Bungle in the Jungle: Jethro Tull

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The Continuing Story of Bungalow Bill: The Beatles

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Stranded in the Jungle: The Cadets

Stranded In The Jungle was written by Ernestine Smith & James Johnson in 1956 and was a huge hit for The Cadets that same year. Their version of the song was actually a cover of the Jay Hawks original version, although much more polished and energized.

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A Swingin' Safari: Billy Vaughan and His Orchestra

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"It's a great word, nice word, easy word, cute word, kind of. Easy word to say. One syllable, short u."

My problems with blogger have disappeared. During the night, the blog elves made all the corrections. My compose screen is back to its old self. I have even stopped cursing, at least about blogger.

I can't remember when I first cursed. I suspect it was a hell here and there just to test the waters. I do know it took me a lot longer to curse in front of my parents. Somewhere in the back of my head was still a residue of fear. In college, we all cursed, but it was from my friend Lolly that I first heard the big one. I remember an intake of breath was my only outward reaction. Inside, I was both taken aback and amazed. Such courage and how brazen were running through my head simultaneously, but the word was out, and, like the genie, it just couldn't be put back. It became college argot. We were so fluent that we could used it as an expletive (my personal favorite), noun, verb or adjective. George Carlin would have been so proud.

I don't use the big one too much anymore, not from any sense of propriety but a lack of need. But it's summer when the tourists flock to the cape. Sometimes, just sometimes, their driving habits do tend to bring out that famous expletive deleted.

The Times I've Had: Mark Spoelstra

Mark Spoelstra was a major figure in the folk music scenes of Greenwich Village and Cambridge, Massachusetts, during the 1960s. Born in Kansas City, Missouri, Spoelstra was raised in California. He moved to New York City where Mark landed his first recording contract with Moses Asch and Folkways Records. While there, he played in coffeehouses and at various clubs as a duo with Bob Dylan.

This song is from a 1963 album called The Songs of Mark Spoelstra. It is still available on Smithsonian Folkways. The link is to the right.


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Sunny Goodge Street: Donovan

Any day is perfect for Donovan


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"I kissed my first girl and smoked my first cigarette on the same day. I haven't had time for tobacco since."

Hmmm, let's see. I guess I'll just jump start this conversation with the weather. Today is cloudy, breezy and chilly. It was a stay inside to read the paper morning. I actually got cold during the night, and I suspect Gracie did too as she snuggled. Days like today always seem like summer gifts. All that sun and heat wear a body down and get a bit monotonous. Today is a recharge sort of day.

Firsts stick in my memories. My first bike remains my favorite. It was a Christmas present when I was around ten, had foot brakes and was clunky, but it was a magic carpet to me. On it I could go almost anywhere. I remember the bike came with a horn which sounded like a goose in pain. Later I added a wire basket which was wide and shallow. That bike and I traveled everywhere, even as far as my grandparents' house which horrified my mother as we had ridden three towns over and along a highway. My grandmother called to tell my mother who then demanded we turn right around and come home. My grandfather gave each of us a dime and off we went.

My first date was less than stellar. It took me forever to decide what to wear, and I alternated between endless blabbering and total silence. I remembering being secretly proud that someone had actually asked me of all people out on a date, and I wondered if the people we passed thought we were a cute couple. I did.

My first plane ride took my breath away. It was only a small prop from Boston to Hyannis and was really loud, but I loved the sound of those engines. We rode low enough that I could see roads, landmarks and waves breaking on shore. I felt like a hawk riding the thermals.

My first car was a clunky blue Chevy, a used car. It was about the size of a small boat. It didn't have fins but wasn't too far removed from one that did. I could never parallel park it. I would have needed a berth. When it was time to get my next car, I felt a bit disloyal trading in that old Chevy. We had been through a lot together and to so many places. I just hoped it would find a good home.

I don't remember other bikes or all the plane rides I've been on. If pressed, I could probably remember all the cars I've owned. There haven't been many as I tend to hold on to them as long as they keep running. As for dates, many of those are best left unremembered. I just know that all my firsts are safe in their own memory drawer. I like to pull them out every now and then. They make me smile.

There Ain't No Bugs On Me: The New Lost City Ramblers

Again, I am sorry for this, but I can't seem to get this posting problem corrected. Below is the link to the above song. You'll have to copy and paste as the link button on blogger post doesn't work. If you were near enough, you'd hear me screaming and screaming. I don't discount the possibilty of hair pulling either.!

http://www.yousendit.com/download/bWJyV0p6b0JwcFUwTVE9PQ

This song was a lot more pertinent yesterday when I tried to post it then. The song is from The New New Lost City Ramblers with Tracy Schwarz: Gone to the Country which was released in 1963 on Folkways.

Morningtown Ride: The Seekers

This seems to be a universal favorite. What surprised me is it was written by Malvina Reynolds who is probably best known as the composer of Little Boxes. On The Seekers Christmas album, they have adapted and changed this just a bit and it's called A Morningtown Christmas Ride.

I contine to apologize for this. I have posted on blogger help to see if I am alone with this problem as blogger news says that this problem has been corrected. If so, they skipped me. Please copy and paste. If anyone can help please post a comment. Thanks!

http://www.yousendit.com/download/bWJyV0o0WlQ1bmcwTVE9PQ

"Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic."

Blogger is really strange today. I am having the worst trouble trying to post. Hipcast doesn't publish, and I first blamed it, but I think it is a blogger problem.

My computer and I are barely on a first name basis. I know a bit about fixing it and I can find files, but beyond that I am a Luddite. When I need help, I search all over the internet figuring I am certainly not the first person to have this problem. I do the victory dance when I'm able to find a way to fix the darn thing. My tool drawer has what I consider all the essentials. I have a Phillips head screw driver and the other one, the plain screw driver. It probably has a tool name of its own, but other one is all I call it. I have two hammers: a little one and a regular size one. One wrench is adjustable; the other is not. I had a awl but the point broke. The measuring stick is an old one which folds, and I like the feel of the wood. Various size nails and screws are loose in the drawer though I have organized them a couple of times. That drawer also holds a bird book, two empty frames and a couple of small broken pieces of pottery. I always figure I'll get around to gluing them, but I don't keep my glue in the tool drawer. The different glue bottles are in an old SOS box under the sink. I'd move them, but they have been there so long that I know I'll forget the new spot. I have regular glue, wood glue and glue with a monkey on the front. That monkey glue has so many warnings I got scared and left it unopened. If there is a way to glue my fingers permanently together, I'll find it.

I am not handy. That is a genetic defect inherited from my father. What I do best is thumb through the yellow pages and make phone calls. At that I am very handy.

"We hope that, when the insects take over the world, they will remember with gratitude how we took them along on all our picnics."

I imagine yesterday's conversations all over town started with, "Is it hot enough for you?" People chat far more with complete strangers when the weather is extreme: too, too hot or too, too cold. The supermarket lines must have been abuzz. Today will be another hot day and conversations will center on memories. I can hear them now, " I don't remember June ever getting this hot. Seems mighty early."

