drowned, but he left behind a legacy of which this is but a sampling.
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I really love this song, but it almost seems a lament for the career Jeff might have had. His life and his music were cut short in 1997 when he drowned, but he left behind a legacy of which this is but a sampling.
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“No matter what I talk about, I always get back to baseball.”
Gracie, one cat and I went back to bed, curled up in the cool room and slept away the morning. It was wonderful, but that put me way behind my time. I mean, really, how could I have slept? I should have been agog with excitement at the errands awaiting me. There's the dump, a favorite spot, where I get to separate my recycles. That always gets me just a bit giddy. I also had the grocery store on my list, a wonder of aisles and choices, almost a hand clapping event. What about those spider webs? With the morning gone, I just hope and hope there is still room for the planned eradication. And the poor the laundry, how will I ever fit that into my schedule as tardy as I am? I'm sorry to say those colors and whites might just have to co-mingle yet another day. I feel like such a failure.
The biggest news around here is the Yankees are in town. No world crisis could ever push that off the front page. We Sox fans know what is important and set our priorities accordingly. A double header starting in thirty minutes means the radio blaring while I speed through the dump trying to toss recycles from the car so as not to waste a single moment of TV time. In fact, today is an abbreviated version of Coffee. No wit, no wisdom, no anecdotes come to mind. All I can think of is David and Manny and their bats. My heart aches that Jason Johnson is pitching.
I have my Sox t-shirt ready and my feminine Sox hat, white with a pink B. I may not be at Fenway, but I'll dress accordingly anyway. Go Sox! Hot dog here, please!
The biggest news around here is the Yankees are in town. No world crisis could ever push that off the front page. We Sox fans know what is important and set our priorities accordingly. A double header starting in thirty minutes means the radio blaring while I speed through the dump trying to toss recycles from the car so as not to waste a single moment of TV time. In fact, today is an abbreviated version of Coffee. No wit, no wisdom, no anecdotes come to mind. All I can think of is David and Manny and their bats. My heart aches that Jason Johnson is pitching.
I have my Sox t-shirt ready and my feminine Sox hat, white with a pink B. I may not be at Fenway, but I'll dress accordingly anyway. Go Sox! Hot dog here, please!
Thursday, August 17, 2006
Who Knows Where the Time Goes: Sandy Denny
Yes indeed, these are all repeats, but each is a favorite of mine, and I figured today is a perfect day for favorites.
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Chelsea Morning: Joni Mitchell
The imagery in this song always blows me away. It is a feast of sights and sounds. For some reason, in my mind's eye I always see small, sweet green oranges, and I know exactly how many pigeons.
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“Our birthdays are feathers in the broad wing of time.”
Today I'm a year older. Yup, it's my birthday, another in a string long enough to circle a small city. When I woke up, I didn't feel any different and didn't look any different. The gray hairs are about the same in number though that could be a result of my fading sight. My teeth are mostly my own as are all essential body parts. I have no big plans though my sister says I should go out and buy myself something frivolous. I like that idea because I am a firm believer that a birthday is the best of all celebrations, and each and every birthday deserves bands, a small parade and lots of balloons.
Today I met the world for the first time. Ahead of me would be the most wonderful people and experiences, and I didn't even know it yet. I was too busy figuring out exactly what had happened. I'm thinking, though, that adjusting really didn't take too long as I had a pretty narrow view of the world and an awfully short attention span. Once I looked around and noticed, all the fun parts started. I got to meet the sky, the sun, the moon and my mother and father. Every day brought something brand spanking new. Did you ever notice how much babies clap? I always think they are so filled with the joys of life that they just need to applaud.
Birthdays do that to me. They remind me that life is wonderful and precious and sometimes difficult and sad but always an adventure. Today I'm going to laugh and clap and celebrate my life.
Today I met the world for the first time. Ahead of me would be the most wonderful people and experiences, and I didn't even know it yet. I was too busy figuring out exactly what had happened. I'm thinking, though, that adjusting really didn't take too long as I had a pretty narrow view of the world and an awfully short attention span. Once I looked around and noticed, all the fun parts started. I got to meet the sky, the sun, the moon and my mother and father. Every day brought something brand spanking new. Did you ever notice how much babies clap? I always think they are so filled with the joys of life that they just need to applaud.
Birthdays do that to me. They remind me that life is wonderful and precious and sometimes difficult and sad but always an adventure. Today I'm going to laugh and clap and celebrate my life.
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
The Nightshift Watchman: David Wilcox
This is the title song from David Wilcox's 1987 debut album originally released by the Song of the Wood Music label then re-released on Koch Records.
I love David's voice and the simplicity of his music: no gimmicks, just him accompanied by his acoustic guitar. He has this easy going sound which, on this song anyway, belies the lyrics.
When it comes I'll follow my directions
When it comes its time for us to go
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I love David's voice and the simplicity of his music: no gimmicks, just him accompanied by his acoustic guitar. He has this easy going sound which, on this song anyway, belies the lyrics.
When it comes I'll follow my directions
When it comes its time for us to go
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Song of the Sea: Cake Bake Betty
This song is from an album called Songs About Teeth on Infinity Cat Recordings.
Rather than trying to explain this album, I'm sending you right to the source for the information. I found it rather intriguing:
http://www.cdbaby.com/cd/cakebakebetty
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Rather than trying to explain this album, I'm sending you right to the source for the information. I found it rather intriguing:
http://www.cdbaby.com/cd/cakebakebetty
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“All the world continues coming and going in reincarnation.”
In this life, I have been so lucky that there is very little I need or want, but just in case anyone asks...
In my next life I want to carry a tune. It's just that simple. When I mention a song no one knows and am asked to hum a few bars, I will sing the entire song and end with a flourish. I might even do silly hand movements to some of the lyrics. People will beg me to sing more, and I will oblige. No song will be left unsung. I will be like Maria singing in the fields with arms outstretched, only I won't be a nun. I'll just be me with a voice.
In my next life, I still won't care that higher mathematical skills remain a puzzle to me. Adding and subtracting and multiplying and dividing are about all I need to survive. Algebra just seems perfectly useless, the same with proofs in geometry. I know that area and square whatevers are important, but I'll let the experts do the math or I'll call my friend Claire, the math teacher.
