Saturday, February 28, 2009
"You don't look at each other on the subway."
I drove to Quincy last night, left my car and took the subway to Cambridge. The ride going was so filled with people I could barely distinguish one from another. The ride back was an entirely different story. It was late, and the longer I stayed on the train, the fewer the people who remained. It was a strange world, this compact world of a single subway car where we, the passengers, were both altogether and apart.
The man diagonally across from me was dressed in black, even his hair was black. In stark contrast to his clothing were the dangling white wires of his iPod. In one hand he held an unlit cigarette and a lighter. In the other was his phone. He started a conversation with the girls seated beside me. He was quite polite. He wanted to know how much it would hurt to have the side of his ear pierced. "A lot," was the answer. "Have it done with a gun," was the suggestion. "Do you turn it every day?" he wanted to know. "Yes!" He smiled and said, "Thank you," then went back to his iPod.
The girls beside me, the ones with the earrings, began a conversation, and I eavesdropped. They were discussing a party and some girl. "Did you see her give him a body massage?" The general response was they had. One wondered,"Did she go lower?" None of them seemed to know the answer. They next discussed a friend who had lost weight and wasn't it too bad it was all from her upper body. "That's the worst place to lose weight," was one of the observations. The conversation continued in a similar vein and I lost interest.
Seated directly across from me were three young girls, fifteen at the most. A boy, around their same age, stood in front of them. He was styling with his pure white sneakers, tongue high, a silver belt holding his pants across the middle of his butt and sunglasses. He danced while he stood there. Not one of them spoke. All were connected to their music.
One man kept eating pieces of bread, just regular old bread. I figured the man missed dinner. He'd pull the slice from the bag, fold it and eat. He did this four times then took the bag, spun it and tied it closed. When he got up to leave, he threw a cigarette package under the seat and said aloud, "I won't tell if you don't," to no one in particular. It was a box of camels and the only trash on the train.
Later, on the ride home, I wondered how they would describe me. I figured they'd talk about the older lady seated by herself who periodically looked out the window and up and down the car.
"Didn't she seem interested in everybody?" was what they might have asked
The man diagonally across from me was dressed in black, even his hair was black. In stark contrast to his clothing were the dangling white wires of his iPod. In one hand he held an unlit cigarette and a lighter. In the other was his phone. He started a conversation with the girls seated beside me. He was quite polite. He wanted to know how much it would hurt to have the side of his ear pierced. "A lot," was the answer. "Have it done with a gun," was the suggestion. "Do you turn it every day?" he wanted to know. "Yes!" He smiled and said, "Thank you," then went back to his iPod.
The girls beside me, the ones with the earrings, began a conversation, and I eavesdropped. They were discussing a party and some girl. "Did you see her give him a body massage?" The general response was they had. One wondered,"Did she go lower?" None of them seemed to know the answer. They next discussed a friend who had lost weight and wasn't it too bad it was all from her upper body. "That's the worst place to lose weight," was one of the observations. The conversation continued in a similar vein and I lost interest.
Seated directly across from me were three young girls, fifteen at the most. A boy, around their same age, stood in front of them. He was styling with his pure white sneakers, tongue high, a silver belt holding his pants across the middle of his butt and sunglasses. He danced while he stood there. Not one of them spoke. All were connected to their music.
One man kept eating pieces of bread, just regular old bread. I figured the man missed dinner. He'd pull the slice from the bag, fold it and eat. He did this four times then took the bag, spun it and tied it closed. When he got up to leave, he threw a cigarette package under the seat and said aloud, "I won't tell if you don't," to no one in particular. It was a box of camels and the only trash on the train.
Later, on the ride home, I wondered how they would describe me. I figured they'd talk about the older lady seated by herself who periodically looked out the window and up and down the car.
"Didn't she seem interested in everybody?" was what they might have asked
Friday, February 27, 2009
"All I'm thinking about today is cleaning my bathroom. "
My refrigerator and cabinets seem to get filled, never emptied. What I looking for is always in the front, and I seldom venture to the back. Last night, around 12: 30, I wasn't sleepy. I was hungry. I opened the fridge hoping to find some jelly to go with the peanut butter I had scrounged from the cabinet. It was a mistake of monumental proportions. I started pulling out jars and jars and more jars. I had three jars of gherkins, two jars of dill, one spears and another rounds, two jars of sweet pickles which I don't even like and a couple of piccalilli. I stopped counting the kinds of mustard. Way in the back I found jars filled with material better suited for the CDC. A package is now on the way. My hope is they can discover a cure for what ever incubated in that jar. Three bottles of horseradish seem more than enough especially when I have two other jars of horseradish sauce. I have no idea why I had all that salad dressing. Most times I only serve salad when I have company. Dreaded olives were in a jar. I have no idea if they were good or bad. I tossed them anyway. Into the trash bag went jar after jar. I was frenzied in my cleaning mania. When I was done tossing, the refrigerator looked empty.
But, no, I wasn't finished. I decided it was a perfect time to clean that refrigerator. After all, it was pretty empty and it was only 1:15. The front of my refrigerator is always really clean, but it was the back where all those jars skulked which needed my attention. I sprayed and scrubbed and scrubbed. The glass finally shined. The whole refrigerator got so bright I needed sunglasses to reduce the glare.
About quarter to two, I dragged the heavy bag of trash outside to the car trunk. When I got back inside, I had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I deserved it.
But, no, I wasn't finished. I decided it was a perfect time to clean that refrigerator. After all, it was pretty empty and it was only 1:15. The front of my refrigerator is always really clean, but it was the back where all those jars skulked which needed my attention. I sprayed and scrubbed and scrubbed. The glass finally shined. The whole refrigerator got so bright I needed sunglasses to reduce the glare.
About quarter to two, I dragged the heavy bag of trash outside to the car trunk. When I got back inside, I had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I deserved it.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Waterfront: Colin Shamley
"It takes a long time to grow an old friend."
You probably noticed Coffee has a new look. It was all because I had a request that I label my music, which presented a problem. You see, I had stayed put in old blogger and was quite content driving my Model T. It got me where I wanted to go. Come to find out, other people needed GPS. I obliged and spent quite a long while replicating the changes I had made in the original template. Once the new template was as close I could get it to the old one, I got to add some bells and whistles. I'm still working on that last part. I hope you like the picture.
My former students invited me to join Facebook. I did. Many of them, close to a hundred, are now listed as friends. They write memories and talk about how we connected. I laughed at some and cried at others. One woman reminded me when I used to check the parking lot during lunch to catch anyone who had gone over the wall. She had and hid under a car hoping I'd miss her. I didn't. One talked about her success and how only her mother and I believed in her. Many thanked me for caring and for listening. These touched my heart as it isn't often you learn the influence you had all those years ago.
A couple of days ago I got a message from someone I'd grown up with through elementary school and college. Her mother had been, when I was young, my scout leader. I remember their house seemed huge to me. It had a front porch and a large back yard. She in turn connected me with Maryalyce who has actually graced these pages many times. I've mentioned on several occasions that it was Maryalyce who wet her pants in the first grade and how I remember watching the pool grow under chair. Maryalyce used to try to steal my lunch by switching lunchboxes. She was the first among us to get her license. I wrote about that once and about her car. Maryalyce and I went to school together all our lives, including college. She was my roommate junior year, the one who could make the gravy. I was in her wedding. All I can remember about the wedding is our dresses were green and her father, who sat behind me, cried during the whole ceremony. When I was in Ghana, Maryalyce's mother sent me a telegram that Steven, her baby, had been born. After I got home we got together a few times but finally lost track. I've often wondered where she went and what happened to her. Now I don't have to wonder.
My former students invited me to join Facebook. I did. Many of them, close to a hundred, are now listed as friends. They write memories and talk about how we connected. I laughed at some and cried at others. One woman reminded me when I used to check the parking lot during lunch to catch anyone who had gone over the wall. She had and hid under a car hoping I'd miss her. I didn't. One talked about her success and how only her mother and I believed in her. Many thanked me for caring and for listening. These touched my heart as it isn't often you learn the influence you had all those years ago.
A couple of days ago I got a message from someone I'd grown up with through elementary school and college. Her mother had been, when I was young, my scout leader. I remember their house seemed huge to me. It had a front porch and a large back yard. She in turn connected me with Maryalyce who has actually graced these pages many times. I've mentioned on several occasions that it was Maryalyce who wet her pants in the first grade and how I remember watching the pool grow under chair. Maryalyce used to try to steal my lunch by switching lunchboxes. She was the first among us to get her license. I wrote about that once and about her car. Maryalyce and I went to school together all our lives, including college. She was my roommate junior year, the one who could make the gravy. I was in her wedding. All I can remember about the wedding is our dresses were green and her father, who sat behind me, cried during the whole ceremony. When I was in Ghana, Maryalyce's mother sent me a telegram that Steven, her baby, had been born. After I got home we got together a few times but finally lost track. I've often wondered where she went and what happened to her. Now I don't have to wonder.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
"I have a great deal of company in the house, especially in the morning when nobody calls."
I have always lived alone in this house with my animals as companions. Sometimes I wish I had company, but most often I am content by myself. I have never been afraid living alone, even before the dogs. I sleep soundly and seldom hear anything, even the most thunderous of storms. My doors are always open, front and back. Gracie likes to look.
My house has sounds. Boards creak when I walk on them. Ice cubes clatter into the bin. Hot air blows from the furnace. Cats run across the wooden floor upstairs. Gracie snores. My computer burbles. I sometimes sing for no reason.
My house has personality. It is colorful and filled with mementos from my travels. A small wooden camel came from Morocco. It sits near the wooden bird and pig from Ecuador. The bird has bite marks from Shauna, my first Boxer. A nesting doll is faded from its time on the windowsill. I brought it back from Russia over thirty years ago. By the fireplace sits a Hausa basket. On the dining room table is a candle holder from Iceland. It is rough and brown and reminds me how cold it was when I was there.
My house has seen years filled with laughter, good times and dear friends. I love this house.
My house has sounds. Boards creak when I walk on them. Ice cubes clatter into the bin. Hot air blows from the furnace. Cats run across the wooden floor upstairs. Gracie snores. My computer burbles. I sometimes sing for no reason.
My house has personality. It is colorful and filled with mementos from my travels. A small wooden camel came from Morocco. It sits near the wooden bird and pig from Ecuador. The bird has bite marks from Shauna, my first Boxer. A nesting doll is faded from its time on the windowsill. I brought it back from Russia over thirty years ago. By the fireplace sits a Hausa basket. On the dining room table is a candle holder from Iceland. It is rough and brown and reminds me how cold it was when I was there.
