Where Do the Children Play: Cat Stevens

Tea for the Tillerman is one of those albums I'd bring on a proverbial desert island with me. It is still extraordinary even after all these years.


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Forever Young: Joan Baez

I'm generally a bit iffy when it comes to cover songs, especially Dylan covers, but seldom with Joan Baez and certainly not with this Dylan cover.

It appears on several of her albums including The Best of Joan Baez and Greatest Hits.


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“Doing research on the Web is like using a library assembled piecemeal by pack rats and vandalized nightly”

When I was growing up, my town had one movie theater, a bowling alley and Carroll's, the place to buy cheap burgers and fries, but these were weekend hangouts. Most of us were stuck in on weekdays because we all lived under the dreaded no going out on school nights rule. We, however, found the perfect way around that rule. We went to the best weekday hangout of all, the town library.

I love my computer, but I'm really glad it wasn't around when I was in high school. In those bygone days, a term paper meant research at the library night after night until the paper was done. There was no way around it, and no parent dared say no to a kid doing homework. If my friends miraculously happen to be there the exact same time I was, all the better.

I remember well my town library. The adult section, to which we could lay claim in the ninth grade, was filled on one side with wooden tables and chairs. On any given night from Monday to Thursday, all the chairs were filled with high schoolers far less interested in their homework than each other. Whispered conversations were about the best we could manage before we were shushed. An admonishment from the librarian was cause for giggles and quick looks over our shoulders to make sure we hadn't been heard. My friends and I, rebels that we were, sneaked one at a time to the upstairs stacks. Once there, we'd settle in and hold full blown conversations out of the earshot of the librarian. When we were done or when we figured we'd been gone too long, we'd make our way back downstairs to our seats. We'd ignore each other as if we were just passing strangers who happened to share a bit of upstairs stack time.

I remember times when the librarian would walk over to a noisy table to whisper in some kid's ear. Though the librarian was being circumspect, we all knew that whisper was akin to the kiss of death. Immediately afterwards, the kid would sheepishly pick up his books and leave the library without making a sound. That always made us laugh. I can't imagine what the librarian thought when she saw all those shaking bodies not uttering a sound.

On a weeknight, there was just no better show in town!

Banana Boat Song: The Tarriers

I'm reaching way back for this one, all the way to 1956. The Tarriers hit the pop charts with this song and was the first folk trio to do so. They also had a big hit with Vince Martin called Cindy, Oh Cindy. Maybe you remember the Eddie Fisher cover of that song!


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Little Annie: Uncle Earl

Uncle Earl is bluegrass and old time string music and all-female. The band, formed in 2000, was named in honor of Earl Scruggs and Steve Earle. Each member sings harmony and contributes lead vocals.

This song is from the album Raise a Ruckus. This is on the liner notes: " Some unknown lovesick songwriter --> Carter Family --> Vern Williams --> Laurie Lewis --> KC Groves --> Uncle Earl. The Carter Family called this one "When the Springtime Comes Again." Lead Vocal: KC. Harmony: Kristin."


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"Star Trek fans usually know the metaphors of life better than most mainstream poets. "

It was from watching Sergeant Preston that I learned huskies mush. Richard Boone was Paladin, and I found out later a paladin is a knight, a heroic champion, so his name made perfect sense. I have to admit, though, I thought his first name was Wire, like on his business card. I was, after all, only ten. On every western, the bad guys never won, and I took that lesson to heart. Unsung heroes went from town to town righting wrongs and saving the downtrodden. "Who was that masked man?" is still one of my favorite lines. I never saw much violence, maybe a few fist fights and a gun shot out of a bad guy's hand. Nobody swore except for an occasional golly darn.

It's true. I admit it. I am part of the first TV generation. I don't ever remember a time we didn't have a TV set in the living room. It went on in the late afternoon, after we'd come inside from playing, and we'd plunk down in front of it until dinner. On Saturday's we'd watch all morning. We watched TV to be entertained. We didn't want reality. We wanted the dashing Zorro and the strong but peaceful Elfego Baca. We wanted to laugh at the antics of Lucy. We wanted to root for the good guy.

Like Chauncey Gardener, I admit I watch TV. I don't watch westerns anymore, and I'm still not big into reality shows. I get enough reality from the paper or the news. I like to laugh, to be entertained, and I keep hoping, above all else, for the good guy to win.

Forty-Five Years: Stan Rogers

This is from Fogerty's Cove, released in 1976. All of the songs were written by Stan, and many on the album are among my favorite's of his.


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Never Coming Back: Lynn Miles

Lynn Miles is a Canadian singer-songwriter whose first album, Slightly Haunted, was touted as one of the best folk albums of the year when it was released in 1996. She has this absolutely beautiful voice and can effortlessly move between folk and pop with an occasional bit of country.

This song is from her latest album, Love Sweet Love released by Red House Records in 2006.


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“Memory is more incredible than ink”

Last night I was driving home sometime after nine. All I could think of as I drove was how extraordinarily beautiful the night looked. The road I took winds around cranberry bogs and is quite dark. With my high beams on, I could see trees laden with snow hanging on each side of the road. The lights from a few houses shined in the darkness and cast shadows on the snow. So few cars were out, I felt like a character in some where did all the people go science fiction movie. I sat at a light and looked down the empty main road. I could see the red of a far off traffic light. No cars waited. It made the night seem peaceful, serene. I had the world all to myself.

I collect cookbooks. I also collect snow globes, old photographs, old toys and memories from my childhood. My mother was the best at finding my childhood when she shopped for Christmas. Among her gifts to me were a Mickey Mouse Club wagon, a Hopalong Cassidy milk bottle, a Davy Crockett glass and golden books she remembered reading to me. The wagon was one of her favorite finds. It has pictures along the sides of Mouseketeers in their Friday talent round-up clothes. I look at that wagon, and remember sitting on the floor in front of the set watching The Mickey Mouse Club every afternoon and wishing I could be a Mouseketeer. My total inability to dance and sing never interfered with my dream. When I look at the Davy Crockett glass, I immediately think Davy, Davy Crockett, king of the wild frontier and remember all the lyrics. I remember Old Betsy and Georgie Russell and how silly Davy looked going to congress. The milk bottle says O'Fallon milk was Hoppy's favorite and a smiling Hoppy is one side. The bottle has a top section for the cream which brings up a whole slew of other memories: the milkman coming every couple of days, the sounds of the bottles clinking together, the cardboard tops which took the strength of ten to remove and the layer of cream sitting right atop that milk.

My house is filled with these repositories of my childhood. As I get older, they give me reasons to wax nostalgic, and I smile at the memories they bring.

Two Summers: The Seekers

Okay, I'm teasing you a bit with summer, but I am the one sitting in my house surrounded by snow.

This one is from The Seekers 1965 album A World of Our Own, the very first album of theirs I owned.


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Winter Song: Rosalie Sorrels

Rosalie Sorrels has been recording since the fifties. She has far too many albums to list, but her latest, My Last Go Round, was nominated for a Grammy. Rosalie tells stories woven with compassion for the people and places about which she sings. She has a special love for the songs and stories of Idaho where she lives.

This song is from a Folkways release called Folk Songs of Idaho and Utah. It was released in 1961 but is still available from Smithsonian Folkways.


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"Snow had fallen, snow on snow, Snow on snow, In the bleak midwinter, Long ago."

It's a snow day here on sunny Cape Cod.

The pine trees creak and moan from the weight of the snow. The familiar is buried. I look out my front door and see the snow swirling and spinning from the wind. I see my neighbor's paper sitting atop one drift, its orange sleeve bright against the snow. The plow has been by my street, but my house has yet to see a shovel. We are warm and comfy which is just about all that counts.

The wind has been blowing since last night. It makes the snow fall sideways. From my window, I can see brown leaves bouncing up and down on snowy branches, and a few birds who have found the newly filled feeders. One of the birds is a junco, and I expect the chickadees to be along momentarily. Gracie went out, reluctantly, then hurried back inside the warm house. She is asleep on the chair and snoring loudly. I haven't gotten dressed and have no idea when I will. Days like today are meant for fresh pots of coffee, warm fires and good books.

I have to go to a friend's for dinner, postponed from last night, but I will be hard pressed to go out into that cold, dark night.

Angel Baby: Rosie and the Originals

All these groups are listed as one hit wonders. I know someone will find another hit somewhere, but I found these songs on at least two one hit wonder sites so I'm sticking to my guns.


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Popsicles and Icicles: The Murmaids

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Little Star: The Elegants

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Ellusive Butterfly: Bob Lind

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"It is deep January. The sky is hard. The stalks are firmly rooted in ice."

Snow is coming. The predictions range from 2 to 6 inches. I've already bought all my necessary provisions. Let's see: Twizzlers, jalapeño poppers and a couple of pieces of pizza. I also picked up some suet and bird seed. The day is already dark, and the snow has started in earnest, earlier than predicted. I went out for breakfast, and the roads were emptier than usual. I'm figuring the hunkering down has already started. But for me, I love a winter's day like today with falling snow gently blanketing the ground, a roaring fire keeping me warm and my music playing, setting a mood, a sense of place.

Strangely enough, I haven't much to say today. I filled the bird feeders then spoke to my sister in Colorado, our Sunday ritual. I've been watching the snow. The house is quiet. An outside chime rings every now and then. I've brought the wood upstairs to start the fire. I'll end here, post my music, get comfortable and let the day pass while I'm comforted by the warmth of my home, the company of my pets and the joy of my music.

Yester-Me, Yester-You, Yesterday: Stevie Wonder

This is definitely Stevie Wonder this time. Thanks!


