I'm willing to bet that you've all heard Mason Jennings before this. I just happened to hear him for the first time on WUMB the other day and immediately liked the sound of his voice, always a sign my pocketbook will take a beating. I know nothing about Mason Jennings but promise to learn before I post again. For this one, you're on your own.
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Thursday, November 30, 2006
I Wish: Kate Rusby
This song, composed by Kate, appears on her 2003 album Ten which celebrates her first ten years in music.
I love the sound of Kate Rusby's voice, and I love to hear her sing just about anything. Her traditional ballads are beauties of clarity and simplicity, and her newer songs carry that same sound, that same beauty.
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I love the sound of Kate Rusby's voice, and I love to hear her sing just about anything. Her traditional ballads are beauties of clarity and simplicity, and her newer songs carry that same sound, that same beauty.
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"We are links between the ages, containing past and present expectations, sacred memories and future promise."
The food network has started its Christmas cooking programs, and I am glued to the set. Visions of decorated ravioli dance in my head, and I dream of marzipan fruits moving in conga lines. The red velvet cupcakes with cream cheese frosting have my lips smacking in anticipation, and I can taste the gingerbread warm from the oven. I have been inspired.
I love to bake at Christmas time, to fill the kitchen with the sweet smell of sugar cookies and the unmistakeable aroma of bread baking. My mother baked for days at Christmas. I remember her pulling cookie sheet after cookie sheet out of the oven. We'd beg for just one until my poor mother could take it no longer and would finally give in to our whines and pleas but with a warning not to ask for any more. She'd load the cookies onto wire stands so they could cool, and we'd just look at all those rows of cookies with hopeful gleams in our eyes. Once her cookies had cooled, my mother would make frosting, tint it red, green and yellow and let us decorate. We'd sit around the table concentrating on our masterpieces. My younger self used to put so much frosting and colored sugar on the cookies they weighed a ton. As I got older, my decorating skills were more accomplished. My trees had yellow lines of tinsel and red cinnamon bulbs along each line. Santa had a red suit and a white beard. The clapper on the bell was always yellow.
My family is bound together by tradition, more so at Christmas than any other time of the year. My sister and I have collected and use the identical cookie cutters my mother had. We both make spritz cookies because they are part of our Christmas memories, and we color them green and red just as our mother did. I use my grandmother's date nut bread recipe and bake it in a loaf pan from the 50's.
Our Chrismas is blessed by tradition. We cherish the memories, hold them close to our hearts and add layers of our own with each passing year and each addition to our growing family.
I love to bake at Christmas time, to fill the kitchen with the sweet smell of sugar cookies and the unmistakeable aroma of bread baking. My mother baked for days at Christmas. I remember her pulling cookie sheet after cookie sheet out of the oven. We'd beg for just one until my poor mother could take it no longer and would finally give in to our whines and pleas but with a warning not to ask for any more. She'd load the cookies onto wire stands so they could cool, and we'd just look at all those rows of cookies with hopeful gleams in our eyes. Once her cookies had cooled, my mother would make frosting, tint it red, green and yellow and let us decorate. We'd sit around the table concentrating on our masterpieces. My younger self used to put so much frosting and colored sugar on the cookies they weighed a ton. As I got older, my decorating skills were more accomplished. My trees had yellow lines of tinsel and red cinnamon bulbs along each line. Santa had a red suit and a white beard. The clapper on the bell was always yellow.
My family is bound together by tradition, more so at Christmas than any other time of the year. My sister and I have collected and use the identical cookie cutters my mother had. We both make spritz cookies because they are part of our Christmas memories, and we color them green and red just as our mother did. I use my grandmother's date nut bread recipe and bake it in a loaf pan from the 50's.
Our Chrismas is blessed by tradition. We cherish the memories, hold them close to our hearts and add layers of our own with each passing year and each addition to our growing family.
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Wear Your Love Like Heaven: Donovan
Every now and then feels like a Donovan sort of a day. I think it was thoughts of fall colors which brought this song to mind. It was released here in 1967.
MP3 File
MP3 File
Calling All Angels: Eliza Gilkyson
Eliza is the daughter of Terry who had a big hit with Marianne. She started out singing on demos with her dad and was known as Terry's daughter. Her success has changed all that, and he is now known as Eliza's dad.
This song is from her album Pilgrims.
MP3 File
This song is from her album Pilgrims.
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"To be interested in the changing seasons is a happier state of mind than to be hopelessly in love with spring."
The weather is far too warm for nearly December. The birdbath has yet to have its first layer of ice, and we've had only a single frost. A sweatshirt is more than enough, and I'm still wearing sandals. Even without the sun, today, a grey, cloudy day, is in the 50's. Not a branch stirs. No leaves rush along the ground. Only the birds break the stillness as they glide in and out of the feeders. This year, Old Man Winter is taking his time.
I don't know if I could live any where else but New England where the changing seasons have distinct comings and goings. My favorite is fall with its riot of colors bursting from bushes and trees. The warm weather invites walks along the shore and car rides with open windows. The summer is awash with flowers and the buzzing of insects. Nights are perfect for sitting outside watching fireflies flit between the trees. The weather gets warm and even too humid. We groan and complain but accept it as our lot in life. Here, by the ocean, spring sneaks in just before summer. In late April or early May, winter seems to hold us fast in his grip. The days are damp and chilly, and we wouldn't be surprised by a snowstorm. All of a sudden, from one day to the next, winter seems to disappear. The dafs are high and the lilacs are in bloom. Shoots jump from the softened earth and grow inches overnight. Spring works its magic quickly and gardens are bright with new flowers. I love the fresh smell of spring air.
Winter is the season I dread. The damp, cold air seems to reach into your lungs, and your body is chilled to the bone. Even the sun's warmth can't penetrate the layer of cold and ice. I vow to stay in until spring, but just about then winter hands us a present. It snows. The world is hushed. I watch the flakes as they fall and stick out my tongue to catch a few. All the blemishes are covered in white, and the world is universally beautiful. I realize I love winter.
I don't know if I could live any where else but New England where the changing seasons have distinct comings and goings. My favorite is fall with its riot of colors bursting from bushes and trees. The warm weather invites walks along the shore and car rides with open windows. The summer is awash with flowers and the buzzing of insects. Nights are perfect for sitting outside watching fireflies flit between the trees. The weather gets warm and even too humid. We groan and complain but accept it as our lot in life. Here, by the ocean, spring sneaks in just before summer. In late April or early May, winter seems to hold us fast in his grip. The days are damp and chilly, and we wouldn't be surprised by a snowstorm. All of a sudden, from one day to the next, winter seems to disappear. The dafs are high and the lilacs are in bloom. Shoots jump from the softened earth and grow inches overnight. Spring works its magic quickly and gardens are bright with new flowers. I love the fresh smell of spring air.
Winter is the season I dread. The damp, cold air seems to reach into your lungs, and your body is chilled to the bone. Even the sun's warmth can't penetrate the layer of cold and ice. I vow to stay in until spring, but just about then winter hands us a present. It snows. The world is hushed. I watch the flakes as they fall and stick out my tongue to catch a few. All the blemishes are covered in white, and the world is universally beautiful. I realize I love winter.
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
Boots of Spanish Leather: Nanci Griffith
I didn't find Nanci Griffith until her album Other Voices, Other Rooms won the Grammy as best folk album. I then went hunting for her other albums and found them in the country bin. My lateness in finding her was explained.
This song is from that ablum which is her tribute to those singer-songwriters who have influenced her music.
MP3 File
This song is from that ablum which is her tribute to those singer-songwriters who have influenced her music.
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Gypsy Davy: Woody Guthrie
A friend sent me this and several other versions of this traditiona folk ballad. You might also know it as The Gypsy Laddie, The Raggle Taggle Gypsy, Blackjack Davey or The Gypsy Rover.
This one was written by Woody Guthrie.
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"'Tis strange, but true; for truth is always strange, Stranger than fiction."
Life sometimes seems to be an episode of The Twilight Zone.
Driving in my car, I will, for some reason, turn my head away but always seem to turn back a split second before I would have hit the car in front of me. I decide to go to one store first rather than the other and meet a friend whom I haven't seen in years. In a favorite shop, sitting on a back shelf, is an item which has been on my must have list for what seems forever. I decide to buy it, and, at the register, I find it's on sale, half price even. I turn on the TV and a favorite movie just happens to be on the last station I watched. A friend suddenly comes to mind, and the phone rings, same friend on the line. I finally decide to pass the car going 20 I've been following for what seems weeks and hidden on the very next corner is a police car. I'm in a full parking lot, circling like a vulture, when a car I just passed pulls out, and the car behind me gets the space. The guy who bought the raffle ticket right after mine wins the big prize.
When the same things happened in a movie, I figured the plot was being shamefully manipulated, and I tended to scoff a bit, okay I scoffed quite a lot and snorted once or twice. What I have learned, though, is that life works best with a suspension of disbelief. I just accept that some stuff will never have an explanation. They just are. Though life is just so much less complicated now, I do sometimes expect to hear that opening theme music and have Rod Serling pop into the frame in front of me to announce my arrival to The Twilight Zone.
Driving in my car, I will, for some reason, turn my head away but always seem to turn back a split second before I would have hit the car in front of me. I decide to go to one store first rather than the other and meet a friend whom I haven't seen in years. In a favorite shop, sitting on a back shelf, is an item which has been on my must have list for what seems forever. I decide to buy it, and, at the register, I find it's on sale, half price even. I turn on the TV and a favorite movie just happens to be on the last station I watched. A friend suddenly comes to mind, and the phone rings, same friend on the line. I finally decide to pass the car going 20 I've been following for what seems weeks and hidden on the very next corner is a police car. I'm in a full parking lot, circling like a vulture, when a car I just passed pulls out, and the car behind me gets the space. The guy who bought the raffle ticket right after mine wins the big prize.
When the same things happened in a movie, I figured the plot was being shamefully manipulated, and I tended to scoff a bit, okay I scoffed quite a lot and snorted once or twice. What I have learned, though, is that life works best with a suspension of disbelief. I just accept that some stuff will never have an explanation. They just are. Though life is just so much less complicated now, I do sometimes expect to hear that opening theme music and have Rod Serling pop into the frame in front of me to announce my arrival to The Twilight Zone.
Monday, November 27, 2006
Sunny Goodge Street: Judy Collins
I remember being in London on the underground when the train stopped at a station called Goodge Street. I thought of this song and decided to get off the train. I ended up having a splendid meal at a local restaurant I never found again though I looked several times.
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MP3 File
"A Christmas candle is a lovely thing; It makes no noise at all, But softly gives itself away."
The Thanksgiving season has taken its final bow. I think it happened exactly when I ate that last piece of pie which was just before I saw my first Christmas lights on a house down the street. When I saw those lights, the first wow of the season escaped from my lips. Yup, I admit it. I am still wowed by Christmas lights. During my childhood, a ride to see the lights was a family tradition right up there in importance with getting the tree. Our faces would be glued to the windows as one after the other of us would point and yell to look over here or look over there. Our last stop was always the neighborhood where on street after street each house was such a wonder of lights and animation that our mouths were opened in permanent oooh's and aaah's.
Each Christmas, my dad would curse and growl as he untangled the light sets and tried to find the one bad bulb keeping the others dark. We'd sit around and watch him unscrew and screw the bulbs until he found the culprit. My dad would then drag the lit strands outside, circle them around the bushes and outline the front door. They were those big colored bulbs you don't see much anymore. Each of our windows had a single candle while the picture window had that five candle combo. All the lights were orange and were turned on and off by loosening or tightening the bulbs. My brother and I would race to be first to turn on the lights each night.
I went through the all white lights stage here at my own house but finally decided to stick with multi-colored ones as they are what I remember. They brought out the wows.
I still take a ride to see the lights, and sometimes a house is just so beautiful I stop my car and press my face to the window. I sit for a while with a silly smile on my face. It's the closest I get to being a child again at Christmas.
Each Christmas, my dad would curse and growl as he untangled the light sets and tried to find the one bad bulb keeping the others dark. We'd sit around and watch him unscrew and screw the bulbs until he found the culprit. My dad would then drag the lit strands outside, circle them around the bushes and outline the front door. They were those big colored bulbs you don't see much anymore. Each of our windows had a single candle while the picture window had that five candle combo. All the lights were orange and were turned on and off by loosening or tightening the bulbs. My brother and I would race to be first to turn on the lights each night.
I went through the all white lights stage here at my own house but finally decided to stick with multi-colored ones as they are what I remember. They brought out the wows.
