MMicky Shine's WordSing

A New Year Begins

2012-01-14T09:54:00.000-08:00

Ah yes, another year passes and here it is time again to update the blog; or at least to begin adding more of what was, what is and perhaps what may be for this next year. Welcome.

I must say the last quarter of the last year 2011 was quite an amazing one to say the least; especially the last month leading up to the Christmas holidays. That was when a girl-friend and I took a 5 day round trip to New York City. The girl-friend wanted to make a trip to a destination she’d not been to before; ever. She decided to ask mme to be her guide, roommate and dinner date as I was the first homeboy she’s ever met that would take her. I knew my way around of course so I had set up the itinerary as far as the day, time, and place not to mention how long we’d be at every hour of our trip. A week or so before it began the whole trip was in the bag.
The hotel we stayed at was in Little Italy. We were right in the heart of the city and closer than most to the best Italian restaurants this side of Italy. The hustle and bustle of this part of NYC has always been one of mmy favourites. It's so vibrant with everything international and we were in the thick of it.

Suffice it to say that it was a pretty exciting time for both of us. I hadn’t visited mmy hometown in too many years so I was really looking forward to seeing old haunts while discovering new ones. I also wanted to take in a concert of mmusic we’d not see too many other places including where we now live. ‘The Kitchen,’ located in the village was the venue. There’s a photo of the gig later on in this blog.

On this trip, our first and only, we did a lot of what she had dreamed of and I was the mouthpiece so to speak. As part of this ride down memory lane, I got to visit a childhood friend I’d not seen for over forty years. That visit in and of itself was worth the whole trip; at least for mme. More on this part of the story will unfold on another day in future.

In any case we visited Rockefeller Center - after dark of course. Talk about a throng of moving humanity; or I should say trying to move humanity. As you can imagine it was a crazy, raging river and stagnant lakes of bodies but we both loved the flow of energy that was all around us. It was like a huge party waiting to count down from 2011 to 2012. Here’s a photo of that part of the evening:

Earlier in the day we were walking up Seventh Avenue when we heard the pops of plastic buckets and a great funk drummer doing his best imitation of Bernard Purdie. Needless to say we found this pair of pounders surrounded by a crowd of dozens smiling and moving to their beats. We stopped to listen, to take photos and a video or two; They made Andy Warhol proud.

One other interesting stop along the way was another curious scene. I think it was the same avenue, 7th we were walking on when I noticed this fascinating view. The decor covered the whole window which was about sixteen feet long and about the same height. As a matter of fact I was so taken by the initial view that we just had to go inside; and that we did. Here’s what we saw:

Needless to say the whole place was covered in sewing machines and merchandise relating to not only sewing but women’s apparel from clothes, to shoes to whatever’s, were their main selling points. As you can see, one woman lost her head over the whole idea of shopping in this store; can’t say as I blame here either I wanted to buy one of the sewing machines but thought twice when I knew I had to carry it the rest of the way.

This next shot was taken from an audience point of view while attending a gig at ‘The Kitchen.’
The sounds were quite intricate as was the score I’d imagine. There were three different conductors. Each had their composition performed by the same group of players. One player was a guy on an oscillator; another performed on garbage can tops and variously filled goblets that make tones when he rubbed the top edges of each glass. Then of course the string players not only played their instruments in the traditional fashion, they also scraped their bows like hack saws. At points they picked and plucked with any number of fingers along the fingerboard including the undersides of the body of the instrument.

There was also a woman, one of the composers but not a conductor who used a computer for the whole of her piece. She was sitting and moving her head while smiling at different instrument entrances, exits and movements of each player including herself. All in all I enjoyed the hell out of it while the girl-friend as the dancer she said she was, was quite put off; bored to death ‘n couldn’t wait to leave. She said she couldn’t figure out how to dance to this band. Funny girl…

So back we are; arriving a little tired as most ‘vacations’ go. The woman dropped mme off at mmy home and I’ve settled back into the next phase of poetry, paintings and stories inspired by the trip. I’mm looking forward to a return this year but first a visit to the west coast and Europe is in order.

Who knows what those will inspire? You’ll find out; just keep attuned to the next post.
Thanks for the visit. MM

Waves of the West

2011-09-02T05:29:00.000-07:00

Yes, I know friends; those who've written for updates... thanks; so here's one for ya. Composed a few months ago when images of such things came to mmined. I love the west coast, more than most coasts; at least at this point. Here's why:

WAVES OF THE WEST

I DO miss the smell of the beach,
Hypnotic scents of time to sand,
Gazing; trickling, dripping, slipping
Through slivers, fists unfolded
In the palm of mmy hand.
I miss finding peace,
While reaching too;
Over and through heavens shades
Walking; dune spills into moonlight,
Stars light soaring, grassy islands
Spawning thin, thick, green, towering,
Wild, dried blades cowering;
Swaying smoothly or
Cackling tempestuously.
No direction mist,
With each kiss of summer’s
Fall’s turmoil, drumm is.
Mad, more brutal winter’s winds
Stage a violence, rage page, grim;
Two never forgotten in a haze
I sat, raptured in warmth of the day,
Evening’s cool,
Coldest of nights,
Smiled, screamed triumph, jewels!
Cried in awe of
Tranquil golden dusks,
See gulls, sandpipers
Lust to fly, sail gusts;
Each awakening Shine of
Dawn’s trial by fire
Brilliant beams traced
Sun’s face swelled in
Fusing mmelodies din
Changing rhythms, spins
Renewing, re: viewing fins
Rushing to revere, swim with
Waves of the west.

Mother Nature's Hill

2010-08-18T10:49:00.000-07:00

Maybe it was because ever since a baby when mmy folks lived in the country of western Pennsylvania and they tied mme to a tree in order to prevent their little mischief maker from running away, spending time in and with dirt is one of mmy favourite things to do; no matter how hard it is or how long it may take to help rearrange what Mother Nature has set before us; tackling the disheveled or what seems like an overrun jungle and turning it into a different sight or even a lush producing food source is also fun; especially when set on a hungry table.

This I imagine is what keeps mmy feat on a shovel so to speak or any number of activities, gardening or otherwise that help the muscles stay active and the tiny rivers of red moving along at a mostly steady pace.

The Daily Lilies and Hosta plants donated by a friend are working out to be a welcome sanctuary to both this guy and the invited guests of Mother Nature’s bounty.

After more time spent observing and enjoying, a short Haiku was inspired while sitting at the sighed of nature’s alms. The smell of the wind, the flit of the huge and tiny bumble bee’s adventure/search for the colourful sustenance; butterflies and birds of all designs and sighs is come to the well to drink, eat the seeds and enjoy the bread that day bye day is sowed 'fore them.

Needless to say, there’s quite an interested and hungry local flock of flying and crawling everything’s that seem to be waiting and gathering on the nearest telephone wires, fence posts, trees, on and under leaves and such… as won had hoped ‘fore.

The bug in the close up photo you may notice in the foreground on one of the Daily Lilly leaves? I just couldn’t get that critter to stand still is why it’s out of focus. Maybe next time I'll have learned how to speak bug.

Saved left over bird seed from a previous garden is also set out on the flat rock next to the green, round, water/pool just for the critter’s hunger pangs. They seem to like to have dinner and drinks there as well. There and in front of the log is also where the most likely droppings can be gathered by the next in line of the food chain.

When breaking up and distributing bird sized portions of a few old slices of bread early one evening, one, quite daring tiny swallow flew from the fence and landed about six feet away from where I was standing.

Our symbiotic conversation lasted for almost a minute. It was seemingly unafraid of anything while enjoying the days catch… such a tiny thing… such a big thrill... ‘fore mme…

This 2nd photo with empty chairs is to present … well, you get the point don’t you?

A First Bumble Bee Today
Lilac, Flit, Lilac
Hosta la’ Vista Bumble

Flights Sight - Gathering Table
Swallows, Immerse, Cool
Starlings, Cardinals – Greet Pool

Four, Six, Eight Legs, Slithering
Released - Your Pleasure
Mother Nature, Here, Wear One

Safe ~ Risk

2010-03-30T15:51:00.000-07:00

March 30, 2010
...questions we ask ourselves from time to time? We'll see; This Blog has taken a lot of time. Most of them weren't as short as this one is. Most of them have come from writings started in advance with a little idea, a sentence or two then worked on and presented here.

I'mm working on more of those while getting involved in other art projects that are taking up even more time than I expected; most of what's coming relates to the poem on this blog. I'll be back with those stories quicker than we may be able to make this decision;

SAFE ~ RISK

the risk!
risk it
SAFE

risk it
SAFE
saved

the risk?
SAFE?
risk it?
risk it?
SAFE
saved -?

risk it??
SAFE??

the risk
SAFE??
risk it??
what if??
safe??

the risk???
safe???
risk it???

safe???
risk???
safe???

risk????

MMusic in Bloom

2010-03-29T06:50:00.002-07:00

March 29, 2010

Dub bull jammed with a dude
Cat licks schooly would room
Disk pea an a guy end
His auld tea time tunes
His feeling tolled, sang to
All bookie – his bliss
I hell’d, come pally mman
Close dose page is ‘n gist
Git on wit it buoyed
Slay it! Knock out chore head
Wear grate, out! That scents
Know way you’ve blown; dread
Pour Site ‘n sound’s schmaltz
Mild graze in ‘tween’s page
Goin’ one, two the next like
Know one care’s you’re stage
Your view, movie B you
A peer rant chew are
Your clothes spin the tail
Who ever; you’re far
Sow OH? Pin your I’s end
Jet’s jam overt hear
List in – Coltrane mmuh mman
Ten Thousand? Know fear
Say you’ve knot put time in?
“…As many,” says you
Shake know difference, shake lamb
Oui, know your fears, poo!!
Just jam width your soul
We’re, heart’s on our sleeve
Get Offa that stool; pigeon
Aye know, when believe that
Once you let gogh come
Yule easy; gist; try
They hear you mman; blows!
The point? Out! Willed, fly
That’s not all there is ‘course
Next time booked, you fake
Maybe some one like who?
Will coals you, they’re rake
Takes less than a pocket
To groove with in won
Mowed lawns, vahz is, flowers
Tall towers; weigh gums
Hand feasts, door; know less
Pow were sum, nil, end none
When mmusic breed’s test
They’ll listen, smiles, fun
Or even next cheer haps’
They’ll grant you, fine space
‘Stead of out in the cold
Audition’s diss faced
Or other then hid in
Town’s thirsty slight bash
You’ll Shine, when they’re smitten
You’re oven, they’re ash in of
‘Course won neva nose
Pry or a tease whished
Doze castles on hills
Leave some, play – shake’s fish
Your flower a weight’s bloom.

The MMan Up Stairs

2010-03-29T06:50:00.001-07:00

March 28, 2010

Eyes wake up in the morning two the creaks of hurried feat
The mman upstairs in rising stalks his bedroom’s squeaky street
A brace sieve sounds our endless as he shuffles o’er his floor
Thuds wake mme up; heels never stop until heaves out the door

Heels promptly wakes at 6a.m. each day clocks on the plop
Bowels groan, pounds, coughs, his lungs decayed,
His body sounds our rot.
Heels opens doors, craps toilet‘s flush
His cat jumps off the shelf
Steels stomps hard floors in cease ain’t he,
Aye, wonder threw mmy self

He shadows mme each time aye slide to john’s room ‘fore relief
Heels sound as if they follow mme, from room to room for grief
I’ll sit, din’s quiet aisle here shush steps, ass overhead he weights
Until through, drained then chases mme to kitchen’s search for plates

I’ll make yumm food, prepare phew meals,
Wild creaks swirl overhead
Our steps will match, well seemingly
While burghers, eggs are bred
Spaghetti sauce, veal parmesan,
Hamm sandwich, oar juice drink
Reverb burr rating creaks, thuds; whack it!
Blares at crypt ticks, plinks.

I’ll due dry dishes, wipe holes, stove end, open fridge, top drawer
Heels step rite up, as zoned mmy knows, or forehead is their floor
Insulation never fix is loud socks, know nude feet
Through lost he strolls, gag in gin coughs, his buss stops on pit’s street

Treks in the next line, sit, stop, yes
I’ll gladly relish warms
Win hope full sky’s there’s no up stares
To wake calm sleep; heal storms
I’ll rouse, win sun rise wonder ring,
How creaky guise is doing
I’ll n’er miss screech is chokes, cat heaves, groans,
Snores, pounds, depth end spewing.

Johnny Ciambotti

2010-03-27T18:34:00.000-07:00

March 27, 2010

Yes, we're all getting on in age here but all mmy limbs still move, the gray matter's still intact and I can still kick your ass on the set; and of course do too this great tech knowledge E, everyone can be found pretty easily on the net, eh EC?

I’mm also a painter who has never stopped what I've loved doing most in life since the age of 12; playing drumms; still with the same fire and determination on the kit I’ve always had; changed a bit to ad the higher register and Latin sounds of the LP bongos which also did away with the common set-up of the double tom same dome; which added a bit more surprises just to keep you on your toes.

Now as they say, on with the most important stuff: Johnny Ciambotti.

He was really the first Clover band member I talked to and I guess the one who had to be satisfied to accept this drummer on his team. When he did, from then on, he stood next to mme more times than I can remember.

It’s just part of playing together as a bassist and a drummer do. We were a team at that time. We were the foundation of one of the incarnations that we built with Clover; our band at that time.

I’mm a right handed person who plays drummset right handed. As a drummer I’ve always preferred to have whoever was playing bass to be on mmy left side. Unless chart reading from a mmusic stand it’s the side that mmy hi-hat is always on and where mmy head, eyes and ears do the most work.

That’s where I remember Johnny smiling at mme most of the time. That’s of course if he wasn’t singing the high harmony part with the other members of Clover. Usually it was the four guys up front; Johnny being one of them. Hopper, the keyboardist was as a rule to one side or the other until he came out front to dance.

When I was performing with Clover, in and after the UK days, Johnny liked wearing a clean white Fedora; white or black pants with red suspenders and either a white or a black shirt. He also wore mirrored shades most of the time on stage or not.

You can see that image of him in the photos taken of us in 1976; taken at Victoria Station in London and can be viewed here: http://www.clover-infopage.com

Much before moving to England, we played the earliest concert we ever had at the Cow Palace in San Francisco, California. There were supposed to be three bands including us but another was added. We all decided it was so early that we thought to wear pajamas on stage. Johnny wore a red set of long johns. His personality was red.