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Tomorrow's Gonna Be a Brighter Day: Jim Croce

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Yesterday: The Beatles

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Will You Love Me Tomorrow: The Shirelles

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“I've a grand memory for forgetting.”

I sometimes wish I could just shake my head and all the useless facts stuck in my memory drawers would fly off like the water from Gracie's back. Why some things stay while others disappear remains a mystery to me. I don't know what I'm doing in the kitchen half the time, but I know all the words to the theme from The Beverly Hillbillies and that Buddy Ebsen was the original tin man in The Wizard of Oz. I used to think I would be the clever one at all the cocktail parties. Guests would flock around me, martini glasses in hands, while I regaled them with stories and wildly interesting facts. They'd laugh and beg for more. That has yet to happen. I'm still waiting for my first invitation to a cocktail party. My sisters will sometimes phone for some trivial piece of information then grouse and call me colorful names when I remember. They figured I'd know but were hoping I didn't. My friends don't want to play trivia games with me. They claim it isn't fair. What they don't realize, though, is the older I get, the fairer it is.

All those facts are taking up too much room and blocking out essentials. I find my word retrieval skills at a new low. Simple everyday objects are just things or do-hickeys to me now. Lacking a name, I point or describe the object in detail. My mother used to tell us to go through the alphabet, and I find that works fairly well. Not thinking about the word works too. In the middle of the night I'll wake up and remember but forget why I wanted to know. I've expanded my synonym base of unknowns: whatever, gizmo, thingamabob, whatchamacallit, doodad and my personal favorite of late, thingamajig.

I see myself aimlessly walking the streets singing the theme song from Petticoat Junction. Someone will stop and ask if I need help. I'll be wearing post-its, one of which will have my name and address, so I can just point.

A Whiter Shade of Pale: Procol Harum

This is about the sixth song I've uploaded, but the others got deleted. They just didn't fit my mood. This song did.

I can't believe A Whiter Shade of Pale is forty years old. My head just can't get around that it was released in 1967. I have to admit I heard but never really understood the lyrics. They seemed mystical and filled with literary references, a decided 60's song which probably meant we weren't supposed to get the lyrics anyway. They just were.


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Come Rain or Come Shine: David Francey

You know from how often he appears here I'm a David Francey fan. He is a Canadian by way of Scotland where he was born. He sings stories; he sings of love, of loss and of the beauty of Canada. He sings of simple things but blows you away with the beauty of his words and music. I could go on and on, but if you listen, that should be more than enough.

This is from Skating Rink, David's third album released in 2003.


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“Contentment is, after all, simply refined indolence.”

The wind was howling outside my windows when I woke this morning. The dog was on one side of me while Fern, one of my cats, was on the other. They were soundly asleep nestled against the warmth of my body. I knew exactly how they felt as the thought of that cold wind made me want to stay cozy in bed; instead, I bit the bullet, got up, put on my slippers and sweatshirt, ventured downstairs then outside to get the paper. The grass had a sprinkling of snow and the look of tundra, of a vast frozen tract of nothing. It was cold.

Winter is the time of fewest people. The weather keeps us inside, keeps us to ourselves. When I was a kid, we had each other for company. My brother and I would pull out games, set them up on the living room rug and play all afternoon. Sometimes we'd go down cellar and ride our bikes round and round until we were dizzy or bored. Sometimes we'd just fight or harass our younger sisters. We never watched television in the afternoon, not much was on until Superman and The Mickey Mouse Club. Sometimes I'd hole up in my room and read the latest Nancy Drew or Trixie Belden. I'd lie in bed with the light shining on the pages from my headboard lamp and stay there until I either fell asleep or my mother called us for dinner. Weekends we were outside playing if the weather was warm enough. Saturdays we went to the show, on Sunday to church. Mostly we just saw our friends in school every day.

If anything, I see fewer people now than ever in my life. I do talk to one or both of my sisters most days and I often see my friends Tony and Clare. They live just down the street. Generally, though, I am left to my own devices. I still don't watch television during the day. It's not that I'm one of those I never watch TV snobs, but I just haven't wanted television to be my constant companion. Some days I putter around the house. Other days I read. My days feel filled. Gracie and I take rides together, but she's never one for much talking. I, on the other hand, keep up a constant conversation, and she seems to listen. I sometimes miss the interactions I used to have, and, if I crave company, I find some, but I am content with my life. I am happy.

Wood River: Connie Kaldor

Joni, Gordon Lightfoot, Ian and Sylvia, we can all name, but many other Canadian folk singers seem to go unnoticed by many in the US. Connie Kaldor is one of these. She is a Canadian from the prairies who recorded her first album in 1981, has toured all over the world, won the Juno Award three times, written countless songs and even a book.

This is the title song from a 1992 album.


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Thinkin': Steve Forbert

Steve Forbert moved to New York from his native Mississippi in 1976 and busked Grand Central Station from whence came his first record deal. This song is from his first album, Alive on Arrival, released in 1978. Romeo's Tune in '79 was probably his biggest hit. He has had some low points in his career and has bounced around a few recording labels. Just Like There's Nothin' To It was released in 2004. Forbert also released two compilations around the same time, Young, Guitar Days and More Young, Guitar Days.


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“He travels best that knows when to return.”

Vacations are filled with uncertainties. Planes are seldom on time, and luggage disappears in transit. Ordering from a menu needs a translation or a good guess. Strange foods rumble digestive systems. Legs get wobbly from walking. Mattresses are lumpy. No newspapers make the world a distant memory. The calendar and the clock lose their hold. There is but one certainty: when you're down to that last pair of clean underwear, it's time to pack for home.

While I was gone, my sisters decided that both of them would fly to Morocco to retrieve me if I broke my leg. They figure I'm prone to tripping and falling, a gene inherited from my father, and, sadly, they're correct. I have taken leaps off ladders and knocked myself out falling off my high back steps. I broke teeth tumbling down the stairs in my house and have tripped on my own pant legs more than a few times so they envisioned me stumbling over some stray animal, down steep steps or over my own two feet, not an unusual occurrence. They told me this when I got home so I didn't have the comfort of rescue while I was away, but they would have been the first ones I'd call from traction. I'll have to keep this in mind if I'm in need of company on my next trip.

Sitting here, in my flannel grubbies, my sweatshirt and slippers, I can hear the heat trying to beat the single digits outside. A few inches of snow are predicted for after midnight tonight. The sky is gray, the trees stark. The grass crunched when I went to the driveway to get the morning papers. Just a few short days ago I sat and was warmed by the sun of a Moroccan winter. I smelled spices sweetening the air and drank cafe au lait at an outside table. I heard Arabic and French. I ate fresh Mandarin oranges and tomatoes with the taste of August. I had the best time, but, all in all, I'm glad to be home.

Home: Sally Fingerett with Cheryl Wheeler, Jonathan Edwards

This is from Follow That Road: 2nd Annual Vineyard Retreat, a Rounder release from 1994. It is a two disc set of songs from the Martha's Vineyard Singer/Songwriters' Retreat.


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Carey: Joni Mitchell

This song is from Blue.


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“I see my path, but I don't know where it leads. Not knowing where I'm going is what inspires me to travel it.”

My last travelogue and I call this one I'll be there to get you in a calesh, honey. On another of my touring days, I took a petit taxi to the Saadian Tombs. I had to walk through a narrow, dark alleyway to a small door. Once inside the door, I found myself in a walled garden surrounded by beautifully tiled buildings, all the tombs of the Saadian Sultans. The first building was the Prayer Hall. The whole building is tiled inside, and the floor is covered with what looked like tiled parking spot markers but actually mark the graves of princes. I walked to the Hall of the Twelve Columns, the next building, and also to more tombs further on, these surrounded by marble pillars. One of the walls around the tombs is crumbling and has a few holes and ledges. I saw, seated high on the wall, a cat in the sun. Marrakesh, you see, is filled with feral cats. They wander into the restaurants, eat whatever they can find and all seem to be pregnant. I shared my dinner covertly under the table with a few who wandered my way. They were happy to share.

From the Tombs, I tried to find my way to the Mellah, the old Jewish Quarter. The directions were a bit cryptic, but a man kept saying Mellah and pointing. Good thing too as I would never have found my way. Small alleyways lead to larger streets which finally led to the Jewish Quarter. I knew I was there when I saw carved wooden balconies off the second floors. These were the houses which used to belong to the Jews who once numbered in the thousands in Marrakesh. My guide took me to one of the two remaining synagogues, and I stopped to admire its beauty. My guide wanted to continue, but I gave him a bit of money and started on my own and found my way to the Bahia Palace and finally to the Maison Tiskiwin. The palace has courtyards, gardens, tiles and cats. Maison Tiskiwin is a private house filled with a collection of decorative arts from Morocco and the Sahara. What amazed me was the leather work from the Hausas which looked exactly like the passport case I had had a leather worker from my market make for me in Ghana.

Another day I had a cooking lesson which started with shopping and ended with wine. It doesn't get much better than that. I rented a calesh, a horse drawn carriage, one day and went to gardens on the outskirts of the city. Other days I wandered the souks, ate wonderful food, sat in cafes to watch the world go by and satisfied, for a bit, the wanderlust I've felt for a long while.

At the end of each day I returned to Riad Azzar and the welcoming greetings of the wonderful staff. I know you already figured this might be a sort of hotel, but a riad is far more than a hotel. It is a traditional Moroccan house with a garden and a central courtyard. Marrakesh has several riads which have been renovated and are now open for guests. They are down quiet alleyways in neighborhoods and provide peace from the pace of the city outside. My riad is over a hundred years old. It has six rooms for guests, a dining room, a sort of living room and a rooftop terrace. You rang the doorbell, and the person closest to the door let you inside. At night, the courtyard was candle lit and wonderful African music played. It was the best place to come home to every night.