In my next life, I will wander a while longer before I decide to settle in one place. The ends of the earth will be my destinations. I'll carry the essentials in my backpack with my camera and my journal. The camera will record what my eyes see, and the journal will be the response from my heart. I'll eat foods I can't pronounce and wear colorful clothing with strange names. The Happy Wanderer will be my theme song, and I'll sing as I roam.
If any powers that be are reading this, that's about it.
In my next life I want to carry a tune. It's just that simple. When I mention a song no one knows and am asked to hum a few bars, I will sing the entire song and end with a flourish. I might even do silly hand movements to some of the lyrics. People will beg me to sing more, and I will oblige. No song will be left unsung. I will be like Maria singing in the fields with arms outstretched, only I won't be a nun. I'll just be me with a voice.
In my next life, I still won't care that higher mathematical skills remain a puzzle to me. Adding and subtracting and multiplying and dividing are about all I need to survive. Algebra just seems perfectly useless, the same with proofs in geometry. I know that area and square whatevers are important, but I'll let the experts do the math or I'll call my friend Claire, the math teacher.
In my next life, I will wander a while longer before I decide to settle in one place. The ends of the earth will be my destinations. I'll carry the essentials in my backpack with my camera and my journal. The camera will record what my eyes see, and the journal will be the response from my heart. I'll eat foods I can't pronounce and wear colorful clothing with strange names. The Happy Wanderer will be my theme song, and I'll sing as I roam.
If any powers that be are reading this, that's about it.
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
It's Raining: Peter, Paul & Mary
I listened to about seven or eight songs, and none of them seemed right until I heard this one. There is just something about Peter, Paul & Mary. They were the first folk singers I ever heard, and they led me to Judy and Joan and Joni and Tom and Gordon and on and on.
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Four Strong Winds: Judy Collins
This song always reminds me of my friend Ralph. Years ago, when we were in Ghana together, he would play the song every time I asked. It wasn't until recently I found out he really doesn't like it. Now, that's a friend! But I still like it, and with Judy Collins singing, how can you not think how beautiful?
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“It's going to be a horror movie, and it's going to be scary. I don't want to pretend in any way that that's not the case.”
A muggy day with rain to follow is the forecast. It is getting darker, and the thick air has that storm feel. Every now and then a slight breeze rustles the leaves and spins the chimes, but in between there is a stillness. Today is a favorite kind of day. The house seems to wrap around me, and I feel comforted in the darkness of this room. I hope for a soft rain.
Today will be old movie day. I decree that all the films must be in black and white and have been made no later than 1965. With Gracie beside me, we'll sit on the couch and munch popcorn. I'll watch the movies; she'll watch the popcorn. I'm thinking an old scary movie, like a Vincent Price movie in one of those dark houses in the rain with lots of screams and a few bodies. I can see it now. The lights flickered and went out just after the first scream. It was a woman's scream as manly men never screamed. They'll find the screamer on the library floor in a faint. She'll tell them someone grabbed her. The butler and the maid will give each other knowing looks. The guests will talk among themselves; the women will be frightened, and the men will pat their arms and tell them it was probably nothing. The alpha male will announce all will be seem better in the light of morning and, with all that's happened, maybe they should go to their rooms and get some sleep. All of the guests will go upstairs carrying candelabras, usually with three arms and flickering flames. They'll walk down a long carpeted hall with velvet wallpaper and too many doors to count. Each character will say goodnight then close and lock the door. In the morning, behind a locked door, one of them will be found dead.
The rest I leave to your imaginations.
Today will be old movie day. I decree that all the films must be in black and white and have been made no later than 1965. With Gracie beside me, we'll sit on the couch and munch popcorn. I'll watch the movies; she'll watch the popcorn. I'm thinking an old scary movie, like a Vincent Price movie in one of those dark houses in the rain with lots of screams and a few bodies. I can see it now. The lights flickered and went out just after the first scream. It was a woman's scream as manly men never screamed. They'll find the screamer on the library floor in a faint. She'll tell them someone grabbed her. The butler and the maid will give each other knowing looks. The guests will talk among themselves; the women will be frightened, and the men will pat their arms and tell them it was probably nothing. The alpha male will announce all will be seem better in the light of morning and, with all that's happened, maybe they should go to their rooms and get some sleep. All of the guests will go upstairs carrying candelabras, usually with three arms and flickering flames. They'll walk down a long carpeted hall with velvet wallpaper and too many doors to count. Each character will say goodnight then close and lock the door. In the morning, behind a locked door, one of them will be found dead.
The rest I leave to your imaginations.
Monday, August 14, 2006
Clothes Line Saga: Maggie and Suzzy Roche
This is one of my favorite cuts from A Nod to Bob: An Artists' Tribute to Bob Dylan on His Sixtieth Birthday.
I am of two minds about this album. Some of the songs make me cringe a bit as they are just way too far from Dylan. A few, like this one, are gems. This is a perfect Roche type song with just the right amount of humor, a bit tongue in cheek.
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I am of two minds about this album. Some of the songs make me cringe a bit as they are just way too far from Dylan. A few, like this one, are gems. This is a perfect Roche type song with just the right amount of humor, a bit tongue in cheek.
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Dance with Father Time: Craig Bickhardt
This cut is from Easy Fires, Craig Bickhardt's first solo album, which was released in 2001 on Stone Barn Records.
Craig Bickhardt is best known as a songwriter who's penned tunes for the likes of Ray Charles, B.B.King, Martin McBride and Trisha Yearwood. He has won nine ASCAP Popular Song Awards for his number one hits and his song, "You Are What Love Means to Me," was the closing song in the picture Tender Mercies. I could probably keep going about what Craig has written and who sings it, but it is this album which first introduced Craig Bickhardt to me. I knew nothing about his songwriting until I did a bit of research. I just knew I was hearing a great guitar, poetic lyrics and a voice that holds you through every song.
I can't imagine what took Craig Bickhardt so long to record his first solo album.
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Craig Bickhardt is best known as a songwriter who's penned tunes for the likes of Ray Charles, B.B.King, Martin McBride and Trisha Yearwood. He has won nine ASCAP Popular Song Awards for his number one hits and his song, "You Are What Love Means to Me," was the closing song in the picture Tender Mercies. I could probably keep going about what Craig has written and who sings it, but it is this album which first introduced Craig Bickhardt to me. I knew nothing about his songwriting until I did a bit of research. I just knew I was hearing a great guitar, poetic lyrics and a voice that holds you through every song.