I didn’t hear until today, Saturday that Johnny had passed away in what seems to be unfortunate circumstances. He was in Los Angeles, California where he lived and worked as a Chiropractor besides doing gigs with lots of other people. While being operated on for something else I guess the doc’s had to deal with an aneurysm that they couldn’t and that was it. The net has more info.

Needless to say mmy condolences are extended to Gia his daughter, his family and friends; sad to know he’s gone. Although I’ve not seen nor heard from Johnny for a long time, I still feel the loss; like I would if any of the Clover guys I played with were to pass. For more reasons than I can write here, the two years for mme are lasting a lifetime.

Awhile ago I had mentioned what a great team/rhythm section/duo I thought Johnny and I were. From the very beginning we worked at trying to sound like one sound. Anyone who can tell will hear his notes and mmy bass drumm were in synch.

I’mm not saying we were perfect all the time but we were as close as most. It felt good to feel Johnny next to mme. When he left to sing up front it was even better when he returned to stand ‘back there’ with mme.

Johnny always had a good energy, smile and warmth about him. He wasn’t one of those bassists you may see who just stand stoically on stage while playing. The mmusic made him move his body.

Short story of Johnny here; The middle days of Clover really. He was also crazy at times, that’s for sure. The days when we weren’t living in England for that long. Johnny used to drink a lot and just get nuts; like the stories anyone hears of Rock ‘n Roll bands destroying things while being a bit past the point of sobriety. Elevator and hallway pisses; moving paintings;just plain over the top...

One time in the van he was so drunk and cantankerous; he was looking for trouble. He and I were in the back seat. He just grabbed a handful of hair on one of the guy’s who were sitting in the front and started pulling it out; just one of his uncontrolled, unpredictable days.

Sheesh, after playing with him for about two years there’s so many stories that come to mmind. Most of them happy ones where I can picture him and his mustached smile; after just popping raw garlic cloves in his mouth; or eating vegetarian, whenever that was.

Johnny was something else. For as short as our relationship was compared to this lifetime, he was a great team mate. Some people you just don’t forget. I’ve missed him; I always have. From the very beginning of our first handshake when we looked in each others eyes, I felt his heart.

Rest in peace pal.

Notes Due Tell

2010-03-26T16:44:00.000-07:00

March 26, 2010

NOTES DUE TELL

Approaching rooms unfurnished,
Leaving notes of the dour.
Leaving notes on the wall is
Leaving note’s clutch, the shower.

Leaving notes spills the lay - dulls.
Leaving notes plies the whish.
Leaving notes sting’s the say - bulls.
Leaving notes? L- 7-ish.

Leaving notes tear’s the sealing.
Leaving notes off - the curb’s.
Leaving notes paw’s - a peal - wrings’.
Leaving notes throe’s - disturbs.

Leaving notes burn’s the kitsch in.
Leaving notes fry’s in pan.
Leaving notes weave gone, fit’s sin.
Leaving notes dam’s the spam.

Leaving notes core - deplore weighs.
Leaving notes climb’s toot - tines.
Leaving notes reek’s the ploy, praise.
Leaving notes spits the times.

Leaving notes sprinkles din sighed.
Leaving notes hang’s two dry.
Leaving notes scent, “Out width the tied!”
Leaving notes buy ‘n bide?
Leaving notes by end . . . . Bye.

The XP Sociiiiiety

2010-03-25T15:39:00.000-07:00

March 25, 2010

Today’s blog really has a long story connected with the words at the end. I’mm saving that for a later time. The words themselves deserve to be left on their own. Maybe the impact will be a stronger one; so…

Without too much explanation, just let mme say that the following poem or lyrics have nothing to do with computers or what anyone may be familiar with as any kind of a computer program.

After you read this, I hope you realise this is no joke or fiction. It is real. Today’s blog concerns:

The XP Sociiiiiety

We're gonna tell you a story, it's sad but true
It's about these kids that are not like mme ‘n you.
The XP Society - children of the night.
They won't be seen when the sun is bright.
Just like the owl and frogs in the park,
Singing with crickets that play after dark.

They run and play in pale moon beams,
While other kids sleep, dreamin' dreams.
Moonlight becomes their sunshine..

DON’T YOU, DON’T YOU, DON’T YOU WANT TO BE
IN THE XP - SOCIIIIETY ?
WON'T YOU, WON'T YOU, WON'T YOU BE
IN THE XP - SOCIIIIETY ?

Daddy's know that their time is short,
'Cause mom has read the XP REPORT.
Complain or cry won't ease the pain but
Working together, that's the main thing.

We gotta find out how to help these kids
So they can grow up - like you’n i did...
These little one's are perfect in most ways 'cept
They can't stand the ultra-violet rays so…

DON'T YOU, DON’T YOU, DON'T YOU WANT TO BE
IN THE XP - SOCIIIIETY ?
WON'T YOU, WON'T YOU, WON'T YOU BE
IN THE XP - SOCIIIIETY ?

There are things that we can do if we just pull together and see it through.
We can make them suits that filter the sun
So they can play outside and have more fun.
Special kids wearin' special suits
From the top of their head , to the sole of their boots.
If you want to donate it's easy to give...
Just open your heart, to help these kids live.

Dial our number for children of the night ‘n
Then we can walk with them into the light.
* It's 1- 800 – 543 - 9797 *
You'll be proud you've given. You'll be PROUD you've given.

DON'T YOU, DON’T YOU, DON'T YOU WANT TO BE
IN THE XP - SOCIIIIETY ?
WON'T YOU, WON'T YOU, WON'T YOU WANT TO BE
IN THE XP - SOCIIIIETY ?….
DON’T YOU, DON’T YOU, DON’T YOU WANT TO BE
IN THE XP - SOCIIIIETY?
WONT YOU? - WON’T YOU?
WON’T YOU? - WON’T YOU?
*(not a working number)*

Wonders of the Whirled

2010-03-24T19:14:00.001-07:00

March 24, 2010

I guess similar to a few blogs ago, this little missive was the same process a blog awhile back. The only difference being, the headlines changed as did the words or poem at the end here. To refresh memories, I had read more than a few headlines months ago; this poem, like that one, the headlines and topics were borne anew.

Taking you back a little bit, the year was around 1975 or thereabouts. I was living in a pretty old house at the time. The landlord who was about sixty plus years old was raised in the house. That will give you an idea of its age, and in this instance its condition; not a remodel.

The structure of the house was already falling apart and close to collapse. The only thing holding it up was a few gross of almost rusted through square nails. Holding up one corner of the house was an old black iron, wood stove. Rather rebuilding the foundation the stove was shoved underneath the house for that specific purpose.

There was no plumbing in the kitchen. I found this out after about three years when the sink drain was not working properly. The faucets needed replacing as well. When looking for the trap that goes to the following drainage; there was no following drainage. Looking further is when I found that everything drained into the dirt below.

Anyway, just reading the words at the end here, reminded mme of an old newspaper I had read after finding it underneath decrepit linoleum I tore off one of the floors in that same old house. The newspaper found was a full issue of a September, 4th, 1924 San Francisco Chronicle. There was also part of a September, 4th 1925 issue.

September 4th, oddly enough or coincidentally perhaps, is mmy Birthday. Needless to say both had turned a copper brown with age. A few of the pages edges were torn as well but it was quite readable. The ads were the favourite and the funniest parts to read. The histories of products and the related photographs were hilarious.

I had stored both newspapers. When moving to the rez in 1994 and almost completing building mmy house, I had searched for and found those same newspapers. I wanted to decorate the walls of the bathroom with them; something I always wanted to do in a bathroom.

Mind you, I’mm sure you’ve seen rooms with old newspaper wall paper except for the fact that the wallpaper was new; mmine wasn’t. Very carefully, I had glued the old newspapers to the new bathroom walls then sealed them in place with a quality, long lasting sealer.

I had applied the front pages first. Amazingly enough those big, black, 72 font sized headlines of the old newspapers exploded with the war in the Balkans. Yes, that’s right. Just about the same time I was installing the wallpaper, the same kind of conflict was going on in the Balkans again. Only this time it was the more modern Mr. Bad boy Milosevic and all his war crimes rape and pillage soldiers of fortune.

Pretty strange, I’d say. This tells us again that, the more things change, the more they stay the same. The wallpaper was conveniently place in front of whoever cared to flush their eyes while leaving their last favourite drink or meal to the workings of a different flush.

Wars have began, ended, began and didn’t really end in the first place in more than one part of the world. They seem to flame up again and again. For too many reasons on both sides, they continue for not only decades but for more than a few centuries; and maybe thousands of years. Like they say, history has a way of repeating itself.

That’s why the title of this blog has the lovely title:

Wonders of the Whirled

Birds flew – Chicken fear
Earthquakes dawn threw dusk
Warning’s flood - tsunami sphere
Hurricanes, fright gains – bussed

Terrorist blasts, E coli pales
Glow bill’s warming – rising gas hails
Nuclear threats – town slide’s mud passed
Famine’s hunger, sorghum’d mass

Cocaine diss charged – securities beach
Subtropical depression, attack schedule’s leak
Shock ‘n awe can’t touch the caves
Intelligence designs or deficits in trades

Borders crash play no room at the in
Race with migrant’s pace, desert’s brim
Need id alcohol - oil’s prize fright
Stars, war’s news, spewed sea saw’s blight

Military tact-tricks charge at gaits
Lands mines, mine’s lands bicker wring states
Economy sheds – Dows drop - rise sin
Cultures clash width doubt with in

House past Bill stood left to write
Rock, it’s fired, threw window’s spite
Odium’s crime rash, border lines shill
Dough nation ask tray - spacecrafts hill

Trains Co. lied in - bike paths kill
Infants dying, hiked mass swill
Prison flights shoot pile it’s unfurled
Their’s the glue lambs - Wonders of the Whirled.

A Gift From a Four Legged

2010-03-23T12:36:00.000-07:00

March 23, 2010

It was April 1st, 1995. In another nine days it’ll be fifteen years ago since this memory happened. The summer before, July 1994 I had just moved to the Cheyenne River Sioux Reservation in South Dakota.

Habitat for Humanity was originally the purpose for relocating. After the Jimmy Carter Work Project thirty home blitz build was over, I had stayed to find a place to live as well as to continue a creative life.

After a short while I was staying in a 20’ long or short really trailer that someone had let mme sleep in for the summer months. A winter stay was out of the question. The little camper/trailer was not set up to withstand winter months. Besides that it was smaller than tiny.

I had to move. At the end of summer being at the right place at the right time really I had acquired a little thirty two foot long by twenty six foot wide, green metal pole barn garage. It had two roll up doors, and one entry door. It was on a single ‘city’ lot 50 feet x 150 feet deep.

It had no windows but it did have a little electricity. It also had a nice cement pad throughout. Basically that was its floor. The tin roof was good; the side walls were also in good shape. The structure belonged to a house a local friend of mmine had bought as his main residence.

He didn’t want the garage so he had passed the name of the same owner to mme so I could see if in fact it too was for sale. It was. I acquired the pole barn located on the gravel road a month or so later.

I could see the potential for a two story home that would be located in town on the rez and. Not living on the rez very long I didn’t want to move out to the country until I knew how to survive in such a remote place. This was also a first house; everything was new and foreign.

Shortly after buying the deeded property I began to remodel it into what would become home. It was the fall of 1994. Winter was coming quickly. An immense undertaking, it wouldn’t be long before the cold winters surrounded the tin sides. The freezing weather began quickly.

I tried to work fast but no matter how fast, I was still working with what would be considered an empty shell. I was also working alone. That’s the way I wanted it really; not to mention that I couldn’t pay a crew to help either. Even if I could, I’d still rather build it alone.

There was nothing in the shell except what I’ve already mentioned. Plumbing? None whatsoever. I had installed a 220 electrical power cord for a stove I thought I’d purchase down the road. Another necessity was to install a propane line for a dependable heat source I acquired at a later date. Most of the building materials were recycled.

In other words I was designing everything personally and loving every minute of each process. Before the winter began I had acquired a huge pot belly stove burning wood inside the big empty space. I worked hard to try and survive the harsh winters of Sough Dakota.

Before snows did arrive I had also purchased a new and very good make and model chain saw. I wasn’t fooling around with a used anything where the main heat source was concerned. I traded a car I had bought at a farm auction in exchange for a used ‘rez truck. The truck was to carry anything; cords of wood, building materials, etc….

When winter did come, I had a few cords cut, stacked, covered and sitting just outside the house. I was going to survive this first winter and didn’t want to depend on anyone for anything if at all possible. I worked every day from sun up to way past sundown most days. Sometimes until well past midnight; sometimes all night to sunrise.

No matter how hard I worked or how long, it seemed like I couldn’t get warm. Even with the huge pot belly stove burning six big logs all day long. Before moving to the rez I had purchased an insulated suit that I also had slept in. I thought wearing it would help; but it didn’t.

South Dakota has 50 below winters many days. A tin building with no insulation was like living in a freezer with the door shut. The owner before had left a long, grungy, dirty couch I used as a bed. I placed it right next to the stove barely feeling the heat in the big open space.

I usually woke up all hours of the night usually until the next morning shivering to death. In hindsight there were things I could have done to stay warmer but finding this out later didn’t help back then. I was a city boy trying to survive in a first time ever environment.

After a few months that were colder than any place I’ve ever experienced in mmy whole life. Luckily another friend, the very first person I had met on the rez, Gilbert offered a room in his house. He and his wife Grace said I could stay for the winter. They and their two boys went out of their way to offer a warm and kind friendship.

They also fed and basically treated mme like part of their family. They gave mme a room and said I could stay there as long as I liked or until I felt it time to move into mmy own home. They would help mme get whatever I needed in the way of information or help of any kind when or if I ever needed it. They basically saved mmy life a few times.

I can’t tell you the debt of gratitude I feel for Gilbert and his family for all they did. Grace, Gilbert’s wife is no longer with us. She died of cancer a year or so after we met. The truck mentioned earlier is what Gilbert asked to trade for the car. He said Grace needed something more comfortable to travel to Rapid City for her cancer treatments. We traded straight across; gladly. I needed the truck and vice verse.

The ‘rez truck’ was just that. It had four flat tires, two broken windows and a broken key in the ignition. It was still a good trade for both of us. It also had a lower gear than first. I pulled many a stuck car out of the gumbo mud or the deep snow with that truck; ‘Ol Blue.

Of course another great story is having the ignition fixed by a local friend, Ira. An amazing feat by one of the guys on the rez who I admired a hell of a lot; not only for that feat but for he and his wife raising their kids as well as they did with what very little they had.

They’re both monuments to anything anyone cares to do in life. One of their sons, Casey just graduated I think from either Annapolis or West Point. If anyone has ever been to a rez, seen or knows the odds; the things the people who live there are up against, just to survive, you’d think they both deserve a medal or definitely a salute. Hau….