I still take a ride to see the lights, and sometimes a house is just so beautiful I stop my car and press my face to the window. I sit for a while with a silly smile on my face. It's the closest I get to being a child again at Christmas.
Sunday, November 26, 2006
“Childhood smells of perfume and brownies.”
When I was growing up, my family and all the families I knew were living the same lives. Our cars were generally old, usually Chevys or Fords, and weren't replaced until they were just about ready for the car graveyard. Every family was intact: mother, father and children. Grandparents lived close enough for a visit by car, and we saw them often. Our cousins were every day playmates. Neighbors dropped into each others' houses for morning coffee and a bit of conversation. Laundry hung on lines in the backyard, and we'd chase each other around the sheets oblivious to shouts and threats from the house. The neighborhood was filled with kids so we never wanted for playmates. During the summer, we slept in the backyard under tents made from blankets and in the winter sledded down the hill behind our house. Little kids could trick or treat around the neighborhood and take home a haul. We walked to school. Our mothers didn't drive, and there were no second cars. My mother made a lot of casseroles for dinner though I remember a roast beef my dog stole off the counter. My brother and I flattened out the teeth marks and put it back out of reach. Life was uncomplicated back then.
My friends and I got older, went off to high school and college. We grew apart, pulled by different experiences. Some got married young; others never married. A few got divorced. Many still live in the same town where we grew up together. Laundry no longer hangs on a line, and most neighbors get only a wave in passing. Our world has changed so very much. Life seems to have gotten far too complicated.
My friends and I got older, went off to high school and college. We grew apart, pulled by different experiences. Some got married young; others never married. A few got divorced. Many still live in the same town where we grew up together. Laundry no longer hangs on a line, and most neighbors get only a wave in passing. Our world has changed so very much. Life seems to have gotten far too complicated.
Saturday, November 25, 2006
"There was a place in childhood that I remember well..."
Gracie has been up since 5, and I finally stirred at 5:30, driven out of bed by the incessant ringing of bells. I'm guessing Gracie did not want to chance missing her friend Cody. Well, Gracie didn't miss him and, having been overtaken by exhaustion from running and romping, is now taking her first nap of the day. I do wish I could join her but my three cups of freshly brewed coffee were too inviting.
Every Saturday of my childhood was the same. I'd wake up before my parents who, I suspect, also loved Saturday TV, but for different reasons. I'd tiptoe downstairs, still in my pajamas, and would plop down in front of the TV while balancing a bowl of cereal, usually Rice Krispies, as I joined the Peanut Gallery from right there in my living room. When Buffalo Bob asked, I always knew what time it was. After Howdy, cartoon viewing filled out the rest of my morning. The cartoons might have been primitive by today's standards, in black and white and on the smallest of screens, but for me they were magic. How wonderful to live in such a remarkable time that cartoons can be seen right there in my own living room. I knew every theme song and didn't need a TV Guide. Actually, I probably still know every theme song though there isn't much call anymore for the words to Mighty Mouse.
My favorite cartoon is still Rocky and Bullwinkle. Who could ever outdo the fiendish Boris and Natasha? How about those horrid puns and Fractured Fairy Tales and Mr. Peabody? Saturdays have never been the same since Clarabell the Clwon spoke,and I truly miss Rocket J. Squirrel and his friend Bullwinkle J. Moose.
Every Saturday of my childhood was the same. I'd wake up before my parents who, I suspect, also loved Saturday TV, but for different reasons. I'd tiptoe downstairs, still in my pajamas, and would plop down in front of the TV while balancing a bowl of cereal, usually Rice Krispies, as I joined the Peanut Gallery from right there in my living room. When Buffalo Bob asked, I always knew what time it was. After Howdy, cartoon viewing filled out the rest of my morning. The cartoons might have been primitive by today's standards, in black and white and on the smallest of screens, but for me they were magic. How wonderful to live in such a remarkable time that cartoons can be seen right there in my own living room. I knew every theme song and didn't need a TV Guide. Actually, I probably still know every theme song though there isn't much call anymore for the words to Mighty Mouse.
My favorite cartoon is still Rocky and Bullwinkle. Who could ever outdo the fiendish Boris and Natasha? How about those horrid puns and Fractured Fairy Tales and Mr. Peabody? Saturdays have never been the same since Clarabell the Clwon spoke,and I truly miss Rocket J. Squirrel and his friend Bullwinkle J. Moose.
Friday, November 24, 2006
Seven Angels on a Bicycle: Carrie Rodriquez
Carrie Rodriguez is best known for her recordings with Chip Taylor, but she has made a solo album and this is the title track. Taylor, though, is still with her as he has composed or co-composed most of the album's songs.
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MP3 File
Caledonia: Dougie MacLean
A few months ago I played the Mary Black cover of this Dougie MacLean song, but it's now time to hear the original.
Dougie MacLean is a Scottish treasure who began singing as a member of Scotland's leading Celtic bands, the Tannahill Weavers and Silly Wizard. This is his most famous, most often played and covered song.
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Dougie MacLean is a Scottish treasure who began singing as a member of Scotland's leading Celtic bands, the Tannahill Weavers and Silly Wizard. This is his most famous, most often played and covered song.
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"Pleasure is the flower that passes; remembrance, the lasting perfume."
Today I slept in and Gracie missed playing with her friend Cody. Long passed our usual time, the poor dog sat outside hoping Cody might appear. Finally, with obvious disappointment, Gracie gave up waiting and came inside the house to drown her sorrows in a dog cookie and a nap. I so understand that need. Many a time I have drowned my own sorrows in a chocolate chip cookie. It does wonders for the spirit.
The rest of the world may lay seige to the roads today. There is no sale so great that I would venture forth this day of all days.
My house will soon be bright with glitter and lights and Christmas. I have a plan. The outside lights will be first then each day after that I will haul up a basket or two filled with decorations. The tree will be last. I'll light a fire, put on my favorite Christmas music and decorate. This year my house will be dedicated to the greatest Christmas bug of them all, my mother. I have trunks of her decorations chosen for me by my sister, and they will be at the center of my holiday. It will be a celebration.
The special Christmases of bikes and trains and dolls that talk and wet are long gone. We are all at those ages when we have more than enough stuff so lately, for birthdays, I've been giving events like plays and concerts. I'm going to do the same for Christmas so that this next year, long after the holiday has ended, we will still have our Christmas gifts wrapped in memories.
The rest of the world may lay seige to the roads today. There is no sale so great that I would venture forth this day of all days.
My house will soon be bright with glitter and lights and Christmas. I have a plan. The outside lights will be first then each day after that I will haul up a basket or two filled with decorations. The tree will be last. I'll light a fire, put on my favorite Christmas music and decorate. This year my house will be dedicated to the greatest Christmas bug of them all, my mother. I have trunks of her decorations chosen for me by my sister, and they will be at the center of my holiday. It will be a celebration.
The special Christmases of bikes and trains and dolls that talk and wet are long gone. We are all at those ages when we have more than enough stuff so lately, for birthdays, I've been giving events like plays and concerts. I'm going to do the same for Christmas so that this next year, long after the holiday has ended, we will still have our Christmas gifts wrapped in memories.
Thursday, November 23, 2006
Alice's Restaurant Massacre: Arlo Guthrie
YOUTHS ORDERED TO CLEAN UP RUBBISH MESS
LEE -- Because they couldn't find a dump open in Great Barrington, two youths threw a load of refuse down a Stockbridge hillside on Thanksgiving Day.
Saturday, Richard J. Robbins, 19, of Poughkeepsie, N. Y., and Arlo Guthrie, 18, of Howard Beach, N. Y., each paid a fine of $25 in Lee District Court after pleading guilty of illegally disposing of rubbish. Special Justice James E. Hannon ordered the youths to remove all the rubbish. They did so Saturday afternoon, following a heavy rain.
Police Chief William J. Obanhein of Stockbridge said later the youths found dragging the junk up the hillside much harder than throwing it down. He said he hoped their case would be an example to others who are careless about disposal of rubbish.
The junk included a divan, plus nearly enough bottles, garbage, papers and boxes to fill their Volkswagen bus.
"The stuff would take up at least half of a goodsized pickup truck," Chief Obanhein said.
The rubbish was thrown into the Nelson Foote Sr. property on Prospect Street, a residential section of Stockbridge consisting largely of estates on the hill across from Indian Hilil [sic] School.
Chief Obanhein told the court he spent "a very disagreeable two hours" looking through the rubbish before finding a clue to who had thrown it there. He finally found a scrap of paper bearing the name of a Great Barrington man. Subsequent investigation indicated Robbins and Guthrie had been visiting the Great Barrington man and had agreed to cart away the rubbish for him. They told the court that, when they found the Barrington dump closed, they drove around and then disposed of the junk by tossing it over the Stockbridge hillside.
Unidentified newspaper clipping, reprinted in This is the Arlo Guthrie Songbook, New York, NY, 1969, p. 39.
Feel free to sing along with the chorus of Coffee's traditional Thanksgiving offering. Ready? "You can get anything you want..." Happy Thanksgiving!
MP3 File
LEE -- Because they couldn't find a dump open in Great Barrington, two youths threw a load of refuse down a Stockbridge hillside on Thanksgiving Day.
Saturday, Richard J. Robbins, 19, of Poughkeepsie, N. Y., and Arlo Guthrie, 18, of Howard Beach, N. Y., each paid a fine of $25 in Lee District Court after pleading guilty of illegally disposing of rubbish. Special Justice James E. Hannon ordered the youths to remove all the rubbish. They did so Saturday afternoon, following a heavy rain.
Police Chief William J. Obanhein of Stockbridge said later the youths found dragging the junk up the hillside much harder than throwing it down. He said he hoped their case would be an example to others who are careless about disposal of rubbish.
The junk included a divan, plus nearly enough bottles, garbage, papers and boxes to fill their Volkswagen bus.
"The stuff would take up at least half of a goodsized pickup truck," Chief Obanhein said.
The rubbish was thrown into the Nelson Foote Sr. property on Prospect Street, a residential section of Stockbridge consisting largely of estates on the hill across from Indian Hilil [sic] School.
Chief Obanhein told the court he spent "a very disagreeable two hours" looking through the rubbish before finding a clue to who had thrown it there. He finally found a scrap of paper bearing the name of a Great Barrington man. Subsequent investigation indicated Robbins and Guthrie had been visiting the Great Barrington man and had agreed to cart away the rubbish for him. They told the court that, when they found the Barrington dump closed, they drove around and then disposed of the junk by tossing it over the Stockbridge hillside.
Unidentified newspaper clipping, reprinted in This is the Arlo Guthrie Songbook, New York, NY, 1969, p. 39.
Feel free to sing along with the chorus of Coffee's traditional Thanksgiving offering. Ready? "You can get anything you want..." Happy Thanksgiving!
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Two Thanksgiving Day Gentlemen by O. Henry
There is one day that is ours. There is one day when all we Americans who are not self-made go back to the old home to eat saleratus biscuits and marvel how much nearer to the porch the old pump looks than it used to. Bless the day. President Roosevelt gives it to us. We hear some talk of the Puritans, but don't just remember who they were. Bet we can lick 'em, anyhow, if they try to land again. Plymouth Rocks? Well, that sounds more familiar. Lots of us have had to come down to hens since the Turkey Trust got its workin. But somebody in Washington is leaking out advance information to 'em about these Thanksgiving proclamations.
The big city east of the cranberry bogs has made Thanksgiving Day an institution. The last Thursday in November is the only day in the year on which it recognizes the part of America lying across the ferries. It is the one day that is purely American. Yes, a day of celebration, exclusively American.
And now for the story which is to prove to you that we have traditions on this side of the ocean that are becoming older at a much rapider rate than those of England are--thanks to our git-up and enterprise.
Stuffy Pete took his seat on the third bench to the right as you enter Union Square from the east, at the walk opposite the fountain. Every Thanksgiving Day for nine years he had taken his seat there promptly at 1 o'clock. For every time he had done so things had happened to him--Charles Dickensy things that swelled his waistcoatabove his heart, and equally on the other side.
But to-day Stuffy Pete's appearance at the annual trysting place seemed to have been rather the result of habit than of the yearly hunger which, as the philanthropists seem to think, afflicts the poor at such extended intervals.