My adventure was all and far more than I'd hoped.

The Maiden in Bird's Plumage: Gordon Bok

This is from Apples in the Basket, Gordon Bok's latest released in 2005. This song is a translation of a traditional Danish ballad. The beauty of Gordon Bok's songs and his clear baritone always makes me feel comforted somehow.


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When I Was a Young Girl: Barbara Dane

Barbara Dane first started singing in the late 50's and was labeled Bessie Smith in Stereo by jazz critic Leonard Feather. She is known more for her blues and jazz recordings, but her start was in folk.

She recorded this at the Ash Grove in Los Angeles in 1959. The song as she sings it is almost soulful, less the folk of the late fifties and early sixties and more of a traditional ballad.

This song comes from the album Barbara Dane Tradition Years: Anthology of American Folk Songs. It was originally released on vinyl in 1959 but has been re-released on CD.


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"Certain thoughts are prayers. There are moments when, whatever be the attitude of the body, the soul is on its knees. "

I call this Moroccan travelogue is that the muezzin I hear. When I was at my live-in during my Peace Corps training, the bedroom where I stayed looked onto the back of the mosque. Most days I was not there to hear the calls to prayer, but I was always there, asleep, when the imam would sing the dawn call. From that simple mud mosque came one of the most beautifully haunting sounds I'd ever heard. I'd wake, listen and then gently fall back to sleep.

In Morocco, mosques are throughout the city. Though the calls to prayer are not recorded, they are sung through loud speakers. The sound is tinny and sometimes the words are difficult to distinguish. The dawn call woke me up most nights, and I'd listen then fall back to sleep. When I was out walking, I'd hear first one mosque then another and another as the muezzins would sing the call. On my last night in Marrakesh, the lights went out in my part of the city. I was in my room reading but went back outside where candles were lighting the night. They dotted tables and walls, the area by the small pool and each of the rooms. They gave the riad such a glow it seemed as if I had been thrown back in time. The owner of the riad called for wine, and we sat and talked. Then, from the darkness of the night, I heard that same beautiful sound I'd remembered from Ghana. The muezzins were singing the calls to prayer and none were through a loud speaker. The sound was as haunting as I remembered and as beautiful. There I was, sitting in the dark, cool Marrakesh night listening to the call to hasten to prayer. I knew then that I had been blessed with a singular experience.

I was sorry when the lights returned.

Martin Luther King Day

And so let freedom ring from the prodigious hilltops of New Hampshire.
Let freedom ring from the mighty mountains of New York.
Let freedom ring from the heightening Alleghenies of Pennsylvania.
Let freedom ring from the snow-capped Rockies of Colorado.
Let freedom ring from the curvaceous slopes of California.
But not only that:
Let freedom ring from Stone Mountain of Georgia.
Let freedom ring from Lookout Mountain of Tennessee.
Let freedom ring from every hill and molehill of Mississippi.
From every mountainside, let freedom ring.

And when this happens, when we allow freedom ring, when we let it ring from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when all of God's children, black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual:

Free at last! Free at last!
Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!

From Martin Luther King' s speech delivered August 28, 1963, at the Lincoln Memorial, Washington D.C.

Ballad of Martin Luther King: Mike Millius

This is from a Smithsonian Folkways album called Broadside Ballads Vol. 5 Time is Running Out, part of the archival collection but still available.


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Crazy in Alabama: Kate Campbell

This is from Visions of Plenty, Kate Cambell’s third album. The song is about the civil rights movement during the 1960’s.


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Too Many Martyrs: Phil Ochs

Written by Phil Ochs and Bob Gibson, this song was performed by Phil Ochs as The Ballad of Medgar Evers at the Newport Folk Festival in 1963 and was his response to the death of Medgar Evers.


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"Half the fun of the travel is the esthetic of lostness."

This one I call two roads diverged and I took the wrong one. Most days I took a trip through the souks. Sometimes I had a destination in mind while other times I'd do a bit of shopping. One of my trips was to the Musee de Marrakesh. The directions were easy: head into the rue Semarine souk, go left at the t where you smell wood shavings from the furniture souk then immediately take a right and you should be on a main road, should being the operative word. I never did find the main road but instead I found spices piled high in the brightest of colors, jars of olives, rugs hanging from crumbling walls, bread sellers and skewers of meat. The Moroccans, used to the bewildered looks from tourists, would ask me where I wanted to go. They'd say No Tour to let me know money wasn't the objective. I'd then get my directions and most times actually found my destinations.

One of those follow the yellow brick road adventures led me to the Musee de Marrakech. Its best feature was a lovely cafe just outside the museum where I stopped for a breather and some cafe au lait. The musee had little, a few photographs of old Marrakesh, but the building was magnificent with a central courtyard. I did my wanderings, visited the bathroom, an opportunity I never passed up at any building, then moved on to the next site, right beside the musee , the Medersa Ben Youssef. It had been a school teaching Islamic scripture and had the most beautiful courtyard surrounded in tile and cedar and was filled with windowless cloister type rooms where the students lived. I wandered through the whole building then moved to the Koubba, right down the main road. It is a building dating from the founding of Marrakesh, and I wandered through the ruins. Above me, I could hear an American reading the same description I had read from my guidebook. I sat for a bit in the shade then faced the trek back to the Place. I decided to take right turns only and took one after the other until I found my way, or stumbled upon my way being the better description.

The sun was always the most welcome of sights.

Hang Up My Rock and Roll Shoes: Chuck Willis

Think C.C. Rider and Chuck Willis should jump to mind. His first hit, My Story, was released when he was 22. It went on to rise to #2 on the black charts. In 1956 he again hit it big with It's Too Late, following it up with C. C. Rider. Willis died shortly after his thirtieth birthday, and What am I Living For and Hang Up your Rock and Roll Shoes became hits after his death in 1958.


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Chattanooga Shoe Shine Boy: Red Foley

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Boots of Spanish Leather: Bob Dylan

This is from 1964's The Times They Are A-Changin'. I remember all of Dylan from back then.


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I've Got Sand in my Shoes: The Drifters

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Midnight Special: Lead Belly

"Huddie Ledbetter, better known to the world as “Lead Belly,” survived a life that included brutalizing poverty and long stretches in prison to become an emblematic folk singer and musician. He is renowned for his songs - the best known of which include “Rock Island Line,” “Goodnight, Irene,” “The Midnight Special” and “Cotton Fields” - as well as his prowess on the 12-string guitar. In his sixty-plus years, he essentially lived two distinctly different lives: first, as a field worker, blues singer, rambling man and prisoner in the rural South; second, as a city-dwelling folksinger, performer and recording artist in the urban North. It was, however, not until shortly after Lead Belly’s death that a broader public came to know his songs and the mythic outline of his life." (Taken from the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame web site)

On January 20, 1889 Lead Belly was born in Mooringsport, LA. You can find this song on a Smithsonian Folkways collection called Classic Railroad Songs from Smithsonian Folkways.


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"Great things are done when men and mountains meet. This is not done by jostling in the street. "

I'm calling this travelogue She'll Be Coming Round the Mountain. One of my excursions was to the Atlas Mountains. My riad made the arrangements and a car and driver were hired for the day. He was a Berber, and we would be headed into some Berber villages in the mountains. The first part of the trip was on a regular road leading out of Marrakesh though along the sides of the road was anything but the usual. I saw herds of goats grazing, donkey carts hurrying by with that funny little movement from the donkey's trotting, small stores selling just about anything and restaurants tucked away in the fronts or even the backs of houses. I felt like the spectator at a tennis match. We then reached a spot where we left the main road for an unpaved road, almost a track. At first were groves and groves of olive trees, bare now in the Moroccan winter. People walked along the sides of the road or on paths visible from the car. The road wound and wound upward. I could see the snow capped Atlas Mountains getting closer as the road began to narrow. The driver stopped so I could take a few pictures. He stopped at one field with small stones jutting from the ground and explained it was a Berber graveyard. The stones are left unmarked. As we continued, the road had stretches where it had washed away a bit so we went into four wheel drive. From where we were, I could see far behind us to where we had been with its twists and turns. We passed through the main part of a village with its stores. We passed its empty market waiting for the next market day. We moved higher and stopped at a house where we were to have lunch. It was home to a Berber family who spoke no English. I got a tour. Two cows and a donkey in one section, a small hammam which is like a steam room, the old kitchen with an oven, the new kitchen and finally the living room with a TV. We sat in the living room and lunch was brought. We ate with our hands from the common bowl using bread to scoop. It was a chicken tajine. We finished with mint tea. I visited the necessary, a hole in the ground, and was glad for the skill I had learned in Ghana. I thanked our hosts and we headed back to Marrakesh.

We made one stop at the village we had passed through earlier to a building where they press the olives. Outside the building bags and bags of black olives from the different growers waited for pressing. Inside the building, the smell was so strong as to be a bit unpleasant. On one side of the room an old millstone turned and turned while on the other side of the room new presses seemed to squash the olives. Drums of oil filled the middle of the room. I took a few pictures and escaped to the fresh air.

We returned to Marrakesh.

On the Way Home: The Buffalo Springfield

It was always regrettable for me that Buffalo Springfield lasted such a short time. They made some really fine music together but released only three albums before their break up in 1968. This is from Last Time Around, a prophetic title as it was their last album.


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My Little Grass Shack: Teresa Brewer

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Down Home Blues: Etta James

This is one of those pure Etta blues songs. It's from her 1992 album The Right Time which was a collaboration between Etta and Jerry Wexler. The songs came from Stax and its Southern blues archives.


