Tag Archives: Memory

Shaken and Stirred

12 Saturday Dec 2020

Posted by in Home, music, Treasured Finds, Words matter

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Oh, Danny Boy

As a young child, upon hearing the song “Danny Boy” I would almost immediately devolve into a sobbing, tearful, emotional mess. Perhaps it was the way it was sung, often by my mother and a host of Irish relatives, some immigrant, some first generation. I hadn’t been alive long enough to understand the connection between music, lyric, and story. I just felt the melancholy, hope, and fatalism of the song. I was an old soul in a young body.

A lot has changed in the sixty or so years since my small boy heart cracked and shook to that particular song, but the visceral response to a powerful lyric still stops me in the same way.

Sunday Playlist

On a recent Sunday morning, I was in the kitchen going through my customary breakfast-making, waiting for Jan to return from her socially distanced church service. I was in a reflective mood, asking Alexa to play a series of songs that popped into my head, and as often happens, one led to another. I noticed my playlist featured three songs that, in some way, brought me back to Danny Boy boulevard.

Each song spoke in an intimate, conversational style, artfully using short, powerful lines that put the listener in the same place as the writer.

Within each of these stories live short verses that are stunning in their simplicity and emotional depth.

Warren Zevon

“Keep Me In Your Heart For A While” is the last song on Warren Zevon’s final album “The Wind,” written and recorded as he was losing his battle with cancer. It is a gentle call for remembrance, and a bit of a promise that his spirit will remain part of the woman he loved. These lines get me every time.

Sometimes when you’re doing simple things around the house

Maybe you’ll think of me and smile

You know I’m tied to you like the buttons on your blouse

Keep me in your heart for a while

Warren Zevon and friends perform Keep Me In Your Heart For A While

Emmylou Harris

“Red Dirt Girl” is a heartbreaking story wrapped in a gorgeous sonic bed of guitars, bass, percussion, and atmospheric production, channeled through Emmylou’s otherworldly voice. It tells the story of a girl named Lillian, delivered by her best friend. Lillian’s life was not easy or joyful, and the tragedy of it all was not her death, but the life she endured. The short bridge contains Lillian’s truth.

One thing they don’t tell you about the blues

When you got ’em

You keep on fallin’ ’cause there ain’t no bottom

There ain’t no end at least not for Lillian

Emmylou Harris performs Red Dirt Girl

Bruce Springsteen

“Moonlight Motel” from Bruce Springsteen’s Western Stars album, gives me Danny Boy level shivers. It is a complex emotional recipe of loss, remembrance, wistfulness, and acceptance. His description of the fading motel drew such a vivid picture that I was right there, standing next to the storyteller, seeing what time and life had done to a cherished and sacred place.

Now the pool’s filled with empty, eight-foot deep

Got dandelions growin’ up through the cracks in the concrete

Chain-link fence half-rusted away

Got a sign says “Children be careful how you play”

Bruce Springsteen performs Moonlight Motel

Bonus Cut – Puccini

It is opera. It is in Italian. I don’t speak Italian. It doesn’t matter. The passion, the lush orchestrations. The angst of Tosca channeled by the great Angela Gheorghiu. This one endures.

In the hour of pain,
Nell’ora del dolore,

Why, why, Lord,
Perché, perché, Signore,

Ah, why do you pay me so?
Ah, perché me ne rimuneri così?

Angela Gheorghiu as Tosca sings Vissi d’arte

And One For The Road

I am eagerly awaiting the release of “Hymn For The Underground” from my son John’s band Original Son. He continues to amaze me with his insightful, defiant, and powerful lyrics. I call this one a Punk Rock Pep Talk that acknowledges and encourages the everyday people who “make the gears turn.” It is glorious!

You’re not replaceable

And they can’t walk on water

We are the ones who make the gears turn…

You are glorious.

Hymm For The Underground – Original Son

Goodbye, My Friend

29 Sunday Nov 2020

Posted by in Friendship, Words matter

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“Hello Miguel, it’s me, your new best friend José!”

So began many a phone call and email from my friend and kindred musical spirit José Quintana, who left us this November. Another terrible sadness during the saddest of years.

Father, friend, musician. Nurturer of talent and builder of careers. Mentor to many musicians, budding producers and engineers, and friend to so many more.

José and I met in 2013. Our friendship has endured beyond that time, as we found more common ground through our mutual love of music. He played bass, and I played bass.josebass

The Dream, Realized

José’s life is, as he said many times, the story of the American Dream. He began his journey as a young boy in his native Mexico, playing classical piano under the watchful eyes of his older sister. His musical muse took him on an adventure that lasted a lifetime. First, playing local clubs in Mexico City, then traveling to gigs at the resorts and supper clubs that drew visitors from around the world. He developed an interest in how music was created and produced and began learning the art of recording.