I can't imagine what took Craig Bickhardt so long to record his first solo album.
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"Railway termini are our gates to the glorious and the unknown. Through them we pass out into adventure and sunshine, to them, alas! we return."
One of those days is here. The boredom, the ennui, has taken over my body and mind. Nothing seems to hold my attention. I sat down, eagerly and alertly, put fingers to keyboard and then decided to water the plants. I suspect that in a bit something else will grab my attention and off I'll go leaving a dangling participle or a split infinitive behind me. By the time I get back, I'll have lost my train of thought, as if I had one anyway.
Did you ever stop to think that train of thought is a great image? There they are, all lined up and ready to go, all those thoughts led by a single idea. Oops, it happened again. Now, where was I? Let's see, I think I left off on trains.
I love trains. They conjure up the exotic when train travel meant staterooms and dining cars and tables with real china and white linen. Every small town or large city had a central station with wooden pews for waiting, a coffee shop for eating and a magazine stand for a bit of diversion. You could go just about anywhere by train. "Pardon me, boy; is this the Transylvania station?"
I love sleepers on trains, not the spies, but the beds. Once I even spurged for first class and had my own little room complete with sink. In my younger days, I did the get a seat on the train at night and save money on hotel bit. No more, I'm too much into creature comfort.
Did I mention I am still in the process of training Gracie? She sits, for a second or two, comes when called and rings the bell to go outside. Now if I could just get her to accept no for an answer.
The Queen always has a train, which would cause me to be jealous if it ran on wheels instead of feet. I think several of her dresses might also have trains, but I'm guessing on that last bit.
Well, this train is pulling into the station, and I'm getting off here.
Did you ever stop to think that train of thought is a great image? There they are, all lined up and ready to go, all those thoughts led by a single idea. Oops, it happened again. Now, where was I? Let's see, I think I left off on trains.
I love trains. They conjure up the exotic when train travel meant staterooms and dining cars and tables with real china and white linen. Every small town or large city had a central station with wooden pews for waiting, a coffee shop for eating and a magazine stand for a bit of diversion. You could go just about anywhere by train. "Pardon me, boy; is this the Transylvania station?"
I love sleepers on trains, not the spies, but the beds. Once I even spurged for first class and had my own little room complete with sink. In my younger days, I did the get a seat on the train at night and save money on hotel bit. No more, I'm too much into creature comfort.
Did I mention I am still in the process of training Gracie? She sits, for a second or two, comes when called and rings the bell to go outside. Now if I could just get her to accept no for an answer.
The Queen always has a train, which would cause me to be jealous if it ran on wheels instead of feet. I think several of her dresses might also have trains, but I'm guessing on that last bit.
Well, this train is pulling into the station, and I'm getting off here.
Sunday, August 13, 2006
“Fond memory brings the light of other days around me.”
Once in a while I'd love to peek into the back drawers of my mind and sit with some of my oldest memories, the ones I thought were forgotten, a sort of photo album but far more vivid and alive. I get flashes of these memories, pieces that surface, and they make me ache for more.
The shouts of kids playing bring to mind cool summer evenings filled with laughter when rolling down the grassy hill just to get dizzy made sense, when we played endless games of red light, statues and hide and seek and when all our mothers seemed to shout out the back doors at the same moment that it was time to come inside. I remember all of that, but I don't remember names or faces. I'd look for that drawer and bring back for a while the friends who rolled down the hill with me and found nothing too silly.
I want to find the drawer filled with all those memories of Christmas, the times when trying to be good took all my energy. I want to remember the shivers of anticipation and the countdown until the big day and how it seemed to take forever to get dark and even longer for me to get to sleep. I want to relive that first moment on Christmas morning, after I opened my eyes, when the realization hit me that Christmas and Santa had finally arrived.
How about my very, very first day of school when I had no idea Sister Redempta was waiting. I have no memories of the day itself. They are so far back I doubt I'd find that drawer, but I do remember the lunchbox and the brand new pencil box. They almost made going to school totally worthwhile.
Memories are such tricky bits. It seems as I get older, I remember more vividly the past but keep losing the present. I forget where I put my glasses or why in the world I'm in the kitchen and what prompted me to buy four lemons and a lime.
The shouts of kids playing bring to mind cool summer evenings filled with laughter when rolling down the grassy hill just to get dizzy made sense, when we played endless games of red light, statues and hide and seek and when all our mothers seemed to shout out the back doors at the same moment that it was time to come inside. I remember all of that, but I don't remember names or faces. I'd look for that drawer and bring back for a while the friends who rolled down the hill with me and found nothing too silly.
I want to find the drawer filled with all those memories of Christmas, the times when trying to be good took all my energy. I want to remember the shivers of anticipation and the countdown until the big day and how it seemed to take forever to get dark and even longer for me to get to sleep. I want to relive that first moment on Christmas morning, after I opened my eyes, when the realization hit me that Christmas and Santa had finally arrived.
How about my very, very first day of school when I had no idea Sister Redempta was waiting. I have no memories of the day itself. They are so far back I doubt I'd find that drawer, but I do remember the lunchbox and the brand new pencil box. They almost made going to school totally worthwhile.
Memories are such tricky bits. It seems as I get older, I remember more vividly the past but keep losing the present. I forget where I put my glasses or why in the world I'm in the kitchen and what prompted me to buy four lemons and a lime.
Saturday, August 12, 2006
"God in His wisdom made the fly and then forgot to tell us why."
Worms don't thrill me because they end to be dirty, their color is too fleshy and I find it creepy they keep moving even after leaving a few segments behind. Snakes have never scared me. Most seem far more scared of me, and, besides, I like to watch the way they slither. I find mosquitoes arrogant. They have the gall to buzz around my ears warning me they're scouting their next meal. As for flies, that's one insect I really detest. If one has found its way into my house, I take a rolled magazine, my weapon of choice, and hunt that fly until it's mine. Like the tailor, I can claim several with one fell swoop. I have no idea what possessed Ben Franklin to frame his metaphor using flies and honey. How much nicer it would have been with lady bugs.
