I'm in the Ground for Good: Newports

This is from Doo Wop Halloween Is A Scream. I just couldn't let Halloween go by without a little doo wop.


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The Blob: The Five Blobs

This is the traditional Coffee Halloween song. It was actually written by Burt Bacharach. Yes, that Burt Bacharach.

"It's in there! It's in there! I wish I were kidding. It's in there!" This was the strangest of all 1950's creature movies. It was a blob, a red blob. We have Steven McQueen and Andy Taylor's girl Helen Crump racing around the countryside warning the adults. But who listens to teenagers anyway? The Blog had cheesy sets, few special effects, is campy at best and had this song as its theme. The song is credited to the Five Blobs, but there was only one Blob, studio singer Bernie Knee who did all the vocal tracks. His voice was overdubbed five times.


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Mysterious Mose: Bob Brozman

Thanks to a Coffee reader for this great one!


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"Shadows of a thousand years rise again unseen, Voices whisper in the trees, "Tonight is Halloween!"

Halloween was one of those endless days kids had to abide. The sun seemed to hang in the sky, and it just wouldn't get dark. We'd beg our mother to let us go out trick or treating, and she'd say it was too soon. The two of us, my brother and I, would look longingly out the picture window hoping to see one trick or treater so we could say we told you so to our mother. Finally, hours and hours later, we'd get permission to leave. We'd do the neighborhood first then branch out to the streets close to our house then widen our circle. We knew the best houses which gave nickel bars. We avoided the fruit givers. Most candy was wrapped in little bags with three or four pieces per bag. Candy corn was big, so were popcorn balls. Once in a while we'd get a penny.

Kids were everywhere, mostly in handmade costumes. Ghosts were easy. All it took was convincing your mother to hand over a white sheet. Wearing a long dress and a hat turned us into our mothers. One year I was a hobo. I wore jeans and a shirt with patches, carried my belongings on a stick and dirtied my face. Masks made us all look like the Lone Ranger.

When the house lights were being regularly turned off, we'd head for home with our hauls. Once home, my mother would give us both a bowl. We'd pour in our candy, take inventory and do a bit of trading, favorites for favorites. We were allowed to pick a few bars then had to put the rest away. Finally, my mother would tell us to get ready for bed.

It always seemed the day was endless but the night was always over in a flash.

Chevrolet: Geoff and Maria Muldaur

The Muldaurs were still together and still part of the Jim Kweskin Jugband when they recorded this duet.

The album is from Vanguard and aptly called Folk Duets. The songs are generally reissues, and many are from the 60's. It is folk from the boom years when every record store had huge bins of folk.


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Pack Up Your Sorrows: Mimi and Richard Farina

Richard Farina was still married to Carolyn Hester when he met Mimi Baez, Joan's sister. They were married when she was 17. Together they produced just three albums, one of which was released after Richard's death from a motorcycle accident. His most well known song is this one, but Richard is probably better known for his novel Been Down So Long It Looks Like Up to Me.

After His death Mimi kept recording and was the founder of Bread and Roses. She passed away in 2001 of cancer.

This also can be found on Folk Duets.


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"Cards are war, in disguise of a sport. "

Jacks was the most frustrating game when I was little. The ball would bounce, and I'd do well grabbing the onesies or twosies but beyond that I was a disaster. My mother, who taught me the game, would move right along from onesies to tensies. I'd be stuck on the threesies or foursies for what seemed forever. When I got older, my coordination got better, but I was never able to defeat the all time champion, my mother. The same went for checkers, but I counted myself a winner when I finally played her to a draw in tic-tac-toe.

Games were huge in our family. My parents started us out early with the standard Chutes and Ladders. I always dreaded the chute which seemed to twist from the giddy heights of victory to the bottom rungs of defeat. I slid often. We played a slew of games like Uncle Wiggly and Go to the Head of the Class. When my brother and I were older, we learned to play whist and provided my parents with live-in partners. It was always the girls against the boys, and the girls won often. Cards were big with us. Even when all of us had grown up, we'd visit and eventually end up gathered around the kitchen table playing hi low jack or skat. We were loud. We laughed a lot. Making fun of the loser was standard, especially if the loser was my dad. He was the king of comments, and we all made him our target. Nothing was better than when my dad lost his bid. We all cheered or pretended to commiserate. He would throw something like a match book onto the center of the table and declare the gauntlet was down. We played for hours and hours.

Those were some of the best times, and I have amazing memories. If I close my eyes, I can see that corner of my parents' kitchen. Smoke fills the air and drinks sit away from elbows. Six of us are sometimes crowded around the table. We hoop and holler. If you stood outside the kitchen window, you'd hear the cards being shuffled, bids being made and a family enjoying another night together. You'd also hear my dad with his ha ha's or his groaning and the rest of us laughing.

Morning Train: John Prine

This is from Fair and Square, John Prine's latest solo album released in 2005. It was his first album in almost ten years and I love it. I think it one of his best, but I guess being a Prine fan means I tend to exude superlatives.


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Grapefruit Moon: Tom Waits

This is the first Tom Waits album, Closing Time, released in 1973. It is the album which made me a Tom Waits fan.

If you listen closely, you do hear a bit of that gravelly voice which became the later Waits, but mostly you hear a gentler Waits. You hear a bit of sentiment which is far removed from the Tom Waits we hear now. You might need to listen a few times to appreciate Waits' roots, but the album is well worth the time. Some of the songs are downright beautiful.


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"I've come to the conclusion that the two most important things in life are good friends and a good bullpen. "

My Red Sox are world champions. They swept the series last night, and I'm having trouble envisioning a night without baseball. It's a long time until spring training.

We used to hang pennants on our walls and save programs. We'd get there early enough for batting practice and stand in front of the seats behind the outfield hoping a ball would come our way. We always brought our gloves. I never saw a game from the grandstand until I was in my teens. In the old days, it was actually possible to buy day of game tickets for a Sox home game. For little money, we could sit in the bleachers, the fun place to watch baseball. We'd take the MTA to Boston for an afternoon game, load up on peanuts, cheer on our Sox and leave a mound of shells behind. The bleachers were filled with kids and families sharing the experience of a day at the ballpark. Hats were blue with a red B, and boys wore them. The wave didn't exist. We had hopes but really didn't expect the Sox to win. It was easier that way to deal with disappointment. The games were never sold out, but the crowd loved baseball and loved the Sox. We were a noisy bunch cheering hits and groaning at outs. We had favorites like Yaz but few other names people would remember. If the Sox were third or fourth at the end of the season, it was a good year.

Early Morning Rain: Gordon Lightfoot

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Early in the Morning: Bobby Darin

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Good Morning Good Morning: The Beatles

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It's a Beautiful Morning: The Young Rascals

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"How bravely Autumn paints upon the sky The gorgeous fame of Summer which is fled! "

By the time the game ended, it was this morning. They announced it was the longest World Series game ever played, but I might have guessed that as I dragged myself to bed.

This morning, I filled the bird feeders then stayed and watched for a while. The nuthatches come and dine, oblivious to my presence. I like to think they recognize their benefactor. The gold finches are much shier and wait until I leave before they perch on the thistle feeder. Chickadees fly in and out and would land on me if I offered sunflower seeds. A woodpecker jabbed at the suet and never noticed I was there. Gracie, though, was far less quiet, and the birds flew to the safety of branches so we both came inside. Gracie is napping. Here, at my desk by the window, I can still see the birds. I can still hear their songs.

If I were to invent the perfect fall day, it would be today. The sun is brilliant. The air has the chill only fall seems to bring. The leaves still offer spots of color. Brown pine needles wet from rain cover the lawn and stick to the deck. No lawnmowers disturb the quiet of the morning. I have no plans, no errands. It will be like the Sundays I remember.

Picture Book: The Kinks

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The Book of Love: The Monotones

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Ichabod Crane: Jim Reeves

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My Back Pages: Bob Dylan

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"You can fall in love at first sight with a place as with a person. "

My favorite book store was in Andover. The cookie plate was never empty, and the fireplace was always lit on cold days. I'd plunk down into one of the comfy chairs, thumb through a book or two, munch on a cookie and warm my feet by the fire. I loved wandering the shelves and often bought all my Christmas presents there. It always seemed as if only old ladies worked at my book store, but I was in college and anyone over forty seemed old to me. At the register, one old lady would tally while the other wrapped. They were both slow, but it never bothered me. I used to watch the wrapper. She would take her time to measure the book then cut as straight a line as she could. She'd then crease the ends of the paper with the side of the scissors, fold each of those sides up and over then carefully tape the edges. Those books were always the best wrapped Christmas presents I ever gave.