He left Mexico with a one-way bus ticket and a demo tape he had made with his band. Arriving in Los Angeles, he did what thousands of fellow artists have done. He knocked on every door, visited every record label, and worked hard to convince someone in the music industry to listen and to give him a chance. His last stop yielded some success; the music executive told him his demo tape sounded terrible, but if José wanted to learn, he would sponsor his initial training as a recording engineer.

“In my soul, I am a musician”

And so, he studied and learned, and became a capable studio professional, working up from intern to assistant to engineer. Along the way, he developed relationships with the writers, artists, musicians, producers, and executives who make the music business run. Those relationships lasted throughout his life. The love and respect he earned shine brightly in tributes, photographs, and tearful thanks from the famous and the ones who, along with José, helped make them famous.

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Finding A Better Way

As José grew older, his lifestyle, and particularly his eating habits, began to take a toll on his body. With a family history of diabetes, he knew that his odds were not great unless he made drastic changes. So, he did. As was his way, he began to research different diets and weight-management strategies, settling on an approach that featured many of the flavors and textures he enjoyed. He adjusted his favorite recipes, replacing high-carb ingredients with healthier options.

He lost an impressive amount of weight and improved his overall health, battling back the diabetes that was eroding his body and shortening his life expectancy.

Collaborating

With this success came the desire to help others, particularly the Latin populations who had similar diet-related health challenges. He asked me if I would help him write a book about his experiences. And so, we did, with a few challenges to make it interesting. I don’t speak Spanish, and while Jose’s English was very good he would sometimes find himself drifting into Spanish, looking for the right descriptions for what he wanted to communicate. We found a rhythm over time and were able to complete our collaboration.

It was over these many months that I got to know José better. He would tell stories of his early life in Mexico, and his successes in the Latin music business. Many of the artists in these stories would be immediately familiar to Latin music lovers. The stories were not told to boast or brag but shared in the context of the work environment that played a big part in his spiraling weight and descent into diabetic illness.

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Jose with Legendary Mexican rock band MANA, whose career he helped shape and grow.

I still smile, thinking about the hours we spent listening to the many records he played on, engineered, or produced. I watched José as he listened, sometimes with eyes closed, focused on a spot in the universe where memories live and where the session was again happening. I am always taken with how clean and warm those recordings sound, and how that clarity exposes the amazing talents of the singers and players who make the music soar.

Sadness and Joy

Time and circumstance changed our relationship, nothing more so than the terrible stroke that devastated José three years ago. When I got word of his condition I headed down to Los Angeles to see him, expecting it to be the last time we would be together in our current form.

It was heartbreaking to see my friend suffering so deeply, fighting to grab and hold on to moments of lucidity as his body and mind were twisted and distorted. We had a brief interlude of peaceful silence. I told my friend that I loved him and that whatever choice he made about fighting or releasing his spirit would be okay. I left that desperate place and drove home, sure that he would pass shortly.

But he didn’t.

With the love of his beautiful family, the support of his musical community, and the generous compassion of a humble mentor, José slowly began to come back. He experienced the setbacks and successes known to many who have fought back against stroke, and over time regained parts of his former self. His wife Diane, strong and determined in everything she does, made certain José got the care he needed, and kept him as active and engaged with the world as his body would allow. His daughter Heather added inspiration and motivation to the mix, presenting José and Diane with two grandsons. The joy of new life brought great invigoration, and happily, José and his grandsons got to have a short but loving time to say hello.

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I was able to visit with José and Diane one more time, sharing coffee and cake in their new home. This visit I did not expect to have made me very happy.

Vaya con Dios

José, my friend, you will always be in my heart. When I hear a particularly beautiful samba, or a fluid, floating bossa nova, I will picture you, eyes closed, and we will connect through the music, wherever in the universe we happen to be.

 

 

 

 

 