My most strenuous activity yesterday was turning the pages of my book. It was a day for being lazy, for sitting on the deck where there was actually a breeze. Gracie and I went from shady spot to shady spot. By late afternoon, both of us were stretched out on the lounge letting the cool breezes wash over us. She fell asleep, and I think I might have nodded off for a bit.

Hot days have their own symphony. The birds are quiet, and the insects hold sway. They sing and call to one another. Though it might be a bit early, I swear I heard cicadas singing the theme song for summer heat. Grasshoppers added to the chorus, and by early evening the crickets had lent their voices. It was a noisy day.

Too Much Between Us: Procol Harum

This is from A Salty Dog, my favorite album of theirs.


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Luckiest Man: David Olney

David Olney is from Nashville by way of New England. This song comes from his 1991 release Roses on Rounder Records.


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"I like trees because they seem more resigned to the way they have to live than other things do."

Living in New England, on Cape Cod, I see mostly scrub pine and oak. My back yard is filled with them. They are hardy trees which don't seem to mind the salt air and sandy soil. Every time the wind blows, I can hear the creak of the pine branches as they twist and sway. The oak trees provide the accompaniment with the soft sound of their swishing leaves. I am content with my trees.

I remember the first palm trees I ever saw and how excited I was. With strange looking bark and long thin fronds, I thought them foreign, exotic. They had been part of my dreaming of far off places, and I couldn't believe I was actually seeing them just standing there, unaware of their significance. Once, at the beach, we played a strange sort of softball with a dead branch and a coconut. I remember it was Easter, and I got a sunburn. I still think palm trees exotic.

The most amazing trees I've ever seen are the baobabs. Their trunks are so big they could comfortably house a family of five. The baobab looks somehow upside down, a Star Trek sort of tree comfortable on an alien planet. I've never seen a baby pigeon nor have I seen a baby baobab. I think both arrive fully grown.

The Christmas tree is my favorite tree.

Follow Me: John Denver

Both songs today came from best of albums. This first one shows my continued repentence from my I don't play John Denver days. What surprised me was I knew all the words.


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Song for Judith (Open the Door): Judy Collins

I had forgotten about this song. It was on some album I used to play a lot, and I've not heard it in a long while. I do remember how well I'd boom in to sing the chorus.


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“Childhood is that wonderful time of life when all you need to do to lose weight is take a bath.”

Being a kid used to be so much easier. We didn't argue about much. We just did rock, paper, scissors. Eeny-meany, miney-mo was another time tested problem solver. We, however, didn't catch a tiger by the toe. A fight was never proof of superior strength. We'd just yell race ya then run like crazy. Any dare was an imperative. Not to accept the dare meant years of derision and having to tolerate being called a fraidy cat or, worst yet, being tagged yellow. Most kids didn't whine because it invited name calling. Cry baby was about the worst. I don't remember ever hearing a swear. One of the best ways to tease and get your siblings mad was to rhyme something silly with their names. We did it all the time to our little sisters, and they always squealed to our mother. Little kids always squealed. Older kids made pacts not to tell on one another. We had learned the futility of mutual destruction reduced to child language. It was if you tell on me, I'll tell on you.

Being a kid wasn't always hard negotiating. We played until we were too tired to play any more. I don't remember having trouble sleeping on a hot night. I had trouble staying awake. We were gone from early morning until the street lights came on with only a few stops at home, mostly for lunch and bathroom breaks, though the woods often served as a perfect substitute for that latter need.

We had two foods groups: what we would eat and what we wouldn't. Vegetables mostly filled out the wouldn't category. Would eat had exotic dishes such as peanut butter and jelly and grilled cheese. All desserts were on the would eat list. In the summer, watermelon and ice cream were the favorites. Watermelon, though, had a slight advantage. You could spit the seeds. We always tried to plant those seeds and never once did we grow a watermelon. Old habits die hard: I am still not much of a gardener, and I still like to spit the seeds.

Too bad we all got older and forgot the lessons of our childhood. Everything would be a whole lot easier.

Choo Choo Ch' Boogie: Louis Jordan

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Dance to the Music: Sly and the Family Stone

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Twist Twist Senora: Gary U. S. Bonds

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Bristol Stomp: The Dovells

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"There are some days when I think I'm going to die from an overdose of satisfaction."

This is the most perfect morning. Not a cloud mars the deepest blue sky. A breeze stirs the trees, and their leaves dance in the morning light. Gracie and I spent the early hours sitting outside. We are both wondering, though I'm projecting here with Gracie, what we did before the yard was fenced and the deck built.

From my tree high perch I can see and hear the blue jays, always loud but especially vociferous of late. The other day I watched one chastise a squirrel while chasing it from branch to branch. On week days, the dog, birds and I are the only ones out here. The rest of the world is either working or inside. My neighbors across the street are outside only to work on their lawn and garden. They are from the city and brought a bit of a seige mentality with them. Their windows are always down, their front door double locked and their security system activated. I don't help when I tease and tell them I noticed car loads of marauding thieves casing their house. My friends way down the end of the street are exactly the opposite. They are outside all summer and generally leave their doors and windows open. Though they are from elsewhere, they bring back a bit of the old Cape when no one locked doors. When my parents moved, they couldn't find the front door key. None of us could remember the door ever being locked.

I have a list of things to see today, but I'm liking being on the deck far too much. I have a book which needs finishing, some hot dogs which could use a little grilling and a dog who likes napping, and I hate disappointing Miss Gracie. She has such high expectations for me.

Everybody's Talking At Me: Harry Nillson

Yes, they are all from movies, but they also share something else in common, something a bit more obscure.

There is a hint in this description.


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Born To Be Wild: Steppenwolf

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Mrs. Robinson: Simon & Garfunkel

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The Age of Aquarius: 5th Dimension ( Song from Hair)

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"I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journey-work of the stars."

The night was chilly, warm my feet under the dog chilly. This room, which doesn't see sun until late afternoon, holds the cold and the darkness. The house is now sixty-six degrees, and outside is warmer. Gracie has found a spot in the sun and is lying on the pine needles in the backyard. I check on her every now and then, and she comes on the deck to get patted and whine a bit before she returns to her yard. The backyard is strewn with tooth marked plastic flower pots, pieces of stuffed animals and rubber dog toys. Gracie is kind to her toys, but Cody, her friend is not. Gracie sneaks out her stuffed animals, but I usually find them before Cody does. The rabbit lying in pieces was an exception. The other morning, while I was talking on the phone, I noticed a brown animal in the backyard. It looked like a Guinea pig or a brown squirrel. I went to check. As I got closer, I noticed it was motionless and figured it was dead. I took a stick and pushed it. The animal never moved, but that was perfectly understandable. It was a beaver, small and brown and a Gracie toy. I felt silly.

Where there used to be dirt is grass, a new lawn, plush and thick. It gets watered a couple of times a day, generally in the morning and early evening. I usually get wet after moving the sprinklers. You think by now I'd have figured out a positioning that would keep me dry.