Our college hangout was down the street from the school. It had two rooms. One was a small bar off to the left and the other a dining room. The booths in the dining room were made of wood and had high tops so you couldn't see the people on either side. The entire dining room had knotty pine walls like the cabins where we'd stayed when I was little. A giant fireplace was at one end of the room flanked by tables filled with stuffed animals and trinkets for sale. My mother was the only person I ever saw buy anything. A family ran the restaurant, and the grandmother would waitress. She'd sit with us in the booth to take our order and always greeted us like old friends. Comfort foods crowded the menu. I loved the meatloaf with mash potatoes and one vegetable on the side. Usually it was carrots or peas. The bar was always crowded. My professors often dropped in and would sit down and join us. During the 1967 World Series, the games were in the afternoon, and we spent most afternoons there instead of in class. When I went back a few years ago, I found my restaurant gone. It has been replaced by a 7-Eleven.

Places too are held in our hearts.

Boots of Spanish Leather: Martin Simpson

Both songs today come from the album A Nod To Bob: An Artists' Tribute to Bob Dylan on His 60th Birthday which was released by Red House in 2001. I am always a bit leery of tributes and cover songs, but this album has some wonderful interpretations. A few, though, made me wonder if the singer had ever heard Bob Dylan sing.

These are two of the songs I happen to like.


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Tomorrow Is a Long Time: Rosalie Sorrels

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“I love the rain. I want the feeling of it on my face.”

My mother was always far more concerned than I about my dressing warmly in winter. She'd haul out the mittens, the scarf, the hat and the winter jacket and then help bundle me for school. Mittens were far easier than gloves as I never had to worry about finding the exact spot for each finger. With mittens they all shared. I avoided hats though sometimes I'd wear this wool piece which was narrow, covered the ears and was tied under the chin. These head scarves came in lots of colors and were easy to stuff into my jacket pocket for storage in the cloak room. Mittens, of course, were always stored in my sleeves. On the way to school I'd be protected against ice storms, snow storms and temperatures low enough to freeze water. Going home was another matter. Left to my own devices at the end of the school day I seldom buttoned my coat, never wore a hat and often forgot to take my mittens out of the sleeves. My mother was always appalled.

When we were kids, a rain storm never meant a raincoat or an umbrella. It meant puddles and splashing each other and really wet clothes. We'd walk in the door, and my mother would immediately demand we go to our rooms to get out of our wet clothes and shoes. We'd shrug our shoulders and go change. Repeated requests to be allowed to go out to play were denied. It's raining was her answer, and we knew she just didn't get it. Somewhere, somehow, she had lost sight of the joys of a good rainstorm. We were appalled and hoped we'd never fall victim to the same fate.

Nine Foot Shovel: Josh White

I had a request a while back for a Josh White. I combed my files but forgot to check all those compilations I have. This song came from Folk, Gospel and Blues-Will the Circle be Unbroken. It can also be found on a few Josh White albums including Complete Recorded Works Vol. 4 (1940-1941) and Chain Gang Songs.

"Josh White’s life is the history of black American music finding a white audience, of folk music and the American left, and of a man who remade himself time and time again, fighting discrimination, stereotypes, and his own personal demons to become one of the world’s most successful black entertainers, then maintaining himself in that position through four decades. Josh was hailed at various times as king of the blues singers, king of the folksingers, king of the political singers, pioneering black sex symbol, "Presidential Minstrel" to the Roosevelt White House, and king of Cafe Society.

Josh’s life intersected some of the most exciting periods in American culture. In the 1920s, he was leading legendary blind blues singers around the South, and became the youngest soloist in the "race records" market. In the 1930s, he was a blues star, more popular than Robert Johnson and influencing a generation of Southern players. In the 1940s, he discovered a white, New York audience, appearing alongside jazz figures like Billie Holiday, and becoming so popular in the folk world that Pete Seeger would look up to him as "Mr. Folk Music." His recording of "One Meat Ball" was a folk-pop smash, and he became one of the few black figures to star on Broadway and appear in Hollywood films, the only black guitarist to have his own national tour, and a daring sex symbol with adoring fans on both sides of the color line.

In the 1950s, Josh conquered Europe, then saw his achievements collapse in the polarized political ferment of the McCarthy era. Attempting to strike a balance that would keep his career afloat, he instead succeeded in alienating both political camps, declaring that he had been "a sucker for the Communists," while maintaining his outspoken stance on civil rights. A star in England, he was the forgotten man at home. By the end of the decade, however, the folk revival had hit and he was climbing back to the top. By 1963, the height of the folk revival, he was ranked as America’s third most popular folksinger, after Harry Belafonte and Pete Seeger but ahead of Bob Dylan, and was a featured performer at Martin Luther King’s March on Washington. At his death in 1969, he was the best-known folk-blues artist in America."


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Two Little Feet: Greg Brown

The Globe mentioned this morning that Greg Brown is in town, and I realized I haven't played him much. I went through my Brown songs and decided I wanted something a bit more upbeat than Poet Game.

This is from Further in, released in 1996 on Red House Records. His voice is just so rich and lyrical.


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"I never drink coffee at lunch. I find it keeps me awake for the afternoon. "

The late nights watching baseball are taking their toll. I wake bleary eyed and exhausted. Long gone are the days of staying up all night then going to work little the worse for wear. I remember partying well into the wee hours, taking a quick shower then getting on with the business of the day. Now I consider nine the shank of the evening, and I pencil in a nap on my afternoon calendar.

I remember those nights as a kid I swore I'd stay awake. I was bound and determined to catch the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy or even Santa Claus himself. My mother would send me at the usual hour, and I'd moan and groan. What was wrong with that woman? Didn't she get the importance of vigilance on this more than any other night of the year? I'd drag myself up one step then the other in a vain attempt to prolong the evening. Lying in bed, I'd toss and turn in frustration. The hands of the clock never seemed to move. The light from the window was never bright enough to read by, and I didn't dare to turn on the light. I tried a few times to hide the light under the covers, but my mother always knew. Once I even tried hiding in the closet with a flashlight, but sitting on shoes was never meant to be comfortable. No matter how determined I was, I always fell asleep.

All nighters were a critical part of getting ready for exams in college. No self-respecting students I knew were ever ready. I'd sleep a few hours in the early part of the evening then study until close to exam time. I'd pore over notes, old exams, and highlighted parts of the text. The coffee pot was never empty. About an hour or two before the exam, I'd drag myself to the student union and join my bleary eyed friends for even more coffee. By the time we hit the exams, we were awash. I usually did well, but I suspect that staying current might have been a perfect plan. It just never occurred to any of us.

A few revels lasted all night, but we were young, and wine was cheap. I remember going for breakfast around four in the morning at our favorite greasy spoon. The cook welcomed us back like old friends. We were rowdy and loud and filled with boundless energy.

The last time I stayed up all night was on a plane, and I was exhausted and well beyond grouchy. The ride home from the airport was only accomplished with windows wide open and the air conditioner blasting. I need my eight hours.

People My Age: John Gorka

The Company You Keep was released in 2001 on Red House Records. It is John Gorka with that so easily recognized voice joined by a few friends like Mary Chapin Carpenter and Ani DiFranco. The songs are funny, witty, and a bit self-deprecating, like this one.


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Lily of the West: Joan Baez

Joan Baez was one of the first folk singers I heard. I immediately went out, bought an abum and wished I had been around when she played in Harvard Square. As I was listening to songs this morning trying to decide which to post, I realized I tend to neglect her a little here.


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"Climb up on some hill at sunrise. Everybody needs perspective once in a while, and you'll find it there."

I was a climber. Trees with large branches were my favorites as I was never much of a shimmier. I'd grab the branch, walk my feet on the trunk, swing my legs over and sit a straddle until I felt secure enough to keep moving. I'd then grab the next branch and hoist myself up and over. I loved going way high and would go as high as there were sturdy branches to grab. As I'd get higher and higher, I'd stop to survey the world. I always felt a bit like a queen standing on a castle parapet. From the highest branch I'd scream into the sky though no one could hear me. I felt on top of the world.