Queen of Cards

28 Wednesday Oct 2020

Posted by in Home, Living Our Values, Treasured Finds, Words matter

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The FaceTime alert on the iPad started jingling around noontime. That usually means the grandkids are calling.
Knowing how low their tolerance for delay can be, I quickly tapped the display to accept the call. Sure enough, three chattering children filled the screen, each waving a colorful Halloween greeting card that they had just collected from the mailbox.
After a short chat – well, maybe more of a whirlwind of questions and an attempt to give each of the children equal time and attention, Chloe’s voice cut through with a request for an explanation of her card, which featured a witch trying to decide on a broom for the day. “What does “accessory” mean?” she asked, staring into the camera while I fumbled for an answer.
“Uh, well, um, I guess…”
I was saved from further flummoxing by the arrival of the keeper of all things card-related, the tracker of tidings, the manager of messaging, the Queen of Cards, Nana Jan. She quickly and authoritatively answered Chloe’s question, using an example of a purse that goes with an outfit. Chloe got it right away, responding with a crisp set of accessories based on Jan’s definition. “Oh, I get it. Like a bracelet. Or a necklace.”
“Exactly!” Jan answered. She then went down the line, speaking to each kid in a way that was very specific to how they communicate. River studied her card, reading the text and describing the pictures. Ben happily waved his card at the camera, spilling words and word-like sounds that joyfully conveyed his interpretation of what his card contained.
Jan has always been a card-sender. Birthdays, graduations, anniversaries, births, and deaths require a card that captures the right sentiment, with the right words or a meaningful image. I can’t count the number of times she will say, “I need to pick up a card for…” She finds them in the local places, like Among Friends. She’ll somehow extract the perfect greeting from the rack at the Cookie Crock, or get lucky and discover something funny or poignant at the Post Office. Sometimes she adds a short note, other times just a “Love, Jan.”
But these kids, they get Super Nana. Cards are just a small part of how she lets them know she is always thinking about them. Surprise gifts will appear in their mailbox. Twirling ribbons for the girls. A collection of Matchbox cars for Ben. Magazine subscriptions from Highlights and National Geographic Kids land in rotation. Zoo memberships so they have a place to visit where they can run, laugh, and learn about the magnificent animals that share our planet. Books are chosen and sent, to be read together when the time comes to sit side by side once again and explore the stories revealed through paper and ink.
I know, no matter how many birthdays or anniversaries we have left together, there will be a card sitting on the table when I wake up. And I know that every son, daughter-in-law, sister, niece or nephew, and dear friend stand a good chance of seeing that familiar, bold hand-written envelope appear on a special day.
Queen of Cards? More like the Queen of Hearts.

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The Owl

23 Sunday Aug 2020

Posted by in Communicating, Home, Living Our Values, Treasured Finds, Words matter

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We adapt because we must. The unbelievable darkness brought by a raging pandemic has changed the way we live and work within our home. Artificial intimacies keep us connected to the rest of our world. Outside, communities also adjusted, some with grace and acceptance, others with fear and anger. It had become a familiar and  numbing routine.

Then the owl appeared.

We have spent the past few months engaging with the world through the looking glass of laptops, cellphones, and tablets. In the forty years we have been together, this is the longest time where it has been just us: no kids, no shows, no bands. No career grind, no months away from home, no fifteen hundred-mile separations. Just us, finding our spaces together.

Jan was at her piano, working through a complex arrangement of “Somewhere Over The Rainbow,” a classic song that features the wistful lyric “Where happy little bluebirds fly, beyond the rainbow…”

A riot of screaming scrub jays interrupted the music. These little bluebirds were not the happy variety. They bounded from branch to branch, aggressively vocalized their objection to an outsider visiting their neighborhood. An equally persistent group of smaller birds sang backup, fueling a constant screed. Their message was angry, unrelenting, and unmistakable. You are not welcome here.

Jan spotted the owl perched atop a rain gutter that runs down along timg_0935.jpghe outer chimney wall. The chosen spot sits under an eave, about three feet to the right of the dining room window. To see him, you need to tilt your head slightly to the left.

The visitor closed his eyes for minutes at a time, while the jays railed and the humans angled cellphones to capture a perfect picture of the unusual guest.

The owl opened his yellow eyes wide, turned towards us, and slowly blinked. “Hello,” we said, fully expecting that he would understand us and feel comfortable staying for a while.

The jays continued their assault but to no real effect. The owl – I suspect he is a bit of a badass – just looked calmly at them and, in a splendid display of serene composure, began blinking in time to the blue jay’s cries. 

This unexpected visitor energized us. Jan grabbed her bird book – one of the very few thoughtful, unexpected gifts I had given her over the years. She thumbed through the pages, some of which have broken free from the binding, and found the owl section. We deduced it was a young Western Screech Owl.

The owl left for the evening, undoubtedly looking for a meal from the bounty all around us. We kept checking, wondering if he took off for good.

Ben and River

Wanting to share this close encounter, we tried unsuccessfully to connect with our grandchildren. We did the next best thing and sent them pictures and videos.

Two-year-old Ben is the youngest of our three grandkids. On the last, pre-pandemic visit, we spent a bit of time with a book that featured pictures of various animals. Ben would point at an illustration and make the sound the animal makes. Cows, ducks, horses were all covered. Then came the owl. Ben quickly began hooting softly, as expected. I decided to see if he could say the word “owl.” After a few tries, he did get it out. Owww- lll. Oww-ll. Ow—l. We were so excited by his accomplishment that the family spent the rest of the visit saying, “Ben, say owl!!!” And he did, every time. Two syllables, but still, the word is now in his forever vocabulary. He immediately knew what the pictures revealed.

 River, the four-year-old philosopher, said, “There’s an owl at Nana’s house? She should keep it, but not in a cage. Birds should be free.” River can confound, confuse, and converse at a level way beyond her four short years. She is a bulldog when she wants to know something, and doesn’t settle for glib answers. You need to be nimble when you engage with her.