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The House Song: Peter, Paul and Mary

This is a song for listening. It is one which always touches me, now more than ever as we are getting ready to sell my mother's house. The rooms there are empty now, but I remember the fun and the laughter we shared in each of them, especially the kitchen.


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"Home is a place not only of strong affections, but of entire unreserve; it is life's undress rehearsal, its backroom, its dressing room. "

Bon jour! I arrived at Logan late and didn't get to my hotel until 11:30 last night which, for my tired old body, was 4:30 am. No sleeping on the plane. It always seems as if the only person who is able to recline his seat as far back as it will go and sleep through the entire trip always sits in front of me. I did watch two movies, Frasier and Friends.

I have to say the trip was wonderful, but I am thrilled to be home. Driving on the expressway toward home this morning, I was nearly giddy. It was my reverse version of Goodnight, Moon with a hello to the Corita gas tank, the snow, the cars and, finally, the Sagamore Bridge.

I'll need days to tell you about my trip, but I'll try to give you a sense of the place and my stay. Each morning I'd go to the rooftop terrace for petit déjeuner. From my cushioned seat I could see the snow-capped Atlas Mountains and sometimes hawks riding the thermals. I drank freshly squeezed orange juice, ate fruit, sometimes freshly made yogurt and breads. One bird dropped by each morning and sat beside me eating his crumbs. The coffee was delicious, and I lingered over a couple of cups. Most days I then walked to the internet cafe, checked my mail and took a peek at Coffee. From there I headed for the Place Djemma al-Fna. Some days I took a caleche, a horse drawn wagon, to my destination. Sitting high on the seat, I always felt a bit like Cinderella. The horses' hooves made the most wonderful sound as we'd go up and down the streets. Once at my destination, I'd take guidebook in hand and do some touring. I'd usually walk back to the Place where I'd stop to have a cup of cafe au lait at the Cafe du France then head back to my riad for an hour. Later I'd go out to eat, sometimes at one of the restaurants or at the tables set up every night in the Place. At night the Place was filled with the smoke from food cooking, conversations in more languages than I can identify, musicians playing drums and pipes, women wanting to henna my hand, snake charmers and sellers of fruit, shoes and gewgaws. I loved walking through and listening to the sounds of Marrakesh.

Other days I did some wandering in the souks and a bit of shopping as well. I'd walk around one corner to a souk then to another then to another, all of them looking alike. Once I happened on the spice market and other times I found the egg market and the chicken market. I always hoped the next corner would bring me to see the sun and daylight so I could find my way out of the souk. I eventually did. Sometimes I'd happen on a small place for lunch. Once I was led to a lovely garden restaurant where I had tagine with meat and egg. I lingered there a while and drank mint tea.

The nights were quiet, and I'd get back to my riad, sometimes have a bit of wine then shower and read in bed. I would be awakened during the night by the calls from the mosque. I'd listen then fall back to sleep.

I want to say that I am thrilled that Coffee was left in the most wonderful hands. Ralph, thank you from the bottom of my heart! Merci, mon ami, mercie!

L'accordéoniste: Édith Piaf

Piaf is a part of my music bedrock and I could write an entire post about her. She was my first true musical passion, before Joan and Joni, before Judy, before Buffy. I discovered her in high school, as a freshman French student. "Milord" had had its US release the year before, 1960, and had been a huge hit; it was in the American consciousness. I figured the song might help me with my French, so I bought the album it was on. I was hooked. I now own virtually everything she ever recorded from the 1930s until her death at 47 in 1963, after innumerable auto accidents, personal tragedies and addicitons. She was a wizened old woman when she died. If life is a fatal disease, Piaf had an especially virulent case. Yet she embraced it all and through her voice remained compelling and vital right to the end.

This song is quintessential Piaf. She tells of a streetwalker who, when she is done with her work, goes to relax at a dance hall where an accordionist plays. She becomes mesmerized by the man's "dry, sinewy" fingers, and just watches him, never dancing. They have an affair, she falls in love. They make plans to start a business when he comes back from the war, but he never comes back. She becomes sad and her business suffers because "men don't like girls with sad faces." She goes back to the bistro, where there is new accordionist. She tries to forget her sadness and loses herself in a frenzy of dance, and then suddenly cries, "stop the music!"



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Lilac Wine: Nina Simone

I first heard this song when I was in college in 1968. I had been well aware of Nina Simone before then, but this haunting song was an immediate all-time favorite. It deepened my interest in Simone, but none of her other work has ever supplanted this song in my list of favorites.


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Come see me at my place.

Well, everyone, Mama Kat resumes her customary place here tomorrow, so this is it for you and me, at least in this venue. I've enjoyed this job immensely, so much that I've finally fallen off the fence and decided to add my own voice to the cacophonous blogosphere. I will do my first post tomorrow, January 19, at http://www.daysoftransition.blogspot.com/. Steve and I are headed for some very big changes over the next couple of years, and I want to document that time. The format will closely follow this one, but with a few changes. There will be color pictures. There will be music reflecting my own eclectic interests. Folk will be there for sure, but so will 50s and 60s pop, R&B, doo-wop--even some classical, and definitely some foreign. Everything that makes the musical me, me. (Some day I might even play my own stuff, if I ever transfer my tapes to MP3.) And since food is one of my passions, I will have "Food Fridays," with a favorite recipe, either one of my own that I've developed over the years (with a picture of what it's supposed to look like), or one that's already out there but deserves your attention. Writings will be all over the map, as they are here, but when something big happens that's part of our planned move, I'll talk about it.

I just love Coffee and feel so fortunate that Kathy re-found me after all those years and invited me into her delightful world. The sense of community here is palpable; that is thanks entirely to her welcoming persona as it translates to these pages. She creates a comfortable space, a virtual back fence for us to share music and chat over. I only hope I can do half as well.

There is really no goodbye, or even farewell, to say. I'll be back here in the comments, and I hope that at least some of you will come and visit me at my place. Either way, see you soon.

Turbulent Indigo: Joni Mitchell

A moody song for this moody morning. The snow is falling...somehow it fits. It's from the 1994 album of the same name.

Some people call Joni's nicotine- and overuse-ravaged late voice the sound of character and experience. I call it a croak. But the guitar work remains gorgeous and the musical taste impeccable. And, of course, this spot-on evocation of Van Gogh is heartbreaking. In spite of the croak, I love this song.


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Question Of Etiquette: Martha Wainwright

In this song Martha continues the Wainwright tradition of airing the family's dirty laundry through their music, usually in funny, ironic ways. Here Martha tells of her first meeting with and impressions of her father Loudon's new, much younger, girlfriend. Must be nice to be able to telescope messages to your family this way....


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“Of course, you haven't got to decide, but think about it”

I am starting stone-cold this morning. I know what my music will be and I've found my picture, but I still don't know what to write about. I've spent the entire morning playing with music files. Computers are wonderful things but they are particular, aren't they? It can take quite a while to convert things to your way after the computer has had its way.

One of the first lessons I learned about myself is that I must have structure before any creativity I possess can express itself. If you give me a piece of whole cloth, I'm at a loss. But if you give me some kind of model or idea, I can run with it.

When I applied to the Peace Corps, I told the placement people I wanted to teach English in French-speaking Africa. But I graduated from college in December, and those Africa TEFL programs didn't leave until June. This was in late 1968 going into 1969. Viet Nam? That pesky draft? Peace Corps placement officers, God love 'em, knew when the young men among their applicants were scheduled to be called for that alternative patriotic opportunity, being cannon fodder for the war, and made it a priority to snatch them up first. They knew that if they waited six months to get me in, they may never see me, so they invited me to a "community development" program in Panama, scheduled to begin training in February, 1969. "Community development" is in quotes because this is and always has been the Peace Corps euphemism for "drop you in the middle of nowhere, give you a good luck kiss, and let you figure out what to do." Of course, I didn't know that at the time.

Naïf that I was, I jumped at the chance. I was honored to be chosen and ready for the adventure, not to mention totally ignorant of my innate capabilities. I went to Puerto Rico for training and felt as if I'd met the family I'd always wanted. I loved every last thing about it. Well, except for one small matter: what my "job" was supposed to be in Panama. We had a small taste of it very early on when, with about two weeks of Spanish under our belts, we were driven, individually, to tiny rural Puerto Rican villages and left to fend for ourselves for a weekend. There I stood, the tall skinny gringo with his Samsonite suitcase and snappy lightweight sports jacket, at the foot of the hill leading into the dirt-road village of Quebrada Ceiba. I trudged up the hill and saw a church. That's the first and last time I was ever actually grateful for the existence of churches. I figured whoever ran that church had to be nice to me or risk eternal damnation, so I walked in. I was right, the pastor was nice, and he showed me to the house next door. In the ten or so words of Spanish I sort of knew, I explained to the people in the house who I was and why I was on their doorstep. They were unbelievably gracious. They let me sleep in a spare room, fed me, and walked me around the village. (Another first and last: I was awakened by a chicken. No, not that ubiquitous country cock crowing at dawn. A chicken. In my room.) The man of the house took me to the sleepy little bar, where over beers I attempted to converse with him and the other locals.

So that was great for a weekend. Training continued and I still loved it, but......the crowning event at the end was to be another stay in the same village, this time for a week. I dreaded that prospect because by then I had learned that first basic truth about myself: I need structure. I stayed on with training, trying against hope to convince myself I could do it, but I knew that even if I succeeded again in Quebrada Ceiba, I just couldn't face two whole years of living that way in Panama. So on the day when everyone else was preparing for their second rural stay, I slunk into the administrator's office and told them I couldn't hack it. I knew this meant quitting the Peace Corps and exposing myself to the draft once again. It also meant leaving the most wonderful group of friends I had ever had. But reality is a harsh taskmaster. I went home. I eventually did get into the Peace Corps, of course, but that's another story, perhaps even a novel.