Certainly Pete was not hungry. He had just come from a feast that had left him of his powers barely those of respiration and locomotion. His eyes were like two pale gooseberries firmly imbedded in a swollen and gravy-smeared mask of putty. His breath came in short wheezes; a senatorial roll of adipose tissue denied a fashionable set to his upturned coat collar. Buttons that had been sewed upon his clothes by kind Salvation fingers a week before flew like popcorn, strewing the earth around him. Ragged he was, with a split shirt front open to the wishbone; but the November breeze, carrying fine snowflakes, brought him only a grateful coolness. For Stuffy Pete was overcharged with the caloric produced by a super-bountiful dinner, beginning with oysters and ending with plum pudding, and including (it seemed to him) all the roast turkey and baked potatoes and chicken salad and squash pie and ice cream in the world. Wherefore he sat, gorged, and gazed upon the world with after-dinner contempt.
The meal had been an unexpected one. He was passing a red brick mansion near the beginning of Fifth avenue, in which lived two old ladies of ancient family and a reverence for traditions. They even denied the existence of New York, and believed that Thanksgiving Day was declared solely for Washington Square. One of their traditional habits was to station a servant at the postern gate with orders to admit the first hungry wayfarer that came along after the hour of noon had struck, and banquet him to a finish. Stuffy Pete happened to pass by on his way to the park, and the seneschals gathered him in and upheld the custom of the castle.
After Stuffy Pete had gazed straight before him for ten minutes he was conscious of a desire for a more varied field of vision. With a tremendous effort he moved his head slowly to the left. And then his eyes bulged out fearfully, and his breath ceased, and the rough-shod ends of his short legs wriggled and rustled on the gravel.
For the Old Gentleman was coming across Fourth avenue toward his bench.
Every Thanksgiving Day for nine years the Old Gentleman had come there and found Stuffy Pete on his bench. That was a thing that the Old Gentleman was trying to make a tradition of. Every Thanksgiving Day for nine years he had found Stuffy there, and had led him to a restaurant and watched him eat a big dinner. They do those things in England unconsciously. But this is a young country, and nine years is not so bad. The Old Gentleman was a staunch American patriot, and considered himself a pioneer in American tradition. In order to become picturesque we must keep on doing one thing for a long time without ever letting it get away from us. Something like collecting the weekly dimes in industrial insurance. Or cleaning the streets.
The Old Gentleman moved, straight and stately, toward theInstitution that he was rearing. Truly, the annual feeding of StuffyPete was nothing national in its character, such as the Magna Charta or jam for breakfast was in England. But it was a step. It was almost feudal. It showed, at least, that a Custom was not impossible to New Y--ahem!--America.
The Old Gentleman was thin and tall and sixty. He was dressed all in black, and wore the old-fashioned kind of glasses that won't stay on your nose. His hair was whiter and thinner than it had been last year, and he seemed to make more use of his big, knobby cane with the crooked handle.
As his established benefactor came up Stuffy wheezed and shuddered like some woman's over-fat pug when a street dog bristles up at him.He would have flown, but all the skill of Santos-Dumont could not have separated him from his bench. Well had the myrmidons of the two old ladies done their work.
"Good morning," said the Old Gentleman. "I am glad to perceive that the vicissitudes of another year have spared you to move in health about the beautiful world. For that blessing alone this day of thanksgiving is well proclaimed to each of us. If you will come with me, my man, I will provide you with a dinner that should make your physical being accord with the mental."
That is what the old Gentleman said every time. Every ThanksgivingDay for nine years. The words themselves almost formed an Institution. Nothing could be compared with them except the Declaration of Independence. Always before they had been music in Stuffy's ears. But now he looked up at the Old Gentleman's face with tearful agony in his own. The fine snow almost sizzled when it fell upon his perspiring brow. But the Old Gentleman shivered a little and turned his back to the wind.
Stuffy had always wondered why the Old Gentleman spoke his speech rather sadly. He did not know that it was because he was wishing every time that he had a son to succeed him. A son who would come there after he was gone--a son who would stand proud and strong before some subsequent Stuffy, and say: "In memory of my father." Then it would be an Institution.
But the Old Gentleman had no relatives. He lived in rented rooms in one of the decayed old family brownstone mansions in one of the quiet streets east of the park. In the winter he raised fuchsias in a little conservatory the size of a steamer trunk. In the spring he walked in the Easter parade. In the summer he lived at a farmhouse in the New Jersey hills, and sat in a wicker armchair, speaking of a butterfly, the ornithoptera amphrisius, that he hoped to find some day. In the autumn he fed Stuffy a dinner. These were the Old Gentleman's occupations.
Stuffy Pete looked up at him for a half minute, stewing and helpless in his own self-pity. The Old Gentleman's eyes were bright with the giving-pleasure. His face was getting more lined each year, but his little black necktie was in as jaunty a bow as ever, and the linen was beautiful and white, and his gray mustache was curled carefully at the ends. And then Stuffy made a noise that sounded like peas bubbling in a pot. Speech was intended; and as the Old Gentleman had heard the sounds nine times before, he rightly construed them into Stuffy's old formula of acceptance.
"Thankee, sir. I'll go with ye, and much obliged. I'm very hungry, sir."
The coma of repletion had not prevented from entering Stuffy's mind the conviction that he was the basis of an Institution. His Thanksgiving appetite was not his own; it belonged by all the sacred rights of established custom, if not, by the actual Statute of Limitations, to this kind old gentleman who bad preempted it. True, America is free; but in order to establish tradition some one must be a repetend--a repeating decimal. The heroes are not all heroes of steel and gold. See one here that wielded only weapons of iron, badly silvered, and tin.
The Old Gentleman led his annual protege southward to the restaurant, and to the table where the feast had always occurred. They were recognized. "Here comes de old guy," said a waiter, "dat blows dat same bum to a meal every Thanksgiving."
The Old Gentleman sat across the table glowing like a smoked pearl at his corner-stone of future ancient Tradition. The waiters heaped the table with holiday food--and Stuffy, with a sigh that was mistaken for hunger's expression, raised knife and fork and carved for himself a crown of imperishable bay.
No more valiant hero ever fought his way through the ranks of an enemy. Turkey, chops, soups, vegetables, pies, disappeared before him as fast as they could be served. Gorged nearly to the uttermost when he entered the restaurant, the smell of food had almost caused him to lose his honor as a gentleman, but he rallied like a true knight. He saw the look of beneficent happiness on the Old Gentleman's face--a happier look than even the fuchsias and the ornithoptera amphrisius had ever brought to it--and he had not the heart to see it wane.
In an hour Stuffy leaned back with a battle won. "Thankee kindly,sir," he puffed like a leaky steam pipe; "thankee kindly for a hearty meal." Then he arose heavily with glazed eyes and started toward the kitchen. A waiter turned him about like a top, and pointed him toward the door. The Old Gentleman carefully counted out$1.30 in silver change, leaving three nickels for the waiter.
They parted as they did each year at the door, the Old Gentleman going south, Stuffy north.
Around the first corner Stuffy turned, and stood for one minute.Then he seemed to puff out his rags as an owl puffs out his feathers, and fell to the sidewalk like a sunstricken horse.
When the ambulance came the young surgeon and the driver cursed softly at his weight. There was no smell of whiskey to justify a transfer to the patrol wagon, so Stuffy and his two dinners went to the hospital. There they stretched him on a bed and began to test him for strange diseases, with the hope of getting a chance at some problem with the bare steel.
And lo! an hour later another ambulance brought the Old Gentleman.And they laid him on another bed and spoke of appendicitis, for he looked good for the bill.
But pretty soon one of the young doctors met one of the young nurses whose eyes he liked, and stopped to chat with her about the cases."That nice old gentleman over there, now," he said, "you wouldn't think that was a case of almost starvation. Proud old family, I guess. He told me he hadn't eaten a thing for three days."
Thanks to the Old Indian Rider for the posts.
The big city east of the cranberry bogs has made Thanksgiving Day an institution. The last Thursday in November is the only day in the year on which it recognizes the part of America lying across the ferries. It is the one day that is purely American. Yes, a day of celebration, exclusively American.
And now for the story which is to prove to you that we have traditions on this side of the ocean that are becoming older at a much rapider rate than those of England are--thanks to our git-up and enterprise.
Stuffy Pete took his seat on the third bench to the right as you enter Union Square from the east, at the walk opposite the fountain. Every Thanksgiving Day for nine years he had taken his seat there promptly at 1 o'clock. For every time he had done so things had happened to him--Charles Dickensy things that swelled his waistcoatabove his heart, and equally on the other side.
But to-day Stuffy Pete's appearance at the annual trysting place seemed to have been rather the result of habit than of the yearly hunger which, as the philanthropists seem to think, afflicts the poor at such extended intervals.
Certainly Pete was not hungry. He had just come from a feast that had left him of his powers barely those of respiration and locomotion. His eyes were like two pale gooseberries firmly imbedded in a swollen and gravy-smeared mask of putty. His breath came in short wheezes; a senatorial roll of adipose tissue denied a fashionable set to his upturned coat collar. Buttons that had been sewed upon his clothes by kind Salvation fingers a week before flew like popcorn, strewing the earth around him. Ragged he was, with a split shirt front open to the wishbone; but the November breeze, carrying fine snowflakes, brought him only a grateful coolness. For Stuffy Pete was overcharged with the caloric produced by a super-bountiful dinner, beginning with oysters and ending with plum pudding, and including (it seemed to him) all the roast turkey and baked potatoes and chicken salad and squash pie and ice cream in the world. Wherefore he sat, gorged, and gazed upon the world with after-dinner contempt.
The meal had been an unexpected one. He was passing a red brick mansion near the beginning of Fifth avenue, in which lived two old ladies of ancient family and a reverence for traditions. They even denied the existence of New York, and believed that Thanksgiving Day was declared solely for Washington Square. One of their traditional habits was to station a servant at the postern gate with orders to admit the first hungry wayfarer that came along after the hour of noon had struck, and banquet him to a finish. Stuffy Pete happened to pass by on his way to the park, and the seneschals gathered him in and upheld the custom of the castle.
After Stuffy Pete had gazed straight before him for ten minutes he was conscious of a desire for a more varied field of vision. With a tremendous effort he moved his head slowly to the left. And then his eyes bulged out fearfully, and his breath ceased, and the rough-shod ends of his short legs wriggled and rustled on the gravel.
For the Old Gentleman was coming across Fourth avenue toward his bench.
Every Thanksgiving Day for nine years the Old Gentleman had come there and found Stuffy Pete on his bench. That was a thing that the Old Gentleman was trying to make a tradition of. Every Thanksgiving Day for nine years he had found Stuffy there, and had led him to a restaurant and watched him eat a big dinner. They do those things in England unconsciously. But this is a young country, and nine years is not so bad. The Old Gentleman was a staunch American patriot, and considered himself a pioneer in American tradition. In order to become picturesque we must keep on doing one thing for a long time without ever letting it get away from us. Something like collecting the weekly dimes in industrial insurance. Or cleaning the streets.
The Old Gentleman moved, straight and stately, toward theInstitution that he was rearing. Truly, the annual feeding of StuffyPete was nothing national in its character, such as the Magna Charta or jam for breakfast was in England. But it was a step. It was almost feudal. It showed, at least, that a Custom was not impossible to New Y--ahem!--America.
The Old Gentleman was thin and tall and sixty. He was dressed all in black, and wore the old-fashioned kind of glasses that won't stay on your nose. His hair was whiter and thinner than it had been last year, and he seemed to make more use of his big, knobby cane with the crooked handle.
As his established benefactor came up Stuffy wheezed and shuddered like some woman's over-fat pug when a street dog bristles up at him.He would have flown, but all the skill of Santos-Dumont could not have separated him from his bench. Well had the myrmidons of the two old ladies done their work.
"Good morning," said the Old Gentleman. "I am glad to perceive that the vicissitudes of another year have spared you to move in health about the beautiful world. For that blessing alone this day of thanksgiving is well proclaimed to each of us. If you will come with me, my man, I will provide you with a dinner that should make your physical being accord with the mental."
That is what the old Gentleman said every time. Every ThanksgivingDay for nine years. The words themselves almost formed an Institution. Nothing could be compared with them except the Declaration of Independence. Always before they had been music in Stuffy's ears. But now he looked up at the Old Gentleman's face with tearful agony in his own. The fine snow almost sizzled when it fell upon his perspiring brow. But the Old Gentleman shivered a little and turned his back to the wind.
Stuffy had always wondered why the Old Gentleman spoke his speech rather sadly. He did not know that it was because he was wishing every time that he had a son to succeed him. A son who would come there after he was gone--a son who would stand proud and strong before some subsequent Stuffy, and say: "In memory of my father." Then it would be an Institution.