Brady Street Stroll: Peter Mulvey

You can find this on The Knuckleball Suite so named because, like the knuckleball, what starts seemingly straightforward is really a floating, dancing mystery. The music changes pace from song to song giving us unexpected sounds. Hear one for yourself.


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I'll tell You Why That Is: Dan Hicks and The Hot Licks

This is from 2000's Beatin' the Heat. Dan Hicks returns with one original Lickker and a few new ones. The album is filled with special guests. It's Tom Waits on this one.


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“If it's not fun, you're not doing it right”

My dance card is filling quickly. This morning's paper was chock filled with stuff to do starting tomorrow. Small bits of torn newspaper announcing each event are lined up on my table. I get to start my day tomorrow with a huge yard sale. A few years ago I happened on the same event and brought home a small bureau for three dollars. Last year I found a few serving dishes.

After I load my treasures, I'll pop over to one of the local churches for a lobster roll. Even though I've never been to this church I know what to expect. All the ladies will be wearing their finery, and white doilies will be under all the dishes. I'll feel young. Later in the day is an afternoon tea at the season's opening of one of the historic houses. The ladies there will be dressed in period costumes. I'll feel young. Tomorrow night I'll drive down Cape to see The Beige Motel. It seems that the 1950's Pilgrim Spring Motel will become a huge sand sculpture. The motel is slated to be torn down but gets to live its final days as art.

On Sunday I'll rush over to the Polish festival. Mr. Bubbles is due at eleven, and I'd hate to miss him, not to mention the Polish dancers and food. I figure I'll then hit one of the museums on my must see summer list.

When I finally get home from my whirlwind weekend, I figure to get comfy, uncork a bottle of wine and relax on the deck. The night sky is amazing around here.

Summer Wages: Ian Tyson

Welcome to summer!


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A Summer Wind, A Cotton Dress: Richard Shindell

This is from 1994's Blue Divide.


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"Children have neither past nor future; and that which seldom happens to us, they rejoice in the present."

The arrival of summer made me and every other kid hyperventilate. We used to believe it was the one season invented solely for us. The only given was the arrival of Johnny, the ice cream man. The whole rest of the day was up for grabs. We'd leave in the morning with our lunches and be gone most of the day. We were explorers and adventurers. Trains still went through town in those days, and we'd hike to the station and check out the cars on the side track. A box factory was beside the tracks, and we'd watch the boxes being loaded. We'd then walk over to the junkman's house and try to sneak a peek at his horse and wagon. He'd yell at us, and we'd run away as fast as our feet could carry us. Once safe, we'd stop, catch our breaths and laugh at the near miss. We always thought the junkman a bit scary.

Sometimes we'd walk uptown and see how long we could get away with sitting on the floor of the Five and Dime reading comic books. It was never long enough to finish a whole story. We'd look in all the store windows and stop longest at the bakery window. We could smell the cupcakes and cookies through the screen door and wished we had a dime. The two of us, my brother and I, would call dibs on our choices. I tended to pick colored frosting; my brother leaned toward white. On the way home we'd stop by the fire station to look at the trucks. The firemen never minded. We'd take the shortest way home. We were always dirty, sweaty and hungry.

My mother would ask where we'd been all day and we'd tell her around.

Too Tired to Leave: Louise Taylor

Louise Taylor is a serendipitous find. I was wandering the internet and found her listed on a folk site, went looking for her music and then loved her sound. I had to do some research as she is completely new for me. I stumbled onto her site which is where I'm sending you. http://www.louisetaylor.com/main.html

This is from 1997's Ride.


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Waltz A While: Jack Hardy, Paul Clements

This song comes from a Smithsonian Folkways called Fast Folk Musical Magazine (Vol. 8, No. 10) Lost in the Works 3. I found the album while I was wandering through the download part of the Smithsonian website (http://www.smithsonianglobalsound.org/). There were liner notes, but I didn't find too much to pull off on this song. I just know it was written by Paul Clements.


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“In the time honored tradition of email, just ignore the question.”

Where are all the miracles? How about the good fortune? When are my wishes coming true? I took all those warnings to heart and passed along the silly or not so silly e-mails to five, seven or eight of my nearest and dearest, including or not the sender of the e-mail. They were all sent within the minutes or one or two hours alloted, usually sooner, which has to work in my favor. I know I've been blessed several times over so my passage to the next world has been greased. I recognized national friendship week, love your postman week, rotate your tires week and eat more lemons week. I ooh'ed and ah'ed at the cute cats, dogs, pigs, cows and chickens. I watched rainbows, sunrises and sunsets. I've listened to far too much uplifting music, none of which I could identify. If I read one more inspirational poem, I can't be held responsible for my own behavior. All I ask is just a small miracle, nothing earth shattering, no stopping the Earth's rotation or anything. If not, I'll take a little good fortune, maybe Ed McMahon dropping by with balloons and a giant check. I'll even gush on cue. I did everything I asked but I'm still waiting.

Light Rain: Eric von Schmidt

This song was recorded in 1964 and released on Eric Sings von Schmidt.

Eric died this year at the age of seventy-five. This is from his obituary. "Harvard Square was a center of the rebirth of folk music in America in the late 1950s and 1960s. And Eric von Schmidt was its raffish, raspy, bearded midwife.

Mr. von Schmidt was an illustrator, painter, guitar player, blues songwriter, and outsize personality. Most importantly for many of the young performers in such venues as Tulla's Coffee Grinder on Mount Auburn Street and Club 47 (now Club Passim), he was a channeler of folk's musical and cultural past and an embodiment of its potential.

"He could sing the bird off the wire and the rubber off the tire," Bob Dylan wrote in the liner notes for Mr. von Schmidt's 1969 album, "Who Knocked the Brains Out of the Sky."

"He can separate the men from the boys and the note from the noise. The bridle from the saddle and the cow from the cattle. He can play the tune of the moon. The why of the sky and the commotion of the ocean."

Along with Dylan, such singers as Joan Baez and Tom Rush drew inspiration from Mr. von Schmidt's vast knowledge of blues and folk songs and his stream-of-consciousness performances, which were personal forays into a menagerie of musical traditions.

In Mr. von Schmidt, the performers found an unvarnished conveyer of the past. "He sang Leadbelly's songs with the same kind of spirit Leadbelly had," famed cowboy singer Ramblin' Jack Elliott had said. "And he was the first person I've ever heard sing Woody Guthrie's songs really well. Eric's got that wild spirit, and he doesn't water the music down for polite society; he just roars it out.

Even as he struggled in his later years with cancer and Lyme disease, the raconteur said he had no regrets. "The real treat is to get up in the morning and never be quite sure what I'm gonna do next," he told Wald. "To me, 'What do I do today?' is a wonderful question."


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Startin' For Chicago: Tracy Nelson

Tracy Nelson was only eighteen when she recorded her first album for Prestige records. The songs on that album ranged in style from country blues to the more urban sound of this song. Backing Tracy on harmonica on this album is Charlie Musselwhite, and this was also his first album.