I never stopped to think something might just be dangerous. Peril made it an adventure. My brother and I used to walk through the woods to a pasture where two horses always grazed. We'd lure them over with handfuls of grass and then try to catch the horses so we could ride them bareback. That we had never ridden before was not a problem. We saw ourselves as Joey on Fury riding across the field our fingers grasping the manes, the wind blowing our hair. We never did catch those horses no matter how many times we tried. In hindsight, it was probably a good thing.

Ice needed to be tested. How else would we know it was safe? We'd tentatively slide one foot in front of the other to make our way across the swamp. As we'd get to the middle, the deepest part, the ice would make a cracking sound and spider's webs would loop and cross as they spread under the ice. We'd run. The ice would crack and break under our feet. We'd make it to the safety of one of the islands at the back, throw ourselves on the ground, take a deep breath or two and laugh. We were safe, and the swamp had been defeated by two mighty explorers.

When my mother asked what we'd been doing all day, we'd say nothing much, just playing.

John Barleycorn Must Die: Traffic

This is the title song from Traffic's 1970's album. I find the song amazing with that flute and those guitars and Steve Winwood's voice, perfect for this song.

This is an old British folk song and was already in print in the early years of the seventeenth century. It has been widespread among folk singers including The Watersons, Steeleye Span and Martin Carthy.


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Who Knows Where The Time Goes: Fairport Convention

This is Fairport Convention in 1969 when the group included Sandy Denny and Richard Thomson. The song is Sandy Denny's, and it comes from Unhalfbricking.


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“A small town is a place where there's no place to go where you shouldn't.”

All the best places seem to disappear. The drive-in where we never saw the end of a movie was torn down years ago. The field where we caught grasshoppers in our bare hands has elderly housing. I still remember being a bit grossed out by what we called grasshopper poop on our palms. The woods where my turtle was buried has been gone a long time, bulldozed for progress. The red store and the white store just couldn't compete. The diner was replaced by a hardware store, one of those chain stores every town seems to have. The donut shop where we watched the donuts being made is an e-bay store. When I drive by it now, I can still remember how amazing those hot, freshly made donuts tasted. The drug store closed down long ago. My sisters, when they were little, used to walk down to that drug store, shop and then charge it to my dad. I miss the soda fountain and the druggist who knew everyone in town. Nothing felt better on a hot day then sitting at that granite soda counter to drink a vanilla coke made as you watched. The coke would arrive in a conical silver server lined with a white cone, and the straws stood high enough that two of us could share. The drug store was my favorite place to Christmas shop. In one stop I could finish my whole family, and my mother always acted as if the perfume was a surprise. My dad loved his handkerchiefs. No drug stores are up town any more. The bowling alley is now a video rental place and a mostly to go restaurant. I have to admit, though, that restaurant serves great food. We used to hang out at Carroll's and buy fifteen cent burgers and twelve cent fries. I don't know when that disappeared, but it was a hopping place for a while. Every kid's favorite places to spend a dime are gone. Woolworth's went first then Grant's followed not long after. Chatham, though, still has a Ben Franklin, and I make a stop before Christmas to wander the aisles looking for stocking stuffers. I love the creaky floors and the narrow aisles. For just a bit I feel like a kid again.

Beauty of the Rain: Dar Williams

Both of today's songs came by way of you. The song or the artist was recommended, and I loved both of them.


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Mr. Schwinn: Darryl Purpose

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"Shallow men believe in luck. Strong men believe in cause and effect. "

The Sox won though the final tally doesn't reflect the anxiety of a 3-2 score for a good part of the game. I watched with friends, and the three of us sat there at the top of each inning reciting the same mantra: please no hits, please no hits. We groaned at each ball, cheered each strike and breathed a collective sigh of relief when the batter was finally retired. Baseball can be so exhausting, and we only watched.

When I was young, I was the checker champ at my local playground. It was a hard fought battle, but I alone stood triumphant. Sadly, the horseshoes tournament was another matter. I was on the brink of victory when my leaner tottered then fell, and I lost the critical final game of the series. I left the field of conflict bloodied but unbowed and vowed to be back next year. I didn't win then either. In truth, I never really win anything. When kids sell raffle tickets, I always buy a few. My name is never drawn. I've bought a few lottery tickets and won a buck or two, but I know full well the odds are against me. If I were standing in line, the person just ahead of me would be the one millionth customer, and I'd never make it to the register with all the hoopla. If there were ten prizes, my name would be the eleventh drawn. In traffic, it's always my line which is slower. If I move to the faster line, it gets slower. I've come to an acceptance of this lack of luck, but it doesn't stop me from dreaming. I know exactly what I'd do with all that lottery money. Not buying tickets is, so far, the only drawback to my windfall.

Take Me Out To The Ball Game: Steve Goodman

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Joe DiMaggio Done It Again: Billy Bragg and Wilco

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There Used to Be A Ballpark: Frank Sinatra

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Say Hey (The Willie Mays Song): The Treniers

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As We Walk To Fenway Park In Boston Town: Jonathan Richman

I need to be just a bit self-serving with this last song. This is from the soundtrack of Fever Pitch.


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“Baseball was, is and always will be to me the best game in the world.”

Baseball still holds my attention. The Red Sox play the Indians tonight in game seven, and the winner will move on to the World Series. The Sox have played one hundred and seventy one games, and I probably missed watching but a handful of them. Baseball just seems to satisfy all my senses. The eyes see the greenest grass contrasted with the tan of the dirt between the bases. The outfield looks lush. A sea of color inhabits the bleachers. Here we see mostly reds and blues. The uniforms with their stark whiteness stand out against the backdrop of the field. I can follow the wave from one side to the other.

Sounds abound. The crack of the bat is, for me, the sweetest of baseball's sounds. It is inevitably followed by the cheers of the hopefuls wishing the ball higher and farther. Off the wall elicits loud cheers; over the wall causes an eruption. The crowd groans at caught balls, double plays and close calls gone the other way. They cheer a great play and applaud effort. During lulls hawkers ply their wares, and in between innnings music plays. The stands are constantly abuzz with conversation. Fenway is only quiet when the Sox are losing.

Food tastes better at the ballpark. Sausage and peppers, even a Fenway frank and peanuts in the shell are perfect. On a cold October night, bring out that chowder. The only time I regret not liking beer is at a baseball game. Beer and baseball just seem right somehow.

The ballpark smells of summer, of fresh mown grass, the most glorious of smells. It smells of peanuts and beer and sausages and peppers on the grill.

Tonight I'll sit and watch the game, and I'll be wearing my Red Sox hat. I'll have hot dogs for dinner and save the peanuts in the shell for the later innings. I'll cheer until I'm hoarse. I'll bring Fenway Park home.

Witch on a Bicycle: The Wizard of Oz

I love this when Miss Gulch turns into The Wicked Witch of the West.


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Bewitched: Doris Day

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The Witch Queen of New Orleans: Redbone

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Season of the Witch: Donovan

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"There are very few monsters who warrant the fear we have of them."

The pumpkin season may be approaching but so is the season of black and white movies, all those horror films which made my childhood nights a bit scary and a lot more interesting. The first howl resounding in the dark night of The Wolf Man gives me chills me every time. It may be an old movie, but his transformation still amazes me. But, by the end of the movie, I feel really sorry for Larry Talbot, such a gentle man. When Count Dracula says, "Good evening," my skin crawls just a bit, and I still find bats creepy. Later, though, in my dating days, the count became my model for sleazy, oily guys to avoid. The Mummy and Frankenstein were less scary, but I loved watching Boris strut his stuff. In my mind's eye I see him wrapped with bandages, some hanging from his face, his leg dragging behind him and a dead arm draped across his chest. The other day I tried to find DVD's of all these but came up empty. The shelves were filled with slasher movies or saw wielding bad guys, but none interested me. I'd rather be scared by what I don't see.

Walking alone on a dark night made my imagination race. It was a perilous journey fraught with danger. Every little sound made me fear I was being followed by a creature of the night. A rustle in the bushes had me jumping out of my skin. I envisioned a pack of wolves their teeth bared, drool dripping from their mouths as they gauged the distance between us before their leaps. Shadows hid objects of terror poised and waiting for me to walk in view. I would hear footsteps and run for my life.

My imagination was always the scariest part of all.

A Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall: Bob Dylan

This is from Dylan's second album The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan released in 1963, and I have trouble believing it was that long ago. The song is a protest song or not depending on your interpretation. It's classic Dylan.