But the Old Gentleman had no relatives. He lived in rented rooms in one of the decayed old family brownstone mansions in one of the quiet streets east of the park. In the winter he raised fuchsias in a little conservatory the size of a steamer trunk. In the spring he walked in the Easter parade. In the summer he lived at a farmhouse in the New Jersey hills, and sat in a wicker armchair, speaking of a butterfly, the ornithoptera amphrisius, that he hoped to find some day. In the autumn he fed Stuffy a dinner. These were the Old Gentleman's occupations.
Stuffy Pete looked up at him for a half minute, stewing and helpless in his own self-pity. The Old Gentleman's eyes were bright with the giving-pleasure. His face was getting more lined each year, but his little black necktie was in as jaunty a bow as ever, and the linen was beautiful and white, and his gray mustache was curled carefully at the ends. And then Stuffy made a noise that sounded like peas bubbling in a pot. Speech was intended; and as the Old Gentleman had heard the sounds nine times before, he rightly construed them into Stuffy's old formula of acceptance.
"Thankee, sir. I'll go with ye, and much obliged. I'm very hungry, sir."
The coma of repletion had not prevented from entering Stuffy's mind the conviction that he was the basis of an Institution. His Thanksgiving appetite was not his own; it belonged by all the sacred rights of established custom, if not, by the actual Statute of Limitations, to this kind old gentleman who bad preempted it. True, America is free; but in order to establish tradition some one must be a repetend--a repeating decimal. The heroes are not all heroes of steel and gold. See one here that wielded only weapons of iron, badly silvered, and tin.
The Old Gentleman led his annual protege southward to the restaurant, and to the table where the feast had always occurred. They were recognized. "Here comes de old guy," said a waiter, "dat blows dat same bum to a meal every Thanksgiving."
The Old Gentleman sat across the table glowing like a smoked pearl at his corner-stone of future ancient Tradition. The waiters heaped the table with holiday food--and Stuffy, with a sigh that was mistaken for hunger's expression, raised knife and fork and carved for himself a crown of imperishable bay.
No more valiant hero ever fought his way through the ranks of an enemy. Turkey, chops, soups, vegetables, pies, disappeared before him as fast as they could be served. Gorged nearly to the uttermost when he entered the restaurant, the smell of food had almost caused him to lose his honor as a gentleman, but he rallied like a true knight. He saw the look of beneficent happiness on the Old Gentleman's face--a happier look than even the fuchsias and the ornithoptera amphrisius had ever brought to it--and he had not the heart to see it wane.
In an hour Stuffy leaned back with a battle won. "Thankee kindly,sir," he puffed like a leaky steam pipe; "thankee kindly for a hearty meal." Then he arose heavily with glazed eyes and started toward the kitchen. A waiter turned him about like a top, and pointed him toward the door. The Old Gentleman carefully counted out$1.30 in silver change, leaving three nickels for the waiter.
They parted as they did each year at the door, the Old Gentleman going south, Stuffy north.
Around the first corner Stuffy turned, and stood for one minute.Then he seemed to puff out his rags as an owl puffs out his feathers, and fell to the sidewalk like a sunstricken horse.
When the ambulance came the young surgeon and the driver cursed softly at his weight. There was no smell of whiskey to justify a transfer to the patrol wagon, so Stuffy and his two dinners went to the hospital. There they stretched him on a bed and began to test him for strange diseases, with the hope of getting a chance at some problem with the bare steel.
And lo! an hour later another ambulance brought the Old Gentleman.And they laid him on another bed and spoke of appendicitis, for he looked good for the bill.
But pretty soon one of the young doctors met one of the young nurses whose eyes he liked, and stopped to chat with her about the cases."That nice old gentleman over there, now," he said, "you wouldn't think that was a case of almost starvation. Proud old family, I guess. He told me he hadn't eaten a thing for three days."
Thanks to the Old Indian Rider for the posts.
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
The Colorado Trail: Ed McCurdy
"...during the late 1950s and early 1960s, Ed McCurdy was one of the most popular solo singers of the folk revival. In addition to recording two extremely popular albums, When Dalliance Was In Flower, Vols. 1 and 2, McCurdy was also the author of "Last Night I Had the Strangest Dream," a song that was widely covered by other singers."
MP3 File
MP3 File
One Scotch, One Bourbon, One Beer: Snooks Eaglin
Snooks Eaglin was born in 1936 and raised in New Orleans. When he was a year and a half, surgery for a brain tumor left him blind. At age six he began playing guitar and by his teens was performing with groups in New Orleans. He recorded for Folkways in 1958 then for Imperial. He still lives in New Orleans and still plays a great guitar.
This is a cut from the Smithsonian Folkways album Snooks Eaglin New Orleans Street Singer originally released in 1959 but now in re-release.
MP3 File
This is a cut from the Smithsonian Folkways album Snooks Eaglin New Orleans Street Singer originally released in 1959 but now in re-release.
MP3 File
"Only in grammar can you be more than perfect. "
So long ago it seems like another life, I was an English teacher. I should have known I was doomed. Reading a few books, waxing eloquent about Shakespeare's symbolism and identifying the unifying elements of the three scaffolding scenes in The Scarlet Letter made it look just too easy. I had been duped and, worst yet, would soon be cursed. I should have felt that bolt of lightning the instance I understood when to use objective case pronouns. Since that singular moment, I have been forced to wander the world with grammar book in hand correcting and amending as I travel. The life of a nomadic grammarian is filled with danger and potential disaster. Between you and me slips from my lips, and I run for my life chased by howling dogs and torch carrying screaming mobs. Pointing out a dangling participle or a split infinitive often takes every ounce of courage I can muster. It would be the easy course to turn away from the grating sounds of grammar gone amok, but I have a responsibility that transcends personal safety. I am a card carrying member of the grammar police, and I publicly and proudly admit it to you, consequences be damned.
There I've said it aloud.
There I've said it aloud.
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
A World of Our Own: The Seekers
The Seekers were formed in Australia in 1963 and had a string of hits, including this one. Their others included I'll Never Find Another You, Come the Day and Georgy Girl.
They arrived in London via a crusie ship performance and found they were already booked for several London gigs and had a record deal in the offing. Several songs reach number one, and they were selling nearly as many records as The Beatles. By the tail end of the 60's, their music had begun to change from folk to folk rock and finally morphed into more of a pop sound. This sound, though, began to fade as did the fortunes of The Seekers.
The Best of the Seekers, reached number one in 1969, but the group disbanded earlier that year following a farewell concert broadcast on British television.
MP3 File
They arrived in London via a crusie ship performance and found they were already booked for several London gigs and had a record deal in the offing. Several songs reach number one, and they were selling nearly as many records as The Beatles. By the tail end of the 60's, their music had begun to change from folk to folk rock and finally morphed into more of a pop sound. This sound, though, began to fade as did the fortunes of The Seekers.
The Best of the Seekers, reached number one in 1969, but the group disbanded earlier that year following a farewell concert broadcast on British television.
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The Sinking of the Reuben James: The Highwaymen
Michael Row the Boat Ashore was their biggest hit, and I still remember all the words though the scene in Volunteers when the whole plane is singing and swaying to this song and Tom Hanks thinks he's landed in a nightmare is a more recent memory.
I always associate their sound with the late 50's, early 60's when college groups first made folk music. Wesleyan University was where The Highwaymen originated.
MP3 File
I always associate their sound with the late 50's, early 60's when college groups first made folk music. Wesleyan University was where The Highwaymen originated.
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"What is patriotism but the love of the food one ate as a child?"
Last night Jack Frost left the first frost on the pumpkin, just in time for the holiday. His icy topping has always seemed the end of autumn and the early stirrings of winter. I always picture Jack wearing a red scarf and toting a magic wand, sort of a female Suzy Snowflake dressed a bit more casually.
The Thanksgiving cooking shows have me dreaming of the big day and all my favorite foods. Mashed potatoes are right up there with the master of ceremonies himself, the turkey. Add butter and cream to those spuds, and you have food fit for the gods. But potatoes don't just taste great, they can be sculpted to resemble the Devil's Tower, hold gobs of gravy and when roasted garlic is added, you have a match made in heaven. My second favorite Thanksgiving food is one my mother used to make, a remarkable three onion and cheese dish that lifts the common onion to near regal status. Even now I can wrap my memory around that taste.
Traditions connect us across time and space. The taste of sage dressing brings memories of my mother. My dad loved a turkey leg, and he was the best I know at stripping the turkey for salad or soup. They are always at our tables.
The Thanksgiving cooking shows have me dreaming of the big day and all my favorite foods. Mashed potatoes are right up there with the master of ceremonies himself, the turkey. Add butter and cream to those spuds, and you have food fit for the gods. But potatoes don't just taste great, they can be sculpted to resemble the Devil's Tower, hold gobs of gravy and when roasted garlic is added, you have a match made in heaven. My second favorite Thanksgiving food is one my mother used to make, a remarkable three onion and cheese dish that lifts the common onion to near regal status. Even now I can wrap my memory around that taste.
Traditions connect us across time and space. The taste of sage dressing brings memories of my mother. My dad loved a turkey leg, and he was the best I know at stripping the turkey for salad or soup. They are always at our tables.
Monday, November 20, 2006
Death Came A Knockin': The Duhks
This is from their self-titled album released last year.
Theirs is a sound which defies a genre. The Duhks' albums are filled with traditional airs of Celtic and French Canadian origin to which they have added The Duhks' touch, their own sound.
MP3 File
Theirs is a sound which defies a genre. The Duhks' albums are filled with traditional airs of Celtic and French Canadian origin to which they have added The Duhks' touch, their own sound.
MP3 File
Fare Thee Well: Fred Neil
Okay, I did say this was a quiet, nothing to do sort of day. This blurb is copied from an earlier Coffee post of Fred Neil's music. The song is new to us.
Fred Neil is probably one of the lesser known singer-songwriters of the sixties folk-rock era, but it would take pages to describe the influence Fred Neil had on the development of folk-rock and on so many of the artists who emerged during those early 1960's.
When Bob Dylan arrived in Greenwich Village in late 1961, he played harp for Fred Neil at the Wha? In a 1984 interview, Dylan recalled that Neil "...had a strong powerful voice, almost a bass voice and a powerful sense of rhythm."
MP3 File
Fred Neil is probably one of the lesser known singer-songwriters of the sixties folk-rock era, but it would take pages to describe the influence Fred Neil had on the development of folk-rock and on so many of the artists who emerged during those early 1960's.
When Bob Dylan arrived in Greenwich Village in late 1961, he played harp for Fred Neil at the Wha? In a 1984 interview, Dylan recalled that Neil "...had a strong powerful voice, almost a bass voice and a powerful sense of rhythm."
MP3 File
"I have a great deal of company in the house, especially in the morning when nobody calls. "
With no sun and a chilling dampness to the air, the day doesn't inspire me to activity. I feel the need for comfort and warmth, a macaroni and cheese sort of day. Nothing beckons: no list sits on my table. I have left the day completely free. A couple of unread books sit in my basket, a few new CD's beg for a listen, and it's time to pull out the holiday cookbooks.
The branches look stark on a sunless day. Even the green of the pine trees seems drab, unable to break through the grey. I have decided to wear bright colors. I'm thinking stripes and plaids and lollipop kid sort of socks.
Slipper socks are my favorite footwear this time of year and have been since I was a little kid. I always associate that scuffling sound they make with a cold winter's night or a snowy day. Flannel too has already made its appearance to help stave off winter's chill. A sweatshirt is the complement to my winter ensemble.
The windows mute outside sounds, and no wind brushes the branches so they too are silent. In the quiet of the house, I can hear only Gracie's deep breathing.
The branches look stark on a sunless day. Even the green of the pine trees seems drab, unable to break through the grey. I have decided to wear bright colors. I'm thinking stripes and plaids and lollipop kid sort of socks.
Slipper socks are my favorite footwear this time of year and have been since I was a little kid. I always associate that scuffling sound they make with a cold winter's night or a snowy day. Flannel too has already made its appearance to help stave off winter's chill. A sweatshirt is the complement to my winter ensemble.
The windows mute outside sounds, and no wind brushes the branches so they too are silent. In the quiet of the house, I can hear only Gracie's deep breathing.
Sunday, November 19, 2006
"The length of a film should be directly related to the endurance of the human bladder."