Tracy moved to San Fransico in the late 60's where she was the lead singer for Mother Earth. On their first album you'll find her signature song, Down So Low. After six albums with Mother Earth, Tracey went solo. She still records.


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"To live is so startling it leaves little time for anything else."

I have lived some perfect moments. Some were filled with glimpses of breathtaking beauty and others overwhelmed me with feelings of absolute contentment. They happened on ordinary days and special days. I was home and I was away. I shared some with friends, and I was by myself for others. These moments came unexpectedly, but I knew when they were happening. I could feel them in my heart and soul, and they took my breath away in their intensity and power. Each one stopped time.

Sitting with my family, laughing at stories and remembering, was one of these moments. Lying in a cold room snuggled under mounds of covers in a B&B in Ireland on a trip with my parents was another. Last week I sat on my deck and could hear only the birds and the sounds of my chimes. I could think of no better place on Earth than where I was. Talking with my best friend until the very wee hours happened one summer years ago, but it is etched in my memory. Eating an ear of fresh sugar corn lathered with butter and the first taste of ice cream on a sweltering day are lip smacking moments of contentment. Laughing until I cry is a favorite. I had one of those last summer, and it had to do with friends, dinner, drinks, my neighbor's bushes and a paper bag with a face drawn. It was a silly moment, and I loved being silly.

I don't ever see my life as ordinary.

The Boxer: Simon & Garfunkel

I would be hard-pressed to choose my favorite of their albums, but I'm thinking Bridge Over Troubled Water is at or near the top. This song is one of the reasons.


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We'll Go No More A-Roving: Kris Delmhorst

I found this download on Kris Delmhorst's site. It is from her 2006 album Strange Conversation. The songs on the album are from the works of poets such as ee cummings, Walt Whitman and, here, Lord Byron. This song is, I think, a beautiful interpretation of Byron's poem.


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"How long a minute is, depends on which side of the bathroom door you're on."

Time and the passage of time amaze me. When it comes to getting older, the less time you have, the more time flies. The best theory I know to account for this has to do with time and fractions. When I was ten, every year was one tenth of my life. Now that I am fifty something, every year is one fiftieth something of my life, a small piece of the pie. Christmas Eve used to be the longest night of the year. It stretched for days. When I am stuck in a traffic jam, time slows, and the longer I sit, the slower time passes. Doctors and dentists have no concept of time. An appointment is really just an approximation. Africans always asked if I meant African or European time, a difference of hours or even days.

I hate to be late. I had a friend who believed that time was relative to her and her alone. If dinner was at six, she'd arrive at seven. If the play was at eight, she'd arrive at five to and tell me to hurry. Out of frustration, I bent time and told her to come a half hour earlier. It always worked because she was generally late anyway. When I have to be off Cape, I apply the contingency factor and give myself extra time. A flat tire taught me that lesson.

I am proof of Parkinson's Law. When I worked, I used to shop, clean my house, go out to dinner and meet friends, all by Saturday night. Now I leave a dust trail when I walk through the house. With all the time I have, I barely have the time I need. I used to laugh and tell people who asked that being retired meant every day was Saturday. I've amended that. Every day is a lazy Sunday with the sun shining and a gentle breeze.

My Dad: Paul Peterson

This is the song for which I get the most requests.


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Leader of the Band: Dan Fogelberg

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Oh My Papa: Eddie Fisher

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My Old Man: James Keelaghan

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"It doesn't matter who my father was; it matters who I remember he was."

My father was a funny man. He was also opinionated and stubborn. Though he didn't say the words, we always knew he loved us. Dad taught us to play cards, and he brought card playing to new levels. When we were young, my mother and I were a team against my dad and brother in marathon games of whist. Woe betide my brother should he trump a winning trick. Cribbage became our adult game of choice. My dad hated to lose, and we lorded it all over him when he did, especially after he'd get skunked. "What's that I smell?" made us laugh and him determined.

My dad fought in World War II. He graduated from high school at age sixteen and had to wait several months, until his seventeenth birthday, before he could enlist. He hated waiting. My dad was all of eighteen when his ship was sunk, and he spent a long time in a hospital in England. His stories about his stay were hysterical. With both legs in casts, he'd hijack a bicycle and roll downhill to the pub for the evening. An ambulance would have to retrieve him and his bed mate. His parents had no idea where he was. He just never thought to write. One year we, my parents and I, went back to Plymouth, England where he had spent so much time. He and my mother stayed in a hotel in the Ho, his old Plymouth stomping grounds. He was thrilled.

Each morning he'd go off to work, and I can picture him wearing a topcoat and a fedora. His shirts were always white, and I was in college before he wore his first button down collar shirt. A year later he wore a yellow shirt to work, and we were amazed. He didn't wear corduroy pants for years and years because he remembered how much noise his knickers made when he walked. Later, he always wore corduroy.

I loved listening to him laugh. It was loud and hearty. My friends loved spending time with my dad as he was always great fun. He wasn't handy. He sawed himself out of a tree and got an electric shock stringing lights. He didn't ever mind cleaning up the kitchen though we'd sometimes sneak to rewash a pan or two. My dad was a generous man, and we knew he was there if we ever needed anything.

He died too young, and I miss him still.

So Happy Together: The Turtles

What do these have in common?


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Somebody to Love: Jefferson Airplane

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Windy: The Association

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Let's Get Together: The Youngbloods

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"After silence, that which comes nearest to expressing the inexpressible is music."

This morning was finally warm enough for coffee on the deck. Out I went with my two papers, the coffee and my trusty crossword puzzle pen. I pulled my CD player from the outside storage and picked some music for background sounds. The first CD was Rossini, and when the William Tell Overture started playing, Saturday morning and the Lone Ranger and Tonto sprang to mind. "A fiery horse with the speed of light, a cloud of dust and a hearty hi-yo Silver!" When I got a bit older, I was amazed that the music wasn't just the Lone Ranger's theme; however, even with due homage to Mr. Rossini, he will always have to take a back seat to, "A man whose presence brought fear to the lawless and hope to those who wanted to make this frontier land their home."

Music has the most amazing powers. Just a few notes this morning and I was jolted to childhood and could see Silver standing on his hind legs at the top of that hill. I still know all the words to the Mickey Mouse Club theme, and everyone I know can sing you the story of the Minnow and how Jed found oil, Texas tea. Jingle Bells still demands enthusiasm and volume. When I was in the third grade, I learned the song My Grandfather's Clock. It may never have made it big on the hit parade, but I love it. I never got through a round of Row, Row Your Boat without singing the part of the person nearest me. A lit birthday cake is the signal, and everyone breaks into song whether the birthday girl is five or ninety-five. Happy Birthday has no minimum or maximum age. It transcends time.

Music makes connections, conjures memories and gives life a theme song. The best part is you don't even have to carry a tune. Just sing for the pleasure of the song.

Sweet Is the Melody: Iris Dement

This song comes from 1997's Folk Live from Mountain Stage which is a highlight album with some great music from Taj Mahal, Steve Forbert, The Nitty Gritty Dirt Band and so many more.