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Have You Ever Seen the Rain?: Creedence Clearwater Revival

This song appears on just about every Creedence greatest hits album but it's first appearance was on 1970's Pendulum.


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“Let the rain kiss you. Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops. Let the rain sing you a lullaby.”

It's been raining on and off all morning. The day is dark, a cozy darkness, and the lit table lamp gives a warmth to the room. The only noise I hear is an occasional drop of rain and the hum of the computer. I feel quite lazy.

Reading in bed on a dark, rainy day was one of my favorite ways to spend an afternoon. I'd come home from school soaked by the rain, put on my long, flannel nightgown, turn on the bed lamp and get cozy under the covers. I'd read the latest Nancy Drew or another girl detective until the warm blankets and the heat of the lamp made me drowsy enough to fall asleep. I still think there is nothing more luxurious than a afternoon nap.

My slicker was the best part of a rainy day. It was bright yellow and made a wonderful cracking sound when I bent my elbows and my knees. The water would land in droplets then the droplets would meet and flow down the front. I always thought it was like having tiny rivers. We'd sometimes have a water fight by shaking our sleeves in one another's faces. We'd then chase each other all the way home.

Most times I never thought about the next day. My kid life revolved around the moment in time I was living and maybe an hour or two beyond. The only time I paid attention to the calendar was for a countdown to a momentous event like my birthday or Christmas or summer vacation. Asking my dad if we were there yet always made him a bit testy but made perfect sense to me. It always seemed as if we had been in the car for hours. Forcing a kid to sit in the same spot with only a window for entertainment made time stand still. We poked and teased each other merely as a diversion. Whining was just part of the process. Car rides were always interminable.

Long Tail Cat: Loggins and Messina

From 1972's Loggins and Messina, this Kenny Loggins song has spoons and fiddles and Rusty Young on dobro. It's pure down home.

You don't own a Loggins and Messina? Buy this one.


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Freight Train Blues: Peggy Seeger

If I even tried to start describing Peggy Seeger, I'd need pages and pages of space so I'll just give a few highlights. She has been a musician for more than fifty years and is still performing at age seventy. Her family's musical pedigree includes her brother Mike and half-brother Pete. She lived in England for 35 years with the singer/songmaker Ewan MacColl and has three children and seven grandchildren. She is an activist who sings about those causes in her songs, and she is amazing.

This song is from Folkways' Years 1955-1992 Songs of Love and Politics.


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"I don't say we all ought to misbehave, but we ought to look as if we could. "

By the eighth grade, I had gotten brave enough to be devious. The nun was ancient, and I took advantage. My best friend was Jimmy Kirk. He too was a bit devious, and he too took advantage. We'd line up with all the kids going home for lunch, our lunch bags hidden under our coats, walk to the town hall, find the perfect spot, sit down and have lunch. Sometimes we'd come back really late and tell poor Sister Hildegard we'd been at church or talking to father so and so. We used to return really late from recess and give her the same excuse. She always believed us. I remember once she assigned a project to be completed at the library. After a hurried discussion, Jimmy and I walked up to her and said we wanted to leave to get a head start. She let us.

Along the bottom of the windows were bookcases. My desk was flush with one of the shelves, and I kept a few things there. I stashed my big brown transistor radio with its ear piece and a few snacks. One snack was mint juleps, hard green candies which made by teeth tired when I chewed them. One day I had my ear piece in listening to the radio and was enjoying a mid-morning snack when Sister Hildegard called on me. I whipped out the candy and disconnected the ear piece. Its dangling end got shoved down the front of my blouse. Sister Hildegard noticed the ear piece and spoke louder then louder again. She thought I was wearing a hearing aid.

We had music class a few times a week. A student would play the key board, and Sister Hildegard would blow the pitch pipe to get us started. She had just about the worst voice I'd ever heard, all scratchy and crackly. I'd usually volunteer to turn the sheet music page and would stand there in the front of the room and make faces. The kids would laugh, and poor Sister Hildegard never turned quickly enough to catch me.

It was not my finest hour, but daring to be bad was a giddy experience for a kid who had always walked the straight and narrow.

Turn Turn Turn: Judy Collins

I love the beauty of Judy Collins' voice.


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Your Face: Cliff Eberhardt

This song comes from a Rounder album called On a Winter's Night. It is an amazing collection of singers including Cheryl Wheeler, Dave Van Ronk, Judy Collins and John Gorka. Christine Lavin was the driving force behind the album which later spawned tours in which Eberhardt took part.

Eberhardt now records for Red House records and had a new CD released last spring, the first in five years: The High Above and the Down Below.


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"Vegetables are a must on a diet. I suggest carrot cake, zucchini bread, and pumpkin pie."

Last night I ate the most wonderful ginger snaps. From each thin cookie I could taste fall and Thanksgiving and Christmas. I was reminded of my mother and her cozy kitchen filled with the smells of baking cookies.

This time of year is my favorite. I do love the warmth of summer and sitting on the deck reading and basking in the sun and the wonderful tastes of a summer barbecue, but this season fills every part of me.

Green and yellow gourds of all shapes are crowded into the bins which used to hold fresh summer vegetables. The trees are dressed in brilliant reds and golds, and even the ground is covered in color. Gardens are filled with pumpkins ripe for the choosing, and apples hang waiting to be picked. Small red cranberries dot the bogs. The morning air has a chill, a taste of the cold to come, and the smell of the air is different from the sweetness of summer. Squashes appear on tables. They serve as the perfect fall vegetable in muted golds and bright oranges. Baked in a pie the squash almost reaches perfection. A dollop of whipped cream raises that slice of pie to even greater heights. Halloween is all orange and black.

Thanksgiving is family and friends and the bounty of the season. It brings the smells of roasting bird and fresh bread. The kitchen is warmed by the oven. The table groans under the weight. We hold hands and give thanks for being together.

Christmas is next.

Child's Song: Tom Rush

This is from The Very Best of Tom Rush: No Regrets. The song, though, was originally released on 1970's Tom Rush. It's one of his signature songs though it was written by Murray McLauchlan.


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Mbube (The Lion Sleeps): Miriam Makeba

"There are three things I was born with in this world, and there are three things I will have until the day I die-hope, determination, and song." Miriam Makeba

Miriam Makeba is a South African who left her homeland in the 1960's because of her public stand on apartheid. She helped jump start the folk resurgence of the 1960's and 70's and won a folk Grammy for an album with Harry Belafonte. When the politics here proved to be no friendlier than those in South Africa, Makeba left with her then husband Stokley Carmichael for Guinea. Makeba sang with Paul Simon on his Graceland album and was back in the spotlight.

It was she who introduced African music to the United States. Many of her songs are sung in her native language: Zulu. The Click Song and Pata Pata are probably the two most well known.

Makeba returned to South Africa at the end of apartheid after 30 years in exile.


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"Everyone must take time to sit and watch the leaves turn."

Burning leaves was a fall ritual. I remember all the fathers on my block standing on the street next to the curb with rakes in hand as they kept watch. The flames jumped and danced. Smoke wafted to the sky up and down the street like smoke signals. The leaves sputtered and popped from moisture. We'd stand as close to the flames as my dad would let us and toss in handfuls of leaves. The smell clung to us, in our hair and on our clothes. I loved that smell.

I never really connected jack-o-lanterns with pumpkin pies. Pumpkin pies were brown. Jack-o-lanterns were orange, their insides wonderfully gross with globs of seedy strings. I loved pulling out all the pumpkin's guts. We'd grab handfuls and threaten each other with them, but my mother's threats carried more weight. My carving skills were never great. My pumpkins had missing teeth, cut off by mistake, and crooked grins. Their eyes were lopsided and mismatched, but it really didn't matter. Sitting on the step with a candle lit inside always gave my pumpkin a spooky look.

Our house had Halloween decorations, but they were mostly cardboard, from Woolworth's. One was always a skeleton with legs and arms that moved. We could never walk by without changing the skeleton's pose. Mostly he just looked contorted, but sometimes he'd be picking his nose, the highpoint of kids' gross humor in my day. We had a witch or two and a few jack-o-lanterns taped on the windows facing out for the neighbors to see. They all had a few yellow spots from years of tape.

All my Halloween decorations are up. A string of orange and purple lights is wrapped around the stair rail outside. A witch hangs from a tree limb and eerily swings when the wind is strong enough. Lit pumpkins sit on tables and a string of lights hangs from the mantle. All that's left before the big night is to carve my jack-o-lantern. I know it will be missing a few teeth. It always is.