The word bug has grown well beyond insect, and I think the mosquito and the fly I mentioned are the primary causes. When people bug me, my first reaction is to bug out. If I catch a bug, I'm not talking a fly though I probably wish I were. My eyes have never bugged out of my head for which I am thankful. I suspect there is no reason to bug my house. Who'd want to hear my one-sided conversations with Gracie? Putting a bug in someone's ear always reminds me of the Twilight Zone episode about the earwig which still makes me shutter. Why would anyone suggest that a baby is as cute as a bug's ear? Do bugs have ears anyway? Snug as a bug in a rug makes me want to call a terminator, even Arnold would do. My brother has the fishing bug which is neither a fish nor a real bug. Thomas Edison once complained he had been up for two nights discovering a bug in his phonograph so I can only imagine how many days it would take him to find a computer bug.
I can offer no consolation in all of this. It seems that once we all die out, the cockroach will be king. Now that really bugs me.
The word bug has grown well beyond insect, and I think the mosquito and the fly I mentioned are the primary causes. When people bug me, my first reaction is to bug out. If I catch a bug, I'm not talking a fly though I probably wish I were. My eyes have never bugged out of my head for which I am thankful. I suspect there is no reason to bug my house. Who'd want to hear my one-sided conversations with Gracie? Putting a bug in someone's ear always reminds me of the Twilight Zone episode about the earwig which still makes me shutter. Why would anyone suggest that a baby is as cute as a bug's ear? Do bugs have ears anyway? Snug as a bug in a rug makes me want to call a terminator, even Arnold would do. My brother has the fishing bug which is neither a fish nor a real bug. Thomas Edison once complained he had been up for two nights discovering a bug in his phonograph so I can only imagine how many days it would take him to find a computer bug.
I can offer no consolation in all of this. It seems that once we all die out, the cockroach will be king. Now that really bugs me.
Friday, August 11, 2006
“The witnesses said they could hear the women screaming,”
Today is the day I imagined during my heat induced hallucinations of last week. It follows last night's storm, a Vincent Price in a haunted house sort of storm with shaking the roof thunder and jagged bolts of lightening. After every blast of light, I expected the electricity to flicker a few times then go off, followed by the unearthly screams of a hysterical woman.
Summer storms are my favorite. From the open windows, I can smell the damp soil and hear the sound of rain pelting the leaves. The drops bounce off the sill, and I feel the spray from the window behind me. I never mind the slight chill. Last night the animals and I hunkered down under the covers and were lulled to sleep by the the constant beat of the rain in the roof. When we woke, it was to steely light and a crisp air.
I have no plans, no errands and no obligations today. Maybe I'll go out and maybe I won't. If I stay home, I'll brush my teeth and make my bed then rest from the exertion. That new book is tempting, and there are chicken wings. I might even watch old movies, the kind with screaming women and strange apparations. Somehow, I'm in the mood.
Summer storms are my favorite. From the open windows, I can smell the damp soil and hear the sound of rain pelting the leaves. The drops bounce off the sill, and I feel the spray from the window behind me. I never mind the slight chill. Last night the animals and I hunkered down under the covers and were lulled to sleep by the the constant beat of the rain in the roof. When we woke, it was to steely light and a crisp air.
I have no plans, no errands and no obligations today. Maybe I'll go out and maybe I won't. If I stay home, I'll brush my teeth and make my bed then rest from the exertion. That new book is tempting, and there are chicken wings. I might even watch old movies, the kind with screaming women and strange apparations. Somehow, I'm in the mood.
Thursday, August 10, 2006
Black Jack Davey: Sally Rogers
Because I know little about Sally Rogers, I went to her web site. Here is what I found:
Sally Rogers is a musician who lives outside of Hartford Connecticut. She plays guitar, banjo, and dulcimer and specializes in traditional folk, old-timey and (most recently) children's music. She plays both traditional and original pieces and has been recognized by numerous awards including Best Folk Album of 1982 (Circle of the Sun), Best Children's Recording of 1992 (What Can one Little Person Do?) and again in 1993 (At Quiet O'Clock). She has made frequent radio appearances on "A Prairie Home Companion" and the nationally syndicated "Mountain Stage."
This is from House on Fire, a compilation album from Red House.
MP3 File
Sally Rogers is a musician who lives outside of Hartford Connecticut. She plays guitar, banjo, and dulcimer and specializes in traditional folk, old-timey and (most recently) children's music. She plays both traditional and original pieces and has been recognized by numerous awards including Best Folk Album of 1982 (Circle of the Sun), Best Children's Recording of 1992 (What Can one Little Person Do?) and again in 1993 (At Quiet O'Clock). She has made frequent radio appearances on "A Prairie Home Companion" and the nationally syndicated "Mountain Stage."
This is from House on Fire, a compilation album from Red House.
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The New Market Wreck: Mike Seeger
Mike Seeger is half-brother to Pete and brother to Peggy. He helped form The New Lost City Ramblers in 1958 and also began recording and producing other artists. He has become a documenter of American music, including recording collections of his music for Smithsonian Folkways.
Mike plays a variety of traditional styles on banjo, guitar, fiddle, mandolin, trump, harmonica, quills, lap dulcimer, autoharp and other instruments. He has produced nearly 70 recordings and has been nominated for six Grammy awards.
This cut is from Classic Railroad Songs, a Smithsonian Folkways recording.
MP3 File
Mike plays a variety of traditional styles on banjo, guitar, fiddle, mandolin, trump, harmonica, quills, lap dulcimer, autoharp and other instruments. He has produced nearly 70 recordings and has been nominated for six Grammy awards.
This cut is from Classic Railroad Songs, a Smithsonian Folkways recording.
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“I never made a mistake in grammar but one in my life and as soon as I done it I seen it.”
A casual acquaintance and I chatted a bit when we recently met. We started with the usual pleasantries, the kind you repeat endlessly the first weeks of first year French. She asked me about my health, and I told her I felt good. I did my part and asked of her health. She told me she felt well. My first and strongest inclination, one needing considerable reining, was to slap her back and forth just a bit and yell, "Language snob!" My second inclination, also reined, was to tell her I was thrilled that her tactile sense was remaining strong despite her declining years. I suspect her response would have included a strange look and a bit of drooling. My last inclination was to explain in as simple a way as possible that sense verbs take adjectives. I bit my tongue, did none of those, told her how nice it was to see her again and went on my way.
The adverb malady constantly rears its ugly head. The most common symptom of misuse can be heard from the halls of power to the little man in the street and has become my Bugaboo, note the capital letter. It is the word hopefully. I hear people saying odd things like, "Hopefully, she'll be arriving soon." I try to picture that in my head. Is she walking on air or maybe smiling. I mean, how in the heck do you hopefully arrive? I know, I know, hopefully has probably reach the status of an idiom by now, and I should just block it out, but I can't.