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Beat the Retreat: Richard Thompson

I went with a two-fer today as this is from the same album.


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"Long stormy spring-time, wet contentious April, winter chilling the lap of very May; but at length the season of summer does come."

No more pencils, no more books, no more teachers' dirty looks was what we'd yell as we ran out of school for summer vacation thinking ourselves just a bit naughty for daring to say that where the nuns could still hear us. I'd run all the way home. The end of the year papers I carried blew as I ran, but they weren't important. The only thing that mattered was my report card. I remember running in the door and yelling to my mother I'VE BEEN PROMOTED as if it were the most exciting event in the world. It was a grand day.

My town was filled with stuff to keep us busy all summer. Our pool, way on the other side of town, used to cost a nickel. I remember the smell of chlorine and how we'd share a wire basket for our clothes. The key came on a bracelet so we wouldn't lose it. The local playground was in the shade on the field at the bottom of my hill. Each summer two college students, one male and one female, ran it. Gimp was big. I was proficient at flat and round. We played all kinds of games. Checkers and horseshoes were best on hot days, but softball was my favorite, and I pitched and played first. The local weekly had a Playground News section, and I loved reading my name.

We wandered all over town. I remember walking to the library and how it always felt cooler than outside. One summer my brother and I built a raft, and we took turns poling it all over the pond. A farm was not far from us, and we went often to feed the horses grass. The dairy was far away but worth the walk to check out the cows. It always smelled in the summer heat. We'd lie on the grass in the backyard to watch the clouds and try to guess what they were. Sleeping outside was the best fun.

We never stayed inside during the summer. There was just too much to do.

The Star Spangled Banner: Sandi Patti

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You're a Grand Old Flag: James Cagney

This is from the Yankee Doodle Dandy soundtrack.


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"Oh! say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave, O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave."

Grammar school was a hotbed of festivities. We celebrated everything. During art class we'd draw ghosts and haunted houses for Halloween then Pilgrims for Thanksgiving and trees and Santas for Christmas. I was never a talented artist. My ghosts were blobs of white floating in a dark sky. They always looked like a melting Casper. I could do a great one dimensional house with giant windows, a smoking chimney and outside bushes. A few dots of color on a black line became Christmas lights. It was only for Flag Day that I was inspired. My flag was always a perfect square, sort of like the outline of my houses. My red crayon stripes always stayed in the lines. White stars, though, were a bit of a problem so mine were sometimes yellow.

Every school day started with us standing, hands on hearts. A different kid each day got to hold out the flag, and my classmates and I could do loud, enthusiastic Pledges of Allegiance. I don't know when I first understood the words. I do remember adding under God threw me for a while. Even with the nun prompting, we tended to forget. That created a bit of a cacophony and we seldom all ended at the same time.

Today is Flag Day.

Summer of My Dreams: David Mallet

The Iron Horse Music Hall in Northhampton Massachusetts has been the scene for some unbelievable performances from an amazing array of folk singers. This song is by one of those artists and comes from Live at the Iron Horse, Volume One, a compilation released in 1997 from Signature Sounds.


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Friend of the Devil: the Grateful Dead

I heard this on WUMB the other day and knew I needed to play it here.

The music was written by Jerry Garcia and John Dawson. The lyrics were written by Robert Hunter. The song appears on 1971's American Beauty.


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“To be an actor you have to be a child”

I was a child actress. Though I never trod the boards, my every day life was filled with drama. I was the put upon older sibling stuck watching her little sisters. That was a recurring role which dogged my adolescence. Try as I might to get out of it, I was stuck. I would moan and groan and flounce around the room in a display of histrionics not seen since the silent era. It never worked. If my parents saw fit not to grant me my every wish, I could turn on petulance so easily a casual observer would marvel at my talents. Learning to be coy took a bit longer and appeared about the time adolescence began raging through my body. Eye lash batting, though, was never a strong point.

Even without prop glasses, I could do smart. First I did smart mouth and ended up being send to my room. My next role was smart aleck, and the results were similar. Growing older meant getting more sophisticated roles like smart ass, still one of my favorites. My comedic timing was amazing. I had a funny answer to just about everything though my dad never appreciated my talent. He just sent me to my room.

My resume does not include my acting roles.

Only Then Will Your House Be Blessed: Harry Manx

Harry Manx has been called the link between east and west, a reference to his blending of western blues with eastern music. It was when Harry spent twelve years in India that he found the connection between the plaintive bending notes of the sitar and Delta blues slide guitar.

He now lives in Canada where he is far better known than he is here. This is from Wise and Otherwise.


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Until It's Time for You To Go: Buffy Sainte-Marie

This cut is from The Best of album and is my favorite Buffy Sainte-Marie song. It was never released as a single.

She wrote the song and I found this quote of hers on line: "This song popped into my head while I was falling in love with someone I knew couldn't stay with me. The words are about honesty and freedom inside the heart."


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"The past is really almost as much a work of the imagination as the future."

The early morning rain has left the day dark, damp and cold, perfect for comfy clothes, warm slippers and a good book, perhaps a bit of murder and mayhem. Gracie has been loathe to leave the comfort of the house and is sleeping on the chair. She snores, and the tip of her tongue sticks out just a little between her lips. I should live a dog's life.

We are in the middle of the shoulder season, a time when the Cape has some visitors but not the onslaught summer brings. The roads will be ours for another few weeks, and we can still go to the movies on a rainy day. I suspect this will be a busy summer.

I love to visit historic house. Wandering through the rooms, I envision previous occupants and imagine that I am walking in their footsteps. In the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles, I swore I could hear Baroque music and the swishing of ladies' gowns as they twirled and danced. At Dickens' house I stood behind his desk to see the view that inspired him as he wrote. The House of the Seven Gables is a favorite of mine. It comes with visions of witches and Hepzibah Pyncheon and a more recent memory of Samantha Stevens and a flying bed warmer. When my mother and I visited the old houses of Lexington and Concord, I was overwhelmed by their history, by their places in our history. Just to think I could be eating in the very same location where Minutemen might have secretly planned the battle made me gawk in wonder.

I sometimes figure if this were The Twilight Zone, I wouldn't have to imagine at all.

I'm Troubled: Doc and Arnold Watson

Both songs today are from a relatively new collection from Smithsonian Folkways called Friends of Old Time Music. It is a three disc collection filled with songs from musicians and singers like Dock Boggs, Bill Monroe, Jesse Fuller, Maybelle Carter and The Stanley Brothers. The music was recorded at 14 concerts in New York City from 1961-1965. There are 55 total tracks of which 53 have never before been released. It is an amazing collection of music.


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Coffee Blues: Mississippi John Hurt

This was one of the first songs I ever played here which makes it due for a return visit.


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“When the crowd of your admirers is shouting, "Bravo! Hear, hear!" it is not you, Pomponius, but your dinner that is eloquent”

Today I get to clean my house, an event that has me bursting with unbridled excitement. I've been counting down the days, and yesterday, with one day to go, I could barely contain myself. It took forever to fall asleep, and when I finally drifted off, my dreams were filled with mops and brooms dancing to oompah music played by the upright vacuum. Dust cloths swayed and cans of polish circled the furniture in a conga line. Sponges danced the limbo. When I awoke, I bounded out of bed, thrilled to meet the day.