I worked until I just couldn’t keep warm at night any more. I was losing too much sleep just trying to keep the fire going. The cement floor and the tin sides weren’t conducive to keeping in any kind of heat. I got out of bed to work with one bare light bulb blaring rather than lay there and be colder. It was a pretty dire situation. No toilet.

MMy hands were constantly frozen. After fighting it as long as I could I finally decided to take Gilbert and Grace’s offer and move in with them; at least until spring came or I could get the house much warmer to work inside. I didn’t have much to move. Most of the things I moved from Pittsburgh were stored somewhere else on the rez.

Every morning I’d get out of bed about 7:30 to enjoy cowboy coffee with Grace and Gilbert before setting out to work on the house. Some days passed where I couldn’t get to the house mostly due to the unbelievably inundating snowstorms with blizzard conditions.

Whiteouts like the ones on the rez are times I never dared to go out for fear of never finding the house or even coming back for that matter. There have been too many deadly occurrences I’ve heard about. People were not able to see two feet in front of them. It just wasn’t worth the chance. The house over a half mile away wasn’t close.

One morning after a big blizzard had subsided; I decided to take a chance. Usually in a place like that, one has to plug in the vehicle into an electrical source so as to keep the oil warm; otherwise the engine won’t even turn over. MMy van was parked to the side of the house located in a little enclave or subdivision called No Heart.

I had bundled up good with all the layers of clothing underneath the insulated suit. I pushed the door open while moving about fourteen inches of snow away from the opening. The van was covered with snow. Luckily a few days before I had plugged the plug to keep the oil from freezing. The sun was shining but it was still well below freezing

I walked around to the side of the house the van was parked on and kneeled down to unplug the plug. As soon as I did that a little black Labrador puppy came running from around the back of the house.

I looked up because I heard his paw steps in the crunching snow. He came directly towards mme. When he was close he stood between mmy knees as I was still bent over unplugging the plug.

His tail was wagging a mile a minute. He had something in his mouth that he immediately dropped in mmy lap. I began petting him or her. Before I could spend any time looking for a collar or give more pets, he or she took off running just as fast as when it had arrived.

I was still kneeling while whistling and trying to call the puppy back but it just kept running on. It seemed like it had a place to go. Freezing cold doesn’t help one feel anything especially with all the clothes on. I looked down. Still in mmy lap was the gift the puppy had left.

I picked it up with cold gloved hands. It was caked with the pure white crusted snow. I could see bits of what looked like fur sticking out from under the layer of snow. I began rubbing and scraping the snow off. The more I scraped the more fur I could see until I had scraped enough off that I could see that it wasn’t fur at all.

It was feathers. I kept scraping and scraping. The feathers were becoming more and more visible. It was beautiful. The designs were like a painting Mother Nature would paint on one of her creatures.

After spending about five more minutes scraping the snow off the feathers I could see what the puppy had dropped in mmy lap was a whole back of a big flying something. It wasn’t bloody in the least.

I didn’t know it was a Red Tailed Hawk until I brought it inside to show Gilbert and Grace. They said it was a welcoming gift from the spirits and that I’d might like to share it with others. I gave them each a gift. A feather for Gilbert and one of the delicate plumes for Grace.

From that day on I’ve handed out almost the entire gift. The bird’s back was huge. I can’t count how many feathers I’ve given away including the plumes (for women).

I still have a few left. Every time I look at them they remind mme of not only the rez, Gilbert, Grace, their two boys and our times together but the day the puppy dropped them on mmy lap. Thanks to the black Labrador puppy, the memory has brought many warm days.

A Ride to Pierre – 2

2010-03-22T09:39:00.001-07:00

March 22, 2010

It was summertime and the living was easy, as the song goes so did we. There were no fish jumping in the car but the wheat, corn, soy beans and whatever the hell those farmers out there were growing was certainly beginning to get higher than a car’s canoe roof rack.

Passing the thousands of acres was like looking at paintings that were being presented like a slide show before your eyes. One colourful field blended into the next one and the next one. Some didn’t blend at all like definite defined lines of brown dirt cutting a clear line like a knife sliced off the brown colour not mixing with the tan hued wheat.

The patterns and colour changes of rolling hills and dales countryside was more than inspiring at sunset. Many times in later months and years while living on the rez I got to see what those same views looked like at sunrise as well as the change of the seasons. Often times the intensity of colours was almost too surreal to be believed.

The ride to Pierre was about an hour and a half. In that time I think I counted four cars going in the opposite direction. No cars or traffic were either in front or behind us. Pretty amazing. Other times after this first trip there weren’t that many more. I’mm sure there’s a lot more traffic now but nothing like an average corridor any place else.

She said, “Last stop, The Dakota Mart. That’s where we’ll go shopping before we leave Pierre. Right now it’s almost lunch so we’re going to go for lunch. Where do you want to go?” “Where? You’re asking mme? Come on, you know I’ve no clue; you pick a place,” I said.

The place she wanted to go was one of those hamburger chains until I convinced her that a proper meal was in order; in honour of the occasion of showing the new guy around; and that we did. An Italian place run by a guy with a cowboy hat was the closest we could find to anything that resembled a red sauce smelling interior.

I asked for a taste of a small spoonful of the open plains prized sauce. After a poor resemblance of mom’s specialty, I thanked the mman and said no thanks. We left to have Chinese. We found an authentic one that wasn’t operated by anyone wearing cowboy hats or string ties.

We sat down to enjoy the long ago taste treat; and that it was. It was a few years since the last time enjoying that particular cuisine for mme; definitely the better choice. We savoured the meal over two hours.

After leaving the Asian experience mmy friend drove us to the capital building. Behind it and on the side in clear view of the road is a huge man - made lake, or pond. How those sizes are distinguished, I don’t know. The body of water was enough to keep ducks and geese happy.

I’ve since visited the pond a half dozen times. In winter the water doesn’t freeze to ice like most of S.D. would. It’s part of the artesian water system that travels through the SD underground waterways. There are a few on the rez. One in particular in Cherry Creek is where I designed and built with locals, a nice outside bathing system and a place to wash dishes. A BEFORE photograph is at top there. A hot tub

At the lake/pond in Pierre, on the left (if you go) is a pretty good sized sculpture with an eternal flame dedicated to the firemen of the state. That’s right. Except unlike the Kennedy one in Arlington, it’s not burning oil or whatever they use for that. The water from the artesian wells has so much sulfur in it that you can actually light it.

After walking around the lake we wandered through the capital building. Not much to report on there other than it’s like a lot of capital buildings with all their capital stuff. Different seasons bring different decorations. I didn’t have an appointment with the governor so we didn’t hang around any longer. It was getting late. Time to shop

We visited several other areas, most of which I don’t quite recall at this point. Remember, this was the first visit since moving to the rez. After this trip I was acclimated so a few more excursions followed when I was the driver. Pierre is or was a cool little town regardless.

It was time to shop for food. MM friend found and drove us to The Dakota Mart. One of the favourite shopping places for many people who traveled from the rez to Pierre just to shop for groceries there. Not much is saved really when one considers paying for gas and anything else extra that the rez didn’t offer; but it was a good day out.

Some locals had relatives or friends that lived in Pierre, so longer stays for them were not unusual. I’mm sure there’s lots more things in Pierre but I was more in a hurry to get back to the rez before dark so shopping for food was the next and last order of business.

Walking into The Dakota Mart was like many grocery stores; nothing unusual except for the fact that it was bigger than our local store. It also had a few items not offered locally. The only product that I remember affecting mme was that they sold whole Salmon; cheap.

They weren’t fresh but they were whole. When I looked at the price I had to buy a bundle to take back home. They were frozen and I didn’t think to carry a cooler like some folks do for the 90 minute drive home. I did on later trips for this same purpose. As I recall a whole 2 pound Salmon was only $2.00. I bought a half dozen; a favourite fish.

I can’ tell you how glad and privileged I feel to be able to have lived in a state like South Dakota. Not only in South Dakota really but that it was the rez was even more special. No matter what you may have read about things that happened over one hundred years ago, some of those negative things still do exist but so do more positive ones. Life is what you make of it no matter where we live.

One of those positive things is the land and the people who were forced to live there are still there. Families that date back in a long history.

As I may have mentioned and I probably will again and again; the rez or most rez’s really are not easy places to survive or live. For all the reasons you may know and many you probably don’t, it’s a pretty hard life for most people. Very few will tell you how easy things were or are for them. If it is easy, it wouldn’t have been since birth.

Count your blessings.

A Ride to Pierre - 1

2010-03-21T11:52:00.000-07:00

March 21, 2010

When I was living on a Native American reservation for the five years I did in South Dakota, the very first time I’d leave town would be to relieve cabin fever and accept a ride to visit and grocery shop in Pierre

Pierre, pronounced pier, or peer is the capital of that gorgeous state. Although there was really only one big grocery store on the rez, it was nothing in size nor did it have many of the products offered compared to bigger cities. In 1995 mmy home town had about 500 residents.

Five years later when being asked to facilitate a mmusic mural for and with a grammar school in Michigan, a Kroger’s chain store was the very first grocery store I had seen other than the one mentioned a little later in this blog.

I remember that day in 2001 as if it were yesterday. Although I was raised in a big city, years later living in a small one for five years, I stood at the cheese department while gaping in awe and amazement at the amount of choices of just CHEESE for about ten minutes.

I picked up and looked at many of the packages with names on them that I’ve never seen nor heard of before. It was like finding a treasure chest on a desert island except for the process of picking one and paying for it was the next step.

It just presented to mme once again how not to take anything in this life for granted. That thought came to mme more times than I can count while living on the rez. Most of the people there have a really hard life; not all mmined you, but most.

Two of the poorest counties in the U.S. are in S.D. The Pine Ridge reservation and The Cheyenne River Sioux reservations are those places. I lived in the small administrative town of the CRST. The CRST is about the size of the U.S. state of Connecticut.

There was another place for grocery shopping in the immediate environs of the tiny administrative and the main town of the rez. It was a much smaller family owned business about one fifth the size of the main market owned and operated by the tribe.

The tribe had mostly the same group of people, a committee in charge of the telephone company, a propane company, and all sorts of tribal run businesses that really kept a good eye and hands on their businesses when and after they took over the mostly failing and poorly run enterprises.

One person in particular was J.D.; one of the main people if not the main person period that was responsible in turning the tribes businesses into profitable and on going or growing concerns. A good man with plenty of knowledge to accomplish anything he set his mind to in order to help his people. Kenny W-Es, Bill J are other ones.

The big grocery market was a tribal run business the committee had taken over in order to keep it growing. I think J.D. was also a rancher but don’t quote mme on that. Like many people on the rez, ranching and farming are mostly the way of life in that getting to be less remote area.

Of course it’s been growing and becoming less remote for the last one hundred years or so. There used to be 14 lumber yards there in the early days when the government checker boarded reservations. That was done to try and assimilate the Native Peoples thereby once again taking land away that was initially given to them.

After building a house and settling in to a singular kind of lifestyle almost immediately I mostly hung out in the tiny town or stuck close to it. I had met and made enough friends and acquaintances without needing to go too far in any direction for any reason whatsoever.

There was one video store; three businesses that sold gas but only one could work mechanically on a vehicle. Once you’ve been to a place where there’s only one grocery store, one that can fill most of your needs, you may find out that having a few dozen more choices isn’t really necessary unless something specific is needed for a reason.

Maybe you can relate being on a desert or a desert island where one source of water is the only place you’ll find it. It’s all we need really. Now if you want different kinds of coloured or flavoured water, that’s another story. Competition is good and monopoly’s are not. OK?

Living on the rez at that time was a very comfortable environment. I had gone there for one specific reason while hoping that if I stayed there long enough I’d find the others. I was glad to be left alone to do the things I had wanted to do for a very, very long time; years in fact.

After a while I did get a wander lust because as I’ve said, I hadn’t traveled too far in any direction. Friends or families I had met often tried to talk mme into traveling with them for a weekend shopping in the capital city of Pierre, South Dakota. To this city boy it’s a long ride.

I had always bowed out with a thank you anyway mostly because I didn’t want to travel the seventy five miles one way it took to just go shopping. That was like going to another state where I came from.

Not only that but most of the time spent would be in a car with too many people crammed together before all the packages that couldn’t fit in the trunk were piled on laps and any place one could find with no room to breathe.

That didn’t happen all the time but when it did the obvious choice for mme at least was to just shop locally. I know or knew many people went to do other things besides shopping. I guess I got to be more like a hermit without realising or being too aware of it until one of mmy friends pointed that out.

I admitted it at the time but thought nothing of it because I was perfectly satisfied doing what I was doing. That’s all I needed. It wasn’t that much later when I took mmy friend’s words to heart. That and the fact that I got a bad case of cabin fever. I decided to expand the horizons a bit to see what I could see or do in the capital.

It was when that same friend asked mme again to take a little trip, “to go shopping for groceries or whatever,” were her words. This time I accepted gladly. It only took a year or more but here we come Pierre.
Sheesh, what’s with the seventy five miles anyway? Couldn’t they put that city and its airport a little closer to us? Is what I used to think.

She drove and I sat in the passenger seat while looking at everything that passed by in a whiz. Yes, a whiz. When a person doesn’t really travel that much or lives in a small slow town; unless one uses a highway everyday, which I didn’t; seventy five miles an hour is like flying in a jet compared to what a calmer ride would be in the horse and buggy speed of people like the Amish; night and day difference.

To Be Continued:

The Flaming Tree

2010-03-20T09:37:00.000-07:00

March 20, 2010

After living in California for about twenty years, give or take a few, I relocated to one of the bigger cities of western Pennsylvania. Why? Longer stories here but suffice it to say I wanted another change. If you’ve not guessed it by now I’ve got the wander as well as the wonder lust. If you’ve traveled on any vacation, you’ll know why.

Besides all that it was too long before I had witnessed an actual fall season. It was a long time since I’ve seen multiple colour bursts or patterns painted on foliage and forests of trees appearing to be on fire. Fall is as if an army of inspired artist’s passed through everywhere while throwing or painting precisely everything as they went.

If it’s not a mmusic or an art project, commission situation or any of those combined as a work/play thing that take mme to wherever it is, then I’ll go it alone, with mmy FACE of course. We’ll just move to wherever seems to be calling us at the time; hang for as long as it takes. Mind you, nothing is easy or as simple as it may appear. As you can imagine there are the same trade off’s as any you can imagine.