Hello Again

The owl returned the next day to the excited jibber-jabber of the neurotic jays. Jan was thrilled and immediately started talking and waving to him through the closed window. When the owl rotated its head, Jan did the same. When it preened, she preened. When it twisted about, in the way owls do, she followed along. It was funny, sweet, and a bit weird.

Jan suddenly left the room, returning a few minutes later with a gift for our visitor. This small, lovely object is a beautifully smooth stone, hand-painted with an exact representation of the owl perched on the other side of the glass. The totem had appeared a few weeks earlier, fallen out of a box during a friend’s move. It was safely sheltered in Jan’s creative space, ready to be returned after the dismal time of distancing and separation ended. 

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Jan carefully set the stone on the window frame, balanced between the upper and lower panes, a perfect line between woman, stone, and owl. She spoke conversationally, introducing the idol to the subject. Later, she retrieved Windex, paper towels, and a squeegee, cleaning the windows so everyone could see clearly.

These efforts made her very happy. I have a million thoughts as to why; some of them might be correct.

Chloe

We picked up the iPad and succeeded in connecting with our oldest granddaughter, Chloe. After a few short moments, the picture came into focus, and Chloe saw the beautiful bird, blinking back at her. We watched her watching the owl.

 In that distant moment, I saw all of her lifetimes at once. An infant’s innocence, a toddler’s curiosity, an adolescent’s puzzlement, and an awareness and intelligence that hints what is still to come. It shook me, I admit, and made me realize how much of her life- all their lives – we are missing as we wait out this plague.

Until Next Time

The owl left us again for what we believe to be the last time. The painted one still sits on the windowsill, ready to restart the discussion should the living one decide to come back for a visit. Jan and I both look out the window towards the perch several times a day, hoping for another blessing. The jays come by every few hours, posturing like treetop bullies, spitting their dire warnings should anyone dare encroach on their turf. So far, the only interlopers are the squirrels that had been making a mess of the plants on the back deck, before the owl showed up. Somehow, the rock-faced replica does not seem to intimidate them as much as the living predator.  

We know that this painful time of separation will end. We will hold our children and their children again. The painted owl will find its way back to the rightful owner, and we two will be stronger friends and partners for having survived this time together.

A Last Long Look

We were gifted one last surprise, wrapped in a spectacular rainbow of a fiery summer sunset. We watched from the front deck as the sky turned in the evening hour. As the sun slid down into the ocean, a magnificent bird glided gracefully above the tree line. We followed its flight path, thinking it was a hawk. It landed atop a Monterrey pine a distance away. It sat tall and still, then slowly rotated its head, coming into focus through the binoculars we keep next to the french doors.

The big, majestic owl looked at us for a short while, and then, he too was gone.owlintree

 

 

 

Lunchtime

07 Friday Feb 2020

Posted by in Home, Humor, Treasured Finds, Words matter

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Bring the Trader Joe’s bags, we’re going to Albertson’s!

Thursdays with Morro Bay

My well-organized wife is the Keeper Of The Grocery Lists – actually, a half-folded sheet of paper filled on one side with previous writings or misprinted sheet music. The clean side keeps track of wants and needs. There are three headings – Costco, Albertson’s, and TJ’s. Sometimes an item will migrate from one column to another, or get crossed out and replaced with something else.

Non-grocery tasks are tracked on index cards. It’s a process.

Basics

The weekly trip to Albertson’s is never dull. For a guy with a minimal range of lunch likeables, this has not been a good couple of weeks. I’m a three-item menu man. A simple tuna sandwich on a whole wheat pita will appear twice a week. On Albertson’s day, a basic American cheese on a plain bagel will land on the fiestaware. A beautiful bowl of hot chicken noodle soup, courtesy of Lipton, will round out the lunch week. Of course, no soup is complete without a short sleeve of Premium Saltines, half in the bowl, 45% as stand-alone crackers, and the rest, crumbs that bounce off the table and land under the chairs. It’s a process.

Groans Ahead

Just a simple man with a simple soup and sandwich lifestyle, living the dream until an item in one of the inescapable news feeds caught my eye. An iconic brand was ensnared in a scandal that cut to the core — actually, the albacore. Bumble Bee, busted. This one stung.

It turns out my long-held wariness of that Charlie Tuna character was well-founded. According to the news report, Mr. Tuna and his henchmen conspired with that little mermaid from Chicken of The Sea and the Bumbling Bee to market canned tuna with all the price fixin’s.

“The troubled brand was embroiled in a price-fixing scheme that drained its resources. Major grocery chains, including Walmart, Kroger, and Albertsons, sued Bumble Bee, Starkist, and the maker of Chicken-of-the-Sea in 2016 for fixing prices. In 2017, Bumble Bee agreed to plead guilty for its role in the conspiracy and to pay a $25 million criminal fine.”

$25 million – that’s a lot of clams! The weight of the penalty has proven to be too much, causing the bumble to tumble into bankruptcy. Thankfully, there were still plenty of cans on the shelves, flashy gold-colored tins promising a premium experience. “Hah!” I thought, “More marketing gimmickry designed to entice the unwary.”