I was once an English teacher, and that leaves an imprint, sort of like a DNA marker. It just won't let me get passed hopefully. I realize I am fighting a losing battle here. If I were someone else, I'd just say hopefully things will be better, and maybe I should just move on.
Our next grammar lesson will be the preposition and how one should never end a sentence with one.
The adverb malady constantly rears its ugly head. The most common symptom of misuse can be heard from the halls of power to the little man in the street and has become my Bugaboo, note the capital letter. It is the word hopefully. I hear people saying odd things like, "Hopefully, she'll be arriving soon." I try to picture that in my head. Is she walking on air or maybe smiling. I mean, how in the heck do you hopefully arrive? I know, I know, hopefully has probably reach the status of an idiom by now, and I should just block it out, but I can't.
I was once an English teacher, and that leaves an imprint, sort of like a DNA marker. It just won't let me get passed hopefully. I realize I am fighting a losing battle here. If I were someone else, I'd just say hopefully things will be better, and maybe I should just move on.
Our next grammar lesson will be the preposition and how one should never end a sentence with one.
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
Right Way to Do the Wrong Thing: Cheryl Wheeler
Cheryl Wheeler makes you laugh with her stories and her silly songs then sings one that just stops you in your tracks. You sit and listen and can feel all of the emotion of that song whirling inside your heart and mind.
Cheryl Wheeler has written a million songs, okay not a million, but she is a prolific songwriter, and her songs have been covered by some of the best. She also does a great concert. Cheryl is an emigre to Massachusetts from somewhere else, but that's okay, some of the best people are.
This song is from Sylvia Hotel released in 1999.
MP3 File
Cheryl Wheeler has written a million songs, okay not a million, but she is a prolific songwriter, and her songs have been covered by some of the best. She also does a great concert. Cheryl is an emigre to Massachusetts from somewhere else, but that's okay, some of the best people are.
This song is from Sylvia Hotel released in 1999.
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Summertime: Carolyn Hester
When I posted the Sam Cooke Summertime, I commented that each singer doesn't essentially change but does personalize this song in some way which led me to decide to post this Hester version.
Carolyn Hester probably rates as one of the pioneers of the folk music resurgence of the 60's. She began recording in 1958, and her 1962 album for Columbia had a relative unknown on harmonica, Bob Dylan. She was dubbed the queen of folk music before there was a Baez or Mitchell on the scene. Hester, considered one of the great interpreters of folk music, began to be eclipsed in the mid to late 1960's by a new breed, the singer-songwriter. She toyed with a rock phase but without success. Carolyn Hester is in her late sixties now, but you can still buy her music on cds, and you can hear her on Nanci Griffith's Boots of Spanish Leather. Carolyn Hester is still active, and if you're lucky, you might catch her in some small venue.
This song is from a self-titled 1961 recording for Tradition which has been reissued.
MP3 File
Carolyn Hester probably rates as one of the pioneers of the folk music resurgence of the 60's. She began recording in 1958, and her 1962 album for Columbia had a relative unknown on harmonica, Bob Dylan. She was dubbed the queen of folk music before there was a Baez or Mitchell on the scene. Hester, considered one of the great interpreters of folk music, began to be eclipsed in the mid to late 1960's by a new breed, the singer-songwriter. She toyed with a rock phase but without success. Carolyn Hester is in her late sixties now, but you can still buy her music on cds, and you can hear her on Nanci Griffith's Boots of Spanish Leather. Carolyn Hester is still active, and if you're lucky, you might catch her in some small venue.
This song is from a self-titled 1961 recording for Tradition which has been reissued.
MP3 File
"The Rose Bowl is the only bowl I've ever seen that I didn't have to clean."
It all used to be easier. You'd go shopping and all you had was a choice between two or three possibilities. Now, I'm even boggled by the dishwashing liquid choices. Standing in that aisle, my eyes twirling in my head, I contemplate the possibilities. Do I want one with hand softener which comes with Marge attached? How about a natural or a hybrid-natural ingredient? Though if it's hybrid natural, is it really natural? Any choice definitely needs to be non-toxic. No obituary should read death by dishwashing. I do realize the toxicity is too low to really kill me, but it pays to be careful. What about color? Should it match my dishes, the walls or my eyes? How about the smell? Do I want flowers, fruits or aromatherapy? What size am I needing? The economy size has more than enough liquid to last until the sun finally dies and can always be passed down through successive generations. Okay, I'm feeling the pressure here. What will it be? Drum roll, please. It's orange mango splash with real orange extract in a small bottle molded to fit my hand and color coordinated with my decor.
I'm so glad that's over. Hmmm, what's next on my list? Toilet paper.
I'm think I'm beginning to hyper-ventilate.
I'm so glad that's over. Hmmm, what's next on my list? Toilet paper.
I'm think I'm beginning to hyper-ventilate.
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
It Isn't Gonna be That Way: Steve Forbert
Steve Forbert had his first recording released in 1978. Romeo's Tune in '79 was probably his biggest hit. He has had some low points in his career and has bounced around a few recording labels. Just Like There's Nothin' To It was released in 2004.
This is from Alive on Arrival, his debut album. You already know he's a favorite of mine, and I continue to bemoan his lack of air time and recognition. He's too fine a singer not to be heard more often.
MP3 File
This is from Alive on Arrival, his debut album. You already know he's a favorite of mine, and I continue to bemoan his lack of air time and recognition. He's too fine a singer not to be heard more often.
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Moonchild River Song: Eric Andersen
Eric Andersen is an extraordinary songwriter. His amazingly eloquent album Blue River has been one of my favorites since its 1972 release.
I believe Eric Andersen is at his best when he sings his love songs. He projects a quiet beauty filled with passion and complexity and nowhere can you hear that better than with this song.
MP3 File
I believe Eric Andersen is at his best when he sings his love songs. He projects a quiet beauty filled with passion and complexity and nowhere can you hear that better than with this song.
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“Tourist, Rincewind decided, meant "idiot".”