My house has seen years filled with laughter, good times and dear friends. I love this house.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Wind and Rain: Crooked Still
"A book is a garden, an orchard, a storehouse, a party, a company by the way, a counsellor, a multitude of counsellors. "
When I was in the fifth grade, I got Little Women for Christmas. It was a Whitman edition, one with a hard cardboard cover and the March house on the front. Once I started reading, I was hooked. I couldn't put it down. I loved the March family, and I loved Jo the most. She was strong and outspoken, and I wanted to be Jo. I remember crying when Beth died.
Little Women was the most important book in my life. It led me away from children's books to the classics. This whole new world opened for me. I read them all. I followed Jo everywhere she went, through every novel. When Robinson Crusoe found Friday, I was almost as excited as he was. Long John Silver's treachery was painful. He had become a bit of a hero to me. I remember the madness of Toad in The Wind in the Willows. It is still among my favorite books. Tom Sawyer watching his own funeral is one of my favorite parts. Who wouldn't want to hear all that adulation and the painful cries from loved ones.
Most people wouldn't think of Charles Dickens' novels as page turners, but the first time I read Oliver Twist I couldn't put that book down either. I carried it everywhere. I read it on the bus to school and even hid it in my textbook during biology class. While the rest of my classmates were learning about the systems of the body, I was following Oliver through the streets of London. It was the same with David Copperfield. I remember on my first trip to London, I visited Dickens' house. I looked through all the windows and imagined Charles doing the same, standing there, daydreaming and hoping for inspiration. I was a Dickens groupie.
I can think of nothing better than being lost in the pages of a good book. Many times I have read all night, too engrossed to realize time had passed. I'd tell myself one more chapter and I'll go to bed then it was one more chapter again and again until I'd finished. It was always a shock when I looked up and saw daylight.
I always think the love of reading just about the greatest gift I ever got.
Little Women was the most important book in my life. It led me away from children's books to the classics. This whole new world opened for me. I read them all. I followed Jo everywhere she went, through every novel. When Robinson Crusoe found Friday, I was almost as excited as he was. Long John Silver's treachery was painful. He had become a bit of a hero to me. I remember the madness of Toad in The Wind in the Willows. It is still among my favorite books. Tom Sawyer watching his own funeral is one of my favorite parts. Who wouldn't want to hear all that adulation and the painful cries from loved ones.
Most people wouldn't think of Charles Dickens' novels as page turners, but the first time I read Oliver Twist I couldn't put that book down either. I carried it everywhere. I read it on the bus to school and even hid it in my textbook during biology class. While the rest of my classmates were learning about the systems of the body, I was following Oliver through the streets of London. It was the same with David Copperfield. I remember on my first trip to London, I visited Dickens' house. I looked through all the windows and imagined Charles doing the same, standing there, daydreaming and hoping for inspiration. I was a Dickens groupie.
I can think of nothing better than being lost in the pages of a good book. Many times I have read all night, too engrossed to realize time had passed. I'd tell myself one more chapter and I'll go to bed then it was one more chapter again and again until I'd finished. It was always a shock when I looked up and saw daylight.
I always think the love of reading just about the greatest gift I ever got.
Monday, February 23, 2009
It's All Over Now, Baby Blue: Bob Dylan
“That so few now dare to be eccentric marks the chief danger of the time”
I haven't yet replaced my carry around calendar, the one I keep in my bag. When I was last at the book store, I looked at a couple but decided to put them back on the shelf. I don't think I need a new one. I'd forget to look anyway. The old one was always a few weeks behind the time.
I was always busy when I worked. The days were long, generally around ten hours. By the time I got home, I was exhausted. Dinner was makeshift. The microwave was my friend. I'd shower after dinner, watch a TV program or two and be in bed no later than ten. Five in the morning came quickly. My calendars were my lifelines. I kept three of them up to date: one in my bag, one on my bureau and one at work. Without them, my life would have been chaotic.
The weekends were my days to do everything. I cleaned, changed my bed, did my wash, went to the dump and grocery shopped. If I could, I'd sandwich in a movie or a night with friends. I never did figure how to unwind. There was just too much to do.
My days no longer have any urgency. Nothing gets crammed into the weekends. I do a wash when I'm close to running out of underwear. I grocery shop when I need pet food. Some weeks my car barely leaves the yard. Last week I went a total of forty three miles, a big week for me. Hyannis is a mere nineteen miles away yet I make sure I have several errands to do there before I make the trek. I have become insular in an odd sort of way.
I have a list of places I want to go. They are all far away, an ocean away. I can more easily travel to Morocco than I can to Hyannis. I think I am becoming eccentric.
I was always busy when I worked. The days were long, generally around ten hours. By the time I got home, I was exhausted. Dinner was makeshift. The microwave was my friend. I'd shower after dinner, watch a TV program or two and be in bed no later than ten. Five in the morning came quickly. My calendars were my lifelines. I kept three of them up to date: one in my bag, one on my bureau and one at work. Without them, my life would have been chaotic.
The weekends were my days to do everything. I cleaned, changed my bed, did my wash, went to the dump and grocery shopped. If I could, I'd sandwich in a movie or a night with friends. I never did figure how to unwind. There was just too much to do.
My days no longer have any urgency. Nothing gets crammed into the weekends. I do a wash when I'm close to running out of underwear. I grocery shop when I need pet food. Some weeks my car barely leaves the yard. Last week I went a total of forty three miles, a big week for me. Hyannis is a mere nineteen miles away yet I make sure I have several errands to do there before I make the trek. I have become insular in an odd sort of way.
I have a list of places I want to go. They are all far away, an ocean away. I can more easily travel to Morocco than I can to Hyannis. I think I am becoming eccentric.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
“Newspaper readership is declining like crazy. In fact, there's a good chance that nobody is reading my column.”
It's a late start for me on Sundays. I go out for breakfast at nine and then at eleven I talk to my sister in Colorado. Most times we talk close to an hour. Even though we don't see each other often, we stay connected. I look forward to our Sunday conversations.
My local newspaper gave notice yesterday that it will soon have fewer pages. It is combining sections to save money. Newspapers have become a losing proposition. I remember when I was a kid Boston had three newspapers: The Record American, The Herald and the Globe. They all had morning and afternoon editions. Newspaper boys on bicycles abounded, and in the morning every driveway had a paper. Drinking morning coffee and reading the paper was a ritual in most homes. The subway was filled with people reading papers which were folded that certain way so you could read your paper without impinging on a neighbor's space. City street corners had vendors selling newspapers and magazines. Everyone read the paper.
My father read his paper every morning at the breakfast table. When he retired, he sat on the front steps with a cup of coffee and his paper. He'd wave at all the neighbors. When we traveled, he had to find a paper, and most times he did. My father couldn't imagine starting his day without a paper.
People don't read newspapers any more. The TV, for many, is their source for news. They get snippets of stories, film at eleven, and some newscaster standing outside in the cold pointing to a police station or an empty courthouse, scenes of earlier action. With only a half hour to sandwich in the news, sports and weather, in-depth reporting takes a beating. People seem content with skimming the news.
I don't know what I'd do without the paper. It's a leisurely way to start my day. I sit and read article after article starting on page one. Most are so long they are continued on another page. I check the weather, read the funnies, do the crossword puzzle, read each section and end at the sports page. I skip the classifieds. When I'm done, I save the paper. I recycle it. Nothing about that newspaper ever goes to waste.
My local newspaper gave notice yesterday that it will soon have fewer pages. It is combining sections to save money. Newspapers have become a losing proposition. I remember when I was a kid Boston had three newspapers: The Record American, The Herald and the Globe. They all had morning and afternoon editions. Newspaper boys on bicycles abounded, and in the morning every driveway had a paper. Drinking morning coffee and reading the paper was a ritual in most homes. The subway was filled with people reading papers which were folded that certain way so you could read your paper without impinging on a neighbor's space. City street corners had vendors selling newspapers and magazines. Everyone read the paper.
My father read his paper every morning at the breakfast table. When he retired, he sat on the front steps with a cup of coffee and his paper. He'd wave at all the neighbors. When we traveled, he had to find a paper, and most times he did. My father couldn't imagine starting his day without a paper.
People don't read newspapers any more. The TV, for many, is their source for news. They get snippets of stories, film at eleven, and some newscaster standing outside in the cold pointing to a police station or an empty courthouse, scenes of earlier action. With only a half hour to sandwich in the news, sports and weather, in-depth reporting takes a beating. People seem content with skimming the news.
I don't know what I'd do without the paper. It's a leisurely way to start my day. I sit and read article after article starting on page one. Most are so long they are continued on another page. I check the weather, read the funnies, do the crossword puzzle, read each section and end at the sports page. I skip the classifieds. When I'm done, I save the paper. I recycle it. Nothing about that newspaper ever goes to waste.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
"Food is an important part of a balanced diet."
I'm tired of the cold and wind. My spirit needs a warm day. I'm not talking 70's or even 60's. I'm not being unrealistic. It is, after all, still winter. I'll take a day in the high 40's or low 50's. They'd feel warm by comparison. I do love that each day is longer, that the birds sing every morning and that dafs are starting to poke their heads out of the ground, but I still want a day when I can feel and smell spring in the air. I deserve it.
Food, for some reason, is on my mind today. I enjoy food, but some foods I just won't eat. A few have been on my taboo list since childhood. Baked beans has been on that list the longest. I'm just not a fan of most kinds of beans, green beans being the sole exception. I don't eat cooked spinach, cauliflower or broccoli. Olives make me gag. Blue cheese and Gorgonzola are on the list. Peaches with their fuzzy skins also made the list. Brussels sprouts don't even smell good. Egg salad is iffy. Cottage cheese needs to be blended with something else. No oily fish and no sushi pass these lips. Tuna can stay in the can. There are more, but this is enough for now.
I do eat ethnic foods. Sometimes for dinner, I eat hummus with pita bread. Add tabbouleh and it's a meal fit for a king, or a sheik. Indian food is among my favorites as is Thai. In my travels I have eaten strange, exotic foods. I have learned not to ask. Better to judge on taste than contents. My sister thought it funny to serve me Rocky Mountain oysters the first time I visited her. They didn't taste all that bad. I'm not big on eating internal parts. I don't eat heart, liver or tongue. I'll try most foods when I travel. It is an important part of the experience for me.
I do have many plebeian tastes. I like bologna and hot dogs. Grilled cheese is food fit for the gods. Cheeseburgers are on my top ten list. Onion rings and French fries too are on that list. Some nights I rummage through the refrigerator, and dinner ends up being a hodgepodge of leftovers. Those are sometimes my favorite meals, and they are seldom replicated.
Food, for some reason, is on my mind today. I enjoy food, but some foods I just won't eat. A few have been on my taboo list since childhood. Baked beans has been on that list the longest. I'm just not a fan of most kinds of beans, green beans being the sole exception. I don't eat cooked spinach, cauliflower or broccoli. Olives make me gag. Blue cheese and Gorgonzola are on the list. Peaches with their fuzzy skins also made the list. Brussels sprouts don't even smell good. Egg salad is iffy. Cottage cheese needs to be blended with something else. No oily fish and no sushi pass these lips. Tuna can stay in the can. There are more, but this is enough for now.