Thank God for the Peace Corps. It's the perfect remedy for writer's block.

Other Side To This Life: Fred Neil

After a prayer to the audioblog goddess in which I promised, "No more Eddie Fisher!" she relented and finally allowed me to post this song. One of my lifetime favorites.


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Useless Desires: Patty Griffin

Of the hundreds of songs I've learned about from Coffee, this is among the top 5. It was last posted over a year ago. I decided it could usd a repeat.


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“Never under any circumstances take a sleeping pill and a laxative on the same night."

There's a common observation made by people as they age. Maybe you've uttered it yourself. It's always some variation of, "one day I looked in the mirror and saw this old man/lady. What happened??? I still feel like I'm 25!"

That's the thought that runs through my mind every time I look at all the pills I take. And the thing is, I'm not even sick. I have one medical condition, high blood pressure, that needs treatment. And even my blood pressure wasn't considered a problem until fairly recently, when the rules changed. What was once "borderline high" is now just "high"; thus, I am on pills for it. The fact that one of the drugs is a brand new one, prescribed only as a last resort after nothing else would work, and so will cost an arm and a leg for the many years before a generic can be sold, could give me a stroke....that is, if I weren't taking the drug to prevent a stroke.

Snarky comments aside, I am truly grateful for the new knowledge that calls for this more aggressive treatment. My father had the same "borderline high" blood pressure for his entire 89 years, the last several of which were very unpleasant because of a series of mini-strokes that slowly sapped his humanity. He died of congestive heart failure--all those years of his heart working needlessly hard took their toll. No thank you.

I take one other pill recommended by a doctor, a low-dose aspirin, which makes sense all things considered. But everything else I take is by my own choice.

I have to say here that I have extremely high sales resistance. I have no problem slamming phones and doors in the ears/faces of unsolicited hucksters. I zap through the ads on my pre-recorded TV shows and do a slow burn when I'm forced to sit through them on the rare first-run commercial shows I may watch. I ignore ads in print media unless I'm looking for a specific product. I shop basically on proven quality and value; Consumers Reports is my bible, and bandwagons of any kind have no appeal for me. I usually arrive very late at a fad, waiting to see if whatever the phenomenon is has true staying power. By which time it is no longer a fad.

So the pills I take have proven themelves to me. I've tried taking my morning walks without glucosamine/chondroitin and find it impossible. The stuff works, at least for me. Fish oil supplements became a no-brainer as I saw more and more scientific reporting on its many benefits. We eat very little fish, so the handy capsule it is. A decent multivitamin rounds out the daily regimen.

I'm not really complaining. Others must take many more medications than I as a matter of survival. I have the luxury of choosing to take a few things just to make my life better even than it is already. But the gradual growth of my collection can occasionally take me by surprise, like looking at that old stranger in the mirror.

We'll Sing In The Sunshine: Gale Garnett

Gale Garnett is originally a Kiwi who came to us via Canada. This song simply could not be avoided in 1964, one of those things you that tired you at the time but has aged well. She is still active in show business, with a career in acting.


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Cindy, Oh Cindy: Eddie Fisher

This 1956 offering was the closest Eddie Fisher ever got to folk music. It was a cover of a simultaneous release of a now-forgotten group; Fisher had the hit. It was later covered by the Beach Boys.


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"Sometimes questions are more important than answers."

So. "Jeopardy!" is having its online tryouts on January 29. Here on the east coast, you have to log onto the website at 7:30 PM, to be ready for the contest which begins at 8. I'll be there, just as I have for the last couple of tryouts.

It seems so easy, couch-potatoing it with my empty dinner plate in front of me, knowing the answers to all those questions. Sometimes a Final Jeopardy question seems so easy you wonder how it could have been considered even for the first round, much less the final. But then there are those online questions. Are they...harder, or something??? Somehow, I've never been called for an audition......

The TV quiz shows were one of those rare things we as a family could enjoy together back in their black-and-white 1950s hayday. Groucho Marx and George Feniman were a great team. One of their sponsors was DeSoto cars ("Its de-lightful, it's de-lovely, it's DeSoto!"). I didn't get all of Groucho's jokes, but I laughed along uproariously anyway, if only at those eyebrows. And now that I do get the jokes, it's amazing what he got away with, considering the self-appointed moral police wh0 today flood the FCC with complaints at the slightest verbal slip.

Sixty-four thousand dollars was such a princely sum it was considered worthy to be the name of a TV show. "That's the $64,000 question" is now universal shorthand to signify an issue of paramount and pivotal import. Of course today, depending on your family situation, you could be in utter poverty if all you made was $64,000 a year. (But I'd still be grateful if it fell in my lap. In ones, tens, or twenties. I wouldn't be picky.)

And boy, did we believe in the premise of those shows, that with sheer brainpower and grace under pressure you could get ahead. Charles Van Doren, pictured above, was a hero sweating in that booth, miraculously coming up with the answers to the most arcane questions. When he was caught cheating, it created a national crisis and congress called hearings. Alas, one more chink in our innocence.

Here's my promise to you: when you see me on "Jeopardy!" I'll have reached that soundstage by sheer sweat and brainpower!

Bon Jour, Mes Amis

My feet are threatening to secede from my body. I have walked and walked through the souks and around the Place. Today I went to Saadian Tombs, a petit taxi ride to and a long walk back to here. I am on the way to my riad to leave my jacket and then walk more. The Moroccans stop and ask if I am lost and point me in the right direction. To get home I head toward Koutoubia Mosque, the highest point in Marrakesh. The streets are filled with bicycles, mobilettes, donkey carts, taxis and caleches, horse drawn wagons. They honk at me constantly as I am so busy looking around I forget to look behind me.

Cats are every where. They are feral. I see some sleeping in the sun on the walls of the medina and curled together in plants. They roam the food stalls at Jemaa El Fna hoping for scraps. I obliged.

I am still amazed by all I see and hear.

Let The Mystery Be: Iris Dement

I have an old friend who in his late 50s has become what I call a "born again atheist." Like any convert, he'll talk your ear off about his newfound beliefs, or lack thereof, with or without an invitation. Back when his diatribes were still interesting, I'd engage him, and try to tell him how I feel about the whole question of religion. This song says it best.


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Green River: Creedence Clearwater Revival

What music could be more emblematic of a certain period of our shared history? I know Creedence brings as many different memories back as there are people to have memories. For me, it's the Peace Corps.


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"You're only as good as your last haircut."

I need a haircut. I'm starting to get that onion dome cathedral look, like those buildings on Red Square. At age 62, I admit it's nice to be able to say that I still have a pretty thick head of hair. The only thinning that's taken place is right in the front, where the hairline is receding into what my mother used to call a widow's peak. (I guess on a man that would be a widower's peak?) What was once jet black now is more a gun metal silver, and about that I have no complaints. Whatever the color, it keeps my head warm.

I always liked my hair and wanted it long and kind of floppy. This was not the thing for a boy to want in the 50s, when we all were supposed to have crewcuts or flat tops. Or, if their hair was kept long, it had to be plastered into some kind of wavy thing in the front with a smelly substance such as Wildroot Cream Oil or "a little dab'll do ya!" Brylcreem. My parents and I had the same argument every time I needed a haircut. They always won, of course. When the Beatles came along and liberated men's hair I felt vindicated, like I had been on the cutting edge in my pre-adolescence. I wanted a Beatles look before there were any Beatles.

Frank and Rick, the guys who cut our hair, used to have a shop, but they closed it about 15 years ago when their rent went up and started going to their clients' homes to render their services. For years we called these visits "haircut parties" because every six weeks we'd get all our friends over for drinks and let Frank and Rick go to town. We had a great time and the boys cleaned up, even at the low price of $20 per haircut. (Okay, yes I do remember the 25-cent haircut. But nowadays paying only 20 bucks feels almost the same as paying a quarter.) They do the best work we've ever had done on our hair and we dread they day the decide to retire. Over the years they have also become great friends--true friends, the kind who are there when you need them. It is they who take care of the cats and keep an eye on our house when we are away. The cats love them and come running on haircut nights. They've seen us through crises and even forgiven us for a harrowing night when we were away and our security alarm system went nuts while they were in the house.

Life sweeteners like Frank and Rick, their haircuts and their friendship, are what it's all about. What would we be without them?

Love Letters: Ketty Lester

This song is the inspiration for today's "letter" series. An all-time favorite of mine all the way back to when it first appeared in 1962. A bold move and a ground-breaker in light of the condition of pop music at the time.

I haven't heard much about Ms. Lester since (I always thought she deserved a stellar singing career) but Wikipedia indicates she's been slogging away in one branch of showbiz or another all these years. Good for her, but I wish she'd sing more!


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The Letter: The Boxtops

I always thought this song was great in spite of the group's silly name.


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Take A Letter, Maria: Johnny Rivers

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Love Letters In The Sand: Pat Boone

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"You can't make an omelet without breaking eggs."

"Sorry I'm late," he said, out of breath as plopped himself down at his computer. "Electrical work."

As may be guessed by my sedentary preferences, what I call "upheaval," having to take things apart, throwing them around, leaving them awry, even in the cause of making things better, is anathema to me. Steve's project today is installing a light in the closet at the bottom of the stairs. It's a closet whose contents have not been examined in, oh, 25 years. We open and close the door to hang up coats and to stash things for which there is no other logical place. It's become a stand-up version of the old kitchen "junk drawer" where you might find Jimmy Hoffa without too much effort.