Mind you this is one of the reasons I’ve lived in so many cities while claiming to have visited every U.S. state except one. The single reason or factor of one is mostly because as technology goes at this point of scientific discoveries, we’re not yet able to drive to the big Island. That and the fact that I’ve never been asked to play in the Pro Bowl is why.

The year long residence in Pennsylvania was one such place. Like many of the places I’ve visited in the past I had a good friend who lived close and on the outskirts to a big city really. He and his family were living not too far from where I first witnessed the fall foliage I’ve not seen in over twenty plus years. I could have but didn’t until now.

Driving cross country with his wife’s home state and their home being the next to the final destination I had seen a bit of fall’s colour. If you’ve not seen it, the Pennsylvania Turnpike passes through some of the most beautiful scenery one can see in this United States.

As a matter of fact, at that time Tom and his wife owned the old civil war type farm that wasn’t a farm. It was the same place when first being mesmerized; I sat in front of a tall, thin, plain as day tinted red/orange tree. If it wasn’t for the fact that there were no siren’s blaring, no smoke or intense heat, I could’ve sworn it was on fire.

The flame seemed to be the entire tree that had the shape of a stricken match or a lit candle pointed skyward. I sat there on the dry dirt in front of the house in pure amazement. It seemed like I was in a Disney dream. The approximate place I set mmyself was thirty feet away from it. I had to be sitting there for over an hour. It was unbelievable.

As an artist I was asking mmyself what the hell was I doing by missing these work of art views for so long. No matter where mmy head turned the next view was more beautiful than the last. Turning back to the same view brought the same reaction. I just couldn’t get enough of any view no matter where mmy head turned.

Tom the owner and I drove from his home in Pennsylvania to his farm in West Virginia. It took a few hours to drive to his home away from home. Our mmusic lives pretty much paralleled. He had been off play for a while as well. The drive gave him an excuse to recharge again.

His life was also that of a mmusician and a fellow drummer at that. Where we differed was his preferred bands were mostly of the blues variety. Alvin Lee and Johnny Winter were two of his long standing gigs and claims to fame. They and he are parted; in mmusic’s history.

Tom and his wife purchased the property but he’s the one who really took advantage of its rural and more remote to civilisation qualities. I’mm sure if he had a choice he’d rather be ‘on the farm’ so to speak than anywhere else; at least for as long as it took to slowly wind down like a long distance runner who would change pace and crawl instead.

Viewing Mother Nature anywhere really, no matter the weather, time of year, night or day. She rejuvenates us from a hurried, scurried and intense life where one may often need a break; a change of pace heals.

Being in the presence of oceans of humanity who may be screaming with joy every single day is one of those intense parts of many a mmusicians life. There has to be a balance for most if not all of us, or it’ll take a toll one may not necessarily prefer that’s for sure.

Like a pill prescribed by the doctor who left all the medicine to heal one’s self for anything, just lying around to be discovered or found for any purpose really, Mother Nature’s store is where we’ll usually find the cure. Sitting in front of a flaming tree was a cure in pure colours.

A Greenwich Gangster Band

2010-03-19T09:10:00.000-07:00

March 19, 2010

Well, they weren’t really a gangster band but I call them that because of how I first saw them dressed like Mr. Nitty. I’ll backtrack a bit here

The year was around 1985 or so. I had taken a three week vacation with Pam, a wife at the time. We flew from our in the woods suburban home in NYC to London, England. We were booked to stay for three weeks. I on the other hand stayed more than three months mostly because of finding and adding more of a mmusic experience.

After our three week British tour to visit the wife’s relatives as well as a few pub crawls, jams and whatever we’re with all’s in Burton on Trent, Dovedale, Derby, The Bass Brewery, Cathedrals and such plus more than that we did, Pam returned to the good ‘ol U. S. of A.

I had kept in touch with a great friend and his family who had moved to another part of London. I phoned them to touch base when they asked mme to stay longer and at their house for a while. A month later I relocated to a pub on the south side of the Blackwall Tunnel.

The Mitre Pub was located technically I guess in Greenwich; the same Greenwich of Mean Time fame. Change your clocks yet? Pass time…

I was asked to do a gig at the Mitre every Thursday night with a group of mmusicians I had known ever since arriving in England almost ten years earlier. Another Mick, the bassist asked if I’d like to join him and a few other locals in a band situation. They called themselves Corporal Henshaw; after one of the characters in an early 60’s TV show, Sergeant Bilko. Ancient people know who that was, eh?

One of the players was a fellow countryman from the U.S. who relocated to London and worked as the booking agent in the Mitre. Keith was his first name; his last I don’t remember. He was also living upstairs from the Mitre Pub. After a few weeks of traveling back and forth from Hackney, Keith asked if I’d like to stay at the Mitre as well; there was plenty of room with another apartment really. I moved in.

I thought it would be cool to live above a Pub and that was it. Luckily for mme the business didn’t stay open until the wee hours in those days. When I wasn’t playing but still rooming there, getting enough of sleep was no issue. Besides that, the times bands performed in that country were nothing compared to the U. S. Gigs over there only lasted for a few hours; usually finishing by 11pm. Piece of cake.

The reason I mentioned staying in the Mitre Pub in Greenwich was because very shortly after I had moved there, I ventured out walking. If anyone had seen the south side of the Blackwall Tunnel, at that time, you know there was absolutely nothing except a huge water tank behind it and an old demolished church about a block away.

When I say the water tank was huge, I mean it was really huge. Like one of those you’d see at an oil refinery. Picture that up close and there you have it; behind the Mitre by about 100 feet or so. Then of course there’s all that traffic coming and going out of the tunnel. Let mme put it this way; the smell wasn’t like a garden of roses but more like a Venus Fly Traps undigested meal; exhaust fumes added to it.

I did venture into the demolished church for a gander one afternoon. That was also a huge structure. Walls and ceiling were still intact. The floor was covered in all kinds of demoed materials that rain, wind, snow and weather of all kinds had blown in there. It was a big mess.

One great weather late afternoon I had taken a walk to the place where the famous tall ship, The Cutty Sark was moored or dry docked. After a tour all around the huge hulk of history, I was getting heavy hunger pangs. Just on the corner, pretty much right there at the Cutty Sark was a little East Indian Restaurant. I entered and filled up.

I’d tell you everything wonderful about that meal but at this point I’d rather get to the point of the title of this little story. It was about 7 or 7:30pm or close to it when I exited the restaurant to walk back home. When walking there I was on the same side of the street as the Greenwich clock was located. Returning home I walked on the opposite side of the street. Now I have an image of a tall iron fence.

As I was walking, looking across the street, I saw about six guys carrying what looked like vegetable crates into a little pub. The door
was opened and mmusic was pouring out all over mme. It sounded like Sinatra type of song material. The more I walked the louder the mmusic was getting. The lead singer had Sinatra down pat; his way.

Then it stopped. I was still across the street and about 100 feet from the entrance. I kept looking over to the opened door when about seven guys charged out laughing. They stood against a wall opposite to the pub. They were all wearing the same kinds of suits and hats. That was the funny part of it. I walked across the street to join them.

Turns out they were the band; of course. Why else would they be dressed like that? Like that were black suits with wide light grey pin stripes and matching Fedora’s. The leader was a Pearly King. After I had the opportunity to play with them and to know them a little bit Mr. Pearly King showed mme a photograph he had recently taken with Princess Di. Remember her Highness Princess of Wales? One in the same. A Pearly King is in Google, it’s late, save mme time, OK?

He, Mr. Pearly King was in full regalia and she, P. Di in her plain but expenseive normal everyday Princess attire. She appeared to be fondling one of Mr. Pearly King’s pearls or whatever those things are all over the clothes he was wearing at the time. In any case besides that he was also a full fledged copy of a Mr. Sinatra clone by knight.

I’mm getting a little ahead of mmyself here. At this point we’re at the introduction stage while all the suits in question were leaning on an outside wall of the pub they had just exited. Boisterous mob they were and all in the moment of the big band era. That’s what their mmusic was like. Almost every song was vintage 1930’s, 40’s and almost 50’s. They did it their way someone might say. Was that someone you?

Apparently when I was passing they were just about to go on their first break; and did. I walked across the street at their gathering and asked who I didn’t know at the time but turned out to be Mr. Pearly King himself, if they were playing a private party or was it an open thing? All at once I got both answers from different sources. Then they all had a nice laugh at the new Mr. American’s expense. Funny boys.

They asked why I wanted to know. I said I’d like to come in and listen. After their little expressions of privacy and not I then said that if they were open to it, then I’d like to jam. They all looked mme up and down and said first of all I wasn’t dressed up enough for the occasion. I walked to the still opened door and looked inside.

Noticing that they were the only one’s dressed like Al Capone I said they were the one’s that looked out of place. I’d fit in very nicely behind the drumms thank you very much. The next fifteen minutes went tit for tat with everyone in the circle. They were really funny guys. All of whose names to this day I don’t have a clue or remember.

The only two guys I DO remember personality wise at this point years later, were Mr. Pearly King himself and the organ player dude. An uncured alcoholic who played only when he had to and always with a drink in one hand if he could get away with it. He usually hid, did.

He had a twitch that he just couldn’t hide. His head would twitch to one side, one eye would blink and one of his shoulders would rise a bit; not much but enough so that anyone could see all three happened at once. I felt sorry for the guy but he was happy as long as there was a drink in one hand; or both. Needless to say he had dire health issues.

The break was over and everyone headed inside to the pub. It was a raucous crowd whether the band was playing or not. When the band did begin to play again, most of those sitting got up to dance. Some sang the familiar tunes as they danced and the rest sang as they sat.

One thing I did notice about being in England at that time, many places I went to where there was entertainment or not; maybe just a jukebox if there were no mmusicians, people would sing along with the mmusic. It didn’t have to be that old stuff which means to say up to the 60’s even but they sang up to the date songs as well.

Just picture a modern version of a Medieval Pub with long tables of friendly people drinking grog while crammed next to each other. That was the scene I witnessed many times in different towns, not necessarily all pubs. Church basements, something like Moose Lodges but not called that were also where many people burst into song.

After watching and listening to Mr. Pearly Sinatra and his pin stripe mob while enjoying another circle of quite boisterous patrons, Mr. Pearly called mmy name over the microphone and basically ordered mme to approach the bandstand and take his drummer’s place.

I do and always recognise the matter of respect for the other guy so I apologised to drummer guy. As he was getting off the bandstand I asked if in fact he wouldn’t mind if I sat in for a few songs. I’d only play if he gave permission. He laughed and said, ‘Sure mate, have yourself a go, I’mm leaving these sad blokes pretty soon anyway.”

So there you go and there I went. He handed over a pair of sticks; I sat down to play; the rest of the night as a matter of fact. Apparently Mr. Pearly King overheard drummer guy say he was going to leave the band pretty soon. Pearly King guy fired him on the spot. Lucky mme. From then on, I had the gig; and what a gig it was. Not only THAT night but the few more months following. A football club was one.

The only night I couldn’t play with them was the every Thursday night gig at The Mitre. Remember that one? Right. Needless to say after falling nicely into that gig, I couldn’t stay that long anyway. Remember the wife had left a few weeks before so I had to get back to the states. Three months later, I did but not before being involved in more stories of the Pearly Sinatra’s. The Football Club remembered.

Milwaukee's Cloth

2010-03-18T13:47:00.001-07:00

March 18, 2010

I don’t remember the year but it was shortly after 911 happened that I was visiting a friend in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Lovely city. Although they’re not mmy chosen team, the Green Bay Packers are part of Wisconsin’s DNA. I’ve not seen much of the state but what I have experienced in a few cities visited, I really like the Badger state.

Hayley’s Corners is where mmy friend spent years applying the chosen vocation. We traveled to another gorgeous area; one of those stunning places with a huge blue lake where Mother Nature touched her magic wand to create a region one would think looks like heaven.

I know the time of year was shortly after 911 because one of the locales mmy friend and I visited at the time was the newly built Milwaukee Art Museum (MAM). The photos on today’s blog are part of its structure. It appears to be a huge cruise ship on Lake Michigan. When those ribs open up it seems like it could easily take off and fly.

Displayed outside as an exhibition unto itself was part of one of the boilers from the World Trade Center. I couldn’t believe that whoever had the idea to do that not to mention to ship that thing from place to place did. It must have weighed tons. It brings to mmind how much energy and power it took to destroy the two buildings; truly amazing.

Needless to say the mangled mass of steel was transformed into something else that looked like it would belong in a museum’s sculpture show. Because of what it is, obviously it was located on the bottom most floors of the World Trade Center. Top floors crushed it.

Another eye opening work of art I’mm not sure if it’s still there or not, was viewed as one looks to the right and enters into the huge, modern lobby area. A very large, colourfully, entangled and twisted work of glass art by the famous artist Chilhouly hangs from ceiling to floor.

It had or has to be about thirty feet or more tall. Like Cristo, another famous and internationally known artist, I’d like to meet Chilhouly as well, one of these days. Both artists, without a doubt, if you’ve not seen their work I recommend you check them out if you get a chants.

Milwaukee’s Art Museum is a great architectural wonder. It has three buildings. The one I liked the most was designed by Santiago Calatrava. I’ve seen a few of his works in person; many more in books. The man is a creative and spatial genius. I took so many photographs of walls, cubby holes, light fixtures and all odd sorts of things in the MAM. Every form one could see it seemed was so interesting to view through a camera’s lens. I recommend visit at least thrice.

You may also want to visit the Harley Davidson motorcycle factory as well. Maybe you don’t know that famous of all U.S. of A. motorcycles are manufactured in Milwaukee. If you didn’t, now you do. Like Pillsbury the baking flour people or even Miller Beer, “The beer that made Milwaukee famous,” or so they claim in the old advertisements.

MMy friend brags to be able to see the Miller factory from the house parking lot. Lucky them. On the other hand if there were a Guinness Brewery, I’d move there pronto. I’mm not an, ‘It’s less filling,’ or lite beer person that’s for sure. If I had to worry about filling mmy stomach, I’d eat. Guinness, there’s a beer to fill up on if you’re eating.

This brings us to the words for today’s blog. As you may have noticed there hasn’t been an entry with a poem or whatever you want to call these things, in quite a while. Maybe after reading, or giving up trying today’s little twister missive you’ll thank mme for that. It’s a hard one.

In any case, I know this blog is difficult to read at times, to understand or even care about as strangers or friends but that’s just the way it is. It’s entered on this date none the less. Give it a go or a throw. Figure it out and you’re worth your weight in ale or the read whine of heave in

Without a doubt, you’ll have to decipher most or the majority of the words at the end - yourself. Basically so you won’t be too diss tints from it; it was some of the things the friend and I did and witnessed while spending about a week touring the summer city of Milwaukee.