A noticeable lack of patience on the road has always one of my shortcomings, at least according to my mother. She used to claim that her daughters, when behind the wheel, were too impatient and far more vulgar than her son. My mother didn't spend near enough time living here, the land of the slow tourist, or she would have recognized a just cause for spewing epithets. Mind you, I never say them directly. I let loose in the confines of my car as a needed release from the torment of being behind drivers who think that 15 or 20 is the necessary speed for seeing all the Cape has to offer. A pointing driver, taking the part of tour guide, exasperates the agony.
On Sunday, it was a car from Connecticut going twenty in a forty mile zone which set me muttering. I saw no reason to think that any shop, even with all those rafts, merited a slow down and landmark status with a point. At that speed, I had plenty of time to look twice and even three times in case I was missing something. I saw no top ten fugitives, no missing persons and no Hollywood stars stopping for the August flipper sale. All I saw were rafts and hanging t-shirts, rows and rows of rafts and hanging t-shirts. Frustration followed. I started my grumblings and exhortations. If my mother had been with me, she would have placed her hands over her ears and hummed. Had my fairy godmother, wielding her glittery wand, appeared at that moment, my wish would not have included slippers or a ball gown or my own prince charming. Nope, my wish would have been for a cow catcher and the license to use it.
On Sunday, it was a car from Connecticut going twenty in a forty mile zone which set me muttering. I saw no reason to think that any shop, even with all those rafts, merited a slow down and landmark status with a point. At that speed, I had plenty of time to look twice and even three times in case I was missing something. I saw no top ten fugitives, no missing persons and no Hollywood stars stopping for the August flipper sale. All I saw were rafts and hanging t-shirts, rows and rows of rafts and hanging t-shirts. Frustration followed. I started my grumblings and exhortations. If my mother had been with me, she would have placed her hands over her ears and hummed. Had my fairy godmother, wielding her glittery wand, appeared at that moment, my wish would not have included slippers or a ball gown or my own prince charming. Nope, my wish would have been for a cow catcher and the license to use it.
Monday, August 07, 2006
Yesterday's Dream: The Ludlows
The Ludows were an Irish version of The Seekers. They hit the folk scene in the mid-1960's during the British folk boom and had that sanitized look and sound of early folk.
The trio was formed in 1965 and became one of the top Irish folk groups. Their biggest hit, The Sea Around Us, was in 1966. The group would disband the following year. Jim McCann is, as far as I know, the only member of the trio to have a solo career.
This song is from 1965.
MP3 File
The trio was formed in 1965 and became one of the top Irish folk groups. Their biggest hit, The Sea Around Us, was in 1966. The group would disband the following year. Jim McCann is, as far as I know, the only member of the trio to have a solo career.
This song is from 1965.
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Wild Horse: Eliza Gilkyson
It has been far too long since the last Gilkyson song. Eliza, daughter of Terry, has made around thirteen or fourteen albums. She writes uncomplicated songs which are beautiful, sensitive and sometimes sad.
She lived for a time in New Mexico but eventually gravitated to Texas where she was first known and recognized for her singer-songwriting talents. Her first album, Pilgrims, was sort of new agish, but her subsequent albums were truer to her folk roots. Her newest CD was Paradise Hotel released in 2005.
This cut is from a Putumayo compilation called Women's Work.
MP3 File
She lived for a time in New Mexico but eventually gravitated to Texas where she was first known and recognized for her singer-songwriting talents. Her first album, Pilgrims, was sort of new agish, but her subsequent albums were truer to her folk roots. Her newest CD was Paradise Hotel released in 2005.
This cut is from a Putumayo compilation called Women's Work.
MP3 File
“Grub, ho! now cried the landlord, flinging open a door, and in we went to breakfast.”
My usual Sunday concert was supplanted by the Pops by the Sea with Keith Lockhart and guest conductor William Shatner. We sat on beach chairs amid a multitude, the distant stage a blur, but seeing didn't matter. We were there for the music, glorious music on the green. We heard movie themes, TV themes and The Washington Post March conducted by Mr. Shatner with wild abandonment, baton swirling left to right. I walked a bit, met people I knew and stopped to chat. A breeze off the ocean kept us cool. We ate cheese with crackers and crisp green grapes. It was a perfect summer Sunday evening.
Last week I was a social butterfly. This week I revert to my usual wallflower status, dance card empty. I need to buy a few books to while away the hours, to put me knee deep in the grasp of a thriller or an off-beat murder mystery. I want to laze on the couch, book in hand, dog at my feet and turn pages.
Coffee is my usual morning fare, but I love going out to breakfast to a few favorite places, all of them small and not very flashy. My absolute favorite is just up the street. It's the sort of place where you know half the customers and everyone who works there, you're served coffee exactly the way you like it without asking and bantering with the cook is part of the fun. The delectable smells of coffee and bacon and toast always make me even hungrier, and I usually add an order of special home fries, crisp and exactly the way I like them. The coffee cup never empties, and breakfast is a leisurely affair. If I could wear my pajamas, it would be perfection.
Last week I was a social butterfly. This week I revert to my usual wallflower status, dance card empty. I need to buy a few books to while away the hours, to put me knee deep in the grasp of a thriller or an off-beat murder mystery. I want to laze on the couch, book in hand, dog at my feet and turn pages.
Coffee is my usual morning fare, but I love going out to breakfast to a few favorite places, all of them small and not very flashy. My absolute favorite is just up the street. It's the sort of place where you know half the customers and everyone who works there, you're served coffee exactly the way you like it without asking and bantering with the cook is part of the fun. The delectable smells of coffee and bacon and toast always make me even hungrier, and I usually add an order of special home fries, crisp and exactly the way I like them. The coffee cup never empties, and breakfast is a leisurely affair. If I could wear my pajamas, it would be perfection.
Sunday, August 06, 2006
O summer day beside the joyous sea!
The chill breeze from the window kept me burrowed under the sheet, a delectable feeling, an early fall kind of feeling. It was quite early so I nestled deeper hoping to go back to sleep. Gracie, sensing my stirrings, woke up. A dog walking all over you trying to find your face for that lap of a morning greeting puts a quick end to sleeping. I groaned, got up, let her out, grabbed my morning coffee and started reading the Sunday papers.
This back room is still cool and dark as the sun doesn't reach here until late afternoon. The front of the house is already all sun, and the two cats are lying stretched on the floor catching the heat to warm their fur. They are alert to Gracie's movements and sleep tentatively. Gracie, though, is oblivious. She is in here with me and is sleeping, craving the coolness rather than heat. Hers is a contented sleep. She has been out twice, played with her squeaky toys, been fed and given a treat, all in the space of an hour. A busy puppy needs her morning nap.