I do eat ethnic foods. Sometimes for dinner, I eat hummus with pita bread. Add tabbouleh and it's a meal fit for a king, or a sheik. Indian food is among my favorites as is Thai. In my travels I have eaten strange, exotic foods. I have learned not to ask. Better to judge on taste than contents. My sister thought it funny to serve me Rocky Mountain oysters the first time I visited her. They didn't taste all that bad. I'm not big on eating internal parts. I don't eat heart, liver or tongue. I'll try most foods when I travel. It is an important part of the experience for me.
I do have many plebeian tastes. I like bologna and hot dogs. Grilled cheese is food fit for the gods. Cheeseburgers are on my top ten list. Onion rings and French fries too are on that list. Some nights I rummage through the refrigerator, and dinner ends up being a hodgepodge of leftovers. Those are sometimes my favorite meals, and they are seldom replicated.
Friday, February 20, 2009
A Whiter Shade of Pale: Dan Reeder
The Lonesome Road: Snooks Eaglin
R&B singer and guitarist Snooks Eaglin, a local legend who counted platinum-selling rockers among his fans, died Wednesday. He was 72.
Eaglin, known for picking strings with his thumb nail - played and recorded with a host of New Orleans giants, including Professor Longhair, the Wild Magnolias and pianist Allan Toussaint.
Musicians, including Eric Clapton, Paul McCartney, Robert Plant and Bonnie Raitt, would seek Eaglin out to watch him perform.
But New Orleans musicians knew him best.
Toussaint was 13 when he formed a band with Eaglin called the Flamingos.
"He played with a certain finger style that was highly unusual," said Toussaint, now 71. "He was unlimited on the guitar. Folks would assume, 'I can do this or I can do that,' but Snooks wouldn't. There was nothing he couldn't do. It was extraordinary."
"His death is like losing a Dizzy Gillespie, a Professor Longhair, a Johnny Adams or a Gatemouth Brown," Davis said. "He's one of those unique giants of New Orleans music."
Blind from the time he was a young child, Eaglin was a self-taught musician who learned to play the guitar by listening to the radio. Playing the guitar with his thumb nail allowed him to play very fast, Davis said.
One of Eaglin's most well-known songs was "Funky Malaguena," a Latin song that he played with an unconventional funk and blues spin, Davis said.
Because he could play with almost anyone, Eaglin is on 50 years worth of New Orleans recordings, from early folk to R&B and jazz, Davis said. "He played a six-string, a 12-string. He could play anything with strings on it."
"A lot of cats tried to copy him, the way he attacked the strings, but they couldn't," said jazz bassist Peter "Chuck" Badie, who played with Eaglin in the 1960s at clubs on Rampart Street, which for decades was the epicenter of the city's bustling black entertainment district.
This is a cut from the Smithsonian Folkways album Snooks Eaglin New Orleans Street Singer originally released in 1959 but now in re-release.
MP3 File
yousendit
Eaglin, known for picking strings with his thumb nail - played and recorded with a host of New Orleans giants, including Professor Longhair, the Wild Magnolias and pianist Allan Toussaint.
Musicians, including Eric Clapton, Paul McCartney, Robert Plant and Bonnie Raitt, would seek Eaglin out to watch him perform.
But New Orleans musicians knew him best.
Toussaint was 13 when he formed a band with Eaglin called the Flamingos.
"He played with a certain finger style that was highly unusual," said Toussaint, now 71. "He was unlimited on the guitar. Folks would assume, 'I can do this or I can do that,' but Snooks wouldn't. There was nothing he couldn't do. It was extraordinary."
"His death is like losing a Dizzy Gillespie, a Professor Longhair, a Johnny Adams or a Gatemouth Brown," Davis said. "He's one of those unique giants of New Orleans music."
Blind from the time he was a young child, Eaglin was a self-taught musician who learned to play the guitar by listening to the radio. Playing the guitar with his thumb nail allowed him to play very fast, Davis said.
One of Eaglin's most well-known songs was "Funky Malaguena," a Latin song that he played with an unconventional funk and blues spin, Davis said.
Because he could play with almost anyone, Eaglin is on 50 years worth of New Orleans recordings, from early folk to R&B and jazz, Davis said. "He played a six-string, a 12-string. He could play anything with strings on it."
"A lot of cats tried to copy him, the way he attacked the strings, but they couldn't," said jazz bassist Peter "Chuck" Badie, who played with Eaglin in the 1960s at clubs on Rampart Street, which for decades was the epicenter of the city's bustling black entertainment district.
This is a cut from the Smithsonian Folkways album Snooks Eaglin New Orleans Street Singer originally released in 1959 but now in re-release.
MP3 File
yousendit
"Be Prepared"
We were a generation of joiners. We belonged to groups. None of my friends took music lessons. None of them learned to dance. We did learn to build a camp fire, cook hobo stew and make plaques with macaroni letters. We learned to stay in step, pivot and maintain a company front. We were young democrats handing out pamphlets. I remember the CYO convention. It was just like the party conventions I saw on TV, and I learned about politicking. I learned to be an activist, to take part in what I believed. I joined other church groups, and I met my first black person because of them. I believe these groups helped me become more than I ever could have without them.
I was part of two groups in particular for most of my adolescence. The first of these I joined when I was seven. In the second grade I joined the Brownies. I remember being so excited when my mother took me to Jordan Marsh to buy my uniform. It was, as befitting our name, brown with a darker brown tam. I got home and tried it on immediately. It made me feel taller. By the time we were about ten, we were ready to be girl scouts. I loved being a girl scout, going to camp and earning badges. Earning those badges taught me stuff I'd never have thought to learn. I was a girl scout for a long time.
In the fifth grade I joined the drill team. Back in those days, local drill teams and drum and bugle corps were numerous and competed all summer. Many churches sponsored one or the other. We were St. Patrick's Shamrocks. All winter, once a week, we had drill where we learned our routine for the summer competition. I still remember the first time we placed. We came in second. It was at a stadium in Lawrence, Mass. I was thrilled to tell my parents, but I never did tell them there were only two drill teams competing. I was in drill all the way through high school.
I have always felt that these groups taught me about getting along with people. I learned the differences between us are never important. It is how much we were alike. They taught me about being part of something, about stepping outside myself. I learned to finish, to stay with something until the end. I am a better person because of them.
I was part of two groups in particular for most of my adolescence. The first of these I joined when I was seven. In the second grade I joined the Brownies. I remember being so excited when my mother took me to Jordan Marsh to buy my uniform. It was, as befitting our name, brown with a darker brown tam. I got home and tried it on immediately. It made me feel taller. By the time we were about ten, we were ready to be girl scouts. I loved being a girl scout, going to camp and earning badges. Earning those badges taught me stuff I'd never have thought to learn. I was a girl scout for a long time.
In the fifth grade I joined the drill team. Back in those days, local drill teams and drum and bugle corps were numerous and competed all summer. Many churches sponsored one or the other. We were St. Patrick's Shamrocks. All winter, once a week, we had drill where we learned our routine for the summer competition. I still remember the first time we placed. We came in second. It was at a stadium in Lawrence, Mass. I was thrilled to tell my parents, but I never did tell them there were only two drill teams competing. I was in drill all the way through high school.
I have always felt that these groups taught me about getting along with people. I learned the differences between us are never important. It is how much we were alike. They taught me about being part of something, about stepping outside myself. I learned to finish, to stay with something until the end. I am a better person because of them.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
"But what minutes! Count them by sensation, and not by calendars, and each moment is a day."
When I was little, time crawled. Days seemed to last forever. The longest day of the year was Christmas Eve. It lasted at least two days, maybe even more. I could hardly wait until my birthday. I'd count the days until that special day, which guaranteed they'd pass even more slowly. I remember being twelve and wishing I was thirteen. I remember turning twenty-one. I could drink legally, and I could vote. I was thrilled. Time was of little concern to me back then. My whole life still stretched before me.
My twenties were riotous years. My friends and I, all teachers together, hit happy hour most Fridays. We got together on Saturdays for parties. Sleep was a waste. We had the best times. We were still young. Time was of little concern to us back then. Our whole lives still stretched before us.
The first inkling I had that time was passing was when I turned thirty. Never trusting anyone over thirty flashed through my brain. That meant me, and I was shocked. I took a bit of consolation in the fact that most of us were turning thirty, but I was still stuck on thirty being the magic number that somehow turned me into an adult, turned me into my parents. We should have picked forty.
Fifty was the number that sent me reeling. I was half a century old. The years in front were fewer than the ones behind, and each new year passed more quickly than the year before it. I realized that time didn't stretch endlessly before me any more. I began to pay more attention.
I retired early, and I'm glad. Though time still passes in the blink of an eye, every minute, every hour and day are mine. I don't have to share. My sixties have become riotous. My friends and I have get togethers all the time. We try out new foods and drinks and sit for hours playing games or just laughing together. I never set an alarm clock. I have learned how important time is, and I don't waste a minute.
My twenties were riotous years. My friends and I, all teachers together, hit happy hour most Fridays. We got together on Saturdays for parties. Sleep was a waste. We had the best times. We were still young. Time was of little concern to us back then. Our whole lives still stretched before us.
The first inkling I had that time was passing was when I turned thirty. Never trusting anyone over thirty flashed through my brain. That meant me, and I was shocked. I took a bit of consolation in the fact that most of us were turning thirty, but I was still stuck on thirty being the magic number that somehow turned me into an adult, turned me into my parents. We should have picked forty.
Fifty was the number that sent me reeling. I was half a century old. The years in front were fewer than the ones behind, and each new year passed more quickly than the year before it. I realized that time didn't stretch endlessly before me any more. I began to pay more attention.
I retired early, and I'm glad. Though time still passes in the blink of an eye, every minute, every hour and day are mine. I don't have to share. My sixties have become riotous. My friends and I have get togethers all the time. We try out new foods and drinks and sit for hours playing games or just laughing together. I never set an alarm clock. I have learned how important time is, and I don't waste a minute.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
"All man's troubles come from not knowing how to sit still in one room."
Every now and then, like today, the Wednesday blahs descend on me, and I want to stay close to hearth and home, lay about in my comfy clothes and do nothing constructive. Where these blahs come from, I have no idea. I just welcome them. They have few expectations, and I stopped making excuses long ago and learned to relish the inactivity. I figure today is a sort of gift, and I love opening gifts.
I have friends who putter about just to stay busy. They feel guilty when their days haven't been filled with tasks, mindless or not. They often ask me how I keep busy. I tell them I don't.