I picked up three cans.

Moving On

A few yards down the aisle, an open space appeared where my preferred brand of soup mix usually stood. I wasn’t too worried since the popular classic often stood stacked in rows that extended several boxes deep. Worst case, I’d have to grab a few of the “with real chicken” varieties and wait for a restock. However, that was not going to be an option. Hanging off the lip of the shelf was a printed piece of HELL NO!!!! I silently screamed as the words “recall” and “listeria” leaped off the page. “This simply can’t bee,” I thought, mixing my metaphors as I struggled for some sense of normalcy. All manner of craziness ran through my mind. “These are not my reading glasses,” I thought. “I must be misreading the words.”

I whipped my head around, looking for my wife. She wears progressive lenses; she will know what this all means. Unfortunately, she was still two aisles over, weighing the differences between generic and name – brand crushed tomatoes. I frantically spun around, looking for Angela, or Kyle, or Brenda. But no, Angela had moved over to produce, Kyle was ringing away on register 4, and Brenda was now working for the bank – so close yet so far!!!

Keep Moving

Panic was setting in, or maybe it was hunger. It was time to move on. I closed my eyes and silently recited my go-to mantra; “what would Shirley do?” The answer came to me in a flash. I wheeled my cart around and headed to where I knew I would be safe. The frozen food aisle. Thanks, Shirley!

Wait – what the frosted hell is this??? Another sign, blurry through the refrigerator glass. I slowed my roll – actually, a misbehaving front wheel had already done that for me – and wobbled up to a familiar section only to find yet another nightmare. It seems listeria was not satisfied with just taking out the soup. No, those mischievous microbes set out to take down the king. Yes, that little bio-bastard went straight to the top, laying siege to the freezer aisle. White Castle has fallen.

Oh, those many Bronx nights, weaving down Fordham Road in Pete’s Firebird or Tommy’s father’s station wagon, towards the bright beacon of regrettable choices and reckless consumption. No matter how many quarts of beer sloshed around in our bellies, no matter how many Sambuca shots left lips licorice-y, there was always room for one or twelve murder burgers. There was no listeria hysteria then, no microbe that could stop us. Germs were expelled in a stream of “all the above.” It was a process.

Nothing Stays The Same

Those days are long past. I’ve come to an uneasy truce with alcohol and all that followed. Pete has gone on to whatever existence comes next. Tommy, too, along with a few others that took that late-night slalom down the broad street that both connected and divided neighborhoods, cultures, and realities. But many of us are still here, carrying the scars and badges of the histories we have written for ourselves.

It is nearly impossible to find a real live White Castle anymore. Pretty much all that is left are the frozen replicas that take well to the microwave, but fail to recreate the full foolish experience of over-consuming things that are bad and potentially fatal. I guess it’s good that they are not as great as I remember — less chance for reigniting old bad habits.

Receipts

I walk past the wine, beer and whiskey with no hesitation, thanks to thirty years of practice. The thousands of cigarettes I smoked could likely stack as high as a detached garage, but that number was frozen a quarter-century ago. But White Castle, Bumble Bee, dehydrated pre-packaged soup? Yellow American – the lowliest and most misunderstood of all cheeses? They still find a place in the shopping cart, surrounded by yogurt, fruit, and (I hope I’m pronouncing this correctly) vegetables. The beer is alcohol-free, the wine is not mine. But these things that have shaped me, both literally and metaphorically, hang on for dear life.

I’m okay with that.

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Scarecrow, or Pedestrian?

01 Tuesday Oct 2019

Posted by in Beautiful Cambria, Cambria Scarecrows, Communicating, Home, Humor, Searching for Cambria's Reality, Treasured Finds, Words matter

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I almost ran over Tom Gray today. Well, I think it was Tom. It wasn’t intentional, of course, and he probably didn’t notice. We were both paying attention to our Main Street surroundings, as sensible Cambrians do. The crosswalk and Tom were where they were supposed to be. So was I, buckled in, hands appropriately spaced on the steering wheel. My eyes ran through the sequence – straight ahead, sweep side to side, check mirrors, react, and repeat. Tom, it seemed, was doing likewise, sans steering wheel. He made it across safely, and I continued on my way. So what happened? I’ll tell you what happened; it was those damn scarecrows, that’s what happened.

Boo Who?

They are everywhere. On the corners, in the alleyways, and fronting just about every store in town. They pop out from behind the pines. They drop like party streamers from lamp posts. They stand guard at the entrance to the church. I stood on Cambria Drive for twenty-seven minutes, waiting for a Dancers By The Sea Flash Mob. Nope. Scarecrows.

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Nuns and priests. Cats and Dogs. Goblins and ghouls. Pirates and Italian Chefs. I waved enthusiastically to a group of cyclists, thinking it might be Andy, Susan, and Charles. I assumed they were going slowly to accommodate a new hip. Wrong! Scarecrows.