You may be able to tell we attended a kite festival. That was so cool. I think it occurs every summer in the huge park adjacent to the MAM. The kites were modeled after all kinds of things; like a replica of the old Forbes of Forbes magazine castle/home; a Flying Pig of course; a shark; jets; airplanes both modern and antique; an eagle; hippo; etc…

A kite race and picnic were also part of the MMicks. The friend, always prideful of not only the culinary displays but of all the actual food anyone invited to taste those tables can taste. From the beginning appetizers/plural to the multiple courses of you name it at any given time, to the deserts; one has to be completely empty before the start. Maybe this is where that Miller fluff comes in? Sheesh; not a chance.

It was a gourmet picnic, that’s for sure. Let’s not forget the before and during dinner drinks; wines and after dinner top it off’s of a different liquid; sometimes a tiny container containing Grand Mariner will be carried along to be included in the desert. The friend is definitely a thoughtful and complete to every small detail, chef. (Merci, there J)

A few partial images of photo’s I took at the MAM were used in some of the digital mmusic designs you may find on mmy home page somewhere. Whether you can pick them out or recognise them is another story. Good luck finding any one of them. If you can pick any out from that day; a gold ducket for your bucket or to hang on your:

Milwaukee’s Cloth

I Max crest
Kilimanjaro waves blessed
Stripes magnet iron on one
While try plain's flyin’
Winged broods sighed 'n
Sharks kites - wild boars flights were flown

Matched winged chums charmed
Crest, too lunged alarmed of
Loop de loop’s 'n
Diving in troupes
Watched by groups
Of sky's winged lunch bunch

Picked nicked air, bye strings
They ran - towed plastic things
Arrived in bikes - all tried
Pedal pals four - two do ride
Together knee's moved
'N grooved in strides
Of unison's plea’s improved

Smilin’ miles threw stiles - said, "Hi MAM" - turned
Window's magnet set on Centers boiler - burned

On to Harley hog's sway- where potato songs were played
Left to write - Willy's tagged -MM's posters stayed

Post tours - coffee shops
East Side - in the bin
Sitting out sighed tray did guise
Alterra's left did in

Write on trays - just helped yourself
End Window’s mag on tin
Was left -through rite - wild registered
Remained be sighed it - grinned

Italian Villa's stepped - know tram
Crab apple’d wedding’s anew
Can’t walk down the aisle of blue slated waves
Know insure rants willed never pass through

Then on too Wisconsin's Conservatory - true
Where MMusic’s taught - end them - learned
Bye heard’s whizzed passed through halls - books clued
Scales up - downed classics - knights’ oil burned

Sow - win - the end - " On the board it will hang
Up and down the stares, Yes!" she said, sang
In MMedicine's school passed too mman - lass end rocks
Too per forming Arts house Liszt through Bach’s

The Arts shop mistress - the violinist too
Strolled in and touched 'em - just like y'alls may due
Said, "Thank you much, got 'nother one MMack?"
Hear, pass it on m'am - prayed tell – please the tact

"Aye - wonder if given sum clues sole dear friends
True place of towns players 'n mmusicians intend?"
Oklahoma? – 77th – family's stored in mmusic’s gear
Left posters - 'chure's ‘n cards - put 5 in - penned back they're

Wild X a student of M ‘n- aye -A-D
Artist/guitarist was poppin' up art was he
Of art's popped charge - while knee'd
Talked his abstract popped art's out
In D school mag's left three
One him - one prof's - watched based balls props
On lips up-down mouth's spree

Rode on down to view Kites Fest
Packed picnic - end prints two marina's resting left
'Joy'd spectrums colours - plastics drifts on wings
While kites wind songs played tightened, whitened strings

Yes the glossy's were ready for framing - end too
XP lyrics - fine print copies were weight in seeded pew

Guessed they wondered, “What’s 'fore this?
Who’s left leaving all this stuff?"
Grabbed the mike - spoken kites
Left for shore - white clouds in puffs

Led it be - yes it’s we
Too care? Too know things rife
Too more of those of leaving's left
And tour wit's end threw write
Be entertained - 'fore aye due stop
Think end of won's for sure
Know Bailey’s take a rose his flock
To Don's gogh key's - MM's stored

This master mixer's mman 'o MMick's
Think chef's hand did these yet?
The ate bye ten's 'n foamed cores fanned?
Proposals scene knews met?

All post tours hand did? End too MM's?
‘Round thoughts all gone? Then through?
He's past the cards know boxes, too end?
Or end Mill Walk Ease Cloth
Donned blew?

Big Pink – 5

2010-03-17T11:20:00.000-07:00

March 17, 2010

I’mm not sure of the route we took but suffice it to say it was a few hours drive. That part of the trip was pretty uneventful unless one considers the sheer volume and tones of so many people, especially all the happy children along for the rolling Big Pink touring experience.

The sound although not really deafening was like you’d imagine with that much humanity loaded into one space; several different groups all talking at various volumes and mostly all at once. It was like there was a big family reunion but with all of it taking place inside a confined area of floor and windows space; no escape while moving.

Unlike the modern buses of any period, legally having to be equipped for human emergencies such as too much or even just a little liquid consumption, the driver was asked to pull over someplace; or more times than imaginable any place to relieve whatever had to be relieved quickly when many little people were crammed in the space.

Needless to say, I can’t tell you how many times this happened but I will tell you that one of those stops had to be for a going quickly fat to flat tire. Yes, I’mm a frayed so. The soon to be emergency was avoided at the very last minute. The last minute because we were almost arriving at our final gig destination; almost but not quite there.

I can remember this part of the story like it was yesterday, it was so cool. We were within the perimeter of the town of Davis. Not even the outskirts really but pretty close to where we had to check in for the festival. Unfortunately one of Big Pink’s rolling feet just couldn’t wait another turn before everyone heard the rhythmical hiss; air escaping.

Even worse, she was losing air faster than a broken balloon at a well attended kindergartener’s birthday party. Too many more revolutions and Big Pink’s foot would be rubbing its metal on asphalt. The immediate guess was that it must have been something one of Big Pink’s feet had grabbed without noticing it would in fact stick to its insides thereby causing the quick loss of fat and full to thin and empty

Without a doubt this is where the positives of these kinds of experiences occur and something good always comes of it. Just ahead was one of the normal gas stations that used to be plentiful in those days. We all could see its big opened garage doors on the right as we rolled to a stop slightly in front of and to the left of them; just in time for Big Pink’s foot to be flatter than a pan cake. Lucky us. We stopped.

Not a facetious term in this instance. We really were lucky; on several counts. One was that the flat didn’t happen in the middle of the road or highway, too far away from anywhere to get it fixed for that madder. Limping on the side of a busy road wouldn’t be any fun.

Nope, not this day; for some reason we had a lot more good on our sighed. This, even more evident when I exited the bus to find the man in charge of the gas station. I had the pick of five men who gathered in front of the big opened door to see what would exit from the circus.

With a smile bigger than Soupy Sales I walked up to the grinning gentlemen and said something like, “Say guys, luckily for us we just got a flat tire. As you can see from all the humanity hanging out the windows, not to mention the colourful display of our name on the side of ‘ol Big Pink there, we’re a little choir from a few hours away. We’ve got a gig that starts not too long, time wise from now. As you can see we’re in need of your kind assistance; whatcha think?”

One of the gentlemen who I gathered was the General in charge pointed to two of his underlings and like the Godfather himself, pointed to the bus full of happy spirits without using any vocal accompaniment. The two anointed one’s then walked briskly to Big Pink’s pan cake and asked mme to ask everyone to exit the bus.

Little did they know that the exercise in itself was more than a big deal. They were sure it was a necessary one. I walked to the opened doors and passed that information to the General of the choir; big M.

After a longer than usual preamble of precautionary measures the choir General then passed the pleas exit information to the horde on the bus. The excited exit movements began as everyone, not all at the same time mmined you, got up from their comfortable rug seats. Kids with balloons and stained candy faces were told to leave the balloons or potentially lose them to the heavens. Hold mom’s hands and walk.

The adult passengers grabbed the hands of those too small to walk the streets or wander alone. Most of this was in as orderly a fashion as anyone can imagine a circus of this nature and size could accomplish. In tow were the one by one by too’s, some with sticky hands of chocolate or holding dolls, toys and a few with balloons exited en mass; vocalisations of everything were the kiddies added attraction.

As everyone d-bussed the two greasy clothed mechanics about to attack the flat tire looked well amused. The other three gentlemen watched the circus parade of tiny tykes ‘n moms find a place to move out of the way. They marched like gaggles of geese or ducks following the leader to a safe distance while asking if this were a food source.

As it happened a large grassy area was right next to the station. The Big Pink crowd sat and amused themselves while the tire was being worked on by the tire fixing professionals. Grunts and groans commenced. The electrical tools attachments couldn’t stretch that far so the distraught mechanic’s had to manually continue by hand.

Kindly like soldiers following the orders of the gas station General the two strained with determination. Big Pink’s history was evident when the rusted nuts of the rusted bolts were harder to unwind than a grist mill not oiled since the Middle Ages. This was a time for no mere mortals when the gas General called out the heavy artillery. Still inside the station was Big Bernie. The right man with the right tool.

Big Bernie towered over as well as muscle powered over all his compatriots including the General. All Big Bernie had to do was to untwist each nut that wouldn’t; the rest of the job was a piece of cake for the other two. Untwist he did and then left the rest of the unscrewing to the other two soldiers. The two privates quickly proceeded with the rest of the job taking Big Pink’s shoe off entirely from there on with no problem.

In the meantime Mr. General expressed his professional opinion by saying he definitely had no replacement. When the privates take off the tire they’ll have to bring it into the fix area to see if the tire can be repaired right then and there or we were, using his knowledgeable expression, ‘shit outta luck.’” Well, that wouldn’t be good. Let’s hope for the best, eh?” was mmy response. He smiled warily.

Well, lucky us. When the privates brought the sad faced tired in to be checked in the dipping water challenge, they found a hole no bigger than a 16 penny nail. When one considers the size of the rubberised foot compared to one of those tiny imports, it was minimal in deed.

Mr. General expressed although it looked like it’s past the time of a new shoe, Big Pink’s foot can be repaired. He asked if we’d like them to do that. I responded with no thank you would you please return it to its proper place and we’ll continue driving to Hawaii. He smiled at mmy facetious reply after which I said yes, please; we’d appreciate it.

The kind sounding man then pointed to one other associate who was to do that job as well as to pick another one of his friendly assistants to engage in the healing and repair. As I watched for a short while Mr. General and I had a nice conversation about the weather. He was also very inquisitive as to whom we were and what exactly were we doing in his town. Where did we come from and how long did we exist.

I responded with the initial opening of introduction information and expanded upon that. He was smiling the whole time while expressing how much fun the whole crowd seemed to be having in this what could have been a sad experience. I told him that it’s a Gospel Choir pal, so we try not to let little things like this bother us; besides that we’re all on our first trip/gig as somewhat of a family. As you can see, we’re having a circus of a time. The man was very funny and friendly.

After the twenty minutes or so it took from the water challenge part, the tire was fixed in short order. The boys of repair set Big Pink’s foot back in place; we were ready to roll once more. I walked outside to pass that information to the choir Mistress who passed it on to everyone else.

At that point like the circus exiting, the same circus in another procession of giggling vocalists and their charges even quicker, reentered Big Pink. We were ready to roll. One last step was to pay the General and his rubber repair platoon for a job well done.

I walked up to the General who was inside the business part of his station. He was pushing so many buttons on his cash register that the ringing reminded mme of sounds one may hear in a casino when a jackpot occurs. I was beginning to get frightened. He unrolled the long paper receipt and presented the end in its totality. I grimaced.

When I looked at the long column of numbers I just couldn’t figure it out. I said to him that after all these numbers what you have at the end here is not a total. If there’s an end number then for the life of mme I can’t see it. He asked mme what in fact did I see at the end.

I said, “Not to be funny or anything here Mr. General, but all I see at the end here is a bunch of zeros.” He said, “That’s correct son, the price is zero, nada, nothing; you and your nice choir owe us nothing.” I said, ‘Nothing? Nothing? You mean you did all that hard work, not to mention bringing in the overpowering power guy, and you’re not going to charge us?” He said, “That’s right son; have a nice concert; you’re a nice group of people; our little gift to you.”

Needless to say, I was very surprised by saying something pretty close to or exactly like: Whoa; that’s unbelievably kind of you; WOW, what a great gift!! Thank you; thank you so much; thank you very much Sir! The guy had a big smile, shook mmy hand vigorously when I said, “So I guess we’re on our way then; thanks again.” He said, “You’re very welcome, maybe you’ll come back and see us again.

At this point with a smile bigger than Christmas I ran out to the bus and told everyone what had just happened. They all yelled with joy. One right after the other immediately made a suggestion that the choir director agreed upon. Everyone in agreement wanted to get out of the bus and sing a song to the station General and his crew of cool.

Like the circus exit and reentrance before, everyone exited the bus while I went back into the station to summon the entire cadre of cool for a personal performance of our choir. When approaching Mr. General with this, he quickly gathered his men. They all dropped their tools while at the same time Miss Choir mistress arranged everyone in a semi circle, kids with balloons and still candy smudged faces.

They discussed what would be the perfect song for this most special of occasions. The men gathered approximately fifteen feet in front of the choir about to give a personal one time performance; acappella at that. Mistress Choir director quieted everyone after which she asked the whole group to say THANK YOU in unison. They did while the kids screamed, everyone applauding the men who stood before them in the standing ovation that lasted well over a minute.

Two songs were decided upon in the bus. If I’mm not mistaken it was both we’ve performed many times before and will during the time of our performance of the festival. ‘Wings,’ lead singer was Carol. Her name I remember like most of the singers. She chose a song she loved to sing. It was basically a ballad that presented all the good qualities of each separate section of the backing tones of the choir as well as her angelic voice. It was a powerfully moving song and lyrics.

The song that followed was, “Smiling Makes Your Dimples Grow.” It was a happy faster paced song that included our dancers who also did their routine for the tiny audience and one quite appropriate for the time. Positives produce positives. After the short performance Mr. General and his crew of cool applauded generously and with whistles.

Every one of the adults went to touch and shake the hands of every crew member of cool. Like the way the loading and exiting of the bus beforehand, this ending was the same. The entire choir and their charges entered the bus for the last time in an orderly fashion with the happiest expressions on their faces, with and without candy smudges.