In my next life I want to be a cat following the sun from window to window, sleeping most of the day and roaming during the night. The only drawback I see is cleaning myself. Hairballs are just so disgusting.
The rooms in my house have walls in riots of color. For thirty years they were all white. Now the rooms are red licorice, nutmeg, Aztec blue, sunshine yellow, two different greens in the hall and kitchen and black raspberry in the upstairs bathroom. I have no idea what color the pink is in my downstairs bathroom. I just know it's bright. All of a sudden it just seemed time for color.
The snow has been a sort of canvas, a painting needing only a frame. The newspaper left a paper trail when it slid down the driveway. I saw prints from a small bird, some dog paw prints and another animal's prints I didn't recognize. My slippers left large, clumsy prints. All together they were beautiful.
If I could go anywhere, I'd go back to Ghana with a few stops on the way. I still want to see Timbuktu before it disappears into the desert. I'd stop in Ouagadougou, a favorite city of mine. I'd like to see the changes nearly forty years have brought. From there I'd go overland to Ghana through Paga. It was the route I always took. I know the road from Paga by heart. I'd stop in Navrongo just because I used to go there often. It's not far to Bolga from there. I found my old school on Google world. I even saw my house. New buildings fill the grounds, but I identified all the old ones from my time. It is not my school any longer. It is now a secondary school, but I long to see it. I know the baobab tree must still be the first thing you see.
Well, I'm done for today.
In my next life I want to be a cat following the sun from window to window, sleeping most of the day and roaming during the night. The only drawback I see is cleaning myself. Hairballs are just so disgusting.
The rooms in my house have walls in riots of color. For thirty years they were all white. Now the rooms are red licorice, nutmeg, Aztec blue, sunshine yellow, two different greens in the hall and kitchen and black raspberry in the upstairs bathroom. I have no idea what color the pink is in my downstairs bathroom. I just know it's bright. All of a sudden it just seemed time for color.
The snow has been a sort of canvas, a painting needing only a frame. The newspaper left a paper trail when it slid down the driveway. I saw prints from a small bird, some dog paw prints and another animal's prints I didn't recognize. My slippers left large, clumsy prints. All together they were beautiful.
If I could go anywhere, I'd go back to Ghana with a few stops on the way. I still want to see Timbuktu before it disappears into the desert. I'd stop in Ouagadougou, a favorite city of mine. I'd like to see the changes nearly forty years have brought. From there I'd go overland to Ghana through Paga. It was the route I always took. I know the road from Paga by heart. I'd stop in Navrongo just because I used to go there often. It's not far to Bolga from there. I found my old school on Google world. I even saw my house. New buildings fill the grounds, but I identified all the old ones from my time. It is not my school any longer. It is now a secondary school, but I long to see it. I know the baobab tree must still be the first thing you see.
Well, I'm done for today.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
I Wish It Would Rain: Nanci Griffith
"Hope is that thing with feathers that perches in the soul and sings the tune without the words and never stops at all. "
When I let the dog out last night around 12:30, it was snowing big, wet flakes, the kind that are never destined to last. They looked pretty in the back outside light. Today there is only a little snow, not enough for cursing winter.
When I was little, I used to close my eyes and make a wish. At night, I'd see the star and wish I may, wish I might, have the wish I wished that night. I believed in dreams, and I believed wishes came true. Such is one of the gifts of childhood.
When I got older, I hoped. What I didn't realize was hope is a wish repackaged. I didn't close my eyes or cross my fingers, but I was still wishing and dreaming.
Hope is a strange commodity. It comes in all sorts of shapes and sizes. When it gets to forty degrees, I hope winter is on the wane. When the next day is thirty degrees, I just fold up and put away my hope until forty reappears. Sometimes hope is wrapped up in prayer. Mostly that's when we want a miracle. We don't usually get one, but we hold on to hope for all we're worth. We might just need it again. I still wish on that star.
When I was little, I used to close my eyes and make a wish. At night, I'd see the star and wish I may, wish I might, have the wish I wished that night. I believed in dreams, and I believed wishes came true. Such is one of the gifts of childhood.
When I got older, I hoped. What I didn't realize was hope is a wish repackaged. I didn't close my eyes or cross my fingers, but I was still wishing and dreaming.
Hope is a strange commodity. It comes in all sorts of shapes and sizes. When it gets to forty degrees, I hope winter is on the wane. When the next day is thirty degrees, I just fold up and put away my hope until forty reappears. Sometimes hope is wrapped up in prayer. Mostly that's when we want a miracle. We don't usually get one, but we hold on to hope for all we're worth. We might just need it again. I still wish on that star.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Be My Baby: The Ronettes
It seems that every week lately I've posted songs in memory. Today it is in memory of Estelle Bennett.
"NEW YORK (AP) — Estelle Bennett, one of the Ronettes, the singing trio whose 1963 hit "Be My Baby" epitomized the famed "wall of sound" technique of its producer, Phil Spector, has died at her home in Englewood, N.J. She was 67.
The Ronettes were inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 2007; its Web site hails the group as "the premier act of the girl group era." Among their admirers were the Beatles and the Rolling Stones; their exotic hairstyles and makeup are aped by Amy Winehouse.
The Ronettes — sisters Veronica "Ronnie" and Estelle Bennett and their cousin Nedra Talley — signed with Spector's Philles Records in 1963.
Their recording of "Be My Baby" hit No. 2 on Billboard magazine's pop music chart that year. Among their other hits were "Walkin' in the Rain" and "Baby I Love You."
They also did a memorable version of "Sleigh Ride" that appeared on Spector's "A Christmas Gift for You" album. Their last Philles single was "I Can Hear Music" in 1966.
'They could sing all their way right through a wall of sound,' Keith Richards of the Stones said as the Ronettes were inducted into the rock hall. 'They didn't need anything. They touched my heart right there and then and they touch it still.'"
MP3 File
yousendit
"NEW YORK (AP) — Estelle Bennett, one of the Ronettes, the singing trio whose 1963 hit "Be My Baby" epitomized the famed "wall of sound" technique of its producer, Phil Spector, has died at her home in Englewood, N.J. She was 67.
The Ronettes were inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 2007; its Web site hails the group as "the premier act of the girl group era." Among their admirers were the Beatles and the Rolling Stones; their exotic hairstyles and makeup are aped by Amy Winehouse.
The Ronettes — sisters Veronica "Ronnie" and Estelle Bennett and their cousin Nedra Talley — signed with Spector's Philles Records in 1963.
Their recording of "Be My Baby" hit No. 2 on Billboard magazine's pop music chart that year. Among their other hits were "Walkin' in the Rain" and "Baby I Love You."
They also did a memorable version of "Sleigh Ride" that appeared on Spector's "A Christmas Gift for You" album. Their last Philles single was "I Can Hear Music" in 1966.
'They could sing all their way right through a wall of sound,' Keith Richards of the Stones said as the Ronettes were inducted into the rock hall. 'They didn't need anything. They touched my heart right there and then and they touch it still.'"
MP3 File
yousendit
"There is a strange reluctance on the part of most people to admit that they enjoy life."
It's a glorious morning. The sun is shining. I heard birds singing when I went to get the papers. I stood outside for a while and looked at the world then stepped back into the house where I was greeted with the aroma of fresh coffee brewing. Two newspapers and two cups of coffee later I'm a happy person.
It doesn't take much to make me happy. I get to sleep as long as I want. I make my bed, take a shower and brush my teeth everyday. They are the only givens. Some days I hang around the house. Few days have any urgency. Life meanders. My best times are with friends. We celebrate any occasion we can. Tomorrow is Mardi Gras. A few weeks ago it was Chinese New Year. Every Sunday I meet a friend for breakfast. It is my favorite weekly ritual. We also see a movie very now and then, always a matinee. I get popcorn and a drink. I have stacks of books just waiting to be read, and I can't think of a better way to spend an afternoon then to be engrossed in a good book. I love naps, and I take one whenever I want. If I choose to stay in my flannel pants and sweatshirt, I do. Sometimes I go out and have nowhere I have to be. I just wander. Once warm weather finally arrives, I'll move to the deck and spend the whole day there starting with my coffee and papers. It's never a day wasted. It's a day enjoyed.
It doesn't take much to make me happy. I get to sleep as long as I want. I make my bed, take a shower and brush my teeth everyday. They are the only givens. Some days I hang around the house. Few days have any urgency. Life meanders. My best times are with friends. We celebrate any occasion we can. Tomorrow is Mardi Gras. A few weeks ago it was Chinese New Year. Every Sunday I meet a friend for breakfast. It is my favorite weekly ritual. We also see a movie very now and then, always a matinee. I get popcorn and a drink. I have stacks of books just waiting to be read, and I can't think of a better way to spend an afternoon then to be engrossed in a good book. I love naps, and I take one whenever I want. If I choose to stay in my flannel pants and sweatshirt, I do. Sometimes I go out and have nowhere I have to be. I just wander. Once warm weather finally arrives, I'll move to the deck and spend the whole day there starting with my coffee and papers. It's never a day wasted. It's a day enjoyed.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
"I love writing. I love the swirl and swing of words as they tangle with human emotions."
Company is coming for Sunday dinner. We're having a pork roast, green beans and mashed potatoes. I did add caramelized onions and apples for a bit of flair but mostly the meal is just like the ones I ate every Sunday when I was growing up. Most times I explore and experiment when I invite friends to dinner. I try foreign recipes and stuff I've never before cooked. It's fun and adventurous. Today, though, I'm standing pat with tradition.
Gracie has become my barometer. When she stays outside playing in the yard, I know the day is pleasant. I can stand on the deck and watch her. My cheeks do get a bit rosy, and after a while I start to feel the cold, but I love the sun on my face for even this little while. It's a reminder that spring is waiting in the wings.
The English language entertains, amazes and mystifies me. I wish I knew why salmon doesn't use the L but salmonella does. The word quahog doesn't sound like quarter. Did you know Rhode Island supplies a quarter of the nation's total annual commercial quahog catch? Why do we bow and tie a bow? Read it again now that you know where I've been. I love words, and when I close my eyes, images often float through my head prompted by combinations of words. I love the sounds of words, and I read aloud whatever I'm writing as part of the process. I sift through my mental lexicon until I find the right word for what I want to say.
Words die. People stop using them and they fade away. Some deserve to be remembered because they are clever and perfectly descriptive. I found the word barnumize, and it doesn't need a definition. Think P.T. Barnum. Blive! blive! disappeared and was replaced by chop! chop!, something my mother used to say, but it too has died. I don't what finally replaced it. Chirograpy has disappeared. It's the art of handwriting which has also become obsolete. Gone are the days of Palmer Method.
I have lost track of new words. By the time I learn them, they're obsolete and already replaced. The other day, though, I heard a great one not yet part of the general lexicon. It was yarn bombing, and I love it. It means the surreptitious or unauthorized placement of knitted objects on statues, posts, and other public structures. It gets me to want to learn to knit.