After a spirited discussion on local water politics, I took off my glasses to give them a wipe. When I put them back on, I realized I had been arguing with a dummy, and not Cindy Steidel. Hoping nobody noticed, I patted a stuffed shoulder and thanked her for service to the community.

Say It Like You Mean It

I decided to make the most of my mistakes and began shouting greetings to all the figures. “Hi, Elizabeth! Great pictures from the beach this morning!” “Thanks for the road closure matrix, Susan!” “Love the new sport coat, Mr. Lyons!” “How goes the potato crop, Leslie?” “Great piece on your time in country music, Kathe!” Sorry about almost running you over, Tom!”

And thus I made my way through town, thinking of something positive to say to each scarecrow. Words I might not have the opportunity to share in person with every real, living, and breathing character in Cambria’s ever-changing story.

Different Spirits

Arriving at the far end of town, I popped into the Cutruzzola Tasting Room to say hello. I thought they might be busy, based on the crowd next to the building. DOH! Scarecrows with streamers. Thank goodness a real live Mari was there to talk me down. I did most of the talking, as I am wont to do. By the time I left, she was probably hoping for a mute scarecrow to stop by.

A Happy Place

I made it to my original destination – the Cambria Library. I go there to write, and by write, I mean people-watch in between sentences. It seems like the natural place when trying to turn thoughts into words–into sentences–into paragraphs. I like this library. It is not so quiet that you can’t think. It is not so stuffy that you are afraid to sneeze.

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It is, instead, a welcoming place with friendly librarians, local volunteers who staff the bookstore, and kids with grandmas who come every week to exchange last week’s adventures for a whole new set of imagination boosters. Astronauts on week one, traded in for Lego Dinosaur adventures the next trip. Today’s choice features a Princess, a Snowman, and enough excitement to keep a young boy and a young-at-heart grandmother joined in exploration, building a bond that will strengthen with every turn of a page.

There should be a scarecrow for that.

Learn about the Cambria Scarecrows here.

Grace Notes

24 Saturday Aug 2019

Posted by in Communicating, Community Involvement, Living Our Values, music, Social Responsibility, Words matter

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Contrast and compare – that’s one very good way to track an artist as he or she progresses through their life. Do they grow, or do they stay rooted in place and style? Are they true to their muse, or do they bend with the fashion of the day? Does the work resonate years and decades later? Does it make you feel as much at age 60 as it did at age 30?

Bruce

Bruce Springsteen has been a constant in my adult life. From the first earth-shattering concert I attended at the Nassau Coliseum on Long Island, way back in 197something I knew that he and the E Street Band were quite simply great. Over the years I’ve had the good fortune to see them in concert, and every show was just magic. Jan and I saw them in Connecticut shortly before we moved west, and I got to see them from a corporate box at Madison Square Garden with some colleagues and clients. I was struck by how many in my group were like me – respectable older guys by day, rock and roll animals and Bruce fanatics by night. We knew every lyric, every lick, and every story. We also had some first-timers with us. I sat next to Kim, a young marketing manager who I had been informally mentoring as she moved through her career. She was not familiar with the music, so I tried to give her some history and perspective. After a short while it became totally unnecessary. “I get it,” she said. Another fan is born.

Fearless

Bruce Springsteen the songwriter is pretty fearless. He has written about everything from youthful love, lust and longing (Rosalita, Sandy, Incident on 57th Street…) He invents characters, gives them a story, colors them with emotion and confusion, and lays out the path to success or failure.

He takes on social issues, using his gifted ability to again create and infuse characters to make his points. His Oscar-winning “Streets of Philadelphia” gives voice to the AIDS epidemic. Born In The USA – often misappropriated as a flag-waving anthem, really gets down to the grit and pain of a veteran returning to a fading American Dream. The raucous version of the single, or the dark of the night solo version on an open-tuned 12 string slide guitar – same song, different shades of dark. “The Ghost Of Tom Joad” – “Sinaloa Cowboys,” “ Youngstown” – American Storytelling at its finest.

Faith and Hope

Bruce has penned many songs that touch on faith and hope. They seem to send a message of determination built on shaky confidence in himself, and in the rest of us too. Better Days. Land of Hopes and Dreams. My City of Ruins.

My favorite has always been Thunder Road. From the first time the needle hit the vinyl of the Born To Run record (kids, ask your parents to explain) I was struck still. I can’t think of a better, more descriptive, cinematic opening verse. Piano and harmonica.