As we slowly pulled out of the gas station, the crew stood in line. They waved goodbye to all the kids with balloons that hung out every window and waved so long back while screaming thank you’s until out of hearing distance. The concert went the same way. The great feeling continued the rest of the weekend through to the way home and the departure at the original place it began; from Big Pink.
“Smiling Makes Your Dimples Grow.”

Happy St. Patrick’s Day everyone

Big Pink – 4

2010-03-16T10:43:00.001-07:00

March 16, 2010

The second day Big Pink was parked out front; I was inside cleaning her up, down, top to bottom as best as one can. After all little tykes and the likes of all the choir members had no place to sit other than a not so soft padded rug. There was nothing I could do about the seats so I tried to make the sad rug as clean and as comfortable as possible.

I strung a long extension chord from the house to a good sucking vacuum along with its various attachments. The doors were closed. Over the din of the vacuum while whistling Don’t Fence MMe In, I heard more than a few loud bangs. I wondered if Big Pink had ignited herself until looking up and over to the doors. In the split door scenery was an always frowning Mr. O. I wondered if that was his unhappy look or his happy grin that I always mistook for other why’s.

Opening the creaking doors I gave a big smile and a howdy do with words that went something like, “Hiiiiiii Mr. OOOOO. Lovely day isn’t it? How can I help you?” Not smiling of course he asked if I lived there. “Live here? Do you mean within this bus?” I asked. “Nooooooo, not in this thing but in our neighborhood,” was his reply. I smiled.

“Sheesh, Mr. O, I’ve lived here for several years now; don’t you recognise mme from the wanted posters at the post office? Maybe you forget that from time to time I’ve waved to you while you’ve attended to your lovely landscaping duties. Seriously, Mr. O. Yes, I do live here, and have been right next to you for over two years. Several times your son and I have played basketball in your yard,” was the response.

He then asked if this ugly thing was going to be parked there long. I replied with a longer answer but suffice it to say, it didn’t prevent the retired Navy Doc from continuing his frowns from then until I moved away about eight years later. Big Pink was initiated and welcomed into the neighborhood although grudgingly so by the chosen few. I’mm sure Mr. AND Mrs. O began searching for some kind of law that would prevent this kind of a ‘thing’ parked in their castle area.

On the other hand. While living in that same house, there were many jams of all kinds of mmusic. From time to time several other neighbors would compliment on those occasions asking when they would happen again. One particular neighbor said she always sat outside with her husband whenever this happened. Not all the neighbors on that street were uptight or angry at the odd ones out.

Big Pink was scrubbed, rubbed and flub-a dub- dubbed until she sparkled and Shined. The next day, a Sunday was a choir rehearsal in one of the local small spaces between the furniture of someone’s house. Usually at these occasions I was the first to arrive in order to claim enough comfortable space for the drumms and yours truly.

When the choir arrived the rest of the living room was crammed with humanity; including the guitarist Dave, the bassist Clyde and the saxophonist Dennis. We cluttered around the old upright, black piano where the choir mastered everyone else with arms flailing in every bass, alto, soprano and baritone directions. Big mom M led the brood.

During the rehearsal someone raised their hand and asked if anyone in the room owned that cool Big Pink bus parked just outside. Raising sticks I claimed ownership, or owner-bus. When everyone heard this, all at once they ran to the big picture window to take a gander then cheered one big cheer surmising or knowing full well that this was in fact the new transportation to nirvana’s dreamscape and future gigs.

Seriously, I don’t recall nor claim ownership of the last two paragraphs due to memory lapses which I do apologise for but suffice it to say that everything before that did in all truth occur. The Fairfax Street Choir was a great mixture of more talent than Barnum and Bailey could muster to entertain the troops before Custer’s last stand.

Besides having a well respected leader/director, very knowledgeable and mostly patient person at the head of the entire choir, the rest of the gang volunteering all their talents ended up as basically an evenings worth of a more than entertaining review in true form.

Forgive mme if mmy numbers are off here but I think remembering there were at least two very good dancers whose names I’ve forgotten; but their steps, energy and part of ‘The Show,’ I certainly haven’t. They were a great part of the whole concept of the vaudeville review.

The choir also had a few mmusical groups within the group. Like one of the few male lead singers, songwriters who in later years played one of the Fab Four in one of those infamous Broadway type plays. He was one of mmy favourite singers with a red guitar song and a guy whose band I had the opportunity to play for at times. He was great.
Another male choir member, also a fun pianist to play with became a Los Angeles movie mmusic composer. I’ve a few tapes of our off shoot with another female choir member who also played a violin. Her dad was a vocal person/teacher. Her well trained and purely magical voice often made mme smile while jamming with her as well.

The choir like many gospel choirs mostly of the soul persuasion moved and grooved like not many some may experience in many churches; although some quite often. No one stood still on stage or in the audience when we performed; at least in those types of songs that called for those kinds of experiences spiritual or rock and roll.

Everything about the playing part for this drummer at least, was very moving, gospel fun. The four band members were there to move themselves and to help the others groove forever smooth. We were there to support the singers and in turn the singers always projected professionalism, power and charisma to captivate any audience.

On with the show:

The next thing I knew we were getting ready and discussing at the last rehearsal space a previously booked gig which was to take place at the University of California, Davis campus. It was to be an outdoor festival of some sort where another choir was to perform as well as all manner of festival activities for the whole family; food, drinks and fun

One nice summer weather Saturday morning; about eight or nine a.m. I drove Big Pink to the prearranged time and place. The entire choir was gathering for our first away from home gig. Everything needed for the overnight stay was being loaded on and into Big Pink. One more explanation here. By everything I mean everything possible.

Because the choir consisted of young women most of whose husbands or boyfriends weren’t members, their combined children unbeknownst to Big Pink and I were also invited along so to speak. That meant that not only was Big Pink carrying most of the members of the choir but their children as swell. Estimating years later I’d say that besides the choir about a dozen or so more children were part of the load. I’mm talking a few babies or very young children here too.

Reality set in when the tiny tots and their mothers asked mme if they could write things in water colours or chalk on the side of Big Pink. If permission was granted then ‘they said, ‘we’ll all wash it off after the trip.’ Facetiously I looked for crossed fingers behind their backs as well as in a somewhat serious tone asking for confirmation in writing.

As soon as permission was given like the dawn opening of a Sears after Mother’s day sale where 90% off was to take place; everyone ran to get their tool of choice and returned to begin to compose the mural of the day. The name of the choir was written in crooked, irregular and big multi-coloured letters by anyone big enough to hold a brush dripping with water paint. Big fat pieces of chalk were used as well.

Screaming kids began blowing up all kinds of balloons. Mothers began tying strings on to them. Then of course the kids were taught how to tie those to as many places as they could find where Big Pink was concerned. I really wish I had photos of that day; or just one.

I’mm tellin’ ya, Big Pink looked like a circus vehicle without the circus. It was as if Big Pink lost her way out of the Barnum and Bailey daily caravan. Those inside didn’t care one way or the other which direction it was headed. It was beautiful really. Everyone was having fun, scribbling and giggling while trading coloured chalk and brushes.

The kids were going on a dream cruise. The moms were in babysitting heaven and I was the driver. “OK, ALLLLL A BOARRRRRRRRRRD,” was the next little request by the head of the choir. Again I stepped up to the last step, crawled into and fell into the only seat on the bus. Everyone else just piled on in a continual stream of joyful happiness.

I heard more than once from several different sources, mostly those who have been in a bus before; where do we sit? More than one person responded silently by pointing fingers down to the well cleaned rug while others just said, sit down on the floor. That was it.

No one really cared if there were seats or not. Most children ran to stand at the windows before driving off; until the driver warned moms to beware of where their children were in case of quick stops or opened wide enough for young types to slip out. It was a party tour.

They sat in freedom circles of close friends or leaned backs to the walls among all the coolers, bags and boxes of clothes, as well as all the instruments packed before hand. It was a picnic without panic. The food and drinks were soon available upon request by the singing moms who seemed to just be along for the tykes to enjoy the ride.

Big Pink didn’t even grunt or groan with the added weight. Without all her seats bolted in, this mass of humanity and their possessions wasn’t even close to Big Pink’s overload capacity. I slowly pulled out of the station as her engine purred like a new born kitten; except for a few sputters and spurts of exhaust. A little engine of big could, did.

The day before I had paid attention to all the just in cases where Big Pink was concerned; filling up the gas tank, checking the water level, brake and transmission fluids, and added one quart of oil. Luckily before the passengers were to ad their little creative touches, I had also washed every window inside and out. I also vacuumed again just to make sure nothing indigestible was to be swallowed as candy.

The drive began very smoothly. Even with so many diversified passengers in attendance, we were pretty much on schedule. We’re off

To Be Continued:

Big Pink - 3

2010-03-15T14:57:00.001-07:00

March 15, 2010

Although the driveway exited onto a side street with basically very little traffic, I still pulled out with deep trepidation while looking both ways; just to make sure an unexpected train with 80 or more attachments to its three or four diesel locomotives or one of those huge overloaded two trailer lumber trucks wasn’t coming right at us.

No way would they be able to stop in time. I looked both ways twice more. There was also no chance in hell that I’d remember the forward or reverse double clutch method after applying this movement only once. Regardless, mmy worries were quickly diminished when good ‘ol Big Pink’s engine stopped and drifted into the middle of the road.

Unfortunately, the inexperienced tank driver hadn’t given enough of gas to keep the slow momentum going. I hummed and prayed once more while twisting the ignition to the on position, smiling with embarrassment. Big Pink purred very nicely. After looking forward the big little engine was shifted into first gear. We were off with a slow roll. Her engine pulled with as much gas as was supplied.

Needless to say the slower than a slug movement was not even close to the rabbit like energies of something attuned to a newer Cabriolet convertible. Big Pink chugged along with diligence and determination to reach the next corner. Looking both ways, in the rear view mirror as well as forward to make sure no moving vehicle was in years of coming within eyesight, Big Pink was double clutched; we moved on.

She handled like one would think a big thing like that would handle. Power steering? Fuhgeddaboudit. One also was reminded to give plenty of time before coming to a stop, especially when little children, pregnant moms or even humans that looked like seniors with or without those walking bars were waiting on corners; white canes too.

The rest of the ride from corner to corner, street to street, one turn after the next and back to the driveway was almost uneventful. Except for a few stop and starts of the engine due to the driver’s inexperience with double clutching was concerned, the trip was a slow won.

Enough knowledge and drive time was accumulated between Dick and me to decide to ask the next group of questions. Those were, legal registration, price and how many miles per gallon did Mr. Owner know that Big Pink would achieve. All the answers were given except for the miles per gallon question. “Depends on how you drive,” was that answer. Fair enough I said; surmising that it wouldn’t be surprising if one to ten was the correct answer. We’d carry more cash.

In any case the legal papers were brought out, the price was $300.00. I thought just two of the tires without wheels or air was worth that much. I paid the man while watching if he had a sly smile or not. I figured he was getting rid of Big Pink for some reason but that one I didn’t care to know. He opened both hands without smiling like a man who would be twirling both ends of a big black and long handlebar mustache in a two handed thumb and forefingers pinch.

Dick followed Big Pink and its driver back to our house in Ross. Unfortunately the next step was to pull up and park Big Pink on our little tree lined street. I say unfortunate because everyone on that short street of old inherited and newly minted money had circular driveways. Most with tall hedges so as not to be able to view insides.

There was what the neighbor next door, a woman at the time on the local town council called a ‘driveway in the back.’ It was only long enough to park something like a VW Beetle. Big Pink was about a mile longer than those save on gas imports and too wide to navigate trees.

Dick and I estimated that she’d stick out like a bigger pink thumb about three quarters of the way across that street back there. We had a dilapidated garage that could park a baby buggy without its handle. It was built around the time every household inventor was trying to figure out how to put little combustible engines on their bicycles.

Besides all that the thing was stuffed with everything imaginable left before we rented the place. The owner’s dad even used it for a local get together place for all his buddies to enjoy the latest tub of beer brewed especially for that week’s occasion. Proof of this was further established when noticing all the pathways around the grounds were lined with upside down empty brown glass beer bottles. Some broken

Another deciding factor of our unavailable driveway is that our Norwood neighbors newer cars we were sure would have a hard time circumnavigating Big Pink’s back bumper. The only solution of course was to park Big Pink right in front of the property thereby making her the only vehicle visible on the mostly empty and quaintly quiet street.

That I did. Dicks Jag was then relegated to the driveway in the back. Something which he didn’t do most times because of the danger it would be to follow the path to the house in the dark; even with a beware of bottles sign which without moonlight would not be seen anyway. Understandable of course so now two vehicles were in view.

Needless to say when pulling into our street with no sidewalks on either side, I parked Big Pink as close to our six foot hedges as possible. Our house was on the right; at least two feet were needed to exit and enter whenever those times arose. A rose would not have been given to mme when the woman on the town council visited the next day. Without question she had the same question the day before.

“Why can’t you park this thing in your back driveway?” she repeated. Well Mrs. O, I guess if you have a long enough measuring tool or a torch, maybe you could show us how to fit this lovely vehicle in the space allotted without plugging up that dead end street inhabitants; is how I can best explain mmy most civil response. Big Pink blushed.

The whole time living in the Ross house, the better part of almost ten years, Mr. and Mrs. O didn’t care to know anyone existed next door to them. Mr. O never gave a smile or a kind greeting at any time; even while pushing his rusty, greasy lawnmower when I yelled a good day.

A few years after moving in, I did manage many games of basketball in their back yard after being welcomed by their son. Nine years later their daughter was mmy lawyer at a divorce hearing when I happened to be the recipient of glad tidings.

She so skillfully made it possible for mme to keep the house because of the two dogs that lived there well before a spousal arrival. After years of growls and scowls I was thankful Mr. O’s jean’s eventually came in handy for something.

To Be Continued:

Big Pink - 2

2010-03-14T16:20:00.000-07:00

March 14, 2010

After all, as the all time driver I had to have a seat. Anyone else that comes along for the ride will have to sit in picnic style and that was it. Mr. Owner then had explained because it was not like a car, I had to in fact double clutch while changing gears of this non-automatic transmission wonder. That I did with roughly, two downs and up’s.

Big Pink shifted to the reverse mode. Cautiously glued to rear views I pulled out of the long driveway parking spot. This lasted about three seconds. I stopped, pulled the emergency brake, shifted Big Pink into neutral and said, “I’mm going to look at the back lights. I wanted to be sure no gaggle of men wagging blue fingers had reason to stop us.”

“This already looks insane, being the colour pink and all. I just don’t want us to be on the 11 o’clock news with several police car’s red, white and blue lights flashing in frantic fashion while they inspect Big Pink for anything they could find while using the tail lights not working as their excuse.” Years later this did happen with another car.