Once, when I was around eleven or twelve, and we were on vacation, I woke early, quietly got dressed and went outside. My dad's friend too had awakened early and was drinking coffee on his porch. We were the only movement on that Sunday morning. He invited me to mass with him, and I went. It was such a wonderful morning it made a memory. I can still see the small chapel, all wood both inside and outside. It was part of a monastery, and the chanting of the monks gave me a sense of how heaven must sound. My dad's friend gave me a dollar for the offering basket, a wealth of money to a quarter giver. After mass, we took the shore road, and I could see seals jumping in and out of the water, my first ever outside of a zoo. We ate breakfast in a shack close to the water where the smells of bacon and eggs mingled with the smells of fish and salt. It was the most glorious of mornings, and I am taken back there when there is a crispness in the air of any summer Sunday.
This back room is still cool and dark as the sun doesn't reach here until late afternoon. The front of the house is already all sun, and the two cats are lying stretched on the floor catching the heat to warm their fur. They are alert to Gracie's movements and sleep tentatively. Gracie, though, is oblivious. She is in here with me and is sleeping, craving the coolness rather than heat. Hers is a contented sleep. She has been out twice, played with her squeaky toys, been fed and given a treat, all in the space of an hour. A busy puppy needs her morning nap.
Once, when I was around eleven or twelve, and we were on vacation, I woke early, quietly got dressed and went outside. My dad's friend too had awakened early and was drinking coffee on his porch. We were the only movement on that Sunday morning. He invited me to mass with him, and I went. It was such a wonderful morning it made a memory. I can still see the small chapel, all wood both inside and outside. It was part of a monastery, and the chanting of the monks gave me a sense of how heaven must sound. My dad's friend gave me a dollar for the offering basket, a wealth of money to a quarter giver. After mass, we took the shore road, and I could see seals jumping in and out of the water, my first ever outside of a zoo. We ate breakfast in a shack close to the water where the smells of bacon and eggs mingled with the smells of fish and salt. It was the most glorious of mornings, and I am taken back there when there is a crispness in the air of any summer Sunday.
Saturday, August 05, 2006
"On a lazy Saturday morning when you're lying in bed, drifting in and out of sleep, there is a space where fantasy and reality become one."
This morning, the clink of the spoon against the bowl whizzed me back to my childhood. On a Saturday, in the coolness of a very early summer morning, we'd sit close to the TV, eat breakfast and watch cartoons. We never spoke, too absorbed by those miracles of movement. We'd put spoon to bowl to mouth without taking our eyes off the set. We'd finish the cereal, put the empty bowls on the floor beside us and complete our Saturday ritual, all without a single conscious movement. That trance would hold us enthralled until our parents woke, came downstairs, turned off the set and sent us upstairs to get dressed. The spell had been broken, but we never minded. It was, after all, a Saturday, every kid's favorite day of the week.
Last night I slept, cooled by a night breeze from the opened windows. Today is a day to be active, to do all those chores held at bay by the heat and humidity. I'll take mop and broom and give my house the once over, make my bed, do laundry and clear the dishes from the sink. Later, Gracie and I might just go for a ride.
Last night I slept, cooled by a night breeze from the opened windows. Today is a day to be active, to do all those chores held at bay by the heat and humidity. I'll take mop and broom and give my house the once over, make my bed, do laundry and clear the dishes from the sink. Later, Gracie and I might just go for a ride.
Friday, August 04, 2006
In My Time of Dying: The Be Good Tanyas
The Be Good Tanyas are Frazey Ford, Samantha Parton and Trish Klein. They hail from Vancouver and started singing together in 1990 though as I mentioned the other day, Jolie Holland was one of the original group members. I was struck by their harmony when first hearing them. They sing a combination of old and new songs or songs with new arrangements. Their genre depends on the song they just happen to be singing.
MP3 File
MP3 File
In Bristol Town: The John Cowan Band
We had a delay as the electricity went off for a bit. Strange that it did today, the coolest day in a bit.
John Cowan was the bassist and vocalist for New Grass Revival. With bandmates, Pat Flynn, Sam Bush and Bela Fleck, they revitalized bluegrass. When the group broke up in 1990, Cowan went the rock route for a bit. He merged styles into sort of a rockin' billy genre though I do hate that name. Regardless of what you call it, I do like his sound
This song is from the new John Cowan Band album called New Tatoo on the Pinecastle label.
MP3 File
John Cowan was the bassist and vocalist for New Grass Revival. With bandmates, Pat Flynn, Sam Bush and Bela Fleck, they revitalized bluegrass. When the group broke up in 1990, Cowan went the rock route for a bit. He merged styles into sort of a rockin' billy genre though I do hate that name. Regardless of what you call it, I do like his sound
This song is from the new John Cowan Band album called New Tatoo on the Pinecastle label.
MP3 File
“The world, dear Agnes, is a strange affair.”
People emerged from their houses singly or in small groups. They milled about, shielding their eyes from the sunlight and looked dazed and bewildered. Many hadn't left their homes in days. They breathed in the clear, cool air and were revived.
Today I will sit on my small porch, drink ice coffee, read my new book and let the cool air wash over me. It will be a day of luxuriating. I will do no chores, no errands and will wear only comfy clothes. Any food I eat will take no preparation other than being slapped between two pieces of bread. My most strenuous activity will be turning pages. The bed will remain unmade and dishes unwashed. I will embrace at least one of the seven deadly sins.
Today I will sit on my small porch, drink ice coffee, read my new book and let the cool air wash over me. It will be a day of luxuriating. I will do no chores, no errands and will wear only comfy clothes. Any food I eat will take no preparation other than being slapped between two pieces of bread. My most strenuous activity will be turning pages. The bed will remain unmade and dishes unwashed. I will embrace at least one of the seven deadly sins.
Yesterday was a bit eerie, an almost Stephen King plot of a day, the kind where normal begins to change and becomes frighteningly horrifying. The beach with all that sand, surf and pounding heat had lost its allure; instead, all those vacationers were drawn to the mall. All those vacationers individually made a mass decision to go shopping. The parking lot was filled, and cars were lined up ready to pounce at the first available space. People were in stores wandering the aisles with no purpose but to linger in the air conditioning. The frozen food section had wall to wall carts. Even the bowling alleys and movie theaters were at capacity, usually a rainy day phenomenon. I saw no people walking or riding bikes. I saw only blurs moving from air conditioned cars to air conditioned stores. It was the oddest of days.