The screen door slams

Mary’s dress sways

Like a vision she dances across the porch as the radio plays

Roy Orbison singing for the lonely

Hey, that’s me and I want you only

Don’t turn me home again, I just can’t face myself alone again…

Thunder Road has aged as Bruce and the band has aged. The finest version I have found is from the Live In Barcelona concert from 2002. It is so in the pocket, so mature, so beautifully played that it makes me a bit teary-eyed. A hopeful, almost desperate instrumental theme takes over the piece when the lyrics end. Building through the voice of the guitars, no flash, no frills, deliberate and plainly voiced. Then the immortal Clarence Clemons steps forward and sends it to the heavens, and you feel like maybe it will all work out for the characters.

(Bonus love for the audience sing-along, where they go rapidly out of time, drawing a slight head tilt and smile from bassist Gary Tallent, followed by a grin from Bruce as he brings everyone back into time (1:13 in the video.)

Thunder Road Live In Barcelona

Love Songs

And then, there are these two songs, written decades apart. The first one – “Tougher Than The Rest” captures the feeling of love, lust, semi-hollow bravado, and a longing for connection, wrapped up and presented in a slow, low and controlled delivery, Telecaster played down the neck, basic chords, lots of Fender-y tremolo and reverb with enough twang to be country and enough growl to be punk and enough sexual tension to be … . This is a guy blustering his way into a relationship! This song has been covered by a lot of people, including Emmylou Harris and Travis Tritt. All great, but I still favor Bruce’s original.

Here’s a video of Bruce and company (including his now – wife Patti Scialfa on the duet.)

Tougher Than The Rest

Now, fast forward 30 years or so. A lot of living, and a lot of years with that woman he sang with in the first video. Kids, massive success, and accolades. And lots of causes supported. Lots of songs, lots of collaborations and lots of shows. And lots of love.

I think of this one as a love song for grownups. The arrangement is a bit of a mess, perhaps missing the mark in an attempt to sound “older”. I don’t know and I don’t care, because this song makes me tear up just about every time. Probably because it reflects how I feel about my love, our relationship and our life so far.

And I count my blessings and you’re mine for always

we laugh beneath the covers and count the wrinkles and the greys

Sing away, sing away, sing away sing away

Sing away, sing away, my darling we’ll sing away.

This is our Kingdom of Days.

This is our Kingdom of Days.

KINGDOM OF DAYS

Damnit, it got me again!

Everyone Looks Familiar…

23 Thursday May 2019

Posted by in Beautiful Cambria, Communicating, Home, Humor, Satire, Social Media, Treasured Finds, Words matter

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“Hmmm, that person looks familiar.” It seems I have that thought a dozen times a day.

Smile

Wherever I go, the people I see seem to strike a chord in my brain. At the post office, at the Cookie Crock, or on a walk across the ranch, faces all look familiar. It is not only a face that opens my mental file cabinet, but a hat, a jacket, some glasses, or a gait that says “oh, hello again!”

As often as not, the person is a stranger to me. I do my best to smile and say hello, and frequently get a guarded nod or smile in return. Occasionally I get a scowl or a narrow-eyed stare, or a slightly frightened or worried look.

Sometimes my smile falls on someone I know slightly, and we enjoy a brief, pleasant exchange about simple things. Then there are the times where people react less positively, sometimes with good reason, sometimes for reasons only they know. It’s all good, as the kids say. I’m just grateful I can see it all.

What Are You Looking At, Kid?

cuteLilFellaAs a child, I had a “lazy eye” – strabismus – which always had me looking off to the side. At age eight, I had surgery to correct the turn. I can recall, over fifty years later, the terror of seeing the surgeon looking down at me as anesthesia was being administered. I can see his eyeglasses, and the magnifying lenses attached to them, between his mask and his cap. I can still smell the gas – maybe it was ether – and then nothing. I woke up post surgery with a big bandage and the constant need to throw up. After it was all over, I was a relatively normal looking kid with two straight eyes.

Life went on, and I used those eyes to explore the world.

Drift Away

As I aged, my eye decided not to follow the straight and narrow path. It began to drift, noticeable to me but not to others for some time. I would be having a conversation with someone, and would notice them glancing over their shoulder. It dawned on me that they were wondering what the heck I was looking at back there. To me, I was making and holding eye contact. To them, I was scanning the area looking for butterflies. It got weird, so I decided to have it straightened again.

Upon the recommendation of my brother-in-law, who is an expert on eye stuff, I went to see Doctor Martin Lederman. If a call went out to Central Casting for a nattily dressed, old-timey doctor with a speaking style that recalls an earlier era, Dr. Lederman would be the person they send.

Dr. Lederman’s practice focuses on adolescent ophthalmology. He volunteers a lot of his time traveling around the world, performing corrective surgeries on children who face real social and cultural challenges because of their condition. He is a true hero who has changed, and likely saved, numerous lives with his gift.

He would fit in perfectly in beautiful Cambria.

Here We Go Again

After many exams and many tests, we decided that surgery was the best way to straighten me out. We booked a time, and on the big day my wife drove us to White Plains Hospital to get me fixed. My eye, that is.