I opened the doors and exited Big Pink to check the aforementioned. I asked Dick to sit in the driver’s seat as I would call out the instructions to check out all the legalities of working everything as far as the lights were concerned. I opened the driver’s window asking Dick to stick his head out in case he couldn’t hear yelling directions.

I slid mmy ass out; Dick slid his ass in. I walked around the rear of Big Pink first and yelled, “LEFT TURN SIGNAL.” Although the lenses of said lights were dirtier than a babies first day of diaper operations, they worked none the less; lucky us. “RIGHT!” They also worked.

“Now pump the BRAKES!”I yelled while cupping hands over mouth for a more directional approach to Dick’s ears. Dick did it once. “DO IT A FEW TIMES!” I yelled. I wanted to be sure Big Pink wasn’t just faking or being nice to a potential new owner because miraculously, they worked every time. Dick in the driver’s seat pumped once more.

I walked to the front of the bus and gave signals to Dick for the left and right turn signals as well as the headlights to be turned on and off a few times. Everything worked! We were in business as they say. Isn’t that special? I was happy when kicking both front tires again just to make sure they didn’t blow the first time they’d run over a pebble or a few grains of sand piled too high for Big Pink to recover balance.

I asked Dick to keep Big Pink running and come on out with mme to look under the hood and everywhere else that mechanics can be checked by sight and sound. Dick was a car guy; may he rest in peace. A little side note/time out hear if you will; just a short one plea’s.

Dick sold lots of foreign and many quite expenseive vehicles. He knew engines and the mechanics of most cars. He fixed, kept in good shape his own convertible, burgundy, 12 cylinders, ’62 Jag XKE. When it came to go a bit further with these mechanical things I brought Dick along because he certainly in mmy opinion at least, was the mechanic!

MMy good buddy passed a few months ago with some strange disease that doc’s know little about to this day. He was only sixty one or thereabouts. The guy was a great friend. Again, I’ll pass a few of those Dick and I stories we shared as well. Most of them pretty funny. In the meantime, he joined mme as I waved to him to come outside Big Pink to continue this story; you still there? Follow the bouncing….

We opened Big Pink’s hood pretty easily. I looked for the long rod that would hold it open. There was none. Mr. Owner looked for a long stick instead. Remember, this isn’t your ordinary Dotson, Toyota or little plastic putt, putts. We had to do things a little differently in order to examine certain engine things. I guess having a stick was one.

After climbing up the mountainous two feet and on to the tall, sturdy front bumper, anyone could see that one could without too much butter, slide a little VW bug underneath the space between Big Pink’s underbelly and the road. Dick and I balanced ourselves while standing up there looking down into the muddy and blackened by greasy smoke environs of an almost empty space. “Beautiful,” I said.

It’s pretty amazing how small many of the engines of those days were and still powerful enough to work big moving pieces of metal like Big Pink. Remember again, Big Pink was all metal, not plastic like one would see even huge semi-trucks molded construction now days.

Big Pink was heavy no matter how one looked at it. Her engine after the half hour or so it was still running, sounded good. She had no oil burning which meant no white exhaust coming out in a continual flow of OH NOOO! She didn’t even leak any oil at least from what Dick and I could tell; not yet anyway. That was a first good sign.

We jumped off the big bumper that could probably hold a cow, three piglets, and the big horse dog next door. We figured this out after jumping off because the shocks of Big Pink didn’t even budge. “SHOCKS,” we both chimed in unison. Yes, fortunately when almost walking upright underneath Big Pink we checked around all four tires to see in fact if there were any shocks or something like it; there were.

They were also very muddy as were most things underneath Big Pink. I asked Mr. Owner if indeed Big Pink was involved in any one of those motor rallies one hears about where any kind of terrain may have to be traversed in order to reach the finish line; including that of mud holes long and deep enough like something on the order of the LaBrea tar pits but not having tar. While I thought he’d find that quite amusing he had a stoical look on his face. So much for comic interlude

Dick and I continued our search for wrong. We checked out the drive shaft; put our fingers around the transmission, U-joints, oil pan and such. I’ll not tell you how those looked or felt. All I can say is that it was a big 1962 bus and leave it at that. Everything was working I said so let’s stop here. It was time to go for the first ride to see if all the nuts and bolts were still holding what they were supposed to hold.

Mr. Owner was standing just outside the entry doors with us. At this point we all went back inside. Again I crawled in while sliding the same body part into the driver’s seat. I pulled the lever/handle connected to the two vertical and narrow window doors to close them. They squeaked like those you may remember hearing when being driven to school in yellow buses of those and still present days.

I always wondered at that sound of metal moving metal. It wasn’t until later years that the guess of rubber bushings surrounding those metal movements in order to cushion or save wear and tear of said parts may have been what caused that sound. After a while the wear and tear sound was the wear tearing both metal and rubber to pieces.

Big Pink was revved up slowly but with more confidence than ever before. With a little help from said driver she began backing up and headed out to the street once again. She felt like the big heavy thing she was. I’mm sure if I had this same experience before joining the military I’d have become one of their Sherman Tank drivers or at least a Bradley personnel carrier navigator. Her size was pretty daunting.

To Be Continued:

Big Pink - 1

2010-03-13T11:29:00.001-08:00

March 13, 2010

Yes, while wearing the glasses you see up top there, I’mm afraid I did at one point in mmy life own a big pink bus. Oddly enough after getting to know this monstrosity for a little over a minute, I named her Big Pink. In relation to the biggest cargo van you can imagine or just about any size car, forget about a motorcycle, let’s just say there is no comparison where sighs is BIG. Hence the title of this little story.

I don’t care what qualities of vehicles we’re discussing here, (or I amm) when it comes to anything, the Big Pink bus of whose keys were formerly in mmy possession is an experience one never forgets.

I can’t remember the exact year but can hone it down to somewhere between 1972 to 1975. I didn’t own it very long, for lots of reasons. One because the thing was so huge. Another was I really didn’t have a need for it after the original purpose accomplished Big Pink was required. Mainly, I was a member of a twenty five person choir and its band. I be the drumms, band man; not one of the in tone singers.

After several months of meetings or rehearsals as a choir member, specifically The Fairfax Street Choir, I had sussed out the group as a whole needed transportation for at least one particular gig, if not more. I can’t remember if in fact a car was already in mmy possession at the time. For some reason I’mm thinking that I had either sold it or didn’t have one to begin with. I had moved to a new location; again.

I realise being without a vehicle is obviously unfathomable for a few of you, on the other hand from what I remember doing at the time, I didn’t really need one; at least until the Big Pink situation hit mme in the gosh pedal. I began searching newspapers to buy something to transport mostly women, a few deeper voiced men and their babes in arms tribal associates to any or all gigs within safe driving distances.

“Oh, looky here; amm I lucky or not? There’s a big bus for sale!” I said to mmy roommate Dick. Luck nonsense; it was a calamity. The thing after all was painted pink. Dick was a four year roommate who at the time we were only together as friends and roommates I’d say about a few months. There’s more than a few stories about Dick and me within those four years but I’ll save those for other times.

In any case it was our shared amazing house on Southwood Avenue in northern California where the bus purchase occurred. Dick drove mme to a residence in Tam Valley where the bus in question was to be inspected. With much fanfare Dick and I examined the monstrosity for about as long as it took. Yes, of course I did manage to kick at least two of the tires. They really didn’t have that much rubber on them.

I’ll always remember the model year of the thing because 1962 won’t leave mmy brain waves. Big Pink was a 62 passenger bus. She worked like one would think a gently used bus of that period would work. Stepping inside the thing was quite normal. It had three tall steps to climb after which one can then crawl to a fall into the driver’s seat.

That happened quite a few times. Not fall really but just glided mmy ass into the old and almost worn out seat. The black pseudo leather covering wasn’t in terrible condition. One could tell after the dozen or so years of everyday wherever it was in service passed; the seat issue was just one of those things that went the way of ‘almost gently used.’

A pink bus. OK. Key’s pleas? I asked the owner. He handed them to mme. I attempted to start up the thing. It didn’t start after the first turn. This would have been a good clue to most people looking for a dependable vehicle. I’mm more patient or even stupid one might say. I gave it another go and it didn’t. Not even a little chug sound or a blip on the dashboard to indicate that it at least had power. Power??

“OOOOOOH, that’s right, I forgot that I unhooked the battery cables the last time someone came to look at ‘er,” said the owner. “What’d you do THAT for?” I asked. “Well, there was a little issue with one back light not going off; I kind of pulled the plug so to speak,” he spoke. “I guess we’re in need of some kind of electrical power in order to test the thing, core wrecked?” Was mmy next inspection question.

Re: connecting the battery cables we walked the length of the bus, the rear end to check the aforementioned light which was supposed to be on forever. There was no back lights problem we could see. I summoned the owner back to be a third sober witness; he was. He had a questioned frown on his face quickly disappearing with a shrug of his shoulders. That was it. We continued to search for right on’s.

We stepped back into the bus to try igniting again. I crawled and fell into the drivers seat once more, turned the keys that were still in the ignition and Voila! The dashboard lights went on; but the bus again, didn’t start. It gave a little urrrrrrrr sound but nothing else. I tried once more to hear another urrrrrrrr, but no starting this thing. It had a choke I pulled out half way; tried ignite again. The go was still gone.

I started mmyself with a humm; then another longer hmmmm while looking around at the three or four dash dials and noticing there was no gas. The gas gauge needle was well past a low point of the big red E. I pointed this out to Mr. Owner. His eyes and mouth opened and said, “That’s right, last person came here said the same thing but didn’t like the colour of the bus anyway so that was that; we didn’t go any further and I guess I hadn’t put any gas in it either.” Oh goody.

I said apparently not, then asked if we could in fact get at least two or more gallons. By the looks and size of this thing, it may take at least a gallon to start this thing. He laughed and offered to drive Dick and me to the nearest gas station with HIS empty, plastic gas ‘can.’ Off we went; the easy part really. Driving there and back took about a half hour more. At least we’d know the thing had a few gallons of gas to play with in case it took more than one or two tries to start the revs.

I didn’t account for the lost gas when Mr. Owner dribbled more than a quart down the side of the bus. His old gas can had no spout. He inventively used a paper cup after cutting a hole about the size of a nickel in the bottom. He crunched the cup/funnel. It partly fit inside the not too accepting gas tank opening. We now had gas. Hmmmm.

For the third time climbing up the stair steps I felt like a new member of one of those work out gyms when stepping is just part of the hour or so exercise. Reaching the top landing I again crawled to fall into the driver’s seat with the same said, ass. I asked the owner if he had any incense. “Incense?” He wondered why. I already had ignition keys.

I said, “Before turning the key I’d like everyone to say a short prayer because this is as far as I’ll go before getting the next clue that buying this pink monstrosity in deed wasn’t meant to be. If this thing doesn’t start now, then thank you very much kind sir, I’mm outta heah. OK?”

With both eyes closed I turned the key. The engine urrrrrrr’ed again, sput, sput, sputtered; but didn’t start. I was encouraged though when almost at the same time Mr. Owner, Dick and I said, the gas lines were beginning their gallon fill; more choke and gas. I pumped the gas pedal thrice, opened the choke all the way this time and turned the key softly reciting something less religious and voila!! IT STARTED!!

Big Pink sputtered, coughed and threw up and out a big puff of exhaust fumes with a bang. It woke up the now barking guard horse next door. I pumped the gas (while in neutral) again and watched the dash board dials for more clues. Everything seemed to be copacetic. I pumped the gas intermittently as Big Pink growled. The engine sounded strong. Now for a test run, I said to Mr. Owner. Shall we?

By the way, although it was the size of a sixty two passenger bus, all the seats were apparently taken out; except for the driver’s seat of course. The rest of Big Pink’s inside was empty but filled with air and;

Just behind the drivers seat was one of those tiny camping trailer kitchen sink/countertop/stove combinations, a little refrigerator and that was it. Placed in place quite shabbily at that; meaning they were loose to the touch and would rattle so much.

Also part of the interior decor was a dirty mid-blue raggedy shaggy rug covering the entire floor which I imagined at this point was the rest of the seating and furniture combination. It’ll do for a small tribe on a picnic with balloons, a birthday cake and paper lunch bags.

OK, I can live with that, I said to Mr. Owner. I’ve got the best seat at least.

To Be Continued:

Driving To Big Knob – 2

2010-03-12T10:43:00.000-08:00

March 12, 2010

Unlike many things that progression and population have changed, at that point when driving past our Aunt Liz’s house, it too looked the same as always; low slung single story with red and black shingles. A pine tree grove mixed with birch on one side; huge hill backyard; we used to race down its slick dead grass in flattened cardboard boxes.

The road back when was called Rural Route something or other; maybe FC road now perhaps. I’ve traveled that same road a few more times not too many years ago when relocating there for a short stay at cousin Johnny’s family fort. I moved again to an enormous work space/art community; a defunct brewery in a big city fifty miles away.

The road to our grandparent’s house was found off the main road that entered and quickly exited the tiny town in a blink. After exiting the highway we continued to travel on a road with less traffic. We then had to make a right turn somewhat in the middle of the small town.

Traveling up a long hill past the towns’ well manicured cemetery driving further still we experienced the up and down, down and up curving, dipping, twisting, two lane country roads. Sparsely placed homes with working and not vehicles hid in dense forests of green.

Roads seemed like carnival ribbon rides no big city would ever think of designing for residents other than in their horizontal and vertical patterns of convenience that were either numbered or alphabetically arranged for simplicity. Horses and buggies were an easier glide.

By this time the tiny tykes from the likes of a big city knew they were ‘in the country.’ We smelled familiar aromas of farm animals or freshly cut hay. The broad blue and clearer skies opened their arms letting our eyes roam free in widened spaces with no traces of towering towers of overpowering buildings or spewing smoke stacks.

Although our own home in those early years had trees and Mother Nature entangled with man’s old and new square puzzle developments of cement, red bricks and noisy traffic, this scenery was just the opposite; a much slower paced life. One could feel the release of a hurried city life melt into meandering rivers; a sail with no motor.

Two cars our parents owned, in different years were a tan 1952 Mercury, and a 1956 gray and white Chevrolet BelAir. Windows were opened all the way at this slower speed of summer to allow the stale imprisoned air of the highway to escape. The forests fragrance entered our nostrils as we breathed deep filling our lungs to inhale everything we could never smell in the exhaust of a city’s fumigations.