Gracie has become my barometer. When she stays outside playing in the yard, I know the day is pleasant. I can stand on the deck and watch her. My cheeks do get a bit rosy, and after a while I start to feel the cold, but I love the sun on my face for even this little while. It's a reminder that spring is waiting in the wings.
The English language entertains, amazes and mystifies me. I wish I knew why salmon doesn't use the L but salmonella does. The word quahog doesn't sound like quarter. Did you know Rhode Island supplies a quarter of the nation's total annual commercial quahog catch? Why do we bow and tie a bow? Read it again now that you know where I've been. I love words, and when I close my eyes, images often float through my head prompted by combinations of words. I love the sounds of words, and I read aloud whatever I'm writing as part of the process. I sift through my mental lexicon until I find the right word for what I want to say.
Words die. People stop using them and they fade away. Some deserve to be remembered because they are clever and perfectly descriptive. I found the word barnumize, and it doesn't need a definition. Think P.T. Barnum. Blive! blive! disappeared and was replaced by chop! chop!, something my mother used to say, but it too has died. I don't what finally replaced it. Chirograpy has disappeared. It's the art of handwriting which has also become obsolete. Gone are the days of Palmer Method.
I have lost track of new words. By the time I learn them, they're obsolete and already replaced. The other day, though, I heard a great one not yet part of the general lexicon. It was yarn bombing, and I love it. It means the surreptitious or unauthorized placement of knitted objects on statues, posts, and other public structures. It gets me to want to learn to knit.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
"Love conquers all."
My friend Tony rang my doorbell earlier this morning and brought flowers and freshly baked cookies from him and Clare. It was the best way to start Valentine's Day. Gracie even got a gift. We feel special.
My father always gave my mother chocolates in a giant heart shaped box on Valentine's Day. The box had red velvet fabric on the top and a real ribbon. My dad always chose cards with sentiments condensed to a sentence or two. The valentines I got generally lacked romance. It wasn't big in elementary school. Some just said Be My Valentine while others had clever plays on words. Do I have a ghost of a chance Casper wanted to know. No one ever signed love on the backs of the valentines. Most just had a name, a full name to avoid confusion. One or two added from your friend. Cupcakes were the school treats of choice back then for parties. Chocolate with frosting colored in honor of the day was the favorite. Mothers packed them in boxes and hoped they'd survive the walk and arrive intact. The party was always after lunch, toward the end of school. The nun would have us put our books away and take out our valentines. We'd walk up and down the aisles one row at a time to deliver them. Meanwhile, the nun was emptying the boxes of goodies and putting them on her desk. We got those one row at a time too. We'd finish loading up on goodies then sit at our desks to open our valentines. We got to talk. We'd show each other our valentines and whisper about the boys. The opened valentines always went into decorated valentine boxes for safe keeping. We were more careful carrying those home then we ever were with the cupcakes. Valentine boxes held treasures to be looked at again and again.
Happy Valentine's Day!
My father always gave my mother chocolates in a giant heart shaped box on Valentine's Day. The box had red velvet fabric on the top and a real ribbon. My dad always chose cards with sentiments condensed to a sentence or two. The valentines I got generally lacked romance. It wasn't big in elementary school. Some just said Be My Valentine while others had clever plays on words. Do I have a ghost of a chance Casper wanted to know. No one ever signed love on the backs of the valentines. Most just had a name, a full name to avoid confusion. One or two added from your friend. Cupcakes were the school treats of choice back then for parties. Chocolate with frosting colored in honor of the day was the favorite. Mothers packed them in boxes and hoped they'd survive the walk and arrive intact. The party was always after lunch, toward the end of school. The nun would have us put our books away and take out our valentines. We'd walk up and down the aisles one row at a time to deliver them. Meanwhile, the nun was emptying the boxes of goodies and putting them on her desk. We got those one row at a time too. We'd finish loading up on goodies then sit at our desks to open our valentines. We got to talk. We'd show each other our valentines and whisper about the boys. The opened valentines always went into decorated valentine boxes for safe keeping. We were more careful carrying those home then we ever were with the cupcakes. Valentine boxes held treasures to be looked at again and again.
Happy Valentine's Day!
Friday, February 13, 2009
"Life is really simple, but we insist on making it complicated."
My computer died last night. It stopped, just like grandfather's clock. All my files are backed up, but my laptop doesn't recognize the external drive. It did once but decided not to again. I'll have to wing it for a while on the music and pictures. I'll finish here then bring my computer to be fixed. My hope is the repair bill will not send me reeling as I'm frustrated enough by the lack of speed of my laptop.
Life was so much simpler when I was a kid. The telephone had a rotary dial and was on a party line. We had no remote controls. The TV had about four stations, and we had to get up to change the channel. None of my games were electric. We counted the spaces to move our men, and we shuffled the cards all by ourselves. The radio had only AM stations, and there were disk jockeys, real personalities who made radio fun. If I found a penny, I picked it up, not just because it was good luck, but because I could actually spend a penny. At first they were penny loafers then they became dime loafers, emergency money for the telephone. I loved phone booths, especially the wooden ones. I got to sit and chat. People got dressed up to travel on planes or trains. We ate together every single night, and Sunday dinner with the family was a highlight of the week.
I wouldn't want to be without my computer or my cable television. My cell phone is the dime I used to carry. I listen to FM exclusively. Casual is my favorite way to dress. I like living in today's world, but in the simpler times, life was easier to touch.
Life was so much simpler when I was a kid. The telephone had a rotary dial and was on a party line. We had no remote controls. The TV had about four stations, and we had to get up to change the channel. None of my games were electric. We counted the spaces to move our men, and we shuffled the cards all by ourselves. The radio had only AM stations, and there were disk jockeys, real personalities who made radio fun. If I found a penny, I picked it up, not just because it was good luck, but because I could actually spend a penny. At first they were penny loafers then they became dime loafers, emergency money for the telephone. I loved phone booths, especially the wooden ones. I got to sit and chat. People got dressed up to travel on planes or trains. We ate together every single night, and Sunday dinner with the family was a highlight of the week.
I wouldn't want to be without my computer or my cable television. My cell phone is the dime I used to carry. I listen to FM exclusively. Casual is my favorite way to dress. I like living in today's world, but in the simpler times, life was easier to touch.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Hey Nelly Nelly: Judy Collins
Today is Lincoln's birthday, his 200th birthday.
"With malice toward none; with charity for all; with firmness in the right, as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in; to bind up the nation's wounds; to care for him who shall have borne the battle, and for his widow, and his orphan - to do all which may achieve and cherish a a just, and a lasting peace, among ourselves, and with all nations."
MP3 File
yousendit
"With malice toward none; with charity for all; with firmness in the right, as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in; to bind up the nation's wounds; to care for him who shall have borne the battle, and for his widow, and his orphan - to do all which may achieve and cherish a a just, and a lasting peace, among ourselves, and with all nations."
MP3 File
yousendit
Let the Band Play Dixie: Tom Paxton, Anne Hills and Bob Gibson
"Cards are war, in disguise of a sport."
It's a go out and enjoy the warmth sort of day. Though the sun has disappeared, the day is near 50 degrees. It rained during the night so most of the snow is gone. Only piles left by plows remain. Gracie spent part of yesterday sprawled in the sun on the grass in the backyard. Gracie lying outside in the sun and the arrival of robins are sure signs of spring.
My family always played games together. Every Christmas we could look forward to a new game or two under the tree. My parents taught my brother and me to play cards when we were really young. We were their whist partners. It always went girl-girl, boy-boy, and my mother and I usually won. The board game Sorry has long been a family favorite. I still play and have introduced friends to the game. Adult Sorry gets cutthroat, and words I wouldn't dared have used when I was young are spewed out at the player who dares to send men back to start. We taunt each other. It's part of the fun.
My father loved to play all sorts of card games. Even when we were all adults, we still played whenever we'd get together. I remember nights sitting around the kitchen table playing cards. The air was always filled with smoke. We all smoked back then. The counter was filled with bottles: whiskey for my parents, beer for my brother, rum for my sister and coke for my other sister and me. We'd play hi-lo jack for hours. My father hated to lose, but we loved it when he did because we made fun of him. It drove him crazy and sent us into peals of laughter. Getting my father's goat was even more fun than winning the game. We played Uno, and he never remembered to say Uno. Once he put a matchbook on the table and told us it was his Uno, and he didn't have to say it any more. We roared laughing at him, yet again.
Those were the most amazing times. We were together, enjoying each other and having fun. I think it is my favorite legacy, this love of games.
My family always played games together. Every Christmas we could look forward to a new game or two under the tree. My parents taught my brother and me to play cards when we were really young. We were their whist partners. It always went girl-girl, boy-boy, and my mother and I usually won. The board game Sorry has long been a family favorite. I still play and have introduced friends to the game. Adult Sorry gets cutthroat, and words I wouldn't dared have used when I was young are spewed out at the player who dares to send men back to start. We taunt each other. It's part of the fun.
My father loved to play all sorts of card games. Even when we were all adults, we still played whenever we'd get together. I remember nights sitting around the kitchen table playing cards. The air was always filled with smoke. We all smoked back then. The counter was filled with bottles: whiskey for my parents, beer for my brother, rum for my sister and coke for my other sister and me. We'd play hi-lo jack for hours. My father hated to lose, but we loved it when he did because we made fun of him. It drove him crazy and sent us into peals of laughter. Getting my father's goat was even more fun than winning the game. We played Uno, and he never remembered to say Uno. Once he put a matchbook on the table and told us it was his Uno, and he didn't have to say it any more. We roared laughing at him, yet again.
Those were the most amazing times. We were together, enjoying each other and having fun. I think it is my favorite legacy, this love of games.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
You Can Never Hold Back Spring: Tom Waits
"Come, gentle Spring! Ethereal Mildness! Come."
When I was a kid, I remember trees, huge, leafy trees lining the sidewalks everywhere in town. They cast shadows which blew in the breeze. In the summer, the shadows were full. In winter, they were skeletal hands reaching to the sky. The trees always made noises. They groaned in the wind. The leaves of summer swished. Those of fall crackled. The trees signaled for us the change in seasons. We watched the buds in spring and knew warmer weather was here to stay. Summer was close. In fall, we saw the leaves turn to bright yellows and reds. Soon enough, on windy days, we were showered by falling leaves. We'd kick through the piles of leaves on the street beside the curb. I remember those leaves were always brown and curled. We knew it was a long time until spring.