My Sunday morning project is always reading the paper. But this morning our two projects clashed. As I was peacefully trying to read the Post's opini0n of DC Mayor Adrian Fenty's meeting strategy regarding the closing of selected schools, Steve, not ten feet away and with what can only be called diabolical glee, began throwing crap all over the living room. Coats. Empty hangers. Christmas carol books. Old crochet yarn. Vacuum cleaner parts. Pillows. Afghans. (I mean small blankets, not Hamid Karzai's relatives.) A tablecloth too big for the dining room drawers.

When there is a mess, I have no choice but to clean it up. I just can't stand the disarray. So with great reluctance I put the paper down and walked to the pile of stuff and began to make sense of it. In a few short minutes I decided which coats could go to the local charity and which we could keep. How many hangers to recycle at the drycleaners. And what could be just thrown away. I made my own omelet.

Steve has stopped for lunch. He knew I was waiting to get here and turned the electricity back on for an hour, so I'm taking the window offered. This part of the blog, the writing, is easy. Finding a picture and publishing the songs takes a while. I must strike while the omelet pan is hot.

I Only Have Eyes For You: The Flamingoes

Here's what a prig I was in 1959, when I was all of 13 and this song came out. I was actually offended that this classic was being "ruined with that silly shebop shebop." Thank God we grow up. Now I think it's one of the sexiest and most stylish things ever recorded.

"I was so much older then, I'm younger than that now."


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Big Brown Eyes: Red Jacks

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Them There Eyes: Billie Holliday

Any excuse to hear a bit of Lady Day...


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Crazy Eyes For You: Bobby Hamilton

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"There are no ordinary cats."

Whew. Another morning of scurrying around. More old friends called this morning. They're visiting a seriously ill relative from out of town, subsisting on food handouts and cheap restaurant meals, and crave something home-cooked. I thought I'd have my post finished by now, but I had to do a last-minute grocery run. So I'm missing "Car Talk" to do this for you guys, but it's worth it. I really am finding this even more fun that Click and Clack!

We've had one or another set of cats with us since we got together in 1979. We started out with a combined "family" of two cats each. Four furry creatures proved a bit much, so since the time we were able to reduce it to two, that's where we've stayed. We both believe having just a single animal is not good for the animal. Despite the folklore, domestic cats are not really solitary creatures. Two cats do appreciate each others' presence. The occasional hissing and spitting sessions are more than made up for by the cuddle time they often engage in.

We used to let our cats out in the back yard, which has a high privacy fence. We knew that they were regularly finding ways out of the yard, occasionally catching one or another trying to slink unobtrusively back after being seen across the street, but lived in denial about how often that was occurring. One night, though, one of our very favorites just up and disappeared without a trace. It was July 14, 1989, our 10th anniversary. Shobby was around on the 13th and utterly disappeared by the 15th, never to show his little face again, and to this day we have no idea what happened to him. From then on, none of our cats have set their paws on anything but carpet or hardwood floors.

We get our cats for free, from the classifieds in the newspaper. They have all been progeny of barn cats. Once they're home with us, we insist on a deal. If we agree to let them live in the human world, treated like little kings, with more good food and great playtime than they'd ever dreamed possible, they have to give up a few things: front toenails and testicles. (We always get males because they seem to have the more personality.) The de-clawing, we know, is controversial, but as far as we can tell cats don't know what they're missing. All of ours have still acted like they have claws, pawing at poles and batting at things. Since they don't go outside, self-defense is not an issue. The idea that somehow cats are denied some kind of "right" when they lose their claws is ludicrous to us (um, what about that castration?). It's saved countless pieces of good furniture and created an overall happy atmosphere for everyone under this roof.

By now you may have devined that we are not the types who say, with resigned smiles and mock exasperation, "We don't own cats. They own us!" Because my mother had a phobia about cats, none were allowed within her sight when I was growing up; I had a dog for 10 years, whom I loved. Steve's mother, on the other hand, instilled her fear of dogs into her kids, and that family definitely were not cat people, so Steve grew up with no pets at all. We think of our cats basically as members of the family and take them as they are, letting them just be cats (okay, to the extent that's possible without claws and testicles). We know what kind of play they like and indulge them often. Ivan, ("Ivy" for short) is white with big gray tabby splotches. He's 11 years old going on 6 months, a perennial kitten, who follows Steve around like a dog, up and down steps, into the bathroom, just staring up at him. Nicholas is a big yellow tabby, 12 years old. I suppose he is more "catlike," preferring to bake his brains next to the space heater in the rec room, sitting meatloaf style, over just about anything else. Until we have company. Then, he saunters into the crowd and greets everyone with his gargly version of "meow" and collects rubs and scratches galore.

We are anticipating a big change in our life in the next couple of years (more about that towards the end of my time here in Kat's chair), and are contemplating adding a dog to the mix, but I'm still not sure. Much as I love that big, loopy grin only a dog can bless you with, our cats have given us boundless joy for years. Not sure we can deal with both. Decisions, decisions........

Hello from Marrakesh

I am sneaking in on Ralph to let you know I am alive and well.

Marrakesh is above all else noise; the sounds of people chatting, of shopkeepers urging you to come inside, the melodic drums for dancers, the pipes qnd flutes of the snake charmers, mobilettes whizzing by, the clops of horses and donkeys and the calls from the mosques. It is also color with reds and oranges and blues. I have walked the souks; gotten lost and then found my way only to get lost yet again. This internet cafe was shown to me by Hassan. Outside a small boy is drumming, and I can hear the shopkeepers talking to each other in Arabic. Music is playing from a near by store. If my punctuation is poor, the keyboard is not even close to what I know.

Today I went into the Atlas Mountains; tomorrow a cooking lesson. Tonight I rest my weary bones. I will drop another line when I get the time.

So Early, Early In The Spring: Judy Collins

A gorgous example of production and guitar work completing a song. The melody has beautiful mystery to it, and the accompaniment suggests the stormy waves upon which the boat is riding.


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Sail Away: Randy Newman

Here is Randy Newman at his brilliant, smirky best. I've always thought of "Sail Away" as how a used-car salesman might try to sell slavery to the Africans.


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"Freedom in routine. Confidence through self control. Energy within and energy without."

I have broken my routine today. It's a rainy morning so I decided not to take my walk; didn't even wake up until 6 AM, a virtual sleep-in for me. Haven't read the paper because I wanted to get some things together for Coffee, and then an old friend called before 9 AM and we chatted for several minutes. Here I am at 9: 30 and I'm just getting started.

When I retired in 2003 I made a conscious decision that I would take better care of myself than I ever had while I was working. Not to put too fine a point on it, I am prone to what can appear to be sloth. My pursuits tend to be solitary and quiet--reading, listening to good stuff on the radio (Diane Rehm, Terry Gross, Ira Glass), writing. If I didn't force myself to move, I could easily sit in virtually one place all day long and have most of my needs met. Although I love conversation and good fellowship, and am a complete ham onstage, I am essentially a loner. I never imagined myself married in any sense of the term, and consider myself beyond fortunate to have found someone else as solitary as I am and who understands the need I have for my own space. (Although here I have to say that Steve is much more a man of action than I am and doesn't really get my rich internal life. He has projects galore that he pursues. Alone.)

So as a form of self-discipline, I have developed several routines whose effects tend to make my life more rounded. I start my day with a 3-mile, 45-minute walk up and down the hills here in the neighborhood. This is considered "moderate" exercise by the experts. It's a great cardio workout and helps control my weight. I have no interest whatsoever in any sport, and exercise on equipment is boring. I've been taking long walks off and on since I had a paper route as a teenager, so the walking is a good match.

Another routine has to do with food. I know I love eating too much for my own good, so I have routinized breakfast and lunch. I have the same things every day, yogurt and fruit, varying the flavor of the yogurt and type of fruit. I don't have to give any thought at all to what I'm going to eat, and it leaves all the room I want for dinner. It also frees me up to go hog-wild every now and then when the spirit moves me.

When I was looking for quotes to title this entry, most of what I found about routine was negative. Routine is thought boring, stultifying, a discouragement to creativity. The one positive quote I found was from a yoga master. How fitting. I don't do yoga, but I do know that yoga routines are done routinely, as it were; the ancient discipline apparently teaches the lesson I found for myself: routine gives you the freedom to concentrate on the big stuff, the fun stuff.

There But For Fortune: Joan Baez

I know there's a large contingent which believes anything but the original Phil Ochs version of this song is a sacrilege. For me, it has its charms, but Baez's guitar work here blew me away from the beginning. I couldn't rest until I learned that pick.


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Sweet Surrender: John Denver

To be honest, this is one of the few John Denver songs I like, but this one makes up for all the others. I love it.


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"Food, glorious food!"

If I come from musical people, I also come from tall people. My mother and father were born at the turn of the 20th century and were 5' 7" and 5' 11" respectively. My mother's father, born in the 1860s, was 6' 3". When I was born in 1945, I weighed 8 lbs. 11 oz., and I guess I was, as they describe those who cannot yet stand up, "long." So long, in fact, that the doctor confidently predicted that I would grow to be 6' 3". (Turns out he cheated me by one inch.) My mother often told the story that as a baby I cried constantly. The doctor told her I was just hungry, so she started feeding me oatmeal at three months. She had to cut the tops off the rubber nipples so the thick stuff would flow through from the bottle.

I've had a love affair with food ever since.

As a culture, when it comes to food we seem to have gone off in two opposite directions at once since the so-called food revolution that began in the 1960s. On the one hand, we have embraced a literal world of ethnicities in our foodways, and interest in cooking has become such that fortunes are being made by celebrity chefs; we have an entire television network devoted to nothing but cooking. On the other, more and more people are eating more and more of their meals in restaurants, and the loss of time for and interest in cooking that some say the women's movement inadvertently fostered has been decried. With my hat off to women's empowerment, I do regret the latter phenomenon, and if some men are coming in to fill the void, that is only fair. At bottom, whoever is in the kitchen, cooking is so much more than drudgery. Serving a well-prepared and delicious meal is a great act of love: it is literally life-sustaining. And as we lose the recipes handed down from generation to generation, we also lose an important part of our cultural heritage.