The air was sweet this morning, fresh and clean from an early shower. The street was damp around the edges, the lawn glistened and the mirrors sent balls of sunlight flying over the yard. I stood on the deck a while and inhaled the morning.

My annual dinner is coming soon. Each year I invite the same six people to dinner, two of whom were my very first guests over thirty years ago. That first dinner party was a picnic on the floor in the empty living room. We ate off paper plates and used plastic utensils. Our voices echoed. The dinner has now become quite the lavish affair. We travel all over the world sampling different foods. The background music is always authentic, and the table is decorated to match the theme. My favorite meals were when we visited Thailand and India. Certain traditions also accompany this dinner. My friend, Rick, matches his beer to the country so he alone is privy to our destination. At the end of the meal, each guest decides on his/her favorite dish, and the guys do all the clean up. I take pictures of the table and my guests to put into my dinner book which lists all the meals and the sources of the recipes. That book comes out every now and then so we can savor our memories. After thirty years of dinners, it takes me longer and longer to choose the theme. This year I'm leaning toward a trip around the Mediterranean. We'll go by boat and start in Italy. I'll just have to remember the seasick pills. My sister just doesn't do well on boats.

Sunday Mornings: Maroon 5

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A Sunday Kind of Love: Etta James

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Never on Sunday: Pink Martini

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Blue Sunday: the Doors

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"A Sunday's child never dies of the plague."

My lawn has earned it name. The grass is getting lush and only a few bare spots give testimony to its previous existence as a mud hole. The robins, though, are disappointed. Their free lunch has just about disappeared.

The last few nights have been cold. The month of June always seems a bit undecided. A hot day is sometimes followed by a sweatshirt day and a socks and slippers night. Gracie got under the covers to sleep, the first time in a month.

Yesterday I watched a bit of a movie. I don't remember the title, but it had Russians as bad guys. When the scene was Moscow, I heard them speaking English to one another but knew it was really Russian. I couldn't understand why their English, read Russian here, had the w's as v's. Wodka being the best example. If they were really speaking Russian, shouldn't their English have been perfect?

Alcohol commercials on TV are filled with people having fun times, people having romantic times and partying people. It's a good thing we are reminded to drink responsibly.

The old hidden ball trick did in an Arizona base runner at the Sox game the other day. Speaking of baseball, why do they call the minor league a farm system? The metaphor even carries a bit further as the Sox just drafted their newest crop.

Two of my favorite summer movies are Independence Day and Jaws.

Today the sun is shining, I'm going to a barbecue and there is afternoon baseball. It sounds like a perfect Sunday to me.

Rhythm of the Rain: The Cascades

Last week, after three days of rain, I mentioned how great a theme rain would be. My friend, whom you've seen comment as IM6, sent me these songs. With the clouds and dampness, today is the perfect backdrop. I've even included an extra song.

Thanks, my friend.


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Rainy Day: Keller Williams

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Summer Rain: Johnny Rivers

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Walking in the Rain: The Ronettes

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Down Like Rain: Jesse Cook

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"Conversation is a game of circles."

A lack of inspiration does crazy things to my psyche so this morning I've approached the blank page in a different way. I'm pretending to be at a cocktail party stuck in the middle of an inane conversation with a complete stranger. Neither one of us has yet figured the best way to get out of this so here we are standing together, taking frequent sips from our drinks, and chatting. We all have weather so it's a great ice breaker.

It's cloudy and 57 degrees. Yup, cold for this time of year. No, we don't get to swim until much later in the season as the ocean is slow to warm. Pause here while I listen to the other side of the conversation. Me? I'm retired. Yes, I am young to be retired. You? How interesting. How long have you been an accountant? That long? It must be insane come April. What is your most interesting accounting story? You're kidding, with one second to spare? Long pause here while I listen to stories of the IRS.

(We start to get a bit more personal.) I live in South Dennis ( I bend my arm to show him where on the cape I live. I usually point to about the elbow). Yup, it does get crazy in the summer. You? How nice. How old is your mother? That's so great. You come home from work, and she has dinner all prepared. You are definitely spoiled. Yes, I have three: two cats and a dog. How many fish? Wow, that must be some big aquarium. Do your six cats ever try to fish in the aquarium? Just kidding. No reason to get upset. I would never accuse you of fish abuse.

Brussels sprouts is an interesting favorite vegetable. Mine? Probably peas. Yup, vanilla ice cream is very versatile. Mint chocolate chip. Yes, mint can do that to some people. No, I don't have a favorite antacid.

Oh my, look at the time. It's been so much fun chatting with you, but I've got to get going. Yes, nine does just creep up on us, doesn't it. Well, have a good evening and say hello to your mother for me.

Kathleen: Townes Van Zandt

It was the beautiful title which drew me to this song. Okay, maybe a bit of self-aggrandizement there as it was really Townes' voice. The song comes from disc 1 of a remarkable 4 disc set called Texas Troubadour. If you don't know Townes, this is the perfect introduction. If you do, it's a necessary addition to your music collection.


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Green Rocky Road: Dave Van Ronk

Prestige Records starting issuing volumes of collections in 1994 and its first was the album where I found this song: The Prestige/Folklore Years, Vol. 1: All Kinds Of Folks. The album is filled with great folksingers like Tom Rush, Jean Redpath and Eric Von Schmidt.

I have this and the second issue, The Prestige/Folklore Years, Vol. 2: The New City Blue, and they are both great.


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"It often happens to children - and sometimes to gardeners - that they are given gifts of value of which they do not perceive until much later."

When I was growing up, the world was filled with people. Mothers didn't work so they were around all day. Errands were done on foot as dads always took the car to work. I remember walking with my mother while she wheeled my sister. She'd yell at us, my brother and me, not to get too far ahead, and we'd have to wait to cross at the corners until she caught up with us. The carriages were huge affairs with giant hoods and spoked wheels. Uptown, outside most stores, you'd see baby carriages, empty for the time being.

On weekends, every house on every block was a beehive of activity. Fathers mowed, weeded and watered. Kids played. Mothers hung out laundry. My mother chatted with our neighbors who were also hanging out their laundry, and you could always hear laughter and voices. The smell of cut grass filled the air with its sweetness.

At night, the world was still abuzz. All the windows had screens and the back doors were open. I could hear the muffled sounds of neighbors' TV's. Once a husband and wife had a fight, and the whole neighborhood was privy to their argument. Laughter carried, and I know my father's could be heard. He had the best laugh, long and loud. We'd be allowed, on really warm nights, to sit on the steps before we went to bed. I could see lights shining in kitchens and the flickering black and white screen in our next door neighbor's living room. When it was time for bed, I'd go upstairs and fall asleep to the sounds of a summer night and felt safe, reassured, by my world.