Guess I'll Go Home: Bud and Travis

Bud Dashiell and Travis Edmonson have been overlooked, labeled simply a folk duo, but they sang so many different genres it would be wrong to pigeonhole them. You can find them singing calypso, blues and even songs from Broadway shows; however, Bud and Travis were and are most known for one musical form above all others: the bolero, a kind of Latin-American folk song. They released a Latin album with not only boleros but also serenatas, guajiras and juapengos. It was their last album together. Though they sang great harmony on-stage, their relationship was volatile off stage which eventually led to their break-up in 1965.

Most of Bud & Travis have been re-released, including their Latin album. This song is from The Best of Bud and Travis.


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Medley: In The Summer Of His Years/Rally Round The Flag: The Chad Mitchell Trio

The Chad Mitchell Trio was one of the big groups of the early 60's. They played the college and club circuit. They released their first album in 1960 without a whole lot of fanfare. They signed with Kapp in 1961 and soon became one of the most popular folk groups of the time. They sang some traditional songs but weren't afraid to be topical and a bit irreverent with songs like The John Birch Society and Draft Dodger Rag. Their song Last Night I had the Strangest Dream was a hit for Simon and Garfunkel.

Chad Mitchell left the group in 1965 and was replaced by John Denver. Soon the remaining two Mitchell Trio members, Mike Kobluk and Joe Frazier, also left. With three new members, The Chad Mitchell Trio had ceased to exist.

This is from The Best of the Chad Mitchell Trio, The Mercury Years.


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"The bicycle, the bicycle surely, should always be the vehicle of novelists and poets."

Learning to ride a two wheeler wasn't easy. My dad used the hold on to the back and let go without telling me method. It didn't work. As soon as I knew he'd let go, the bike would start to wobble, and I'd fall. His yelling, "You've got it," was never much help. I was downright scared. Staying on the bike and pedaling for all I was worth took so much concentration I'd forget to brake. I'd crash and then crash again. A few scrapes and some blood put me off but only for a bit. I kept trying and finally figured out that whole balance thing. I rode like the wind and even got cocky enough to ride without using my hands. With arms folded, I'd pedal as if it were no big deal.

We used playing cards and clothespins to make our bikes sound neat. We'd attach the cards to the spokes with those clip clothespins so that when the wheels revolved the cards made this great flapping sound almost like a motor if you went fast enough.

I loved having a wire basket attacked to the handlebars. I'd fill my basket right to the top with books then ride back and forth to school. The only problem was I'd forget about going over big bumps too fast, and my books would bounce out. Many times I had to stop all forward momentum to retrieve bounced books. Keeping my balance was also a bit tricky with all that weight in the front, but that was really no problem for me, the expert bike rider.
My bike had a silver bell on the handlebars, and I loved ringing it.

Old Friends/ Bookends: Simon and Garfunkel

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Wedding Bells Are Breaking Up That Old Gang of Mine: The Four Aces

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You Can Depend on Me: Mary Wells

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Circle of Friends: Edie Brickell

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"Life is all memory except for the one present moment that goes by so quick you can hardly catch it going."

I don't remember my eighth grade graduation, but I do have my class picture. We girls are wearing dresses so puffy they hang off the sides of the chairs. The boys are wearing white shirts, ties and sports coats. Many of the faces are familiar, and I can put names to some of them, but I swear I never saw some of those kids before I looked this morning. I counted seventy six of us. Few of the boys are smiling. The girls on each end look sullen in that adolescent way, but most of the rest of us have smiles. I'm sandwiched between Margie Duff and Elaine Clapper. Margie was a friend of mine. I think of her when I drive by where her house used to perch. An outpatient radiation facility sits on her hill now. I always felt bad for Elaine Clapper as kids teased her endlessly telling her she stunk. I never saw or heard about Elaine after the eighth grade. I know at least two of my classmates are dead. One classmate lives on the Cape now, and we ran into each other at the drug store. It was, as my mother used to say, old home week. Every now and then a few of us get together, but it has been a long time since we last met. Jimmy Kirk was my best friend in the eighth grade, and I do wonder what he is doing. He always made me laugh and was more than willing to go along with my shenanigans and plan a few of his own. Father Sexton, the pastor of the parish, is in the middle of the picture. He was old even then and died a long time ago. The convent behind us was sold and torn down. I wish I remembered more.

Moonlight in Vermont: Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong

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Stupid Texas Song: Austin Lounge Lizards

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Almost Heaven, West Virginia: John Denver

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Massachusetts: The Four Vagabonds

A little scratchy I know, but I couldn't resist.


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"Women ... is nothin' but little girls in long skirts, and their hair done up."

What did I want to be when I grew up wasn't easy to answer. I practiced being a priest, even said masses in my house with my sisters as altar boys, but it just wasn't destined to be. Nursing didn't appeal to me. I absolutely hated those starchy little hats and white stockings, and the idea of emptying a bed pan still disgusts me. The lady teachers I knew were all spinsters. They wore comfortable but really ugly shoes, wore their hair in buns and dressed like old ladies no matter how old they were. I just couldn't imagine my hair in a bun or my feet in those shoes. Some of my friends decided early on they wanted to be wives and mothers. I didn't. Dirty diapers made me gag. I had no idea what I wanted to be.

When I was in the seventh grade, I played basketball for the CYO. In the school yard were two basketball courts, and the boys always used both of them during recess. I wanted the girls to use one and the boys the other. I went to Sister Superior to plead my case. She said no and then sicced my seventh grade teacher, a person, not a nun, on me. I remember her kneeling beside my desk and whispering her entire conversation. She asked me if I had my friend yet, and I didn't have a clue which friend she meant. She didn't explain any further so I sat there thoroughly confused as she told me that once my friend came I'd lose interest in sports while boys never would. I couldn't imagine a friend that mean.

My friend arrived in due time. I grew up and decided to be a lawyer, the female Perry Mason, but when the letter came inviting me to train for the Peace Corps, I deferred law school for two years and went to Ghana. It was there I became a teacher.

If You Don't Want Me: Bill Morrissey

Bill Morissey has long been a favorite of mine, and, as I haven't posted him in a while, I thought it time. Bill has that gravelly voice I love. He is also an amazing songwriter. He writes stories about people, about the sadness of their lives yet somehow I always feel a bit uplifted after listening to him.

This is from Morrissey's Songs of Mississippi John Hurt, from Rounder Records. Morrissey has said his own musical outlook and right-hand work on guitar were heavily influenced by, if not purely a result of, listening to Hurt.


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The Old Figurehead Carpenter: Gordon Bok

This song is from a poem written by H.A. Cody in 1925 and set to music by Dick Swain. It is about a craftsman whose work decorated the Marco Polo, the legendary tall ship from Saint John, New Brunswick. It is on Gordon's album Apples in the Basket. I played it a long while back but felt in the mood to play it again.

From Gordon Bok about this album: "Here is a trawl through some of the songs that have engaged my life these last few years. You'll notice a lot of textures here: these songs bring us some interesting lives and beliefs and perspectives, and I am grateful that they've come to inform my own."


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"As long as the world shall last there will be wrongs, and if no man objected and no man rebelled, those wrongs would last forever."

I led a sheltered, innocent life for a long while. I was a senior in high school when my grandfather died. He was the first dead person I ever saw. I was a freshman in college before anyone I knew got divorced. My town was dry. You had to go to the next town over to buy alcohol, and no restaurants could serve drinks. No one knew about drugs unless they were prescribed by a doctor. I didn't know a single girl who got pregnant. Only bad girls back then had sex. A friend of mine dated a guy who had been arrested. Her parents were appalled, but we thought her adventurous. The court said jail or the army so he enlisted. They later got married. If I were walking home alone late at night, the police would stop and offer to drive me home. I usually thanked them and refused. I never thought about it, knowing, I suppose, I was perfectly safe. I had my first illegal drink just before I went to college. Actually, that night, I had many illegal drinks. The way I felt the next day put me off alcohol for a while. I smoked in college and for a long time after that. It was just what we all did back then. Food was something to eat. We never once checked the side panel for the calorie count or the essential ingredients. My college canteen had nothing remotely healthy. It was a grease pit, and we loved eating there. I met my first Black in college. My town had one Black family, but we never had occasion to meet. My town was mostly Irish with a sprinkling of Italians. I never thought it odd. My world was small.

When I was in college, the world began to change, and my friends and I got caught up in those changes. We saw, for the first time, a bigger world. We picketed for the grape workers, marched against the war, taught English in a mainly Hispanic parish and worked with our local SNCC. I got brazen enough to walk out of church when the priest used his pulpit to condemn protesters against the war and was even more brazen when he stopped preaching to ask me why I was leaving. I joined the Peace Corps because I believed I had an obligation to give something back for all I'd been given.

I still believe that we are obliged.

Softly: Gordon Lightfoot

It's another rainy day today, maybe the third, maybe the fourth in a row. My room is dark. The dog and cat are sleeping. The day has made us all a bit lazy.

I listen to many songs before I find the right ones for the day. Sometimes my mood determines the song; other times the day lends itself to the choice. Gordon Lightfoot and this song were perfect reflections of both on the first listen.


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Shining My Flashlight On the Moon: Christine Lavin

This is the title song from Christine Lavin's 1997 album. For me, Christine Lavin writes great stories put to music. She is funny, poignant, sad and introspective, and this album has all of those.


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"Every time a child says, "I don't believe in fairies," there is a fairy somewhere that falls down dead."

Being a little kid means believing. When my dad pretended to take my nose, I believed it was right there in his hand. I would feel my face and swear my nose was gone. I'd beg him to put it back, and he always did. My mother had this trick where she put a band of paper on one finger of each hand. She'd then put the two fingers side by side on the table. She'd raise one finger in the air and say go away Jack then bring the finger back. Jack was always gone. She'd do the same with the other finger only it was Jill who disappeared. I checked everywhere for those bands of paper, but they were gone. I believed my mother had magical powers. She'd do the reversal and say come back Jack then come back Jill, and they always did.

I believed if I wished upon the first star my wish might just come true. Even now, when I see the first star in the sky the old star light star bright comes unbidden to mind.

As Christmas approached, I was on my best behavior. It took no stretch to believe Santa Claus did it all in one night, his reindeer flew and he knew whether I was good or bad. The Easter Bunny did much the same thing but wasn't lucky enough to have flying reindeer and industrious elves. I never wondered how that bunny managed. I just accepted and believed he did. The tooth fairy did give me pause. I couldn't figure out what she wanted with all those teeth. That she had wings, knew I'd lost a tooth, found her way to my house and left money was never in question. I believed all of that. I just wanted to know what she did with all those teeth, still do.

Being a little kid meant the world had not lost its wonder. What was familiar was never commonplace. The chair became a house when draped with a sheet. That same chair was a rocket ship and the bow of a boat weathering the worst of all storms. All it took was believing.

Jack and Lucy: Delia Bell & Bill Grant

This song is from their Rounder days, from 1997's Dreamer.

Delia and Bill have performed together for over forty years singing bluegrass, country and gospel. This is soulful bluegrass at its finest.


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The Midnight Special: Cisco Houston

I doubt there's room for everything I could write about Cisco Houston. He became itinerant during the Depression, even travelled and sang with Woody Guthrie. He also sang with Pete Seeger and The Almanac Singers. He sang of the people he met during his travels, of the downtrodden, the cowboys, miners, union activists, railroad workers and hobos. He sang the the songs we all first heard during the folk revival of the 1950s and '60s.

He was one of those, like Guthrie and Seeger, who kept folk music alive, and he lived long enough before dying of cancer to see the folk music resurgance.


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"The art of teaching is the art of assisting discovery."

I remember a lot about Miss Francis. She had a soft voice, a spinster teacher hair-do, pudgy wrists and a thin watch. Every day she'd ring the bell to announce the start of Ding Dong School. I'd sit and listen to every word as Miss Francis always spoke directly to me. I remember once she washed a doll and explained about keeping the doll's head above water. Some how that made perfect sense to me. She taught me to grow plants from vegetables. She reminded me to hang up my clothes and help clear the table. When she'd ask questions, I always answered as if she were really in the room. I also remember that at the end of the program I'd be directed to get my mother and then leave the room. I did as I was asked, but I always wondered what it was Miss Francis didn't want me to hear. I have a few Ding Dong School artifacts. Some are Golden books with Miss Francis in a small circle on the cover. Another is a box of finger paints. I loved to finger paint. It always seemed as if I were getting away with something because I got to stick my fingers in paint and get all messy. My favorite artifact, though, is a collection of Ding Dong School rhythm band instruments. They take me back to my own days as a musician. I was a triangle player in my second grade's rhythm band, and we had quite the successful run playing to sold out audiences. Watching Ding Dong School every day made me wish I really went to school. But when I finally went, I was majorly disappointed. Sister Redempta had nothing whatsoever in common with my Miss Francis.

What a Difference a Day Makes: Lonnie Johnson

This is the extraordinary blues guitarist Lonnie Johnson. The album, The Complete Folkways Recordings, Lonnie Johnson, was recorded in 1967, three years before his death and is available through Smithsonian Folkways, link to the right.

Lonnie Johnson was one of the most popular African-American musicians of the 1920s. Go here for a complete biography well worth reading:
http://www.musicianguide.com/biographies/1608000968/Lonnie-Johnson.html


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By Yourself-A Lonely Woman Blues: Victoria Spivey

Today ended up being blues and Smithsonian Folkways day. I love that label and never begrudge the money I spend. They have preserved and released the most amazing music.

This is from The Blues is Life, a CD copy of an archival recording from the Folkways collection which includes the original audio, a reproduction of the original album cover and liner notes reproduced on an included PDF file. I have bought a few of these archival recordings and have found the quality amazing.

Here is more on Victoria Spivey:
http://www.redhotjazz.com/spivey.html


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"A good holiday is one spent among people whose notions of time are vaguer than yours."

Gracie and I are taking a ride today. We've done errands but haven't gone just for the sake of the ride. Gracie's loves the car and is a wonderful passenger though I do miss a bit of conversation. I talk to her, a sort of running commentary, and she looks at me the whole time I'm talking. I like to think of her as interested rather than polite.

I used to have calendars in my bag, on my bureau upstairs and my desk downstairs. They were neatly filled in with appointments, social events and a few reminders like pay house taxes, schedule an oil change and water plants. Each morning the alarm would wake me at the ungodly hour of five, and I'd stumble to the coffee pot. A couple of cups always made me feel slightly human again, and I'd read a bit of the paper. The rest of the before work morning ritual included getting ready, making my bed and checking my daily calendar. Last week I missed an appointment. It was written down, but I forgot to check. I apologized and rescheduled, but I really was a bit thrilled to find the calendar is no longer part of my daily ritual.

My aunt gave me a Cinderella watch for my first communion. I had learned to tell time that year, and I was thrilled to flaunt my accomplishment. I think I checked that watch every ten minutes and announced the time to anyone within ear shot. My mother must have thought this the worst gift of all. No longer would a few minutes suffice as an answer. I wanted to know exactly when and woe betide should she be even a minute late for I'd be right there saying, "But you told me," in that whiny voice seven year old girls seem to have. I began to understand time marches slowly. The end of day school bell took forever to ring. I know because I watched the minute hand for hours. I counted the minutes and hours until party time and tried to find reasons to be busy at bedtime. I had been drawn into the time vortex and was held enthralled for ages.

I don't wear a watch any more, haven't for years. I do have a couple which were gifts, but the batteries have died. I am no longer being held enthrall. Time has finally become mine.

A World of Our Own: The Seekers

While this was loading, I sat here singing along at the top of my way off-tune voice. The Seekers seem to invite a sing along with most of their songs. I remember being with my friends and driving around with the radio blasting. We'd hear this, turn up the radio and sing for all we were worth.

The Seekers never get old for me.


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Springtime in Alberta: Ian Tyson

This is from 1991's And Stood There Amazed. This song was one of the two big hits from this album.

I didn't realize for the longest time that Ian Tyson had moved away from folk into cowboy, western music. This song was, as I said, a big hit but in Canada, not in the US. That explains, in part, why it took so long for me to find him again.


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"We could never have loved the earth so well if we had had no childhood in it."

The rain is welcome. We have had little this fall, and it's been warm. I heard the heavy, constant drops outside my opened window when I first woke. The room was dark and chilly. The dog and the cat never stirred from sleep, never heard the change in my breathing. I decided to join them and tucked my feet under the dog, burrowed the rest of me under the covers and went back to sleep lulled by the rhythm of the rain. I slept two more hours.