My mother was the ultimate housewife and took great pride in what came from her kitchen. If she had come along a little later, I've no doubt she would have embraced and learned to cook some of the ethnically diverse foods we now take for granted. As it was, she was a plain cook who knew how to flavor things well and use fresh ingredients. (And speaking of cultural heritage, from time to time she would sneak in some real eye-openers, such as smoked finnan haddie braised in milk, an Irish--um--"delicacy" brought to these shores by her grandmother. We're talking smoked haddock sitting in a pool of warm milk and butter, folks. With apologies to Irish readers, I guess some things really are better left buried in the past. Or just buried.)

As I grew older, my mother would let me start dinner if she was out when I came home from school, or she would leave the ingredients of a meal and directions for me to follow if she and my father wanted to go out. Even if this was nothing more than putting potatoes on to boil, or throwing together a simple shrimp salad, say, it taught me the importance of timing and sensitivity to flavors created by the amount of this or that ingredient. When I got to college and finally out of the dorm and on my own, I couldn't wait to start cooking for myself and creating the smells of home. The first real meal I made was beef stew, and it's still one of my favorites.

In Steve's and my partnership of 29 years, I have cooked just about all of our dinners. When we first bought this place we have been living in since 1981, we were house poor, to say the least. There was no way could we afford restaurants. I realized the only way we could eat well was if I created the meals myself, so I set us on an eating adventure that continues to this day. Before the magic of the internet and Epicurious, my primary resources were the Washington Post food section and the two-volume Doubleday Cookbook, and I still go to the books for basic recipes. By now, my food interests lie in virtually every direction, but I still love unearthing something new, simple and delicious made from plain ingredients. In my next life maybe I'll write a cookbook.

First Born: Kate and Anna McGarrigle

In keeping with today's theme of musical families, I'm sharing my favorites, the McGarrigle sisters and Kate McGarrigle's son, Rufus Wainwright. Here's Kate singing about the birth of Rufus.


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Greek Song: Rufus Wainwright

This is the most joyful musical expression of being young and in love that I have ever heard.


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"If music be the food of love, play on. He didn't say on what, but I think you get the idea."

My mother never said so, but she could easily have taken my newborn squealing for singing, because music was something everyone in my family did, and, if I may so so, did it well. To say that I was born to music is an understatement. I've no doubt I was conceived to it. In the womb, the first sounds I heard after my mother's hearbeat were probably my then 9-year old sister practicing classical music on the piano, and my mother singing Tin Pan Alley tunes. It was a foregone conclusion that I would take piano lessons. I did for many years, but never really mastered the piano. Singing, however, was as natural as breathing. Family and neighborhood get-togethers always included a sing-along around the piano, always with my sister playing, or, lacking a piano, achieving tight a cappella harmonies with whatever voices felt like joining in. My father didn't sing; he played the banjo. He and my mother in their 1930s hayday would go to parties with a pickup mike and a speaker and get everyone singing the pop songs of the day, my mother leading.

I sang in all the school and church choirs growing up, and in my late teens picked my father's banjo, from which I graduated to the ukelele (same tuning) and thence to the guitar (again same tuning, just more strings). My first guitar was a Sears Silvertone from my parents. In college I got a good Gibson, which traveled with me to Ghana and the Peace Corps. And then it was in Ghana, of all places, where I got my prize, a 1964 Martin D-18, which I still have. I got it essentially on trade for my Gibson from somebody literally passing through the country soon after I had arrived.

While in the Peace Corps I started writing my own songs and made plans for a future in music. Well, I must say that at age 25 it was high time I planned for something. I had gotten by my entire life up to then basically on a smile and an engaging personality. I had made no plans whatsoever; could never decide on a major until my junior year in college, when I chose French by default because at the time there was no such thing as an undeclared major and French was easy. I must admit that anyone observing me at the time could with some justification call me a slacker, although I never felt like one. I was intensely involved with life; just not with anything that might provide for a secure future. Priorities, you know. Literally, I was learning who I was. That took every ounce of energy I had, and I've never regretted it.

Life went on. Over a period of about 8 years I wrote several songs, most of which I'm still proud of. But I discovered two basic truths: for me, it's more fun to be at a party than to be the party, and the life of an entertainer is one of constant worry about the next gig. More than anything else, I wanted security. I had lived on the edge long enough.

Music for me is like eye color, breathing. It's an immutable, necessary part of life. But it now has its proper place alongside myriad other immutables and necessities. I identify strongly with entertainers of all stripes and understand everything they do. But watching and being thrilled are enough.

Disinformation: Buffy Sainte Marie

Here's the real thing. Again, my apologies to anyone who tried to listen before. A sure sign I'm new at this stuff!


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Roots Of Love: David Gray

This song is played over the closing credits of a very obscure, straight-to-DVD film we rented. I loved it immediately, looked for it, and discovered it's on none of Gray's major album releases. It was nearly impossible to find.


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“To learn to read is to light a fire; every syllable that is spelled out is a spark.”

Reading and music have sustained me for as long as I can remember. I'll talk about the music tomorrow, but I can say now that my earliest memory involves a combination of both reading and music. I clearly remember scattering a pile of those huge old 12-inch 78 rpm records and finding "Sabre Dance." I knew what the label looked like, if not what the words said. That I was less than is three years old is certain because of the house I was in and also because the records, on the floor, were an easy reach for me. (I grew to be 6'4"and now picking up anything off the floor requires a bit of planning.)

Since I was a November baby, the county decided that at 5-going-on-6 I was too young to start school in September 1951, so I had to wait until I was 6-going-on-7. My mother used that year to teach me how to read. Up until that time, she had read to me and encouraged me to "help" her. Bedtime stories were from the Uncle Wiggly book. Nap reading was either magazines, or better, comic books that she read to me. The comics became my primers. And I do mean comics. Funny books, featuring the great cartoon characters of the day: Bugs Bunny, Donald Duck, Woody Woodpecker, Little Lulu. These days there is a cult around the "comics" that featured action heroes and monsters, but it's one of the modern phenomena that I don't get. "Comic" means funny, and all of my early reading made me laugh. I was never interested in those scary things.

I graduated to picking up any book that was in the house to see what I could get out of it. Two books stand out, both funny: a collection of single panels about Hazel the maid, by Ted Key, and the riotously funny panels by New Yorker cartoonist George Price, "Is It Anyone We Know?" I was reading these and laughing at them before I started school.

I discovered Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys when I was left alone to explore an old aunt's house while my parents visited. I climbed to the attic and found piles of these yellowed, seemingly ancient books from the 1930s. References to "roadsters" with "running boards." Children who called their fathers "Father." Girls who wore "frocks." It was a world far different from my own, somehow more mature and stylish, and I jumped right in and swam. I was more involved with the lives these books described than the stories themselves. Same with Archie comics, which I discovered at about 10 or 11, right on the cusp of adolescence. Here was an unthreatening group of teenagers, in which the super-cool and the jocks were taught lessons in humility while the regular kids dealt with life's hurdles in a good-natured, humorous way. I wanted my life to be like that and when I hit high school I was lucky enough to find some other kids with the same outlook. We weren't the stars of the hallways, and we certainly lived through our teenage traumas, but we sure had fun together.

Now I read just about anything I can get my hands on. I am a news junkie and read the Washington Post religiously. I constantly have several magazines and a book going, and am a habitué of the library. In books I gravitate to biographies and novelized history--I'm about to begin the last in a series of books by Colleen McCullough about the end of the Roman Republic and the rise of the Empire.

I know I'm smarter now than when I was a dumb college student. It's all that reading.

"Goodbye, Farewell and Amen"

Today my friend Ralph takes over Coffee for the time I'll be away. You probably recognize his name as I’ve mentioned him often. You'll find his first posts below this one.

Ralph and I met on the very first day of Peace Corps staging in Philadelphia in 1969. He was behind me in the check-in line, and we chatted while we waited. We became friends, and I used to visit him in Kumasi on my way north to Bolga. I still have pictures in my memory drawer of training in Koforidua, of Ralph, his guitar and his foot in a cast, broken during training. We’d sit on the grass at night and sing as Ralph played. We lost track of one another, and I serendipitously found him again. He is still the Ralph I remember, older maybe but no less and a whole lot more.

I’ll be back on January 19th, probably tired but definitely spilling over with stories about my trip. I can’t wait to share.

Coffee is being left in wonderful hands.

I played this song a while back when I first booked this flight, but it’s a perfect way to start my adventures. Marrakesh Express!


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Avenging Annie: Andy Pratt

If you were in Boston in the early 70s this song will ring some bells. Andy Pratt was a local one hit wonder with this song, and what a great wonder the song is. I love its energy and its saga-like feel. Andy still has a music career and he has a cult following beyond Boston now, but unfortunately he never lived up to his stunning early potential.


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If You Were A Sailboat: Katie Melua

Katie Melua is one of the reasons why I keep saying the Brits have better taste in music than we do. She is a young Georgian (as in the former USSR) now living in Ireland. She is currently a sensation in Europe. We've never heard of her, as usual.


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"There is no substitute for excellence - not even success"

Those of you of a certain age will know what I mean when I say I feel like Joan Rivers at the desk of Johnny Carson. Joan became the permanent substitute for Johnny when he took his many nights off. She hoped a permanent gig would come of the constant, friendly showcase, and she was really quite successful at that desk, but she never got the hoped-for tap to follow in Carson's footsteps when he quit. If I decide to branch off on my own at the end of this 10-day experiment, I hope I have more success than Joan did in her endeavors. But we'll cross that bridge when it comes. Meanwhile, I must try to substitute for excellence.