This time, the terror was replaced by a slight nervousness. The anesthesiologist came in to sedate me, and I told him solemnly, “Doctor, if anything happens to me during surgery, I want to donate my body to science fiction.” Nothing. Not a twitch, not a fleeting grin. Just dead eyes and a big needle. Good night!

Wonderful Job

I woke up many hours later, groggy, thirsty, and more than a little confused. I had a bandage that resembled a rolled-up pair of sweat socks affixed to my head. I was a sight with sore eyes. After a few weeks of recovery time, I was ready to resume normal activities. Dr. Lederman was quite pleased with the results of his work, saying proudly, “My, I did an excellent job!” After we moved to California, Dr. Lederman referred me to a colleague at UCLA for follow-up tests to locate and treat some residual eye pain. Though he couldn’t identify the cause of my discomfort, he did remark, “My, Dr. Lederman did an excellent job!” Well, then, I guess he did.

Dr. Lederman is particularly interested in improving care to the world’s children and has headed teaching and surgical missions to Panama, Kenya, Morocco, Dubai, and Belize. He cofounded “One World, One Vision”, an organization devoted to training Ophthalmologists in developing countries to treat children and adults with strabismus and children with cataracts.

Natalie Portman

Seeing a face is one thing; remembering a name is something else altogether. I can “Name That Tune” as fast as anyone, complete with title and artist. I remember lyrics, bass lines, backup vocal parts, and little ornaments within a song. People’s names, though, often frustrate me.

natalie-portman-miss-diorNatalie Portman was, for the longest time, one of those names I could not remember. I could list her movies. I could remember seeing her on Broadway in “The Diary of Anne Frank,” and could instantly visualize her brilliantly funny video shorts on Saturday Night Live. I just could not remember her name. I eventually found myself saying it out loud for no apparent reason. I realized that it was my way of giving my brain a little jolt when I struggled to recall something. Now, when I see her face, I yell out, “NATALIE PORTMAN!!!!!” It’s fine when I’m home, but not so much when I’m out in public.

The same thing happens with former heavyweight boxing champion Lennox Lewis. This giant, dreadlock-ed champion with the British accent, who won the gold for Canada in the 1988 Olympics, who captured the heavyweight title twice, who went on to be a commentator for HBO – well, my mind doesn’t fill in the blank. Lennox Lewis is the Natalie Portman of sports.

Everyone Looks Familiar…at Costco

So, here I am, looking at the world with two straight eyes, pushing my cart down the aisle at Costco. I’m pretty sure I won’t bump into Natalie or Lennox, so the odds are good I won’t blurt out either name as I scan the mini-city. I find myself glancing at faces, listening to voices, and creating flash stories in my head about the people that stream past. An occupational hazard, I suppose.

Every Picture Tells A Story. I’ve Just Seen A Face. Delta Dawn. Mother and Child Reunion. Santa Baby. Inspiration for these songs could well have struck at Costco, or any concern where a wide range of people would shop.

Wait a minute – Santa Baby? Explain, please.

Ok, sure.

This Brain

As I did my Shop N’ ScanTM, a woman flew by, headed towards the checkout line. Ding ding, ding went my internal facial recognition program. Scanning records (mental file cabinet stuck, pick up some WD-40 in aisle 35, or maybe some ginkgo biloba in the lotions and potions section), no match. Re-scan. Still no match, but the image of a Santa hat randomly pops into my head.61Iy6w-VamL._SX425_

I mutter to my brain, “Santa hat??? Really??? Do you need some protein, maybe?”

I let it go, only to glance across the aisle to where the books sit piled on tables, and again feel the sense of recognition as a young woman carrying a small child hurried past. Nothing connects, but something seems familiar. I give up, turn back upfield, and see another face, and this one I identify immediately. Then it all comes together. Mother, father, daughter. Cambrians. Neighbors. First responder. Michael. Luna. Uh, umm, uh…Natalie Portman?  We chat for a minute, and I am reminded of her name. And immediately forget it. Aaaarrrrgghhh!

Thanks For The Sample

We find ourselves at the registers, separated by a few aisles. I look to my right, and the Santa hat lady and her husband are checking out. She looks over at me; I think she thinks we know each other. We banter, light, and non-committal. I pay for my stuff, get my cart and head to the exit.

As I pass the optometry department, I exchange hellos with Rachel, the always friendly and efficient rep who has helped me with my eyeglasses. Her name, I remember instantly. Maybe the protein from that chicken nugget sample I ingested was helping. Yes, that must have been it, because all of a sudden I remembered who the Santas were – Cambrians who attended a holiday concert, wearing Santa hats! Yay brain! Yay, chicken nuggets! Yay Costco! And their names are, uh, umm, ehh, Lennox and Natalie?

Memory

I got in my car and headed homeward, two straight eyes protected by prescription sunglasses Rachel helped select. I made a quick stop at the fire station, did a little research, and added Madison to the list of names I must try to remember.

Names and faces may soon fade away, but I’ll always have Natalie.