When we are young, weather is an opportunity. A rainy day means puddles. We get to splash one another or, even better, ourselves when we stomp our feet smack dab in the middle of the biggest puddle we can find. Being wet was never of any consequence. We'd walk in the rain, stop to stomp and arrive home soaked from top to bottom. My mother fussed and had us change right away into dry clothes. We were then stuck in the house watching the rain from the window and sighing at all those wasted puddles.

Snow meant shoveling to my dad. He'd go out early, wearing his galoshes, the ones which snappped in the front, to shovel out his car so he could go to work. He was never lucky enough to get a snow day. He'd curse that he hadn't yet changed to snow tires then leave, driving slowly down our hill. The roads back then always seemed to be snow covered, even after they'd been plowed. We'd be inside champing at the bit and hounding our mother to let us outside. We never saw snow as inconvenient. For us, the snow meant snowmen, having snowball fights and building snow forts. I don't remember ever getting cold even though our mittens were caked in icy snow, our pants were soaked, our cheeks red and our lips blue.

We all cross the threshold from childhood into adulthood at different times. I don't remember exactly when it happened for me, but skirting puddles was the surest sign I was on my way.

Saturday Night Fish Fry: Louis Jordan

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Three Little Fishes: The Andrews Sisters

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Catfish John: Johnny Russell

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The Old Fish Song: The New Lost City Ramblers

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"Traditions are the guideposts driven deep in our subconscious minds. The most powerful ones are those we can't even describe, aren't even aware of."

The summer warmth of the last few days has given way to a cloudy, chilly day. With the Pats and the Sox both playing, I'll just stay home, channel surf between the two and enjoy a lazy day.

My house is decorated for Halloween. Bats, witches and jack-o-lanterns hang from hooks or sit on tables. Each night I go from room to room turning on the grinning pumpkins. On the mantle are my favorite monsters. Frank and his wife, the mummy, Dracula, the Wolf Man and the Creature from the Black Lagoon survey the room from their high perches. Stuffed rats are hunched on tables in the living and dining rooms. They look real, and I love them. Outside, orange lights are wrapped around the stair rail and a witch hangs from a tree branch. I'm ready for the big day.

Something about the holidays brings all the family memories to mind. For my sisters and me, traditions abound, especially between now and Christmas. Our houses are decorated with pumpkins and pilgrims. Every Thanksgiving we all serve my mother's carrot-squash dish. Creamed onions show up as usual as do mash potatoes, sweet potatoes and another vegetable or two. I make my grandmother's date nut bread. Lemon meringue pie has always been more welcome than pumpkin. We all make whoopie pies from the recipe my sister got in the fourth grade. Though the choices are now unlimited, I still put out nuts, M&M's and tangerines for parade watching, the same as my mother always did. I even have a really old bowl with a nut cracker and picks attached. I love holiday time, but I love even more that every time we celebrate a holiday, we remember and honor my parents.

26 Miles: The Four Preps

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Island of Love: The Sheppards

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Kokomo: The Beach Boys

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The Isle of Capri: Gaylords

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Gilligan's Island Theme

A lagniappe


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“My beloved Africa, the fauna, flora, sounds, and smells which you will hold in your memory for years to come.”

When I was in Africa, my students would literally translated their languages into English. They never told me they'd return. They said they'd go come. My favorite was when they said they had been to my house and met my absence. My students, who were from many different tribes, spoke more than one tribal language in addition to English, the national language. The locals spoke FraFra though most understood Hausa, which I had learned during training. Twi is the most widely spoken language in Ghana but in the south, not in the far north where I lived. Some of my Twi speaking students thought themselves in a foreign country. My far north was just so different from their south.

The savannah grasslands were spread as far as I could see. Family compounds with round thatched roofed houses dotted the land. Some compounds stood alone. They grew tomatoes, groundnuts and onions, but mostly they grew yams. The market was piled high with yams. They resembled stumpy tree branches. I ate yams just about every night. Mostly they were mashed, but sometimes I'd eat fufu made from yams. I'd go to town on Sunday with my covered pot, stop at a local chop bar and buy fufu. I'd also buy whatever soup the chop bar had made that day. Sometimes I'd eat my fufu with groundnut stew, other times okra or garden egg stew. I'd never had okra before Africa. It is just not a vegetable which ever makes its way to dinner in Massachusetts. My favorite was garden egg stew made with palm oil. I didn't have it often as both came from the south. I used groundnut oil for cooking. It was plentiful in my market.

The north was hot with an intense dry heat. A candle my mother had sent me melted before I got to use it. The post office and most of the shops shut down for a bit every day at the hottest part of the afternoon. At my school, it was siesta time. I always wondered how the word siesta found its way to West Africa.

Market day was every third day, and I loved my market. It was like a carnival without the rides but with all the colors and sounds. I went to the meat market first. The north had cows, and I could buy beef. I'd just point to what I wanted, and the butcher would hack off my piece, wrap it in leaves and hand it to me. With no refrigeration and lots of flies, I tried to get to the meat market really early. I had favorite market ladies. They sold me eggs and vegetables. My egg lady always held the eggs to the sun so I could see they were fresh. I never let her know I hadn't the faintest idea what I was supposed to see. My vegetable lady had tomatoes and onions. Once she had a small watermelon she'd saved just for me. My chickens I bought live. My last stop was usually for fruit. Green oranges were piled next to fresh pineapples. Bananas were still attached together, and I had to tell the market lady how many. She'd take her machete and hack off my bunch. By the time I left the market for home, my stretchy market bag had bulged beyond recognition. The chicken got to swing from the handle bars.

I loved my town and didn't leave it that first year until April. Peace Corps sent letters and suggested a few of us might want to come south and drop in to say hello. We did but felt out of our element. We couldn't to head back home, up north.

Barbara Allen: Cassie Franklin

I buy multiple sets of music featuring a variety of artists. They often give me a chance to hear someone new, and I have more choices for posting. This song comes from a three CD set called Essential Guide to Folk. Cassie Franklin I had heard only once before and know nothing about, and here she sings with Southern Brew, a name new to me. I had to go hunting.

From the liner notes: "One of the oldest known folk songs in existence, Barbara Allen is the story of an unrequited love that ends in tragedy for both parties involved. One of a new generation of American folk artists, Cassie was discovered with a group of sacred harp singers who were snapped up by T Bone Burnett to sing on the Cold Mountain movie soundtrack. She and the group Southern Brew demonstrate here the finest art of harmony singing."


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Fare Thee Well: Kate Rusby

When I hear Kate Rusby I am always amazed by the beauty of her voice, by the simple loveliness of her songs.

This is from 2005's The Girl Who Couldn't Fly.


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“I have no particular talent. I am merely inquisitive.”

For I while I tried to learn to play guitar. Spurred by Joni and Judy, I attempted chords and then songs, but my fingers hurt, and they never seemed to stretch enough. I am a listener of music. I don't even do well with a kazoo. I hum and hum, but the song is unrecognizable. If my life were dependent on my carrying a tune, I'd bid bid farewell to this world.

My friend could knit anything. She'd sit and knit and her needles would click with a furious speed. She tried to teach me, but my fingers just couldn't get those needles to work in tandem. I dropped more stitches than I knitted. I think I set a record for the number of dropped stitches in a single row of pearl. Check out Ripley's for my name.

I just have no rhythm. On the dance floor, the last place I'd choose to be, I hide in the middle of the biggest crowd I can find. I figure I can't be seen too well there. I never could keep the hula hoop moving either.

My green thumb is limited to keeping house plants alive. They get water and once in a while, if I remember, a bit of fertilizer. My outside garden isn't filled with flowers timed so I always have blossoms. I do have flowers, flowers I planted, but I have no idea what most of them are. People sometimes tell me one of my flowers is just so lovely, and they want to know what it is. I smile and say I have no idea.

I can't draw. My figures are always sticks though I do dress up my stick women with a triangle skirt and a That Girl do. My men are naked sticks though once in a while I add a hat. My friends and I played that game where you have to draw. I lost. No one ever figured out what I was drawing. One of my friends drew a claw footed tub. I think she even added scented soap. She won.

A long time ago I stopped wasting time worrying and fretting about what I can't do. I'm too busy still trying to figure out all the things I can do.

Rave On: Steeleye Span

I was taken aback when I first heard this song. What in the heck was Steeleye Span singing? It is just so different than I ever expected that I wanted a bit of background on this song. I found it:
http://www.informatik.uni-hamburg.de/~zierke/steeleye.span/songs/raveon.html

Maddy Prior is magnificient!