An overcast sky last night meant no Leonid showers. There I was with my traveling coffee mug in hand, socks warming my feet under slippers and an afghan around my shoulders. I took one look at the sky, came back inside, put the afghan away, drank the coffee and ate a pumpkin biscotti to stave off the disappointment.
When I was a kid, Thanksgiving week used to be just about my favorite week of school. You had Monday and Tuesday of real school work, then a half day on Wednesday generally frittered away in celebration or on making turkeys out of cups and construction paper or coloring turkeys and Pilgrims and trying desperately to stay in the lines. Two whole days of no school were almost as good as Thanksgiving itself, or, at the very least, deserving of thanks.
When I was a kid, Thanksgiving week used to be just about my favorite week of school. You had Monday and Tuesday of real school work, then a half day on Wednesday generally frittered away in celebration or on making turkeys out of cups and construction paper or coloring turkeys and Pilgrims and trying desperately to stay in the lines. Two whole days of no school were almost as good as Thanksgiving itself, or, at the very least, deserving of thanks.
The day is a dreary one with intermittent showers, a perfect day for the movies. I'm figuring The Queen with a 12:10 showing. When I was a kid attending all those Saturday matinees, I couldn't wait until I was old enough to go to the movies at night. It was, it seemed, another one of those odd little indicators of adulthood or near adulthood. But here I am, an adult, and I'm still attending matinees. Paying a quarter to see cartoons, a newsreels and a full length movie faded long ago into memory, and I no longer arm myself with JuJu Bead ammunition as retaliation for attacks in the dark from errant missiles disguised as candy. Matinees just aren't the fun they used to be. One thing, though, has never changed. I think I recognize that popcorn from when I was a kid.
Saturday, November 18, 2006
"Wandering re-establishes the original harmony which once existed between man and the universe."
A much cooler day today and tonight November will roar. It may just be getting close to putting sandals away weather. The Leonids will be visible starting at about 11:45, and every year I sit outside with my thermos of coffee hoping to see so many meteors they'd take my breath away. The weather has been warm, even balmy, for this late in the year, but winter will make an appearance tonight. I may well be snuggled in a sleeping bag or even watching the sky from the back window of a warm car.
Today Gracie is a year old. I want to say how quickly time passes, but it also seems I have always had Gracie in my life. This little, crazy dog has the most astonishing energy, and her world is a whir of activity. My Gracie is a licker who loves to welcome people with a slurp of her tongue and wags of her stub tail. She has a huge lexicon, rings bells to announce her need to go outside and sleeps with a bit of her tongue showing. Gracie snores so loudly you'd think a grown man was napping on the couch. She has a toy box and rifles through it to find her favorite of the day. A mallard duck, almost life-size, has been her toy of late, and she runs around the house with it in her mouth. I suspect she imagines me a mighty hunter and herself a retriever. Gracie enriches my life.
Today is a day not to be wasted. The sky is that blue which comes only when there is a crispness to the air and the sun has a sharpness. Today is a day for a ride, for taking unfamiliar roads. We'll go down Cape, Gracie and I, and take only left turns. Yup, today is a perfect day for left turns.
Today Gracie is a year old. I want to say how quickly time passes, but it also seems I have always had Gracie in my life. This little, crazy dog has the most astonishing energy, and her world is a whir of activity. My Gracie is a licker who loves to welcome people with a slurp of her tongue and wags of her stub tail. She has a huge lexicon, rings bells to announce her need to go outside and sleeps with a bit of her tongue showing. Gracie snores so loudly you'd think a grown man was napping on the couch. She has a toy box and rifles through it to find her favorite of the day. A mallard duck, almost life-size, has been her toy of late, and she runs around the house with it in her mouth. I suspect she imagines me a mighty hunter and herself a retriever. Gracie enriches my life.
Today is a day not to be wasted. The sky is that blue which comes only when there is a crispness to the air and the sun has a sharpness. Today is a day for a ride, for taking unfamiliar roads. We'll go down Cape, Gracie and I, and take only left turns. Yup, today is a perfect day for left turns.
Friday, November 17, 2006
Rainy Day People: Gordon Lightfoot
Somewhere along the way I've probably played this, but Gordon Lightfoot, like the glow from my lamp, gives me a sense of the familiar, a feeling of comfort. He has been a long time favorite of mine.
MP3 File
MP3 File
“Rain is grace; rain is the sky condescending to the earth; without rain, there would be no life.”
It's raining. The day is dark and has the look of twilight. The room feels cozy in the lamp light, and I am comforted by its glow. A rainy day is a favorite day. I love to snuggle under an afghan and read. The cat joins me and sleeps beside me while Gracie sleeps at my feet. We are a wonderful combination: a purring cat, a snoring dog and a joyful reader.
Dog owners are a peculiar bunch, and I am no exception. This morning Gracie's friend Cody came to play as usual. Cody's owner and I stood outside under umbrellas while the two dogs ran and played. The rain was heavy, the dogs frisky and I got wet despite my umbrella. Gracie had fun and exercise which is enough for me.
My front yard, where I stood under my umbrella, has a small lake getting larger by the drop. My lawn was a victim of Maggie, the digger, and Gracie is following suit. Small holes and large craters
are filled with water, and the dirt has become a mud hole waiting to suck in the unwary. Gracie is a little dog, and I'll have to keep my eyes on her and the growing lake.
We have some errands. I have a list. I always have lists. Life would be far too difficult without them.
Dog owners are a peculiar bunch, and I am no exception. This morning Gracie's friend Cody came to play as usual. Cody's owner and I stood outside under umbrellas while the two dogs ran and played. The rain was heavy, the dogs frisky and I got wet despite my umbrella. Gracie had fun and exercise which is enough for me.
My front yard, where I stood under my umbrella, has a small lake getting larger by the drop. My lawn was a victim of Maggie, the digger, and Gracie is following suit. Small holes and large craters
are filled with water, and the dirt has become a mud hole waiting to suck in the unwary. Gracie is a little dog, and I'll have to keep my eyes on her and the growing lake.
We have some errands. I have a list. I always have lists. Life would be far too difficult without them.
Thursday, November 16, 2006
Tow the Line: Nick Drake
Nick Drake has reached cult status though his death, in 1974, went virtually unnoticed except by the fellow musicians who recognized his talent and genius. He left only three studio albums.
This song is from a compilation called Made to Love Magic and all the songs are either rare or previously unheard. Tow the Line was a new find never before released.
MP3 File
This song is from a compilation called Made to Love Magic and all the songs are either rare or previously unheard. Tow the Line was a new find never before released.
MP3 File
Long Time Gone: Tim O'Brien and Darrell Scott
This is from Real Time, a co-billed album, released in 2000. The liner notes are a perfect introduction.
" Believing that all things -- past and present, east and west, happy and sad, country and western -- exist simultaneously, we offer this pie plate, atom, DNA strand, CD, that contains Tim and Darrell's world. Partial list of contents: two halves of heart-shaped sandwiches (chicken curry with grapes), some sand from a beach trip, love lost and found, Kenny Malone, a slide whistle, a kazoo, two families, five rooms. Sorry, there ain't no easy way.
We sat across from each other and played these songs in real time in Darrell's living room, living there for a week in November, 1999. The sun shone, leaves fell, one day there was rain. Tim got there before ten, left before dinner time.
Take care of yourselves and don't eat anything blue."
MP3 File
" Believing that all things -- past and present, east and west, happy and sad, country and western -- exist simultaneously, we offer this pie plate, atom, DNA strand, CD, that contains Tim and Darrell's world. Partial list of contents: two halves of heart-shaped sandwiches (chicken curry with grapes), some sand from a beach trip, love lost and found, Kenny Malone, a slide whistle, a kazoo, two families, five rooms. Sorry, there ain't no easy way.
We sat across from each other and played these songs in real time in Darrell's living room, living there for a week in November, 1999. The sun shone, leaves fell, one day there was rain. Tim got there before ten, left before dinner time.
Take care of yourselves and don't eat anything blue."
MP3 File
“Christmas, children, is not a date. It is a state of mind.”
Most members of my family have been bitten by the Christmas bug. Everyone has enough decorations and ornaments for several trees. Our houses are festooned with wreaths, swags, snowmen, nativity sets and lights, lots of lights. We believe that no decoration can ever be tacky. How could it be when it's Christmas? My sister fills her home with animation, and we are always on the hunt for anything Christmasy that moves. Last year I found a tree wearing cowboy boots which sang Santa Baby and swayed to the music. That was tottering on the borderline of tacky, I admit, but it was funny and a tree so it made the cut. I love ornaments and decorations from the 50's and have elves and angels made from pinecones and cardboard, Santas with curly beards and plastic light up Santas of all different sizes. I even have a huge pair of cardboard candles which, when lit, can guide a small plane home.
We play Christmas music from November through to the New Year and know all the songs and singalong with most. The music of Christmas is too wonderful to be relegated to a few short weeks.
We shop all year because special finds can appear anywhere at any time. My sisters and I have Christmas boxes to hold all those early finds. Mine are in the cellar, and I go down periodically to list what I have and keep in mind what I need. We do stockings for each other and know exactly what traditional gifts need to be there. My sister Moe will always get a Lifesaver book while Sheila gets a Star Trek calendar, of the Captain Kirk era, and both get Hannukah chocolate coins because my mother used to buy them and drop them throughout our stockings. She just liked the gold foil and never checked the imprints.
It will soon be time for all those trips from my cellar as I haul up my Christmas bins. I can hardly wait.
We play Christmas music from November through to the New Year and know all the songs and singalong with most. The music of Christmas is too wonderful to be relegated to a few short weeks.
We shop all year because special finds can appear anywhere at any time. My sisters and I have Christmas boxes to hold all those early finds. Mine are in the cellar, and I go down periodically to list what I have and keep in mind what I need. We do stockings for each other and know exactly what traditional gifts need to be there. My sister Moe will always get a Lifesaver book while Sheila gets a Star Trek calendar, of the Captain Kirk era, and both get Hannukah chocolate coins because my mother used to buy them and drop them throughout our stockings. She just liked the gold foil and never checked the imprints.
It will soon be time for all those trips from my cellar as I haul up my Christmas bins. I can hardly wait.
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
Simple Life: The Weepies
Deb Talan and Steve Tannen began writing together the first night they met and soon formed THE WEEPIES. “We were fans of each other. When we met, there was an electric connection that made us both nervous. After the show, when everyone went home, we stayed up all night playing songs for each other, drinking a bottle of wine and trading an acoustic guitar back and forth in a tiny apartment,” says Talan. "That night has lasted four years so far," adds Tannen.
This is from their Happiness album.
MP3 File
This is from their Happiness album.
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Chelsea Hotel: Dan Bern
This is from Den Bern's double album Smartie Mine from 1998.
Dan Bern has had to deal with comparisons to Dylan, Elvis Costello, Springsteen and even Woody Guthrie. His response is my favorite quote of his, "Well, I think in a way Bob Dylan was sort of the Dan Bern of the '60's."
The man has a sense of humor which comes through in his music which is sometimes hysterically irreverent. He sings folk and blues, writes music centered on his politics and doesn't mind being abrasive. I like Dan Bern.
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Dan Bern has had to deal with comparisons to Dylan, Elvis Costello, Springsteen and even Woody Guthrie. His response is my favorite quote of his, "Well, I think in a way Bob Dylan was sort of the Dan Bern of the '60's."
The man has a sense of humor which comes through in his music which is sometimes hysterically irreverent. He sings folk and blues, writes music centered on his politics and doesn't mind being abrasive. I like Dan Bern.
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"A penny will hide the biggest star in the Universe if you hold it close enough to your eye. "
One of my favorite places when I was a kid was the neighborhood corner store. After buying the bread or milk my mother wanted, I'd shop with the few pennies left. First I'd stand in front of that huge display case and try to figure out the best way to spend my hard earned cash. The lady who owned the store would stand and wait, sometimes impatiently as I weighed my options. Wax lips were always a favorite. I'd wear that strange grin for a while then chew the wax. It was like getting two pieces of candy for a penny. It was the same with the wax bottles. I'd bite off the top, suck down that syrupy liquid then chew the wax. When a penny brings such bounty, life is good. If I wanted longevity, my penny could buy a Bit-O-Honey, one Mary Jane or a piece of squirrel candy. Each took forever to chew and had the potential to pull out fillings. Candy buttons were another favorite, but biting the buttons often meant ingesting a bit of paper as well, not that I minded. I'd sometimes buy an ice cream cone candy which gave you two tastes for the price of one. Even then I was a discriminate shopper.
If ever I was in the money and had a nickel, I was stuck in the choosing dilemma. Turkish Taffy and Sugar Daddies were guaranteed to last a long time and were always in the top five. Vanilla taffy was my favorite, and I'd chew to soften it until spikes of taffy hung out from the bar. I'm thinking that the amount of chewing was akin to softening a deerskin for slippers. Necco Wafers were a candy and a science experiment. I'd eat a few then take my roll into the closet to try to get the pink ones to spark. Candy cigarettes made me feel adult as I held them in my fingers the same way my mother held her actual cigarette. My friends and I would chat holding those fake cigarettes in our fingers waving our hands in the air as we talked, much the same as I imagine Dorothy Parker doing at the Round Table.
I am sad that old ladies no longer stand watch behind display cases and corner stores are gone. The penny has become a castoff with no magical powers. It can't conjure a single piece of candy and languishes beside the cash register, unused and unwanted. I miss its glory days.
If ever I was in the money and had a nickel, I was stuck in the choosing dilemma. Turkish Taffy and Sugar Daddies were guaranteed to last a long time and were always in the top five. Vanilla taffy was my favorite, and I'd chew to soften it until spikes of taffy hung out from the bar. I'm thinking that the amount of chewing was akin to softening a deerskin for slippers. Necco Wafers were a candy and a science experiment. I'd eat a few then take my roll into the closet to try to get the pink ones to spark. Candy cigarettes made me feel adult as I held them in my fingers the same way my mother held her actual cigarette. My friends and I would chat holding those fake cigarettes in our fingers waving our hands in the air as we talked, much the same as I imagine Dorothy Parker doing at the Round Table.
I am sad that old ladies no longer stand watch behind display cases and corner stores are gone. The penny has become a castoff with no magical powers. It can't conjure a single piece of candy and languishes beside the cash register, unused and unwanted. I miss its glory days.
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
Reunion Hill: Richard Shindell
Every music collection needs to have at least one Richard Shindell album. He writes stories and weaves them to music with these beautiful, simple melodies.
This song too is a story but is the lament of a woman for the loss of her husband, killed in the Civil War. She remembers her last glimpse as he walks " ...across the valley and disappears into the trees."
MP3 File
This song too is a story but is the lament of a woman for the loss of her husband, killed in the Civil War. She remembers her last glimpse as he walks " ...across the valley and disappears into the trees."
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I'd Like to be a Cowgirl: Cathy Fink
Cathy Fink is new to me, and I know nothing about her. This song came off a Rounder collection. I went looking and here's what I found.
"Cathy Fink is a Grammy-winning performer, songwriter and multi-instrumentalist who has been playing old time banjo for over 30 years. She has won the West Virginia State Banjo Contest three times, and her CD, Banjo Haiku, has become a classic in its genre. Cathy's teaching skills have been honed at music camps throughout the country, and she has made several popular lessons for Homespun Tapes. Cathy performs and records with Marcy Marxer. Together they have toured the U.S., Canada, Great Britain, Japan, New Zealand and Australia. They have appeared at the White House, on The Weekend Today Show, CBS Early Morning Show, NPR's Morning Edition and at hundreds of folk and bluegrass festivals worldwide."
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"Cathy Fink is a Grammy-winning performer, songwriter and multi-instrumentalist who has been playing old time banjo for over 30 years. She has won the West Virginia State Banjo Contest three times, and her CD, Banjo Haiku, has become a classic in its genre. Cathy's teaching skills have been honed at music camps throughout the country, and she has made several popular lessons for Homespun Tapes. Cathy performs and records with Marcy Marxer. Together they have toured the U.S., Canada, Great Britain, Japan, New Zealand and Australia. They have appeared at the White House, on The Weekend Today Show, CBS Early Morning Show, NPR's Morning Edition and at hundreds of folk and bluegrass festivals worldwide."
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"I base most of my fashion sense on what doesn't itch. "
My favorite cup is chipped and worn. I've tried using other cups, but they just don't feel right in my hand. My favorite slippers have, of late, begun to develop holes. I, acutely aware of stitching in time, pull out my needle and thread and sew up those holes. My warmest flannel pants have been sewn so many times the legs are uneven. My ward off the cold every day sweatshirt has white spots from errant bleach drops, and I had to cut the cord from the hood. I do not present a pretty picture in the morning, and I don't really care.
I feel best wearing old shoes which have miraculously molded themselves to the shapes of my feet and still left room for socks. My favorite pair was tossed last summer, and they have yet to be replaced. My world is a bit empty without a favorite pair.
My wear to bed t-shirts have no real shapes left and have holes of various sizes, but I don't mind. I prize them because they are comfortable and familiar.
It seems my life has become quite comfortable, and I get to dress accordingly.
I feel best wearing old shoes which have miraculously molded themselves to the shapes of my feet and still left room for socks. My favorite pair was tossed last summer, and they have yet to be replaced. My world is a bit empty without a favorite pair.
My wear to bed t-shirts have no real shapes left and have holes of various sizes, but I don't mind. I prize them because they are comfortable and familiar.
It seems my life has become quite comfortable, and I get to dress accordingly.
Monday, November 13, 2006
Useless Desires: Patty Griffin
This is from 2004's Impossible Dream album.
I find Patty Griffin's songs sometimes just seem surrounded by a sense of sadness or melancholy or maybe even regret. She has this voice that you can hear all over, not just with your ears.
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I find Patty Griffin's songs sometimes just seem surrounded by a sense of sadness or melancholy or maybe even regret. She has this voice that you can hear all over, not just with your ears.
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Fotheringay: Fairport Convention
This song, written by Sandy Denny, also became the name of her split off group in the early 70's composed of Fairport members and which made only one album.
This cut is taken from Fairport Covention Meet on the Ledge which is a collection of songs from their classic years, 1967-1975.
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This cut is taken from Fairport Covention Meet on the Ledge which is a collection of songs from their classic years, 1967-1975.
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“He had mittens, Minjekahwun, Magic mittens made of deer-skin..."
Learning to tie my shoes was one of my all time great accomplishments. I am from the make one loop, tie the lace around and pull the second loop through school of knotting, a skillful techinque developed from hours of grueling practice. I remember my mother and me sitting while I learned and then practiced. The first attempts were so loose the knots didn't hold. It took several more tries before my bows were tight enough. My mother then taught me to double knot the laces just in case. I was proud. I had moved to advanced tying.
One of the signs of fading childhood is when you remember to hold your cuffs without being told. When I was young, I just stood there, a silent victim of my mother's obsession to break the Guinness world record of number of winter layers worn by a single child. When she'd start to dress me, I'd be reminded to hold my cuffs but got pulled and straightened so much I'd lose them in the struggle. Once dressed and ready, I'd complain my arms felt funny. My mother would sigh loudly, remark she'd asked me to hold the cuffs in the first place then force her arm up my sleeves and hunt until she'd find them. She'd keep pulling and complaining until the cuffs were where they would have been in the first place if I'd only listened. Even now, when I put on a jacket, I automatically hold the cuffs in my fingers. Some lessons are never forgotten.
But there is even a greater childhood milestone remembered in song from mother to daughter and father to son. It is when you finally graduate from mittens to gloves and know exactly where all those fingers belong.
One of the signs of fading childhood is when you remember to hold your cuffs without being told. When I was young, I just stood there, a silent victim of my mother's obsession to break the Guinness world record of number of winter layers worn by a single child. When she'd start to dress me, I'd be reminded to hold my cuffs but got pulled and straightened so much I'd lose them in the struggle. Once dressed and ready, I'd complain my arms felt funny. My mother would sigh loudly, remark she'd asked me to hold the cuffs in the first place then force her arm up my sleeves and hunt until she'd find them. She'd keep pulling and complaining until the cuffs were where they would have been in the first place if I'd only listened. Even now, when I put on a jacket, I automatically hold the cuffs in my fingers. Some lessons are never forgotten.
But there is even a greater childhood milestone remembered in song from mother to daughter and father to son. It is when you finally graduate from mittens to gloves and know exactly where all those fingers belong.
Sunday, November 12, 2006
"You can get all A's and still flunk life."
Sometimes I wonder what happened to all those kids I knew in grammar school. I've kept in touch with a handful, see a few others every now and then but most I haven't seen since the day we graduated from the eighth grade. During our eight years together, I was friendly enough with most of them, but I avoided some and felt sorry for a few more.
There was the boy who dumped some of his milk in the trash can a couple of times a week. He'd then walk the basket up to the desk to show Sister Hildergarde what some slob had done. She'd be horrified then direct him to take the basket to the janitor's closet and clean it. He was usually gone a long while. I suspect he might be working a shell game or a scam somewhere. I'll have to keep an eye. Sister Hildergarde's niece, Eleanor, was in our class. One day she had her skirt rolled up just a bit too high. That nun stormed down the aisle and, in front of all of us, pulled Eleanor's skirt down to a respectable length, castigating the poor girl the whole time. We always felt bad for Eleanor. She is either a lonely old lady with twenty cats or a retired pole dancer. It could have gone either way. The one I felt the worst for was Elaine Clapper. Her name invited ridicule and everyone said she smelled. Once I tried to make friends but Elaine had little interest in any of us. I hope she is wildly happy and successful.
Tommy, the boy next to me, was totally lost in most subjects. He never raised his hand and would hide any returned test. School was, for him, pure torture, but he was the most talented kid I knew. He could take wood and turn it into the most magnificient pieces of furniture. Why he was forced to learn the major exports of Brazil I'll never understand.
We had a bully or two, but they were mainly stuck with each other, and I don't even remember their names. One of my friends had a boyfriend, and we all crowded around at recess to hear all the details. There weren't many. Boy-girl relationships were limited to kissing and a few school yard bra strap snaps by the most daring of the boys. We were still innocents at thirteen.
I have my graduation picture but recognize too few of my classmates. I would like to have Miss Jean's mirror for a while so I could see Maryalyce and Jimmy and Henny and where Beatrice is now and what Norma might be doing. I'm also curious about Luke, the trash can boy.
There was the boy who dumped some of his milk in the trash can a couple of times a week. He'd then walk the basket up to the desk to show Sister Hildergarde what some slob had done. She'd be horrified then direct him to take the basket to the janitor's closet and clean it. He was usually gone a long while. I suspect he might be working a shell game or a scam somewhere. I'll have to keep an eye. Sister Hildergarde's niece, Eleanor, was in our class. One day she had her skirt rolled up just a bit too high. That nun stormed down the aisle and, in front of all of us, pulled Eleanor's skirt down to a respectable length, castigating the poor girl the whole time. We always felt bad for Eleanor. She is either a lonely old lady with twenty cats or a retired pole dancer. It could have gone either way. The one I felt the worst for was Elaine Clapper. Her name invited ridicule and everyone said she smelled. Once I tried to make friends but Elaine had little interest in any of us. I hope she is wildly happy and successful.
Tommy, the boy next to me, was totally lost in most subjects. He never raised his hand and would hide any returned test. School was, for him, pure torture, but he was the most talented kid I knew. He could take wood and turn it into the most magnificient pieces of furniture. Why he was forced to learn the major exports of Brazil I'll never understand.
We had a bully or two, but they were mainly stuck with each other, and I don't even remember their names. One of my friends had a boyfriend, and we all crowded around at recess to hear all the details. There weren't many. Boy-girl relationships were limited to kissing and a few school yard bra strap snaps by the most daring of the boys. We were still innocents at thirteen.
I have my graduation picture but recognize too few of my classmates. I would like to have Miss Jean's mirror for a while so I could see Maryalyce and Jimmy and Henny and where Beatrice is now and what Norma might be doing. I'm also curious about Luke, the trash can boy.
Saturday, November 11, 2006
"When our perils are past, shall our gratitude sleep?"
Today we honor all the men and women who have served in the military. We honor the living and the dead whether they served in war or peace or at home or away.
It was in 1918, on the eleventh hour of the eleventh day in the eleventh month, that the world celebrated. After four years of war, the Allied powers had signed a cease-fire agreement with Germany bringing World War I, the war to end all wars, to a close. The following year November 11th was set aside to remember the sacrifices of the men and women who served during that war.
Armistice Day officially received its name in the United States in 1926 through a Congressional resolution and became a national holiday 12 years later. Congress voted Armistice Day a federal holiday in 1938, 20 years after the war ended. One year later the second world war began in Europe, and the armistice was forgotten.