Let Him Fly: Patty Griffin

This is from 1996's Living with Ghosts which started out as a demo cassette that got snapped up by A&M and released pretty much intact from the original.

The Dixie Chicks beautifully cover this song.


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The Train: The Roches

This is from their self-titled first album released in 1979. The album is the best introduction to the three sisters and, I think, one of their best albums.

Suzzy Roche wrote the words and music to this song which starts out sort of funny and ends sort of sadly.


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"It's surprising how much memory is built around things unnoticed at the time."

Beyond the house where we lived was a field. All summer it was alive with the sounds of insects, and it was filled with grasshoppers. In front of every step we took were these hopping, jumping brown grasshoppers leaping left and right. We'd laugh and catch them in our bare hands. We never kept the ones we caught. We'd open our hands and let them jump free then chase the next ones startled by our steps. That field had woods on each side, but those woods were never our destination. The best part was beyond those woods and beyond the old dead tree which marked the end of the field. At that tree two paths had been worn through the grass. Both ended in the same place. One path skirted the old tree while the other passed under the dead limp which had once been part of the tree. It was still attached. We always hopped the limb. On the other side was the wealth we sought, and we had to choose between two paths heading in different directions.

To the right were the blueberry bushes. We'd carry our cans hoping for a haul, but the ripe fruit was too much of a temptation and we'd eat far more than we saved. We'd eat so many our fingers would turn blue. Up the small hill from the bushes was the water tower. It was squat and painted grey. Kids had scratched their names around the tower up to about its middle. Beyond that kids just couldn't reach. We never added our names. I don't know why.

The other path led to the swamp, our very favorite spot. The edge of the swamp was all grass and perfectly comfy for lying down to watch the tadpoles. We'd go often and watch them grow from black specks that flitted through the water to these eerily long creatures with legs. What we called the front part of the swamp had such clear water you could see under it to the tree branches and the tall grasses which beckoned as they swayed. During the winter this front part became our skating rink. Winter was also the only time of year you could get to the back of the swamp without getting wet and muddy. I loved the back part though I sometimes had to crawl on the ice to avoid low lying branches. The ice was so clear I could see the limbs and dead leaves lying frozen just below its surface.

The swamp is long gone so memories of that swamp will have to be enough.

Pilgrim's Progress: Procol Harum

This is from 1969's A Salty Dog, considered Procol Harum's best album. I'm probably stretching the definition by calling it folk and should probably tack on rock and so much more.


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The Unicorn Song: Peter, Paul and Mary

Peter, Paul and Mary have had amazing longevity. As I've said before, they were my first introduction to folk music, and I was hooked for life. I bought every one of their albums. This is from Reunion which was released on record in 1978 and on cassette in 1990. I don't think it ever made it to CD.


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"Chili represents your three stages of matter: solid, liquid, and eventually gas."

After three days of rain the world looks newly washed. The air is cool, and all of outside shines, sparkles. The greens of the leaves are bright and vivid against the background of the sky. Today is spring. Today is the reason I tolerate the cold, starkness of winter.

I love hot food, not lip numbing heat but the kind you feel in the back of your throat. In Africa, red hot pepper coated everything. We used to buy meat on the train but had to wrap it in bread before we could eat it. Once, I bought some Guinea fowl at a bar in my town. It was so hot it burned my finger tips and the outside of my mouth. I think I breathed fire after that meal. The other night I had Thai beef, and it was hot. My whole mouth was numb. Mexican and Indian food also give me my hot fix, and in my sandwiches I sometimes add hot and sweet jalapenos. When I was a kid, I used to added chop hot peppers to my bologna sandwiches. They made the Wonder bread a bit soggy, but that sandwich had zip. My dad loved his food so hot he'd sweat. I can still see him wiping his face and nose after eating a pork strip covered in hot mustard. He'd use that white cloth handkerchief he always carried.

I'm thinking those memories raise the hot pepper to comfort food.

East Texas Red: Arlo Guthrie

This is from a great album called Folkways: A Vision Shared-n A Tribute to Woody Guthrie and Leadbelly. You'll find songs by Springsteen, Dylan, Emmylou, Willie Nelson and Taj Mahal. The album was originally released in the late 80's.


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Your Sister Cried: Mary Gauthier

This too is from a tribute album: The Songs of Fred Eaglesmith. It is an album filled with great singers doing justice to the songs Fred wrote and worth the listen.


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"Childhood is measured out by sounds and smells and sights, before the dark hour of reason grows."

Today was supposed to be hot and sunny, but the rain seems to have put the kibosh on that forecast. With all this rain, I can hear my grass growing.

When I was last in the town where I grew up, I went by our old house. The grass was high and ill-tended. My dad would have gone crazy. His grass was always green and lush. Every weekend, usually Saturday, the great chore day of my youth, he'd be out there with his hand mower cutting the grass. In my memories, I always connect a hand mower with my dad. He was the man who never succumbed to power. The sounds of those blades is one of my strongest summer memories, right up there with the sound of a whirring sprinkler.

It's easy to remember the familiar sounds of my childhood summers. We were outside every day. Kids' voices echoed throughout the neighborhood, and our neighborhood was lousy with kids, kids of every age. My sister remembers summers as a time you never wanted for playmates. She and my other sister mostly hung around in the backyard, and, if I close my eyes,
I can see that yard as perfectly as I did when I was ten. The lines were always filled with laundry, and my mother would yell if we dared walk through the sheets, but they were hard to resist hanging there as they did. The stairs from the backdoor were concrete. My sisters like to sit there and play dolls as they were still young and not allowed to venture beyond the yard. The clotheslines were on a square patch of tar which also led to the outside cellar stairs. Grass was everywhere else. The window over the kitchen sink gave my mother a perfect view of the whole yard. Right at the bottom of the stairs to the left was the garbage. It had a foot pedal so you didn't have to touch the cover when you dumped the garbage. I remember my mother had a plastic container with holes which was the inside interim garbage collector. I hated garbage duty. There were always flies, and it smelled bad. The worst thing was if you missed the garbage pail and had to use your hand to push the garbage inside. That made me gag. When the garbage man came, I used to watch as he hauled up the container and dumped the smelly mess. I figured that guy had lost his sense of smell.

I loved that house and that yard. I lived there for my entire childhood. It was a rental, a duplex, but to us it was a palace.

The Water Is Wide: The Seekers

This is from The Best of the Seekers: more later.


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Run Come See: The Harvesters

I apologize for the shortness of this post as I need to go off Cape and am running out of time. This is from 1961 and the album Pastures of Plenty and Other Songs. Check back later for more info.


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"There is a good reason they call these ceremonies "commencement exercises." Graduation is not the end; it's the beginning."

The papers the last couple of weeks have been filled with pictures and descriptions of the local high school graduations. Every article has a couple of lines from the valedictorians' speeches. They share a common theme about growing up and entering the adult world, from diapers to diplomas was the line in today's paper. I tried to remember the speeches from my high school graduation but failed to dredge up any content. What I remembered made me laugh.