Thursday, August 03, 2006
Another Sun: Tracy Chapman
When Tracy Chapman's first album came out, I probably listened to it hundreds of times. I was mesmerized by her remarkable voice. Though her later albums didn't take hold me as much and as long, I remain a Chapman fan.
This song is from 2002's Let It Rain.
MP3 File
This song is from 2002's Let It Rain.
MP3 File
"Deep summer is when laziness finds respectability."
Okay, okay, I give. Enough with this heat and humidity. I'm two inches shorter than I was on Sunday. I actually think I'm melting. Having no broom or conical hat, a pool of water of unknown origin is all that will be left. Gracie will eat my house and all its trinkets until someone reports me missing. I can see the local CSI coming to the house carrying their valises. They'll see the Gracie mess and figure a madman went on a rampage. Each CSI will be holding one of those cool flashlights. One will shine a light on the water, but it will be dismissed as just a pool of water until a few drops of me are put in a vial and analyzed back at the lab. The cause of my demise will remain a mystery.
Yesterday Gracie and I stayed in my bedroom in the air conditioning. I read an entire book. Gracie slept all day and barely stirred. Today, I want to curl up in the crisper drawer of my refrigerator and stay there until fall.
Yesterday Gracie and I stayed in my bedroom in the air conditioning. I read an entire book. Gracie slept all day and barely stirred. Today, I want to curl up in the crisper drawer of my refrigerator and stay there until fall.
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
Good Times Are Around the Bend: String Cheese Incident
I really don't know much about String Cheese Incident so I figured I'd send you to their website: http://www.stringcheeseincident.com/
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MP3 File
"More than Santa Claus, your sister knows when you've been bad and good."
My glasses keep fogging. Any movement at all causes a steaming effect, and I am temporarily blinded. A swipe works for only a minute or two. Even Gracie, the perpetual motion machine, is lying straight out in front of the fan. This is weather fit for neither man nor beast. Even the birds have sought shelter. I might just stand under the cold shower until I see icicles forming on my nose.
When I was a kid, there were no hot days, just summer days. We'd walk all over town, play softball or horseshoes and sit under the trees and play board games. The only time we went inside was for food and the bathroom, the two essentials of a kid's life. I still rode my bike just about every day. Sometimes I'd even ride through the sprinkler then pedal quickly down the hill to avoid hearing the screams of my little sisters as they squealed on me to my mother.
My little sisters were always big squealers while my brother and I reached a much higher plane. We negotiated. If you don't tell on me, I won't tell on you was our bargain. We'd agree but then one of my sisters would tell on us anyway. We tried bribing them into silence. That didn't work. Then we tried scaring them into silence. That didn't work either and just gave them one more thing to report. As soon as the first parent walked in the door, my sisters were right there. "George and Kat said they were going to hit us." We were just kids taking advantage of parents off doing errands. No self respecting kid could ever let an opportunity like that pass, even with two squealing younger sisters.
When I was a kid, there were no hot days, just summer days. We'd walk all over town, play softball or horseshoes and sit under the trees and play board games. The only time we went inside was for food and the bathroom, the two essentials of a kid's life. I still rode my bike just about every day. Sometimes I'd even ride through the sprinkler then pedal quickly down the hill to avoid hearing the screams of my little sisters as they squealed on me to my mother.
My little sisters were always big squealers while my brother and I reached a much higher plane. We negotiated. If you don't tell on me, I won't tell on you was our bargain. We'd agree but then one of my sisters would tell on us anyway. We tried bribing them into silence. That didn't work. Then we tried scaring them into silence. That didn't work either and just gave them one more thing to report. As soon as the first parent walked in the door, my sisters were right there. "George and Kat said they were going to hit us." We were just kids taking advantage of parents off doing errands. No self respecting kid could ever let an opportunity like that pass, even with two squealing younger sisters.
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
Bird on a Wire: Kate Wolf
This is from an earlier posting.
Kate Wolf began her musical career in the early seventies as a front person for the Wildwood Flower. She went solo, wrote most of her own songs and never had a hit. Her music is about life, about family, romance and her native Northern California. Her voice has lower than average vocals which seem to project a sense of comfort. She died in 1986 of leukemia. Her records have all been re-released. Her circle of followers continues to grow.
MP3 File
Kate Wolf began her musical career in the early seventies as a front person for the Wildwood Flower. She went solo, wrote most of her own songs and never had a hit. Her music is about life, about family, romance and her native Northern California. Her voice has lower than average vocals which seem to project a sense of comfort. She died in 1986 of leukemia. Her records have all been re-released. Her circle of followers continues to grow.
MP3 File
Little One Mine: The Turtle Island String Quartet
This Ghanaian lullaby is from a wonderful album called On a Starry Night. It is dedicated to my new grand-nephew, Ryder Lincoln Smith, who was born yesterday.
The circle of life continues.
Welcome to the world, Ryder, and may it be for you a gentle place.
MP3 File
The circle of life continues.
Welcome to the world, Ryder, and may it be for you a gentle place.
MP3 File
“Some people change their ways when they see the light; others when they feel the heat”
Throwing my shoes away last week has started a wave of shoe throwings. Into the trash went all the heels I wore as I patrolled the corridors, all the shoes I meant to take to a cobbler and one pair of canvas high tops in pink. I did keep one pair of black and one pair of white shoes with clunky nun type heels. I figure those two colors cover every season and all events. I seem to be caught in a whirlpool of cleaning which is beginning to get out of hand and even foot.
The paper in the summer has the strangest crime stories. Today's story was the man wearing the woman's thong on the beach story. He even carried a few changes of wardrobe. When questioned, he said he was merely sunbathing. I guess he wasn't interested in tan lines.
The heat seems to bring an intimacy missing in the cold. Even complete strangers stop and chat about the weather. It seems heat is an ice-breaker.
The paper in the summer has the strangest crime stories. Today's story was the man wearing the woman's thong on the beach story. He even carried a few changes of wardrobe. When questioned, he said he was merely sunbathing. I guess he wasn't interested in tan lines.
The heat seems to bring an intimacy missing in the cold. Even complete strangers stop and chat about the weather. It seems heat is an ice-breaker.
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