One hill turned into the next one, and the next one. We often recogised each pasture, each house, or dilapidated barn with a familiar everywhere tobacco signature painting. Houses with histories of generations past still looked the same, never seeming to get older.

The country air was refreshing, the views were too. We entered and revisited another world; a familiar world we were allowed to witness only one week a year. By now we were on the smallest, narrowest two lane road. Our car engine was the only sound that shook the quiet of standing forest trees surrounding us as familiar and returning friends.

We entered the beautiful church of nature and its inhabitants we’d never experience in the city where we came from; except I was the only child born here. For many years and countless times in between I longed to return to live in this place. The feel of country is still in mmy blood. I love being in cities but cityscapes never really felt like home. Cities are just short visits in between deep breaths of country’s earth.

Our ride continued through the thick cathedral of trees. Their top branches appeared to caress each other to form hundreds of concave canopies whose singular purpose was to cover and enfold us within their protection as we approached our grandparent’s farm. A wide diversity of birds sang separate mmelodies in harmonies of welcome.

Quiet sounds of summer breezes rustled thousands of leaves in forests I’ll always remember. I can still hear the crunch of our slower moving cars tires crushing brittle branches in the road as we passed each tree that let them fall. It was almost as if they were presented specifically for us like they were greeting newcomers celebrated with colourful feasts after landing on the shores of newer unchartered discoveries.

We witnessed more views of odd shaped rocks both large and small lined up sporadically from decades of the slow moving streams with life that paralleled the graveled road leading up to our grandparent’s driveway. The car and its passengers gradually slowed, almost to a stop to circumnavigate the sharp turn into the widened bottom entry.

The big rock graveled road was steep. We could hear the engine revolutions change with a slow movement of the gas pedal and the addition of more power. The gravel gave way with a sluggish crunch beneath the four wheels as the car slowly grabbed and clawed its way upward climbing closer and closer to the finish line at the top.

On both sides of the manmade pathway were raspberry bushes where a few days later mom would hold our hands to find them again while walking down the steep grade to pick one by one by one for grandma’s warm and served right out of the oven homemade pie.

Along certain parts of the twisting driveway grew elderberry bushes. Grandma would ask us to pick those for her too. She’d give all three of us little baskets to carry the small jewels of taste treats. With each handful squeezed in her little kitchen tool with no motor she would concoct more of her amazing tasting juice. A juice I’ve never found plentiful in any grocery store, tasted much of nor had any that good since. The juice; very thick with a heavy earthy flavor of that specific tasting fruit grown from pure dirt. The same dirt I’d eat tied to a tree.

Our eight hour trip was almost over. Reaching the top of the hill aptly called Big Knob, a new world opened our eyes to an old view. The two story farmhouse where eleven brothers and sisters were born and where two died too soon always felt welcoming and warmed with its advancing age. The car finally drifted to a slow stop. We were home.

The rough gray and black shingles that covered the whole house after too many years unchanged were tattered. More than enough were still in good condition with only a few missing or out of place. Grand pap and Grandma were always out in front greeting us with wide grin hellos. Different dogs were theirs; a German shepherd or big white haired Shep stood loyally with them in the same welcoming spots.

The big faded red barns to the right were also weathered and shabbily worn with age. Grand pap used to be the local butcher. He and his sons who helped in later years butchered most neighbors’ animals including his own. Pre-ordered cuts of meat, smoked not uncommon.

His and Grandma’s farming knowledge with the help of all hands born to assist fed everyone as best they could until the days of finding food at a local dump was not only necessary to satiate hunger pangs but a time of an age old survival during war and years of famine brought on by not enough rain to raise a pea or to keep the self built with local rocks spring house running and cool.

Living off the land was never easy for most families; then or even now. Grand pap was also a trained baker. He had his own flourishing bakery and store at one point; until it burned down. His breads and baked goods were legendary as locals of the area emptied his shelves.

The insides of his barns had stored and displayed much of that equipment and more. Old, dark blood stains were easily recognisable on the uneven floors of cracked over time cement. Hooks to hang the slaughtered animals were stationary; stilled behind the closed doors.

A family of squealing pigs was fed in one barn, a cow in another. Only one cow now called Betsie, when years ago their children used to mind and watch the herd while being bored to death; or so they said. Playing hooky from school was easy to hide from; chores knot as hard

Several carts that still carried corn and us on top for the ride were parked nearby. The old water pump on its ancient pedestal just outside the kitchen door was still being used. It stood as proud as a weathered sculpture; a salute to a long family tradition that memories will return to as it continues to rust year by year with age until….

At the end of our vacations, their house was usually the last to be seen. As we left they never stopped waving as we drove down the hill and out of sight. While leaving the same way we arrived, we waved frantically and cried with our goodbyes, “We’ll miss you Grandma and Grand pap!” Big Knob - The taste of Freedom was love.

Driving To Big Knob - 1

2010-03-11T10:24:00.000-08:00

March 11, 2010

Yes, that was always a thrilling period. Trips we three siblings looked forward to for weeks on end grew more and more exciting during the wait. We counted down days as they slipped by one bye one before THE day. Rising at dawn we were to finally pick up everything, pack up the car, jump in and leave. We were so ecstatic with anticipation the night before that losing sleep wasn’t an unusual occurrence. Personally, I tossed and turned with no sleep to relieve the anxiety.

It was always a seven day vacation because of the time off our parents had from their daily work duties. After a few years of memories past to have only seven days again for us kids didn’t really seem enough time to do the same things and more we wanted to do this next trip.

It seemed like a daunting task trying to visit each one of over a dozen aunt, uncles and cousins houses. Most years our favourite with a room to spare was at Aunt Liz’s home. This is where we roamed up and over the hill behind the house with cousins who were guides of their backwoods. It was our vacation central with countless memories like mmy first taste of bark from a side yard birch tree.

Most relatives female or male didn’t matter, married and bore children at an early age so that by a few years of parenthood which was around seventeen or eighteen years old their babies climbed out of every crevice or hung out of windows like the story of old mother Hubbard who lived in a shoe.

At times any one of us had hoped that the one week vacations were longer. Unfortunately, the short holiday never continued more than a single week when the whole family was involved. As a five year old I was left for a few months to stay with grandparents. When parents came to pick up junior, I didn’t want to return to ‘their life.’ Grand pap’s mmusic changed the boy in the photograph.

Vacations were usually five full days of fun. It took one day to travel and one day to drive back the four hundred and fifty or so miles distance; one way. The first day’s drive seemed like the last day was an eternity away. Sunrise was the writhe when we were to awake and get ready to leave for the long journey.

I can vividly remember the sights of mom while peeping into the kitchen through an opened by a crack bedroom door. Mom was making piles of sandwiches; stuffing them in plastic bags the night before. There was no time to do anything the next morning. She typically did this before going to bed. The refrigerator was crammed; ready for a quick packing in coolers the next morning.

The food varied from year to year. There was always something to munch on during the long trip. Already cooked chicken, roast beef, ham, cheese or tuna sandwiches on white bread were made at different trips to fill our hunger. Thermoses were capped with mixed juice to be carried with chips, and cookies.

Mom would be packing everything the whole family needed for the entire trip. She packed pants, squirts shirts, dresses, skirts, sneakers, shoes, socks ‘n frocks; all the clothes for every family member that fit in square spaces of a few luggage cases that would carry supplies for the next seven days.

If anything got dirty or soiled during the trip our relatives modern washing facilities those first years were the kind with big handles turned by elbow grease to squeeze the water out. Drying was by the sun on sunny days in the back yard.

We paused to eat at different points that changed from year to year. Usually at one of those family picnic tables that used to sit in the middle of nowhere on the side of the highway. Sometimes there was never a rest stop sign, or a before warning where they were placed. We found one, stopped and took a food break family style. Every food dish was spread out, whished on the table while other travelers in big semi-trucks, cars with luggage racks and motorcycles sped bye.

Other vacations at a slower pace we’d eat at a Howard Johnsons motel where the folks would buy a family lunch. We’d have a sit down at the restaurant chain that exists in very few places now days. Back then Ho Jo’s were at all the convenient locations. Lines of travelers would stop to eat or for a quick gas refill.

Along the way of typically family fun we’d test each others citified math abilities. We counted cows in every pasture they roamed; didn’t matter if it was left or coming right ahead of our destination’s direction. No cow was left behind. To be uncounted was to not exist at all. As long as they were close to the highway, they were subject to our adding, multiplying, subtracting or undivided attention.

Unless there were a very small number it would more frequently than not, be a guessing game. Following years when slightly older we would be questioned as to the name of the next tunnel out of the seven we would have to drive through and always encountered on the Pennsylvania Turnpike. Allegany - “Quit that! Gimme!” sounds of kids who got bored or teased some time to pass the time.

Although we played those guessing games and others like clockwork every single year, if anyone were to ask mme about those tunnels now I could probably name a few but certainly not all of them. Fuhgeddaboudit if you want them in correct order like after years of knowing beforehand was the challenges of knew.

Like many family vacationers traveling by car, we kept ourselves occupied with all kinds of games. Nap times we tried to catch up on lost sleep before arriving at the first relative’s house. When the grandparents were still alive, they were the one’s whose house or farm actually, is where we headed to or landed initially.

Driving to the grandparents as opposed to our Aunt Liz and Uncle Norms house where they and their gaggle of kids homesteaded, was a different but not much further away road. Its view was the first wave of a familiar hello that welcomed us ‘back home again;’ the familiar term one parent and I in later years knew.

Coming around ‘that bend’ again was the easily recognisable old barn that seemed like it would fall down the next day. All the years we traveled past, it never did. It was still greeting us those many years later. Whenever we reached that point, the steep wall like hill to the right appeared. It was a forever sight of a gray board’s barn leaning fatefully to one side. Now? I couldn’t say differently.

To Be Continued:

A Time We Slept Outside

2010-03-10T14:27:00.000-08:00

March 10, 2010

It was too long ago, but at this point I can’t remember if in fact this was actually the first time we slept outside. I’ll have to ask mmy siblings for confirmation on this being fact or knot. I also can’t recall if it was ‘just for men’ or if sis attended.

Although dear sis certainly was a part of our everyday trio with almost anything the bro’s did as tiny tots, including having a General’s turn in many of our baby army plots in the back yard, this sleepover and out may have not been one of those times. MMy mminds eye is blurred at this point by the years of clears gone.

I can tell you that our tiny trio went so far as a first singing group of ‘The Three Singing Bears,’ by the age of infancy. We entertained family gatherings with our one cute song repeated any number of times by request or not. The trio performed with sometimes little or a lot of embarrassment depending on when asked or forced to due sow. “Come on kids sing The Three Bears song for us.”

One never knows those too hot inside summers when mom gave us permission to sleep out in our own back yard or not. For some reason I really doubt this first until the time of confirmation; let’s say this particular time was not the very first.

I also can’t remember his last name but the location was Wayne’s backyard. Wayne’s families house was a half block from ours. It was on the corner of our main street and another smaller street that ran perpendicular to it. On the opposite corner was a one story, narrow, long building; a neighborhood bar.

The bar was owned and named after the original owners who had sold it a few years after mmy cognizance abilities came into focus to remember such things. The new family who lived upstairs from us purchased it but left the original name intact. It’s possible that painting one name out and repainting the new one in made a difference. The new owner’s name might have something to do with it.

Owning a bar and calling it Stone’s may not have been a good introduction to what was actually going on inside. That was tests of stacks and stacks of stocked inebriation receptacles bandied about. That’s neither here nor there. Repainting never happened for whatever reasons; hence the name always stayed the same.

What did matter about that bar though was when we slept outside and across the street from it. Needless to say, a bar is a bar; which means to say that any number of interesting individuals will be not only passing through and into its well stocked environs but also and most probably during the long happy hours of the many unscrewing or uncorking parties, they’d also be passing out or pissing on something outside of it. This old bar was a similar institution of drank.

Beer on tap was well tapped out, only to be re: tapped or replenished I’d imagine by the hour. This activity went the same and opposite ways during the uncorking and recorking of any size, shape, colour or liquid ingredients available for the singular purpose of individual indulgences. Whoever had the core wrecked change in order to go as far as a wont to reach their own nirvana, did.

Of course, the percentage of alcoholic contents varied in any and all cases of empty bottles, cans or jugs. This information became very evident if one may suggest, before imbibing, a reading of any particular label. After imbibing is not recommended to reading anything let alone the small print on any bottles label; especially in the lowest lights usually made available in these kinds of joyful liquid enterprises. One would need to bring a few candles. Don’t forget matches.

This doesn’t include larger silver metal barrels of convenience left in most basements that were attached by long tubes consistent patrons would have rather been attached to intravenously. Unfortunately for them, no bar persons took those tests, or had any medicinal qualifications; or more specifically was the equipment for such operations made readily available without prescriptions.

At any rate, mom finally gave us permission for the little camping trip that had nothing to do with camping. As you can imagine, back in those days the times were much simpler. Humanity wasn’t even close to being attuned to Amber Alerts as they are in these times; unfortunately so for today’s tethered tiny tykes.

Without a doubt those kinds of things probably did occur but one may venture to guess that they didn’t in the quantity we may hear about in these many years later. Times change. If indeed that WAS the case, then I’mm sure this story wouldn’t be written nor have occurred in the first place. Regrettable for later generations some may say but perhaps it’s also a big price we pay; for progress?

I can still see Wayne’s face but having not seen his mom probably more than once I can’t remember hers, nor his dad’s for that matter. They had to be aware of our little jaunt in their jungle but we saw neither hide nor hair of them during that whole experience. Unless hidden somewhere, apparently none were scene.

Although we did see plenty of adults as they ventured to and out of the bar. Not many specimens of humanity walked past us in both directions on Wayne’s side of the street. A few did take quick looks but none bothered to bother us. For that we didn’t care either way. We just hoped our parents wouldn’t come checking.

We had our own thoughts of adventure while not really trying to fall asleep anyway. I can remember us playing tag in almost dark. The bars’ neon red lights as well as the intermittent dull street lights were lighter than we cared for as far as needing dark was concerned. We were told, ‘not to go gallivanting around,’ during this exciting escapade. Wayne’s back yard was our play pen so to speak.

Wayne’s enclosure had a long line of short hedges or bushes that ran along the street side facing the bar; not very well kept but still were a good enough barrier separating the wide slate gray and uneven sidewalks from the rough divot lawn.

There also was a huge, many branch, red rose bush growing up against a wall of his house that looked like a famished octopus lying on the ground with its many bare tentacles’ reaching skyward. No one seemed to be taking care or watering it.

I tried hiding behind and underneath that once until its sticky thorns and see through twiggy twigs told mme that wasn’t a good idea. