Tag Archives: storytelling

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.

amigos

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.

 

 

 

 

 

End Times

10 Monday Aug 2020

Posted by in Beautiful Cambria, Humor, Satire, Searching for Cambria's Reality, Social Media, Words matter

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Well, it is here. The cataclysmic events presaged in countless movies, books, and television shows have arrived. Driven by a mutant virus, rapidly spreading through a combination of bad luck and bad behaviors, fueled by a resistance to reality and a sense of invincibility, and enabled by babbling baboons that somehow have taken over the circus.

The world waits for the latest bug to just disappear, like a miracle. Do miracles disappear? Or is the disappearing the miracle? Either way, miracles are getting a bad name. I expect a malevolent rebel to sneak up under cover of an N95 mask and rewrite the whole MIRACLE Wikipedia page.

Here, in beautiful Cambria, our community’s governmental gatherings have migrated online; reduced to small clusters of like-minded folks who connect from a safe distance under the control of one known as “the Host.” In my mind’s eye, “The Host” sits surrounded by computer screens, telephones, sheaves of official-looking documents, a cup of tepid herbal tea, and two cats who invariably step on the right key when an outraged citizen raises a virtual hand to speak.

Like most evolution, it initially went unnoticed. At first, it was just a board meeting or two. Soon, that wasn’t enough. The lure of the standing committees drew me in. Hunger grew. I soon found myself scouring the CCSD website event calendar, searching for the next meeting. Finance, Infrastructure, it didn’t matter. I knew I had a problem when I clicked the link for the third leg of the trinity. Yes, I am talking about the Policy Committee. Then came Parks, Recreation, and Open Space. I could not stop. I attempted to access the legendary FireSafe Focus meeting, but, like a lapsed Catholic, sat in the purgatory of the virtual lobby, waiting for “the Host” to grant me entry. That entry never came. I suppose I will have to make do with the minutes.

Not to be too indelicate, but my office chair is telling me we are reaching the end. The squeaks and groans grow louder as the cushion grows flatter. The tilt is more forward, and the distance from seat to screen shortens. The dents in my forearms from the laptop frame have inched towards my elbows, and my sedentary body’s stiffness now covers a whole lot more real estate.  Eyedrop consumption rises as visual acuity falls. I cling desperately to my razor, for surely growing a white beard would be the final sign of surrender.

Yes, the end is near. I am squinting straight into the new reality.

The Zoombie Apocalypse has arrived.

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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Tales From The Bluff

27 Wednesday Nov 2019

Posted by in Beautiful Cambria, Home, Humor, Satire, Searching for Cambria's Reality, Treasured Finds

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A Man and His Dog

Ted was worried.

It was the second time in a week where the solitary woman appeared in the jcvisorgrdistance, striding aggressively along the scenic ocean bluff. It was odd, he thought; where’s the lumbering man in the off-white windbreaker and faded cap?
But this day was different. The woman walked alone, singing softly into the ocean air.

At one end of the leash, Chloe strained ahead, looking impatiently back as Ted’s long strides shortened and stuttered. A quick look towards the oncoming figure explained it all. “She is alone,” thought the gracefully graying beasts. “Again. Why? Where is the other of the pair? And why this week, this day?” The thoughts quickly left the canine’s brain, swooshed away by the appearance of one of the 63,245 squirrels that call the trail side fields and hillocks home.

At the other end of the leash, Ted had similar thoughts. As a careful and precise man, Ted did not easily trust that there were 63,245 squirrels. As a practical and pragmatic man, he realized the folly of counting them all. Chloe, he decided, could have this point. He let slack into the lead, silently transmitting his concession through the woven strap that kept the two connected.

“Maybe he broke free of his leash,” they both thought.” No,” they quickly realized, there had been no signs of a harness, or collar, or any such restraint. The man was often slightly behind, appearing to struggle with the pace set by the alpha. He likely had not the strength nor the stealth to escape.

Chloe grew more worried. Her angular face turned instinctively towards the ocean, taking in the crags that lined the bluff trail, angling down in places, while a few yards away dropping acutely onto the rocks below. “It would have been quick,” Chloe thought. A hip check would have upset his balance just enough to send him skittering towards the edge. He did like to take cellphone photos, so it would not be unusual for him to stand on a sandy patch of trail, better to get a shot of a swooping seagull or a preening pelican. Timed right, the crash of surf upon deadly rocks could easily drown out the sound of a surprised “what the fu…..aaaaarrrrrrggggghhhhhhhh!!!!”

The Fog

The afternoon fog came on little cat feet, gauzing the hills and altering the sound of the sea. As the distance between the duo and the solitary strider lessened, minor details become both more explicit and less. The approaching white-billed visor served as a locator, marking distance and direction. The arms swung forward and back in a precise rhythm, palms facing rearward, slightly cupped, an artifact of years of competitive swimming and piano training. The finely ground gravel whispered as each Keen-covered foot landed and lifted. It sounded familiar and odd at the same time, as there was no accompanying “whoosh” of a nylon windbreaker.

The distance closed. The three met at the dragon-headed bench, where the woman sat benchwith one leg casually curled atop the faded redwood slab. Ted remembered how the man would often mumble “five more minutes” as he reached into the bulging pockets of his off-white windbreaker crowded with Kleenex. Each sheet emerged mysteriously wadded, so there was no telling which was new and which was not.

Ted and Chloe put on their most nonchalant faces and greeted her in the usual way. The trio exchanged small talk about local goings-on. Finally, Ted asked, as casually as he could, about the other half of the team.