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Alright for Now: Mark Erelli with Jeffrey Foucault

This song is from Innocent When You Dream. It is a beautiful collection of lullabies and love songs. Besides this Tom Petty, you'll hear covers of songs by Tom Waits, Shawn Colvin, Townes Van Zandt and a couple of original Erelli songs.

The album was at first just intended for family and friends with children. Good thing he decided to release it more widely.


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"Clothes make the man. Naked people have little or no influence on society."

Boys never wore shorts when I was a kid. They wore jeans all year long, even in summer. On their feet were always Converse black hightops, and on top, to complete the ensemble, were what my sister calls Beaver Cleaver jerseys, striped and usually two tone. My brother wore short sleeves in summer and long in winter. In every picture of us back then, my brother is wearing what looks like the same clothes. Even now, he seems uncomfortable out of uniform, and I have only seen him once in shorts.

We girls were a bit more adventurous and wore shorts in summer, mostly Bermudas, and clamdiggers when they were in style. A sleeveless blouse completed the clamdigger look while regular blouses went with shorts. In winter we too wore jeans but also slacks. I remember my jeans always had a side zipper, usually hidden in the pocket. We wore big shirts with our jeans, white men's shirts. Slacks were a bit dressier and a sweater completed the look. For a while there, we wore our cardigans backwards. I used to button mine then slip it over my head. I can't imagine how silly I must have looked from the back though I thought myself quite smart and sophisticated. Fuzzy pink sweaters were all the rage one year. They were worn with black stirrup pants. We must have looked like a singing group.

We had to wear skirts and dresses just about anywhere important. Even when I was in college, women did not wear pants to class. It took sub-zero temperatures one winter before that changed. The college opened the door, we stepped through and never turned back.

Some styles won't stay dead and reappear with some frequency. Others should never be resurrected like backward sweaters and Nehru jackets, but they're for another post.

Come Back Liza: Harry Belafonte

This was recorded in 1955.


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Souvenirs: John Prine and Steve Goodman

I love getting songs, and this is one of them. A friend I've met through Coffee sends them, and he never misses with his choices.

John met Steve when he went to see the great man who had written what John called the Best Railroad song ever recorded. To paraphrase John from an interview: "I had heard that the guy who wrote 'City of New Orleans' was playing at the Earl and I wanted to go listen to him. I had this mental picture of what the singer would be like. I was expecting to see this real tall, skinny guy with a goatee and a real deep voice. "So I walk in and I ask if I could meet Steve Goodman and this little guy with long hair and a full beard walks over and I ask him if he was going to take me back to meet Steve Goodman and he tells me he was Steve Goodman."


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"Youth is a perpetual intoxication; it is a fever of the mind."

When I close my eyes, I see things as they were. The town seemed small back then as we roamed every part of it. I can still see the tracks winding off in the distance. We never did learn where they ended. We just figured it was some place amazing. I remember Miss Konopacka, my fourth grade teacher, lived in a house with no front yard. The door was right at the sidewalk. I used to wonder if she missed a yard. Across the alleyway from her house was the oldest cemetery in town. We used to peer through the bars at the gravestones and marvel at how long ago the people had died. The cemetery is still there, and you still have to peer through the bars. The town barn was not too far from Miss Konpacka's. We'd go by to peer inside and check out the horses. The junkman lived right around the corner. He'd yell if we got too close to his yard so we looked from afar. His house had a long porch and it and his yard were filled with newspapers and rags. We wished we could explore, but we were too scared even to dare one other. Our family doctor's house was around the corner. His office was on the first floor. I remember he was huge and used to sit behind a big wooden desk. He always wore a suit with a vest, and he was never gentle.

The dairy farm was a favorite stop. It smelled really bad which was, I suspect, a big attraction. Two horses were in a field not far from our house, and we tried, unsuccessfully, to ride them. A pond was a trip through the woods, and we'd take our raft and pole across to the other side then back again. Once we saw an old shack in the woods near our house. We sneaked inside and found what we called girly magazines then we ran home to tell our mother. She told us never to go back there, and we didn't.

We never ran out of stuff to do, and we never ran out of places to go.

It Takes a Lot To Laugh, It Takes a Train to Cry: Bob Dylan

From Highway 61 Revisited, one of my favorite Dylan albums.


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Sweet Forgiveness: Bonnie Raitt

This is the title song from a Raitt album released in 1977.


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"Life is a ticket to the greatest show on earth."

The morning is warm. The sun is brilliant in a deep blue sky, an autumn blue sky. I spent the morning on the deck drinking my coffee and watching the birds. The goldfinches have found my feeders. Four appeared this morning, their bright yellow chests a welcomed sight. I've missed them. It is sad that my mornings on the deck are numbered.

When I was young, the weekdays had a pattern, a routine. We'd get up, get washed and dressed then go down stairs for breakfast. I had cocoa, my brother tea. My mother always made toast
and sometimes eggs or oatmeal. We'd walk to school then stand in the schoolyard until the bell rang. The classes followed one after the other the same way each day with art and music thrown in once or twice during the week. My mother packed our lunches but sometimes, on a Friday, she'd give us money for a sub. We'd walk over to Santoro's, and, because it was Friday, I always ordered tuna with pickles and hot peppers. We'd go back to school, finish out the day then walk home with the same kids and follow the same route as the morning, only backwards, but we never once noticed it was routine. Our world was still filled with wonder and joy.

Walking on the street beside the curb and kicking piles of leaves into the air made the walk home fun. Throwing handfuls of leaves at each other was even more fun. Sometimes, we'd play tag and chase each other all the way home. We'd get home, run inside, give my mother a quick recap of the day, get out of our school clothes then hurry outside to play. We took advantage of every minute of daylight. Dragging ourselves inside early this time of year was soothed by watching The Mickey Mouse Club. After dinner, we were stuck doing homework but there was never all that much, and we could spend the rest of the evening watching television. Each night had special shows , some we waited all week to see. Bedtime meant groans, but they were more customary than real. The next morning it started all over again.

It took me a while to realize that life has a routine no matter what age we are. We get up and do much the same thing every day then we get older and move on to another thing we do every day. But in retirement I have found the key, the one we had in childhood and lost over time. Life is really an adventure enhanced by every day. It's up to us to kick the leaves.

Yesterday's Train: The Byrds

This is from 1970's Unissued.


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Time and Love: Laura Nyro

Laura Nyro is best known for the songs she wrote and not so much for the songs she sang. This is just small list of some of the songs Laura wrote: Stoned Soul Picnic, Save The Country, And When I Die and Stoney End.

She never really had much success as a singer. New York Tendaberry, released in 1969, seems generally to be recognized as her best album. This song comes from that album.

Laura died in 1997 at the age 49.


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“Fond memory brings the light of other days around me.”

I miss the sounds of trains. I miss the clack of their wheels and their loud whistles. I remember when the train came every afternoon, and I remember all the pennies we put on the rails. Even the tracks are gone now in my old town.

I miss the clatter of milk bottles. The milkman came in the late morning and replaced empty bottles with full ones. He had a metal carrying case, and the bottles clinked together when he walked. He wore a uniform and drove a small white truck with a giant red logo on the side. We used to wait on the steps to say hello.

I miss the man who drove the knife sharpening wagon. He'd come down my street and shout to announce his arrival. Mothers would bring their knives and scissors then chat while they waited in line. The cart had a whetstone, and the man pedaled to keep it moving. I was entranced by the revolving wheel and the screech as he sharpened each knife.

I miss vanilla cokes at the drug store and watching the soda jerk make the coke right there in front of me. The straws were always white and you had to lift the cover of the round jar to get one. We'd share a coke if money was scarce, and we'd each try to be the faster sipper.

I miss uptown with all the little stores. We had a creamery, a fish market, a five and dime, two drugstores, a luncheonette, a small men's clothing store, a Chinese laundry, a two chair barber shop, a bakery, a TV repairman and a cobbler. Going to the square was an event, and I loved to window shop before I'd spend my nickel or dime.The bakery is all that's left. My mother worked there during high school, and it hasn't changed a bit.

I really wouldn't want to live in the fifties again. I'm content with my own little world, but I miss the feel of a small town, and I miss all those people who have disappeared. I miss the milk man, the junk man, the knife sharpening man, the ice cream man and the garbage man. They made life more fun and a whole lot more colorful.