We were the first graduation ever held outside. It was in the front of the school in a parking lot. Small bleachers held us captive in rows. Over our heads, attached from the school's entry, was a giant sign which said Class of 1965. I remember this because it fell down during the ceremony and knocked out a couple of my classmates. They fell off the bleachers and hit the ground with a smack. They were out for a bit, and the guys beside them looked down then passed along the information. No adults came to their rescue, but they were fine and just shook off the fall then climbed back onto the bleachers. We all whispered to one another from row to row that soandso had been knocked out. It made for a fun time, such is the strange sense of humor of adolescents. The main speaker that day was from the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institute, and all I remember is he droned on for hours, and we found ways to amuse ourselves while he spoke. The rows of graduates were in constant buzz as we whispered discreeetly to one another during the ceremony. The scholarships were given out that day, and I got one. I remember my dad, ever the pragmatist, mouthing how much when I sat down and looked his way. I don't remember the speeches my classmates made. I suspect we were told it was time to meet the world, put our education to use and thank our parents for their guidance. I think the very first graduation, way back when, had the exact same speech though there might have been warnings about dinosaurs and pterodactyls. Their valedictiorian probably warned them to aim high. Come to think about it, that's what my valedictorian said.

In the Summertime: Mungo Jerry

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Summer Side of Life: Gordon Lightfoot

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That Sunday, That Summer: Nat King Cole

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The Green Leaves of Summer: The Brothers Four

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"If there is magic on the planet, it is contained in the water."

Last night was the first barbecue of the season on my deck. Everything was perfect, even to the almost impeccably timed arrival of June bugs. They kept Gracie amused as she chased then ate them. The candles in the trees were lit giving the yard the look of a fairyland. When the holders swayed with the breeze, you'd think they were flying. Hanging from the table umbrella were Japanese lanterns in bright pinks and greens. We munched on roasted corn, pork ribs, chicken, potato salad and, for a change of pace, Waldorf salad. After dinner we sat around chatting for the longest time until dessert. The evening got chilly with a cool breeze so we lit the chimenea. I figure this was but the first of what will be many summer evenings spent with friends on the deck.

It rained this morning. The clouds seemed to open up long enough to flush away the pollen and refresh the air. I stood at the back door and watched the rain fall, got a bit wet from the mist. The trees are all full of leaves, and the falling rain kept a beat as it hit the leaves.

Water and summer are permanently bonded for me. Pools and oceans filled all my summer vacations. The whoosing sound of the sprinkler as it spins reminds me of late summer days and all my neighbors watering their lawns. A summer rain can be so gentle it barely registers a sound as it falls or so mighty with thunder and lightning that the house seems to shake. I can remember being hot and sweaty after a game of ball and how cool and refreshing the water tasted as we slurped it from a bubbler. I'd get my face so wet water would drip from the tip of my nose. A gentle rain never kept us inside the house. Nothing was more refreshing on a hot day than rain falling on our upturned faces and our clothes getting soaked as we'd run through puddles splashing each other. I'm thinking that this summer I'm going to walk in the rain until I get soaked. I'm also kind of hoping for lots of puddles and maybe, just maybe, a water fight.

Wild Mountain Thyme: The Byrds

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Big Rock Candy Mountain: Harry McClintock

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Ain't No Mountain High Enough: Diana Ross & The Supremes

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Rocky Mountain High: John Denver

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"It's not true I had nothing on. I had the radio on."

My generation was the first to grow up with TVs. I remember my parents regaling us with stories about when their neighbors got the first TV in the apartment building. It was an event of such enormous proportions that on Friday's the whole neighborhood would drop by and line up their chairs in the living room into the hall to watch the huge console with the small flickering screen. The first television in my memory was a wooden giant with doors which closed over the screen. I remember watching the test pattern until the stations signed on in the morning and how I once managed to stay up long enough to hear the Star Spangled Banner being played as the station signed off for the night. Our first color TV was the event of enormous proportions for us. I was in college and came home to find color. It was magnificient.

My first portable radio was a square brown leather model with two dials on the side. One was the on/off, volume control combination while the other was the station dial, the AM station dial. The AM airwaves back then were filled with DJ's playing rock and roll. We had our local favorites, and I remember Woo Woo Ginsberg the best. He was on WMEX's the Night Train Show. His sponsor was Adventure Car Hop which we'd pass on the way to my grandmother's house. The place was lit up like a proverbial Christmas Tree and always filled with cars. You could hear the same music playing from every car radio. My dad would never stop even though you could get a second burger free just for mentioning Woo Woo.

Sometimes I wish I could go back in time for just a little while. I'd cruise with my friends and stop at Adventure Car Hop to check out the scene. We'd yell Woo Woo sent us then flick our lights for service. I'll have the burger, please.

Black Jack Davy: George and Gerry Armstrong

Simple Gifts, the album from which this song comes, was released by Folkways in 1961 and is still available from the Smithsonian-Folkways catalogue and as a download from Smithsonian Global Sound. I also noticed ebay has this in vinyl. The songs come from Scotland, the United Kingdom, and the United States. The Armstrongs accompany themselves on guitar and Appalachian dulcimer.

George has passed away, but the Armstrongs were long active in the Chicago folk scene and were members of the original Golden Ring. As far as I can find, Gerry is still active.


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That Song About the Midway

Judy Collins was born in 1939 which made her almost sixty-six in 2005 when she released Portrait of an American Girl, the album from which this song comes. She sang this Mitchell cover at Mountain Stage and I thought it amazing.

She was one of the first to sing Mitchell, and it was Both Sides Now, another Joni Mitchell cover, which was one of her biggest hits. It was on Wildflowers, her Grammy winning album, and it was during this time I first saw her in concert.


MP3 File

"What's in a name? that which we call a rose By any other name would smell as sweet."

Some mornings I sit in front of this computer hoping to be struck by my muse. I open the memory drawers labeled childhood and am often lucky enough to find a memory wedged in the back of the drawer. Other times I easily remember adventures in adulthood or funny family stories. My travels too are great fodder. Today, though, the blank blogger block taunts me, and the drawers refuse to open. I just sit and stare, cursing my fate.

Every night I water the flowers and my yet to be a lawn front yard which has just been seeded. The new garden was outlined, planted with bushes and flowers and mulched though I do need to buy a few more stuff to fill spaces. Gardens are foreign to me. I buy perennials because I won't have to plant again, and I choose plants by color. If you asked me the names of the flowers I've planted, I'd have no idea. When I was at the garden shop, a woman brought in a branch from a bush. She wanted two more of the same. That could be me. My friend, a garden fanatic, is appalled. She just doesn't fathom why I don't enjoy digging in dirt, and I don't get why she does. Don't get me wrong here. I love a garden filled with flowers and often stop to admire one which catches my eye. I just know it will never be mine. Today, though, a stop at the garden shop is on my list. I'll be dragging my red cart behind me as I chose what I need to finish the front. I'll be looking for two bushes, a small tree, some yellow flowers and maybe a few white. I'm feeling brave today so, maybe just for the fun of it, I'll throw caution to the wind and mix in a red flower or two. How daring!