My backyard is filled with trees. Many are scrub pine which stay green the whole year. Others are scrub oak, and they follow the progression of the seasons, their leaves turning a deep red in the fall. A gigantic tree sits by my side window. Its leaves turn such a bright yellow I almost have to shade my eyes. In summer, the trees form a bower and the backyard is always shaded. At night, the dog triggers the lights, and the summer yard is bathed in shadows. It is lovely. Spring comes late here near the ocean. Trees sleep longer. Buds take their time. I wish they wouldn't.
My backyard is filled with trees. Many are scrub pine which stay green the whole year. Others are scrub oak, and they follow the progression of the seasons, their leaves turning a deep red in the fall. A gigantic tree sits by my side window. Its leaves turn such a bright yellow I almost have to shade my eyes. In summer, the trees form a bower and the backyard is always shaded. At night, the dog triggers the lights, and the summer yard is bathed in shadows. It is lovely. Spring comes late here near the ocean. Trees sleep longer. Buds take their time. I wish they wouldn't.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
My Land Is a Good Land: Eric Andersen
"There is no love sincerer than the love of food."
My mother never really made us do chores. My brother had to empty the trash, and he groused each time he picked up the basket, but I didn't have any. My mother made our beds, washed our clothes, cooked the meals and did the dishes. Most of my friends didn't have chores either. Our mothers didn't work, the way we used to think of work. They stayed home all day, and they did all the household chores. That was just the way the world was back then. Men went off to work, and women stayed home keeping house and raising kids.
When I got to college, I had no idea that the buzzing sound I was hearing meant the washing machine was off balance. It never occurred to me that washing machines could become unbalanced. I pulled out all my clothes, wrung them by hand and put them in the dryer. One of my friends explained to me the workings of a washing machine. I was a bit embarrassed. My first apartment was during my junior year in college. I didn't know how to cook. I could heat. Opening a can, plopping its contents in a pan till they were hot then eating them was all I knew. Haute cuisine was Dinty Moore beef stew. My roommate could make gravy; she even added onions. I was amazed at her skills. She made meals the way my mother did. She even mashed potatoes. Come to find out she had made many of her family's meals. I thought it a bit like child labor but didn't say anything with a mouth full of mashed potatoes. I did the dishes, and that was okay with me: mindless labor and I did well together.
In the Peace Corps, I cooked and baked from scratch for the first time. My cookies even tasted good. That I could made something other people wanted to eat amazed me. It also fascinated me. I made pies with flaky crusts, Christmas sugar cookies, breads and even gave bagels a try. I was hooked. Cooking became one of my passions.
I still love to cook and try new recipes. Many of my favorite foods are from other countries. My friends come and eat dishes from all over. I have cooked India, Thai, African, Chinese, Cajun, Mexican, North Africa and food from just about every European country, and I pore through books and magazines looking for new foods to try. I can't remember the last time I ate Dinty Moore.
When I got to college, I had no idea that the buzzing sound I was hearing meant the washing machine was off balance. It never occurred to me that washing machines could become unbalanced. I pulled out all my clothes, wrung them by hand and put them in the dryer. One of my friends explained to me the workings of a washing machine. I was a bit embarrassed. My first apartment was during my junior year in college. I didn't know how to cook. I could heat. Opening a can, plopping its contents in a pan till they were hot then eating them was all I knew. Haute cuisine was Dinty Moore beef stew. My roommate could make gravy; she even added onions. I was amazed at her skills. She made meals the way my mother did. She even mashed potatoes. Come to find out she had made many of her family's meals. I thought it a bit like child labor but didn't say anything with a mouth full of mashed potatoes. I did the dishes, and that was okay with me: mindless labor and I did well together.
In the Peace Corps, I cooked and baked from scratch for the first time. My cookies even tasted good. That I could made something other people wanted to eat amazed me. It also fascinated me. I made pies with flaky crusts, Christmas sugar cookies, breads and even gave bagels a try. I was hooked. Cooking became one of my passions.
I still love to cook and try new recipes. Many of my favorite foods are from other countries. My friends come and eat dishes from all over. I have cooked India, Thai, African, Chinese, Cajun, Mexican, North Africa and food from just about every European country, and I pore through books and magazines looking for new foods to try. I can't remember the last time I ate Dinty Moore.
Monday, February 09, 2009
For What It's Worth: Buffalo Springfield
My musings were a bit of a departure and so are my music postings. Today I celebrate the music of two singers/musicians who have recently passed away. Their obituaries were in today's paper.
Dewey Martin, the muscular, gregarious drummer and singer who helped found the pioneering country rock band Buffalo Springfield with Neil Young and Stephen Stills, has died. He was 68. The cause of death is unknown.
Martin, along with Young, Stills, singer-songwriter-guitarist Richie Furay and bassist Bruce Palmer, formed Buffalo Springfield in Los Angeles in 1966 and quickly became one of the hottest live acts on the West Coast, helped in part by the grinning, blond Martin.
Their self-titled debut album included the hit For What It's Worth, a solemn observation of 1960s turmoil. They would later produce such classics as "Bluebird" and Rock & Roll Woman and Martin's husky vocals were featured at the start of another Springfield favorite, Young's Broken Arrow.
MP3 File
yousendit
Dewey Martin, the muscular, gregarious drummer and singer who helped found the pioneering country rock band Buffalo Springfield with Neil Young and Stephen Stills, has died. He was 68. The cause of death is unknown.
Martin, along with Young, Stills, singer-songwriter-guitarist Richie Furay and bassist Bruce Palmer, formed Buffalo Springfield in Los Angeles in 1966 and quickly became one of the hottest live acts on the West Coast, helped in part by the grinning, blond Martin.
Their self-titled debut album included the hit For What It's Worth, a solemn observation of 1960s turmoil. They would later produce such classics as "Bluebird" and Rock & Roll Woman and Martin's husky vocals were featured at the start of another Springfield favorite, Young's Broken Arrow.
MP3 File
yousendit
I'm Hip: Blossom Dearie
From her obituary: Blossom Dearie, the jazz pixie with a little-girl voice and pageboy haircut who was a fixture in New York and London nightclubs for decades, died Saturday at her apartment in Greenwich Village. She was 82.
A singer, pianist and songwriter with an independent spirit who zealously guarded her privacy, Ms. Dearie pursued a singular career that blurred the line between jazz and cabaret. An interpretive minimalist with caviar taste in songs and musicians, she was a genre unto herself.
Rarely raising her sly, kittenish voice, Ms. Dearie confided song lyrics in a playful style below whose surface layers of insinuation lurked. Her cheery style influenced many younger jazz and cabaret singers, most notably Stacey Kent and the singer and pianist Daryl Sherman.
But just under her fey camouflage lay a needling wit. If you listened closely, you could hear the scathing contempt she brought to one of her signature songs, "I'm Hip," the Dave Frishberg-Bob Dorough demolition of a name-dropping bohemian poseur.
Ms. Dearie didn't suffer fools gladly and was unafraid to voice her disdain for music she didn't like; the songs of Andrew Lloyd Webber were a particular pet peeve.
The other side of her sensibility was a wistful romanticism most discernible in her interpretations of Brazilian bossa nova songs, material ideally suited to her delicate approach.
Her final album, "Blossom's Planet" (Daffodil), released in 2000, includes what may be the definitive interpretation of Antonio Carlos Jobim's "Wave." Her dreamy attenuated rendition finds her voice floating away as though to sea, or to heaven, on lapping waves of tastefully synthesized strings.
MP3 File
yousendit
A singer, pianist and songwriter with an independent spirit who zealously guarded her privacy, Ms. Dearie pursued a singular career that blurred the line between jazz and cabaret. An interpretive minimalist with caviar taste in songs and musicians, she was a genre unto herself.
Rarely raising her sly, kittenish voice, Ms. Dearie confided song lyrics in a playful style below whose surface layers of insinuation lurked. Her cheery style influenced many younger jazz and cabaret singers, most notably Stacey Kent and the singer and pianist Daryl Sherman.
But just under her fey camouflage lay a needling wit. If you listened closely, you could hear the scathing contempt she brought to one of her signature songs, "I'm Hip," the Dave Frishberg-Bob Dorough demolition of a name-dropping bohemian poseur.
Ms. Dearie didn't suffer fools gladly and was unafraid to voice her disdain for music she didn't like; the songs of Andrew Lloyd Webber were a particular pet peeve.
The other side of her sensibility was a wistful romanticism most discernible in her interpretations of Brazilian bossa nova songs, material ideally suited to her delicate approach.
Her final album, "Blossom's Planet" (Daffodil), released in 2000, includes what may be the definitive interpretation of Antonio Carlos Jobim's "Wave." Her dreamy attenuated rendition finds her voice floating away as though to sea, or to heaven, on lapping waves of tastefully synthesized strings.
MP3 File
yousendit
“Sooner barbarity than boredom.”
Today is one of those I wish I had something on my mind days. The window near my desk has become a distraction. I just keep looking and see nothing and everything. The blue sky pokes through the branches of an oak tree. Leaves blow in the wind. Birds sit in the trees then fly toward the feeders. I saw a huge blue jay, a nuthatch and a couple of chickadees. I got up to get more coffee and detoured to the front door where I stood for a while and checked out the neighborhood. I saw nothing: no movement, no people, not even a bird. They must all be in my backyard, the birds I mean. I decided to have toast with my coffee. It was scali bread, a favorite. Gracie and I shared the toast. I drank the coffee by myself. A trip to the bathroom is never just a trip to the bathroom when I'm in this mood. I cleaned the sink while I was there and dusted the desk. Why do I have a desk in the bathroom you wonder. It's a small child's desk, and I keep hand towels for guests in there. Why a desk you still wonder. The bathroom has a theme. Doesn't every bathroom? The theme is school hence the desk. Did I mention the blackboard? It's one of those kid boards where you can change the top by rolling it. Right now it's music and notes. The blackboard is in the corner near the sink. I dusted the blackboard too. I also straightened the rug in the living room. Yup, it's just one of those days.
Sunday, February 08, 2009
“Our whole life is but a greater and longer childhood”
White seems the color of the day. The sky is gray white. Three swans were swimming on the river. One had its head buried under its wings. On the way home from breakfast, I watched an old lady get her paper. She was wearing a white nightgown, white socks and black brogans. Comfort, not fashion, must drive her choice of attire. I can relate.
Last night the wind blew and shook the chimes in my tree. I could also hear drops of melting snow falling from the roof. While I slept, the snow disappeared and my lawn reappeared. At eight thirty this morning, it was already 40 degrees.
I miss a lot of people, places and things from my childhood, and I wouldn't mind reliving a few. It would be fun to roam the aisles of a Five and Ten with a quarter in my hand, a magnificent sum when I was a kid. I'd like to order a vanilla coke at the drug store and watch the soda jerk make it from syrup and carbonated water. My friend Michelle and I walked to school together for eight years. I'd like to it again with the same enthusiasm. My elementary classrooms had wooden floors, huge, long windows, shades which tied at the bottom, hissing radiators, real chalkboards and cloak rooms right outside. I loved those rooms and wouldn't mind seeing them again through a seven year old's eyes. I wish the swamp was still there on the other side of the field. It was an all season swamp. We had skating in winter, polliwogs in spring and wandering the back paths from island to island in summer. I really miss the sounds of church bells on a Sunday morning. I wish I had a nickle to spend at the penny candy store, the white store on the corner. I wish O'Grady's diner, Hanks' bakery, Santoro's sub shop, the shoe store and the Stoneham spa were back again so I could spent one more Saturday wandering around up town. Maybe I could take in the matinee.
Last night the wind blew and shook the chimes in my tree. I could also hear drops of melting snow falling from the roof. While I slept, the snow disappeared and my lawn reappeared. At eight thirty this morning, it was already 40 degrees.
I miss a lot of people, places and things from my childhood, and I wouldn't mind reliving a few. It would be fun to roam the aisles of a Five and Ten with a quarter in my hand, a magnificent sum when I was a kid. I'd like to order a vanilla coke at the drug store and watch the soda jerk make it from syrup and carbonated water. My friend Michelle and I walked to school together for eight years. I'd like to it again with the same enthusiasm. My elementary classrooms had wooden floors, huge, long windows, shades which tied at the bottom, hissing radiators, real chalkboards and cloak rooms right outside. I loved those rooms and wouldn't mind seeing them again through a seven year old's eyes. I wish the swamp was still there on the other side of the field. It was an all season swamp. We had skating in winter, polliwogs in spring and wandering the back paths from island to island in summer. I really miss the sounds of church bells on a Sunday morning. I wish I had a nickle to spend at the penny candy store, the white store on the corner. I wish O'Grady's diner, Hanks' bakery, Santoro's sub shop, the shoe store and the Stoneham spa were back again so I could spent one more Saturday wandering around up town. Maybe I could take in the matinee.
Saturday, February 07, 2009
"When buying a used car, punch the buttons on the radio. If all the stations are rock and roll, there's a good chance the transmission is shot. "
Birds sang this morning at first light. They are a welcome sound. Today will be warm, in the 40's. It will seem like spring. I'll wake from my hibernation, shade my eyes from the light and leave my den.
I am not a car person. The car's age and what it looks like have never entered into my decision making when purchasing a car. To me, the sole funtion of an automobile is to move me from one place to another. When it can no longer do that, I get another one.
The first car I ever owned was an enormous Chevy, an Impala. It was about the size of a small boat. It was never parked, only berthed. The car was blue. It was a used car and set the trend for a lifetime of cars. The only new car I ever bought was a cheap Toyota, a Tercel, a tiny hatchback. It too was blue. I had to learn to drive a shift before I bought it. I must have stalled that car a hundred times before I figured out I was skipping second and moving right into third. Since then I have bought nothing but Toyotas, all used. The current one, a Corolla, is black. It's ten years old. I know nothing about cars. Put in the key and turn it to make the car start has always been my depth of knowledge. My cars get frequent oil changes, and I take them to a mechanic I trust. He sometimes finds something and always tells me what to expect. Rear brakes are next he told me. I will keep this car until the repair bill is bigger than the value of the car. That time is getting closer, and when it comes, I'll call my dealership and ask the owner, a former student, what he has on the lot. He has never steered me wrong, so to speak.
I am not a car person. The car's age and what it looks like have never entered into my decision making when purchasing a car. To me, the sole funtion of an automobile is to move me from one place to another. When it can no longer do that, I get another one.
The first car I ever owned was an enormous Chevy, an Impala. It was about the size of a small boat. It was never parked, only berthed. The car was blue. It was a used car and set the trend for a lifetime of cars. The only new car I ever bought was a cheap Toyota, a Tercel, a tiny hatchback. It too was blue. I had to learn to drive a shift before I bought it. I must have stalled that car a hundred times before I figured out I was skipping second and moving right into third. Since then I have bought nothing but Toyotas, all used. The current one, a Corolla, is black. It's ten years old. I know nothing about cars. Put in the key and turn it to make the car start has always been my depth of knowledge. My cars get frequent oil changes, and I take them to a mechanic I trust. He sometimes finds something and always tells me what to expect. Rear brakes are next he told me. I will keep this car until the repair bill is bigger than the value of the car. That time is getting closer, and when it comes, I'll call my dealership and ask the owner, a former student, what he has on the lot. He has never steered me wrong, so to speak.
Friday, February 06, 2009
"Perfect behavior is born of complete indifference."
"All Summer in a day" is a Ray Bradbury story, and I'm living it. It's the one where the sun on Venus comes out only once every seven years. I don't even care if the sun sheds no warmth at all. It's the light I'm craving. "Walk into the light, Carol Ann."
Mr. and Mrs. Cardinal are back at the feeders. He is so beautiful, his color in such stark contrast with the gray branches and the brown leaves of my winter backyard. I just stand at the window and watch him.
I was never a talented kid, at least not in the strictest definition of talent. My singing voice couldn't find a key or a note. Even now I only sing in the car or the house, when I'm by myself. My sister took dancing lessons. I didn't. Two left feet didn't make for a graceful dancer. Art class was a struggle for me. My stick figures all looked the same, so did my houses, but I didn't really care. I was funny. I was that kid who always had an answer. My parents never really appreciated my talent. A smart answer was the last thing they wanted to hear. Upstairs I would go, doomed to exile by one parent or the other. I tried not to answer, but I couldn't help myself. They always seemed to leave themselves wide open, and I couldn't resist. I suspect both of them wished I could sing.
My sisters would tell you I haven't changed much. I still can't resist.
Mr. and Mrs. Cardinal are back at the feeders. He is so beautiful, his color in such stark contrast with the gray branches and the brown leaves of my winter backyard. I just stand at the window and watch him.
I was never a talented kid, at least not in the strictest definition of talent. My singing voice couldn't find a key or a note. Even now I only sing in the car or the house, when I'm by myself. My sister took dancing lessons. I didn't. Two left feet didn't make for a graceful dancer. Art class was a struggle for me. My stick figures all looked the same, so did my houses, but I didn't really care. I was funny. I was that kid who always had an answer. My parents never really appreciated my talent. A smart answer was the last thing they wanted to hear. Upstairs I would go, doomed to exile by one parent or the other. I tried not to answer, but I couldn't help myself. They always seemed to leave themselves wide open, and I couldn't resist. I suspect both of them wished I could sing.
My sisters would tell you I haven't changed much. I still can't resist.
Thursday, February 05, 2009
Guabi Guabi: George Sibanda
A few weeks ago I posted another song from George Sibanda, and Jeff noticed the resemblance of that song to Guabi Guabi, and he found after a bit of research that George had also written Guabi Guabi.
This is his original version from the same album as the first song: The Legendary George Sibanda, recordings made between 1948 and 1952.
The song is a Zulu folksong from the Nde-Ele tribe and is about someone who teases his girlfriend by holding something behind his back and saying, "Guess what I've got." It's an interesting mix of Zulu and French expressions, and this English transliteration and translation is from Andrew Tracy of the African Music Society.
"Guabi, Guabi, guzwangle notamb yami,
(Hear, Guabi, Guabi, I have a girlfriend)
Ihlale nkamben', shu'ngyamtanda
(She lives at Nkamben, sure I love her)
Ngizamtenge la mabanzi, iziwichi le banana."
(I will buy her buns, sweets, and bananas.)
MP3 File
yousendit
This is his original version from the same album as the first song: The Legendary George Sibanda, recordings made between 1948 and 1952.
The song is a Zulu folksong from the Nde-Ele tribe and is about someone who teases his girlfriend by holding something behind his back and saying, "Guess what I've got." It's an interesting mix of Zulu and French expressions, and this English transliteration and translation is from Andrew Tracy of the African Music Society.
"Guabi, Guabi, guzwangle notamb yami,
(Hear, Guabi, Guabi, I have a girlfriend)
Ihlale nkamben', shu'ngyamtanda
(She lives at Nkamben, sure I love her)
Ngizamtenge la mabanzi, iziwichi le banana."
(I will buy her buns, sweets, and bananas.)
MP3 File
yousendit
Guabi Guabi: Jim Kweskin
The Candle and the Cape: David Mallet
"Oh, if it be to choose and call thee mine, Love, thou art every day my Valentine! "
Snow flurries have covered the walk and the street. They still fall, whirling and spinning in the wind. The sky is a light, almost white gray. I'll have to brave the elements later to fill the feeders as the snow has brought lots of birds. This morning I had my usual diners plus four gold finches and the fluffiest robin I've ever seen. I don't know why, but he reminded me of a pompous banker wearing a three piece suit like a minor character from some 40's B movie. He just needed a cigar.
February has always been one of my favorite months for a lot of reasons. I always think of it as the last real winter month. Spring is close. It's coming for real. When I was little, I looked forward to Valentine's Day followed shortly thereafter by February vacation. It wasn't that we did anything during vacation. It was the not going to school and having the whole day to do what I wanted which made it special. It had been a long haul since Christmas.
At the grocery store the other day I saw boxes of valentines. They reminded me of the ones I used to give when I was little. I wrote so big back then I could barely fit my name on the back of each valentine so I slanted the letters downward to make sure they'd fit. Kathleen is a long name to fit on a small valentine. I used to add R. so I wouldn't be confused with the other Kathleens. The valentines had kittens and puppies, little girls and little boys, roller skates and an occasional Indian. They said Be Mine or just Be My Valentine. Love never entered into early elementary school.
February has always been one of my favorite months for a lot of reasons. I always think of it as the last real winter month. Spring is close. It's coming for real. When I was little, I looked forward to Valentine's Day followed shortly thereafter by February vacation. It wasn't that we did anything during vacation. It was the not going to school and having the whole day to do what I wanted which made it special. It had been a long haul since Christmas.
At the grocery store the other day I saw boxes of valentines. They reminded me of the ones I used to give when I was little. I wrote so big back then I could barely fit my name on the back of each valentine so I slanted the letters downward to make sure they'd fit. Kathleen is a long name to fit on a small valentine. I used to add R. so I wouldn't be confused with the other Kathleens. The valentines had kittens and puppies, little girls and little boys, roller skates and an occasional Indian. They said Be Mine or just Be My Valentine. Love never entered into early elementary school.
Wednesday, February 04, 2009
"February, when the days of winter seem endless and no amount of wistful recollecting can bring back any air of summer. "
"In the lane, snow is glistening. " The trees are covered; the road too has a layer of snow. The storm stopped then started again. It was blustery around eleven, and this second round added another inch or two. The plow came by only once. My backyard is filled with paw prints. My front yard is pristine. The birds are in and out of the feeders. Winter robins dropped by yesterday, and the goldfinches are here today. The usual chickadees, juncos and nuthatches are also dining on the deck. The view from my den window is lovely.
I walked home from dinner at my friends' house during a lull in the storm. It was so quiet that the crunch of my shoes on the icy drifts bounced and echoed in the stillness, and I could hear the crinkly sounds of the shopping bag I carried. I took my time walking down the street and chose the safest route. Only one house was lit, and I could see my neighbors in their living room.
I don't bundle much for winter any more. Gone are the days of snow pants, rubber boots over shoes, knitted hats, scarves and mittens. My cheeks are never as red from the cold as they were when I was little. I remember my breath as a white cloud on a winter's day.
I walked home from dinner at my friends' house during a lull in the storm. It was so quiet that the crunch of my shoes on the icy drifts bounced and echoed in the stillness, and I could hear the crinkly sounds of the shopping bag I carried. I took my time walking down the street and chose the safest route. Only one house was lit, and I could see my neighbors in their living room.
I don't bundle much for winter any more. Gone are the days of snow pants, rubber boots over shoes, knitted hats, scarves and mittens. My cheeks are never as red from the cold as they were when I was little. I remember my breath as a white cloud on a winter's day.
Tuesday, February 03, 2009
Spencer the Rover: John Martyn
After my posting today, I received an e-mail from coffee reader Jim out on the Oregon coast to whom, in his words, John Martyn's music has been, "...like a big strong brother to me since 1970." He suggested this song. "John's version of an old ballad "Spencer the Rover" - originally on his "Sunday's Child" album and on many live versions thru the years - is a beautiful breathtaking thing."
Thanks, Jim, you are so right!
MP3 File
yousendit
Thanks, Jim, you are so right!
MP3 File
yousendit
Solid Air: John Martyn
I am late in posting John's work, and I apologize for the delay. Here is a bit of his obituary from The Times.
"John Martyn, a Scottish singer and guitarist whose gentle mix of folk and jazz and innovative use of electronic effects have influenced a broad range of musicians since the 1970s, died on Thursday in Kilkenny, Ireland. He was 60.
Mr. Martyn emerged from the London folk scene of the mid-1960s with a crisp and distinctive guitar style, but he had his greatest impact in the ’70s with albums that took that sound in new directions. Inspired in part by the slow-burning, mystical jazz of the American saxophonist Pharoah Sanders, he devolved a keen sense of texture and atmospherics, transforming ballads into sensuous rhapsodies.
Although his music never had a wide appeal, Mr. Martyn released more than 20 albums and has been emulated by generations of musicians. David Gilmour of Pink Floyd and Phil Collins recorded with him, and Eric Clapton sang Mr. Martyn’s song “May You Never” on his 1977 album, “Slowhand.” Even Sade, the Nigerian-born queen of suave soft pop, has praised his breathy, romantic voice, which often slurred through improvisations."
MP3 File
yousendit
"John Martyn, a Scottish singer and guitarist whose gentle mix of folk and jazz and innovative use of electronic effects have influenced a broad range of musicians since the 1970s, died on Thursday in Kilkenny, Ireland. He was 60.
Mr. Martyn emerged from the London folk scene of the mid-1960s with a crisp and distinctive guitar style, but he had his greatest impact in the ’70s with albums that took that sound in new directions. Inspired in part by the slow-burning, mystical jazz of the American saxophonist Pharoah Sanders, he devolved a keen sense of texture and atmospherics, transforming ballads into sensuous rhapsodies.
Although his music never had a wide appeal, Mr. Martyn released more than 20 albums and has been emulated by generations of musicians. David Gilmour of Pink Floyd and Phil Collins recorded with him, and Eric Clapton sang Mr. Martyn’s song “May You Never” on his 1977 album, “Slowhand.” Even Sade, the Nigerian-born queen of suave soft pop, has praised his breathy, romantic voice, which often slurred through improvisations."
MP3 File
yousendit
"The most serious charge which can be brought against New England is not Puritanism but February."
The snow started just after six this morning. It was a wet snow which left a layer of slush, and I made footprints in the muck when I went to get the papers. Since then, though, the snow has become fluffier. It is falling with a vengeance for yesterday was in the 50's.
Today is a perfect day for watching snow fall but only from the windows of a warm house. The weathermen are at odds as to the amount of snow. I always believe the one who predicts the least, as if that makes a difference.
My street feels deserted. My only close neighbors are in the house beside me, to the left. All the other houses near mine are empty. The woman from the house on the corner doesn't drive any more so she seldom comes down. She used to come often. She always waved when I drove by her working in the yard. I know she must miss her visits. My neighbors across the way have been gone for a few days. They'll be back tomorrow, but soon enough they'll be off to Florida for a month or more. The house on the other side of me is a summer rental. It stays vacant most of the winter. Mary, diagonally across the street, hasn't been around much since she retired. Across from her is a second home, but they do come often, just not during the week. My friends Clare and Tony live at the other end of the street, but it's a small street so they are never far away.
I have books to read. I have new music. My clothes are, as always, warm and comfy. The larder is filled. The fridge has a round of brie, some red pepper hummus and a cooked chicken with a hint of honey. I am well prepared for the storm with all of life's essentials.
Today is a perfect day for watching snow fall but only from the windows of a warm house. The weathermen are at odds as to the amount of snow. I always believe the one who predicts the least, as if that makes a difference.
My street feels deserted. My only close neighbors are in the house beside me, to the left. All the other houses near mine are empty. The woman from the house on the corner doesn't drive any more so she seldom comes down. She used to come often. She always waved when I drove by her working in the yard. I know she must miss her visits. My neighbors across the way have been gone for a few days. They'll be back tomorrow, but soon enough they'll be off to Florida for a month or more. The house on the other side of me is a summer rental. It stays vacant most of the winter. Mary, diagonally across the street, hasn't been around much since she retired. Across from her is a second home, but they do come often, just not during the week. My friends Clare and Tony live at the other end of the street, but it's a small street so they are never far away.
I have books to read. I have new music. My clothes are, as always, warm and comfy. The larder is filled. The fridge has a round of brie, some red pepper hummus and a cooked chicken with a hint of honey. I am well prepared for the storm with all of life's essentials.
Monday, February 02, 2009
Ground Hog: The Dillards
The world's most famous groundhog, Punxsutawney Phil, saw his shadow Monday morning, predicting this already long winter will last for six more weeks. The annual ritual takes place on Gobbler's Knob, a tiny hill in Punxsutawney, a borough of about 6,100 residents some 65 miles northeast of Pittsburgh.
According to German superstition, if a hibernating animal casts a shadow on Feb. 2 — the Christian holiday of Candlemas — winter will last another six weeks. If no shadow was seen, legend said spring would come early.
MP3 File
yousendit
According to German superstition, if a hibernating animal casts a shadow on Feb. 2 — the Christian holiday of Candlemas — winter will last another six weeks. If no shadow was seen, legend said spring would come early.
MP3 File
yousendit
“The paradox of reality is that no image is as compelling as the one which exists only in the mind's eye.”
Frost covers every surface. It's pretty in its own way. I went out on the deck earlier and watched Gracie for a while. The air was cold but hinted of a warmer day to come. Snow tonight, not a whole lot according to the papers, but I'll fill the feeders just in case. The morning sun is perfectly lovely.
Monday meant dragging myself out of bed at some ungodly hour. I remember walking to catch the bus to school in the darkness of cold winter mornings. No sidewalks meant walking on the street for the first couple of blocks. My footsteps echoed. Many of the houses I passed were lit. People were stirring, but I was the only one walking. I always took the same route going but a different route coming home, one which took me through a small field, a shortcut. I felt more comfortable finding my way in the light.
I can still remember how warm the bus felt and how it smelled. It had that peculiar odor only buses seem to have. It wasn't a school bus but a scheduled one between towns. I had a bus ticket, good for one week, and the driver punched it when I got on. My friends and I traveled two towns over to go to school. I can close my eyes and remember the route even after all these years.
It's strange how some things stay with us vibrant in our memories. Routine is etched and easy to recall decades later. I can see streets as they were. I can still walk them. They are like postcards captured by my mind's eye. I do that sometimes: close my eyes and remember.
Monday meant dragging myself out of bed at some ungodly hour. I remember walking to catch the bus to school in the darkness of cold winter mornings. No sidewalks meant walking on the street for the first couple of blocks. My footsteps echoed. Many of the houses I passed were lit. People were stirring, but I was the only one walking. I always took the same route going but a different route coming home, one which took me through a small field, a shortcut. I felt more comfortable finding my way in the light.
I can still remember how warm the bus felt and how it smelled. It had that peculiar odor only buses seem to have. It wasn't a school bus but a scheduled one between towns. I had a bus ticket, good for one week, and the driver punched it when I got on. My friends and I traveled two towns over to go to school. I can close my eyes and remember the route even after all these years.
It's strange how some things stay with us vibrant in our memories. Routine is etched and easy to recall decades later. I can see streets as they were. I can still walk them. They are like postcards captured by my mind's eye. I do that sometimes: close my eyes and remember.
Sunday, February 01, 2009
"Beware of all enterprises that require new clothes."
It might as well be spring. Okay, maybe it's not that warm, but it's still a lovely day, a bright, sunny day in the 40's. I figure today must be a reward of sorts for enduring the cold nights and the bitter days of January.
Nothing much is going on around here. Few cars were out this morning. People seem to be hunkered. Sunday is the perfect excuse for staying home.
I seldom buy new clothes. There are very few occasions to wear them. My underwear and socks are disasters. My thought is they're hidden under everything else so a few holes don't matter, despite my mother's warning. With socks, I'm only bothered if all my toes are exposed. With underwear, when the elastic goes, so do they. I did buy two new shirts and a couple of pairs of wool clogs in the last year, and my sister gave me socks as one of my Christmas presents so my wardrobe is about as up-to-date as it gets. I'm happiest in my slippers, flannel pants and sweatshirt. Holey socks complete my ensemble.
In Ghana, I wore dresses made from native cloth. A seamstress sewed them, and they were cool and comfortable. They were also colorful. That was the most fashionable I have ever been.
Nothing much is going on around here. Few cars were out this morning. People seem to be hunkered. Sunday is the perfect excuse for staying home.
I seldom buy new clothes. There are very few occasions to wear them. My underwear and socks are disasters. My thought is they're hidden under everything else so a few holes don't matter, despite my mother's warning. With socks, I'm only bothered if all my toes are exposed. With underwear, when the elastic goes, so do they. I did buy two new shirts and a couple of pairs of wool clogs in the last year, and my sister gave me socks as one of my Christmas presents so my wardrobe is about as up-to-date as it gets. I'm happiest in my slippers, flannel pants and sweatshirt. Holey socks complete my ensemble.
In Ghana, I wore dresses made from native cloth. A seamstress sewed them, and they were cool and comfortable. They were also colorful. That was the most fashionable I have ever been.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