If I make occasional reference to "Kathy" in these pages, know that I mean your Kat. I am part of a group of people who has always known her as Kathy--some of her Cape Cod compadres also call her that--and try as I might I've found I just can't change.

Kathy's loyal readers will recognize my name. I'm the Ralph who often weighs in with some rather long, and I hope interesting, postings of my own in the comments sections. With all the other great writers who contribute comments here regularly, I have no idea why I was chosen to take the reigns here--I haven't asked--but I am beyond flattered. I promise to try to be as interesting in my daily postings as Kathy is in hers, but we aren't the same people, so there obviously will be differences. Vive la différence, I hope! Let's have some fun!

Far Away Places: Bing Crosby

Rita first sent this song to me and said it should be my anthem. I played a Willie Nelson cover a while back and thought I'd play Bing today.

This song touches me. I hadn't heard it when, in the sixth grade, I promised myself I'd see the world, but it is everything I wished back then.


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That's It, I Quit, I'm Moving On: Sam Cooke

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Trains and Boats and Planes: Billy J. Kramer & The Dakotas

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Chant of the Wanderer: Sons of the Pioneers

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"I have no special talents. I am only passionately curious. "

My adventure starts tomorrow evening on a 6:10 flight, and I couldn't be more excited. My preparations are nearly complete, and this time they were a lot different than my long ago trips. This morning I ran off all the information I'd copied about Marrakesh from the internet. I e-mailed copies of my flight information, the hotel web address and my Yahoo e-mail to friends and family. I have packed soap sheets for hand washing on the go, some antiseptic wipes just in case and some throw-away toothbrushes for use on the flights. I have a big bag, a carry on and a handbag which is really an over the shoulder bag with lots of pockets. I'm leaving room for the gifts I always bring home, the ones my sister calls just because gifts. On Tuesday at this time, I'll already have started exploring the souk, maybe even found myself just a little lost in the twists and turns of the alleyways.

I have been most fortunate in my life. I have been to so many places and seen wonders to behold. I have ridden a camel in the Sahara Desert and stood on the equator. I have been in the land of the midnight sun. Once I skimmed across the tops of trees in a rain forest canopy ride. I looked out the windows of Machu Picchu and into the mirrors of Versailles. I saw the ruins of the Coliseum and watched a dinner show at the Eiffel Tower. I went through the Panama Canal and lived in Africa for two years. My life has been filled with surprises, and I am always thankful.

California: Joni Mitchell

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California Girls: The Beach Boys

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California Dreaming: The Mamas and the Papas

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California Blues: John Fogerty

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"Hand in hand, with fairy grace, Will we sing, and bless this place."

Sometimes I'm driving with my faithful companion Gracie when I just have to stop. In front of me is all the usual, the trees, the sun or the ocean, but the ways they come together are so amazing a few wows just jump right out of my mouth. The sun glints through bare branches. The ocean roils, and the white caps look icy cold. The flats have a desolate look, and the sea grasses are tipped with frost.

Gracie runs and runs around the backyard tossing snow behind her and leaving yeti size paw prints. The birds fly in and out of the feeders and sing their songs as if it were summer. Even my house gives me pause. White lights shining from the windows highlight the yard dusted with snow. The red of the Christmas lights glows brightly in the dark. I'm always awed.

I thought when Christmas left so too would the beauty and the color. My house and yard would be drab, wintry dull, but I was wrong. This is the time of the year when even the most commonplace seems touched by magic.

Come All Ye Fair and Tender Ladies: Ian and Sylvia

Ian and Sylvia are frequently posted here. They have long been a favorite of mine.


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The Right Way To Do the Wrong Thing: Cheryl Wheeler

This is from Sylvia Hotel, a 1999 release. The words and music are Cheryl's.


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"When preparing to travel, lay out all your clothes and all your money. Then take half the clothes and twice the money."

If leaving for a trip meant only packing, I'd be much happier. Instead, I have lists. Yesterday I checked off calls to the bank, newspapers and credit card company. In between, I've been stripping the house of Christmas and am down to the lights on the tree. I bought labels for postcard addressing, a cheap watch, books for the plane ride and a French-English dictionary. I've been to the drugstore for prescriptions and today I'm going to the bank and the pet food store. I need to sandwich in a dump run, a stop at the grocery store and a fill up at the gas station. I also need to change the bed, do laundry, write out a list for my house/pet sitter including emergency numbers and send my flight information to family and friends. Mind you, this is all before I even fold and pack a single piece of clothing.

The old days were so much easier. I'd haul out my backpack and roll up my clothes, usually just an extra pair of pants, a couple of shirts and underwear, then shove them in the main compartment. In the side pockets went a book or two, plastic bags and duct tape. My carry everywhere bag went across my shoulder and had my passport, my meager pile of traveler's checks, my Swiss Army knife and the relevant pages from a guidebook. I was good to go for a month or more.

I wish I were content traveling on a shoestring again, but I've found the older me likes being clean and comfortable. Sleeping on a moving bus or train is no longer the best way to save money. Carrying tubes of condiments has stopped being my idea of fine dining. Washing up at a sink just isn't enough though I did get quite good at it and could even shampoo. Nope, I want to shower every day and sit down when I eat. I want a comfy bed and clean clothes, or mostly clean clothes. I want to stay long enough in one place to unpack. I want to arrive home as clean as when I left.

Sometimes in Winter: Blood, Sweat and Tears

This song is from their self-titled album released in 1969. I think I wore out my first LP of this album and had to buy another. Three singles from this album went gold: You've Made Me So Very Happy, And When I Die and Spinning Wheel. It also won two Grammy Awards.


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Winter Boy: Buffy Sainte Marie

This song is from the album Little Wheel Spin and Spin, released in 1966 on Vanguard. It was her second album.


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"Winter is the time for comfort - it is the time for home."

The world outside my windows is bone chilling, just about the coldest so far this winter. Snow showers have been falling since yesterday. The wind is blowing and fluttering the brown leaves on the oak trees. Snow flakes whirl and spin in the air. The sky is a light gray. It makes the day feel colder somehow. The sun will not make an appearance.

If I had my druthers, I'd stay close to hearth and home today, but I have errands. Gracie and I will bundle up then brave the elements together. She has a beautiful new coat from L.L. Bean, and I just bought myself one on sale. We'll be stylish and warm.

We walked to school every day all winter and had to walk around or across the field at the bottom of the hill on which we lived. Never all that eager to get to school, we went around the field in the morning, the longer route, then ran across it in the afternoon, eager to get home. On days like today the wind whipped across that field giving it the look and feel of tundra. Snow drifts were piled around the ladders and poles of the playground. The tennis courts below, empty of nets, were filled with snow. I remember the trail of footprints we'd make as we ran across the middle of that field, but it never lasted too long. The wind and snow saw to that. We'd get to the other side of the field and run as fast as we could up the hill. My house was just about at the top. My mother was always there to greet us.

Don't Think Twice It's All Right: Bob Dylan

This is from Dylan's second album, The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan which was released, and I gasp here, in 1963. Besides this song, the album is filled with the most amazing Dylan songs including Blowin' in the Wind, A Hard Rain’s a-Gonna Fall and Girl from North Country.


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Caravan: Van Morrison

I looked for more background on this song and found this Wikipedia description which is far better than I could ever do:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Caravan_(Van_Morrison_song)


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“One travels more usefully when alone, because he reflects more”

The kitchen counter is piled with Christmas. Every time I get up and about, I remove more and more of the season. The tree will be last. I still light it every night and on these gray winter days. The lights, the aroma and the beauty of that tree will be my lasting memory of this Christmas.

One of my Christmas presents is a journal to take with me to Morocco. It's a bit heavy, and my friend said she'd be glad to return it if I thought it onerous. I thought it a wonderful gift. I don't usually remember to bring any sort of a journal. I use my pictures to jog my memories and fit as much of my adventure on postcards as I can. I have also been known to use a receipt or the backs of envelopes for a note or two. This trip, however, will be the one I chronicle. In the past I've always had traveling companions, and we'd sit at the end of the day remembering all we'd seen, all we'd done and all we'd eaten. For this trip, though, I'll have only my memories, my impressions of all I've seen. All the wows will have to be on paper. I'll sit in the shade of a tree, sip coffee and be the consummate traveler. I'll describe everything I see. I had to laugh when my friend, who can draw, suggested I use the pages for sketching. I imagined page after page of stick figures. No, I am a lover of words, and they will fill my journal.

Happy New Year To You: The Qualities

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This Year's Kisses: Billie Holiday and Lester Young

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"Be always at war with your vices, at peace with your neighbors, and let each new year find you a better man. "

In Ghana, canon fire boomed to greet the new year, and roasted goat was the celebratory meal. Last night it was noise makers and Buffalo wings. I wore glittery socks under my slippers. We counted down with the Times Square ball, shouted Happy New Year, hugged each other and greeted 2008. We wondered, as we do every New Year's Eve, how any year can speed by so quickly, almost without notice.

New Year's Day feels anti-climatic. It has no outward trappings. No family arrives to help celebrate the day, no brightly wrapped presents sit under the tree, and I haven't had a single mimosa. The excitement is in the greeting.

I have great hope every new year. Somehow I can't help but be the eternal optimist. Maybe this year we will learn to live in peace. Maybe this year no one will go hungry. Maybe this year we will share our wealth of resources with those who have so much less. Maybe this year we will honor the earth. I live in hope.