It was 1953 when townspeople in Emporia, Kansas first called the holiday Veterans Day in gratitude to the veterans of all wars who lived in their town. Soon after, in 1954, Congress passed a bill introduced by a Kansas congressman renaming the federal holiday to Veterans Day. President Dwight D. Eisenhower designated the day to, "...solemnly remember the sacrifices of all those who fought so valiantly, on the seas, in the air, and on foreign shores, to preserve our heritage of freedom."
Today we give thanks.
It was in 1918, on the eleventh hour of the eleventh day in the eleventh month, that the world celebrated. After four years of war, the Allied powers had signed a cease-fire agreement with Germany bringing World War I, the war to end all wars, to a close. The following year November 11th was set aside to remember the sacrifices of the men and women who served during that war.
Armistice Day officially received its name in the United States in 1926 through a Congressional resolution and became a national holiday 12 years later. Congress voted Armistice Day a federal holiday in 1938, 20 years after the war ended. One year later the second world war began in Europe, and the armistice was forgotten.
It was 1953 when townspeople in Emporia, Kansas first called the holiday Veterans Day in gratitude to the veterans of all wars who lived in their town. Soon after, in 1954, Congress passed a bill introduced by a Kansas congressman renaming the federal holiday to Veterans Day. President Dwight D. Eisenhower designated the day to, "...solemnly remember the sacrifices of all those who fought so valiantly, on the seas, in the air, and on foreign shores, to preserve our heritage of freedom."
Today we give thanks.
Friday, November 10, 2006
The Linesman's Lament: Rosalie Sorrels
If you're thinking this sounds just like The Streets of Laredo, you'd be correct, but Streets wasn't the original source for this song. It dates back to an Irish ballad called The Bard of Armagh sometimes called The Unfortunate Rake. It was later recorded as St. James' Infirmary which is what most of us would probably recognize.
The last time I posted Rosalie I went hunting for information and am posting what I had found the last time.
Rosalie Sorrels was born in Idaho in 1933. She grew up in and around Boise, learning literature from her mother, who ran the town's book shop, and learning the ways of nature from her father, who was a hunter. During the fourteen years of her marriage, she lived in Salt Lake City, where she became interested in folk music, and began collecting and singing old songs from the area. Rosalie wraps her exquisite voice around some of her favorite songs. Rosalie sings songs always deeply felt, effortlessly and altogether lovely. Rosalie, through song and story, weaves a tale that is common to all of us a tale of home, of roots, of a rural western America.
MP3 File
The last time I posted Rosalie I went hunting for information and am posting what I had found the last time.
Rosalie Sorrels was born in Idaho in 1933. She grew up in and around Boise, learning literature from her mother, who ran the town's book shop, and learning the ways of nature from her father, who was a hunter. During the fourteen years of her marriage, she lived in Salt Lake City, where she became interested in folk music, and began collecting and singing old songs from the area. Rosalie wraps her exquisite voice around some of her favorite songs. Rosalie sings songs always deeply felt, effortlessly and altogether lovely. Rosalie, through song and story, weaves a tale that is common to all of us a tale of home, of roots, of a rural western America.
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Stewball: Memphis Slim and Willie
That would be Memphis Slim on vocal and piano and Willie Dixon on bass. This duo first started recording together for Miracle in Chicago in 1947 and began recording for Folkways in 1959, the year Stewball was recorded.
The song originated as a 19th century Irish broadside detailing a horse race between Stewball, and Miss Grizzle, Miss Sporty, or simply the Gray Mare. In American it was adapted into black traditions and this cut is taken from a wonderful Smithsonian collection called Classic African-American Ballads.
MP3 File
The song originated as a 19th century Irish broadside detailing a horse race between Stewball, and Miss Grizzle, Miss Sporty, or simply the Gray Mare. In American it was adapted into black traditions and this cut is taken from a wonderful Smithsonian collection called Classic African-American Ballads.
MP3 File
"I love a dog. He does nothing for political reasons."
If I could choose a perfect day, it would start much the same as this one.
Indian summer has returned bringing warmth and a sky so blue it almost hurts your eyes. I stood outside this morning for a long while savoring the day and watching Gracie. Her world is the most wonderful place. She stops to watch the leaves fall and tries to catch them before they hit the ground. A bird flying overhead catches her attention, and her eyes follow it as far as she can see. Gracie runs for sheer joy. She runs in circles sometimes and doesn't ever seem to get bored with her route. Once in a while she stops by me and jumps on my leg to say hello. She stops for but a moment, not wanting to waste time standing still. I sometimes lose her in the trees. She blends. But the rustle of leaves gives her away, and my eyes find her running back and forth through my backyard. I can see when it is time for her to come inside with me. Her tongue seems to reach to her knees and she begins to slow down just a bit. We came in this morning, and I got more coffee. Gracie jumped on the chair, circled for a bit and fell asleep. She's there still, but as soon as I start moving, so too will Gracie. We are connected.
Today Gracie will be my inspiration. We will ride together and marvel at even the smallest pieces of our world. We'll stare in wonder at whirls of leaves and flying seagulls and the sun bursting through branches hung with stubborn leaves. We'll celebrate today.
Indian summer has returned bringing warmth and a sky so blue it almost hurts your eyes. I stood outside this morning for a long while savoring the day and watching Gracie. Her world is the most wonderful place. She stops to watch the leaves fall and tries to catch them before they hit the ground. A bird flying overhead catches her attention, and her eyes follow it as far as she can see. Gracie runs for sheer joy. She runs in circles sometimes and doesn't ever seem to get bored with her route. Once in a while she stops by me and jumps on my leg to say hello. She stops for but a moment, not wanting to waste time standing still. I sometimes lose her in the trees. She blends. But the rustle of leaves gives her away, and my eyes find her running back and forth through my backyard. I can see when it is time for her to come inside with me. Her tongue seems to reach to her knees and she begins to slow down just a bit. We came in this morning, and I got more coffee. Gracie jumped on the chair, circled for a bit and fell asleep. She's there still, but as soon as I start moving, so too will Gracie. We are connected.
Today Gracie will be my inspiration. We will ride together and marvel at even the smallest pieces of our world. We'll stare in wonder at whirls of leaves and flying seagulls and the sun bursting through branches hung with stubborn leaves. We'll celebrate today.
Thursday, November 09, 2006
She Moves Through the Fair: Carolyn Hester
Carolyn Hester was among the most popular women folk singers of the early 1960's and was known for singing traditional material. She was a political activist aligned with Pete Seeger and gave Dylan his first album work.
This classic from 1961 is Carolyn riding the crest of the folk revival, offering her interpretation of traditional music. The song is a love lilt with words by the poet Padraic Colum to music by Herbert Huges reset from a Gaelic song.
MP3 File
This classic from 1961 is Carolyn riding the crest of the folk revival, offering her interpretation of traditional music. The song is a love lilt with words by the poet Padraic Colum to music by Herbert Huges reset from a Gaelic song.
MP3 File
Red River Valley: Glen Yarbrough
Glen Yarbrough was one of the original Limeliters and had a solo career both before and after having joined the Limeliters.
In 1957, pre-Limeliter days, he recorded an album, Come Sit by My Side, for New Traditions Records. This song comes from a reissue of that album.
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In 1957, pre-Limeliter days, he recorded an album, Come Sit by My Side, for New Traditions Records. This song comes from a reissue of that album.
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"Traditions are the guideposts driven deep in our subconscious minds."
With the holidays coming, all of our traditions will soon be dragged out of closets, cellars and the back drawers of our memories. Holiday food is as much a part of those traditions as decorations and the wrapped or unwrapped presents controversy. Stuffing is one of those food traditions around which the entire Thanksgiving dinner can depend. I've actually seen people rubbing their hands in glee at the thought of oyster dressing. Suggesting those oysters belong in the ocean, not stuffed in the backside of a turkey, probably wouldn't go over all that well. My mother made a sage dressing so that's what my sister and I do. The key is the Bell's seasoning.
Other than Thanksgiving, do people ever eat candied yams topped with those miniature marshmallows? How about that French green bean casserole decorated with crumbled Durkee onions? It's just about time for that Jell-O fruit mold to get dusted off to make its annual appearance on some tables where it will sit in red or green glory with unknown bits hanging in suspended animation. For years I thought cranberry sauce was can shaped with decorative grooves.
I give you fair warning. Add new dishes if you want, but never, never as a replacment. Even a Jell-O fruit mold must have its day.
Other than Thanksgiving, do people ever eat candied yams topped with those miniature marshmallows? How about that French green bean casserole decorated with crumbled Durkee onions? It's just about time for that Jell-O fruit mold to get dusted off to make its annual appearance on some tables where it will sit in red or green glory with unknown bits hanging in suspended animation. For years I thought cranberry sauce was can shaped with decorative grooves.
I give you fair warning. Add new dishes if you want, but never, never as a replacment. Even a Jell-O fruit mold must have its day.
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
Until It's Time For You To Go: Buffy St. Marie
Universal Soldier was my first introduction to Buffy St. Marie. I was hooked as soon as I heard that vibrato.
She has the most amazing background and experiences. She was born on Piapot Reserve, Craven, near Regina, in 1941 or 1942, of Cree parents. She was orphaned when a few months old, adopted by a part-Mi'kmaq family and raised in Wakefield, Massachusetts. She later was adopted according to tribal customs on the Piapot Reserve by a Cree family related to her natural parents. At 17 she took up the guitar, and by her early twenties she had become an important figure in Greenwich Village folk music circles.
She recorded 12 LPs between 1964-73 for Vanguard, including a departure from the folk with her country album, I'm Gonna Be a Country Girl Again, in 1968.
She gained fame for war protest songs as well as her ballads and songs about native peoples. She is a well known painter, teacher and advocate for Native Americans.
MP3 File
She has the most amazing background and experiences. She was born on Piapot Reserve, Craven, near Regina, in 1941 or 1942, of Cree parents. She was orphaned when a few months old, adopted by a part-Mi'kmaq family and raised in Wakefield, Massachusetts. She later was adopted according to tribal customs on the Piapot Reserve by a Cree family related to her natural parents. At 17 she took up the guitar, and by her early twenties she had become an important figure in Greenwich Village folk music circles.
She recorded 12 LPs between 1964-73 for Vanguard, including a departure from the folk with her country album, I'm Gonna Be a Country Girl Again, in 1968.
She gained fame for war protest songs as well as her ballads and songs about native peoples. She is a well known painter, teacher and advocate for Native Americans.
MP3 File
"God gave us memories that we might have roses in December."
Yesterday I receive two large, very carefully packed cardboard boxes from my sister. She had filled the boxes with Christmas ornaments and other mementos that had belonged to my mother. Each year my mother would take days to decorate her house making endless trips up and down the cellar stairs. She couldn't help herself. She suffered from the Christmas bug. She was so highly contagious we all caught her infection.
I opened the boxes, unwrapped each item and was filled with memories of my mother and her house at Christmas. The cloth angel always hung in front of the windows on the corner cupboard. My mother put what we affectionately called the uglies, pipe cleaner elves, pinecone Santas and paper angels, all over the tables in the living room. She liked to alternate. I found stockings which had hung by the mantle and on door knobs, ornaments my mother had made, old glass beads, snowmen with twig arms, the Father Christmas who always stood by the fireplace and a Santa from the 1950's. I held each ornament and was caught for a while in bittersweet memories.
This Christmas I will honor my mother and her gift to us by decorating my house with all of the special memories my sister sent.
I opened the boxes, unwrapped each item and was filled with memories of my mother and her house at Christmas. The cloth angel always hung in front of the windows on the corner cupboard. My mother put what we affectionately called the uglies, pipe cleaner elves, pinecone Santas and paper angels, all over the tables in the living room. She liked to alternate. I found stockings which had hung by the mantle and on door knobs, ornaments my mother had made, old glass beads, snowmen with twig arms, the Father Christmas who always stood by the fireplace and a Santa from the 1950's. I held each ornament and was caught for a while in bittersweet memories.
This Christmas I will honor my mother and her gift to us by decorating my house with all of the special memories my sister sent.
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Lyndon Johnson Told the Nation: Tom Paxton
Election day just seems to fill my mind with the memories of past elections, of times when getting people out to vote seemed more important than almost anything else and when everyone I knew took the time to cast their ballots. The voting booth was the place to make your pleasure or displeasure known, to keep the status quo or demand change. This song reminds me of the days of my intense political involvement, all stemming from watching TV that night of the 1960 election.
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MP3 File
The Times They Are a Changin': Bob Dylan
We all believed we could affect political change, and this song always reminds me of the first time I voted when I knew my one vote made a difference.
MP3 File
MP3 File
"The most important political office is that of the private citizen."