“Oh,” she replied, “he is home, uh, working.” Chloe looked up slowly, flashing a look that said, “yeah, right!”

Realizing that no further information was forthcoming, Ted and Chloe waved and resumed their walk towards the parking area.

Gloom, or Doom

The fog continued to gather, enveloping the white water line and swirling around the protruding rocks. As the neared the section where the trail ran close along the cliff’s edge, a blast of wind opened a momentary window to the shore. They froze. On the rocks below, a glimpse of off white stood out against the inky black of the protruding rocks. Just as quickly, the thick mist rushed back and obscured the view. Ted peered into the near distance, studying the scene as intently as if it were a balance sheet for the Friends of The Fiscalini Ranch annual report.

Chloe sat still, lightly panting as she sniffed the sea air. The blended scent of seagull and seaweed overwhelmed any possible trace of other organic matter. It was a moment of uncertainty that grew more sinister with the faint sound that rose from below, A bleat? A cry? A desperate plea? They could not tell. Still, the flash of off-white on the rocks below kept them rooted to the spot.windbreaker

Ted turned to his companion and said, “We should call someone, Chloe! But who? And how? Neither of us has a cellphone, and only one of us has thumbs.” He absently reached for his belt, subconsciously feeling for the beeper he carried years ago, All he found was a small grip of poop gloves tucked neatly between belt and waistband. Chloe, remembering she was thumbless, scratched her right haunch and thought of the oatmeal cookies that were cooling on the kitchen counter.

Enter Sandman

Suddenly, a new set of sounds floated through the mist, seemingly coming from around the bend that led to the parking area. The thud of footfalls floated through the thick, damp air. The crackle of disembodied voices, speaking in acronyms and numbers, adding yet another element of mystery to an already edgy vibe. As Ted and Chloe stared into the fog, a figure began to emerge, headed straight towards them.

A sturdily built man rumbled up the slight incline, dark hair visible through the mist. As he neared, more details came into focus. The man was draped in a Bill Belichick-styled sweatshirt, raggedly cropped sleeves falling defiantly over a long-sleeved athletic shirt. Long shorts reached down towards black laced work boots. Grey goatee and sharp sideburns immediately identified the approaching figure. Ted immediately thought, “what’s the guy from Metallica doing here? Are those sounds a rough mix from an upcoming album?”

Chloe growled softly. She knew who the man was, as sure as she knew Ted would slip her one of those oatmeal raisin cookies from the kitchen counter. He was no rock star.

He was The Chief.

Clues

“Ted!”

“Chief!”

“Woof!”

With pleasantries complete, Ted began filling The Chief in on Chloe’s suspicions. “Just about every day those two make an appearance here on the ranch. But for the past few days, he has been absent. At first, we thought nothing of it, but something about the he’s-home-working line didn’t ring true. I mean, really…working? At what?”

Chief thought for a minute before replying. “I have to admit; this is a bit strange. I hadn’t seen him at any of the meetings lately, so I sent him an email to see if everything was ok. I got a reply, but something seemed…off. The typewriting just didn’t look authentic. And now you’re telling me that…”

Before he could finish his thought, a violent gust blew across the shoreline, revealing the scene Ted and Chloe had described. Chief saw it immediately. The off-white shape splayed atop the rocks was visible for just a few seconds. It was enough. He raised the radio he was carrying in his go-bag (actually, a black leather fanny pack) and began barking codes and numbers into the device, ending with the command to “launch the dinghy.” Chloe, who had also started barking, stopped, cocked her head, and thought, “launch the dinghy? I hope to heck that isn’t a euphemism.”

Within seconds voices came back through the handset, asking for clarification, directions, and a request to pick up some rice cakes on the way back to the station. Ted realized that there was no time to waste, and that he had given his last coupons to Dan during the great firehouse flood of 2019. A calm, clear voice broke through the escalating chatter, bringing everything to a sudden stop.

“Hi, guys! What’s going on? And what in the world is a dinghy?”

Ted gasped. Chief gasped. Chloe peed a little. “Whothewhattheheck!!!” they all thought, staring in disbelief at the man stuffing wads of Kleenex back into the pockets of his off-white windbreaker.

They looked at each other, then turned to peer over the cliff to the rocks below. One, then two outlines appeared, followed by a few more shapes emerging from the lifting marine layer. The largest, a good-sized, light-colored seal, turned to look up at the assembled group, which by this time had grown to include a passing group of visitors from Fresno and three women from the UU church. With a wave of a flipper, the seal wiggled and waddled to the edge of the rock, then slid gracefully into the water.

Ted, Chloe, and The Chief turned around to look at the man in the off-white windbreaker. They shrugged, looked back to the sea, and silently agreed that, well, there was a resemblance, anyone could have come to the same conclusion, he had been absent from his usual routine…

“Hey, what the heck is that?” shouted one of the Fresnonians, pointing into the swirling surf. “Is looks like some kind of visor.” Ted froze. The Chief froze. Chloe peed a little more. They turned slowly, afraid to see the reaction of the man in the off-white windbreaker. But he was gone, leaving nothing but two wads of Kleenex and a half-eaten oatmeal raisin cookie.

“So, do we still need the dinghy?” The Chief asked quietly. Ted took a long deep breath, ran a few mental calculations, and slowly shook his head. “No, I think it best we just go on about our day and see what, or who, tomorrow brings.”

Chloe picked up the discarded oatmeal raisin cookie and began the slow walk back to the car, the marine layer filling in the space behind her. In the distance, floating just above the ranch, a barely audible soprano voice could be heard, keening for a lost love. Or visor. It was hard to tell.grey

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!