Sorry about the lack of a post yesterday, but I spent most of the day on the road and didn't get home until nearly 5:30. By the time I unpacked, plowed through mail, cleaned the house a bit, showered and got cozy, it was early evening and I just wanted to relax. Gracie and I seem to be right back on schedule today. The bells woke me up when it was still dark.
Twenty-one was our huge milestone year. We could actually drink legally, no more using fake ID's with such non-descript pictures that four or five of us, male or female, could take turns using the same one, and we could register to vote. I remember going to the town hall the same week as my birthday and being so excited that my voice would finally be heard. I am a political junkie and have been since the eight grade when John Kennedy ran for President. His being from Massachusetts made the campaign personal for me. I watched every debate, pored over the newspapers and agonized over the popularity polls. I watched the returns, which were much more suspenseful before computers and exit polls, but fell asleep before Kennedy was declared the winner. When I woke up, I ran for the newspaper and was thrilled to read the headlines. It was, for me, a personal triumph.
I have voted in every election since then. When I was in Africa, they sent me an absentee ballot which arrived a month later than the election. I sent it back but suspect my voice for that election was just a bit muffled.
My town has nothing electronic. You choose one of six booths, step inside, pull the curtain across and put the ballot on the hooks provided. You then use that bold black pen to vote. You are warned in print to make sure the line goes from one arrow to the other. I still love to vote and still get a kick out of the idea that my one vote has meaning.
Twenty-one was our huge milestone year. We could actually drink legally, no more using fake ID's with such non-descript pictures that four or five of us, male or female, could take turns using the same one, and we could register to vote. I remember going to the town hall the same week as my birthday and being so excited that my voice would finally be heard. I am a political junkie and have been since the eight grade when John Kennedy ran for President. His being from Massachusetts made the campaign personal for me. I watched every debate, pored over the newspapers and agonized over the popularity polls. I watched the returns, which were much more suspenseful before computers and exit polls, but fell asleep before Kennedy was declared the winner. When I woke up, I ran for the newspaper and was thrilled to read the headlines. It was, for me, a personal triumph.
I have voted in every election since then. When I was in Africa, they sent me an absentee ballot which arrived a month later than the election. I sent it back but suspect my voice for that election was just a bit muffled.
My town has nothing electronic. You choose one of six booths, step inside, pull the curtain across and put the ballot on the hooks provided. You then use that bold black pen to vote. You are warned in print to make sure the line goes from one arrow to the other. I still love to vote and still get a kick out of the idea that my one vote has meaning.
Sunday, November 05, 2006
"We only part to meet again."
Today is one of those days when I have seemed to have run into a blogger block. Every now and then it happens. My thought processes slow down and a single line from a song I recently heard runs constantly though my head. No matter how hard I try, it's that one line and no other. The worst is when it is a line from a commercial jingle. I figure that it might be my brain's way of taking a small vacation.
Today we went antiquing to my favorite sort of antique shop, the kind with separate booths filled with almost anything imaginable. I saw old calendars missing a few months, dolls with no faces labeled as is, old comic books, Little Lulu being my favorite, souvenir plates and lots more stuff than I could even begin to list. I saw my childhood memories listed for sale: favorite books, including the Bobbsey Twins, games like Uncle Wiggley and a Ginny doll bed I remember getting for Christmas one year with the matching wardrobe. It was a bit staggering. I had not to stop to think before that my childhood treasures were now antiques. I guess the senior citizen discount I got a few weeks back should have given me a hint.
My weekend is too quickly coming to a close, but I will make it a point to see my friend far more often. I guess in the long run, between friends, thirty five years doesn't really seem all that long.
Tomorrow I'll take to the road for that long trip back home.
Today we went antiquing to my favorite sort of antique shop, the kind with separate booths filled with almost anything imaginable. I saw old calendars missing a few months, dolls with no faces labeled as is, old comic books, Little Lulu being my favorite, souvenir plates and lots more stuff than I could even begin to list. I saw my childhood memories listed for sale: favorite books, including the Bobbsey Twins, games like Uncle Wiggley and a Ginny doll bed I remember getting for Christmas one year with the matching wardrobe. It was a bit staggering. I had not to stop to think before that my childhood treasures were now antiques. I guess the senior citizen discount I got a few weeks back should have given me a hint.
My weekend is too quickly coming to a close, but I will make it a point to see my friend far more often. I guess in the long run, between friends, thirty five years doesn't really seem all that long.
Tomorrow I'll take to the road for that long trip back home.
Saturday, November 04, 2006
"The most beautiful discovery true friends make is that they can grow separately without growing apart."
The night was cold, frost producing cold. It's time to put the comforter on the bed, pull out the flannel pajamas and scuff around the house in my slipper socks. My ratty old sweatshirt will do just fine as winter seems to brings out the slovenly in me. Fashion, never a strong suit, gives way to comfort.
The visit has been just wonderful so far. Memories tumbled out one after the other, and we slipped easily into laughter. Last night we played cards, hearts, a game designed to remove any inhibitions when that queen of spades appears. Today will be a full day starting with the punkin' chunkin' contest. I'll get to watch pumpkins fly through the air on their way to final glory.
I find it both wonderful and amazing that, even without nuturing, friendships survive through time. What drew us to our friends is still who they are; that doesn't seem to change. Ralph and I shared a unique experience when we were young and that has held us in good stead all these years. Now we get to make new memories, and I can hardly wait.
The visit has been just wonderful so far. Memories tumbled out one after the other, and we slipped easily into laughter. Last night we played cards, hearts, a game designed to remove any inhibitions when that queen of spades appears. Today will be a full day starting with the punkin' chunkin' contest. I'll get to watch pumpkins fly through the air on their way to final glory.
I find it both wonderful and amazing that, even without nuturing, friendships survive through time. What drew us to our friends is still who they are; that doesn't seem to change. Ralph and I shared a unique experience when we were young and that has held us in good stead all these years. Now we get to make new memories, and I can hardly wait.
Friday, November 03, 2006
Misty Roses: Tim Hardin
Tim Hardin had far too many demons, and his heroin addiction killed him in 1980.
This is a favorite of mine.
MP3 File
This is a favorite of mine.
MP3 File
"Ah, how good it feels! The hand of an old friend."
Yesterday I drove to Cape May, New Jersey, and I’m now sitting in my hotel room. I’m staying in an unfamiliar place made familiar by the ocean outside my window. I watched the sunrise on the water from that window this morning. Yesterday I walked around Cape May and was enchanted by the Victorian houses, and I wish I had more time to explore, but this is just a pit stop.
Later this morning I’ll take the Cape May ferry as I am on my way to meet a friend. Ralph and I were in the Peace Corps together and I haven’t seen him since 1971. It was a Google search which brought us together again. During training we became friends and kept in touch during our service. I always made a point of visiting him when I was going to or coming from Accra on my way home. We shared a love of folk music, and Ralph had aspirations to be a musician. He had hauled his guitar to Ghana with him. It was Ralph who was forced to endure my requests for Four Strong Winds, which I found out not long ago is one of his least favorite songs. Being my friend, he played it each time without complaint. We were both Joni Mitchell fans. When I visited him, we would have a few drinks and sit and talk. Our conversations were all over the place, and I remember being comfortable with Ralph as if we’d been friends for years instead of months.
Thirty five years is a long time between visits to a friend. I’ve brought the wine, and I wonder if he still remembers the words to Four Strong Winds.
Later this morning I’ll take the Cape May ferry as I am on my way to meet a friend. Ralph and I were in the Peace Corps together and I haven’t seen him since 1971. It was a Google search which brought us together again. During training we became friends and kept in touch during our service. I always made a point of visiting him when I was going to or coming from Accra on my way home. We shared a love of folk music, and Ralph had aspirations to be a musician. He had hauled his guitar to Ghana with him. It was Ralph who was forced to endure my requests for Four Strong Winds, which I found out not long ago is one of his least favorite songs. Being my friend, he played it each time without complaint. We were both Joni Mitchell fans. When I visited him, we would have a few drinks and sit and talk. Our conversations were all over the place, and I remember being comfortable with Ralph as if we’d been friends for years instead of months.
Thirty five years is a long time between visits to a friend. I’ve brought the wine, and I wonder if he still remembers the words to Four Strong Winds.
Thursday, November 02, 2006
Wild Mountain Thyme: Judy Collins
Okay, I know, I've told you before that Judy is one of my folk icons, but she was among my first folk discoveries, and I am still struck by the beauty of her voice.
MP3 File
MP3 File
It takes a long time to grow an old friend.
The friends of my childhood and I easily slip back into our friendship no matter how long we've been apart. We shared the growing up years and that has carried us into now. We get together, tell stories, share memories and laugh at our younger selves. Our lives were intertwined. We were girl scouts together, members of the same drill team and classmates. On weekends we had pajama parties and manage to find enough to talk about all night long. After high school we went different ways though we kept in touch. Most married and had children. We'd get together and they'd pass pictures of their kids. Now they pass pictures of their grandchildren. When we're together, and I look around the table at my circle of friends, I never see the grey hairs or the wrinkles. I just see us.
Two of my Christmas cactus have buds. I can just see the reds of their flowers so every few days I'll sneak a peek at their progress. I'd hate to miss a single moment of one of winter's miracles.
Life just never ceases to amaze me.
Two of my Christmas cactus have buds. I can just see the reds of their flowers so every few days I'll sneak a peek at their progress. I'd hate to miss a single moment of one of winter's miracles.
Life just never ceases to amaze me.
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
My World Is Empty Without You: Mary McCaslin
Mary McCaslin is stuck with one of those hybrid genre descriptions: country-folk, which actually seems a little redundant to me, but since no one asked....
Mary McCaslin who has been singing since the 1970's sings cover songs, but changes them a bit to make them more her own. This song is a great example of the McCaslin touch. It can be found on her 1977 album Old Friends.
MP3 File
Mary McCaslin who has been singing since the 1970's sings cover songs, but changes them a bit to make them more her own. This song is a great example of the McCaslin touch. It can be found on her 1977 album Old Friends.
MP3 File
It's a Great Day To Be Alive: Darrell Scott
Travis Tritt had a hit with this Darrell Scott song, and Scott has also written hits for the Dixie Chicks, Sara Evans, Garth Brooks, Patty Loveless and Brad Paisley as well as 45 other artists. He's now out singing his own songs and playing just about anything with strings.
This song is from his album Aloha from Nashville, and every song was penned by Scott.
This song is my favorite.
MP3 File
This song is from his album Aloha from Nashville, and every song was penned by Scott.
This song is my favorite.
MP3 File
“How beautifully leaves grow old. How full of light and color are their last days.”
It's raining but only lightly, and the day has a hopeful look, a no rain later in the day kind of look. Just a bit earlier I stood for a while and watched a pair of cardinals dining on the seeds I'd scattered on the ground and two house finches perched at the thistle feeder having breakfast. They didn't seem to mind the rain.
Something about a cold, rainy day speaks to a good book, a fresh pot of coffee, comfy clothes and warm slippers. A few candles are perfect to break the darkness, and I'm thinking classical music.
My house needs a window seat so I can keep an eye on the outside world. Sitting in this room gives me a limited view. From one window, I see the tops of trees and a bit of grey sky. Some of the trees are covered in browning leaves, still too strong for the wind to send them flying. The scrub pine have both brown and green needles though the brown won't stay much longer. They'll blow to the ground and give the lawns a carpeted look. No birds fly pass my window here. I can sometimes see a squirrel doing its acrobatic jumps from one branch to another. It shakes leaves off as it flies. The tree outside the other window had bright yellow leaves which made the room glow. A touch of yellow is left but the glow has gone.
The brightness of fall dims more each day. I'm already missing it.
Something about a cold, rainy day speaks to a good book, a fresh pot of coffee, comfy clothes and warm slippers. A few candles are perfect to break the darkness, and I'm thinking classical music.
My house needs a window seat so I can keep an eye on the outside world. Sitting in this room gives me a limited view. From one window, I see the tops of trees and a bit of grey sky. Some of the trees are covered in browning leaves, still too strong for the wind to send them flying. The scrub pine have both brown and green needles though the brown won't stay much longer. They'll blow to the ground and give the lawns a carpeted look. No birds fly pass my window here. I can sometimes see a squirrel doing its acrobatic jumps from one branch to another. It shakes leaves off as it flies. The tree outside the other window had bright yellow leaves which made the room glow. A touch of yellow is left but the glow has gone.
The brightness of fall dims more each day. I'm already missing it.
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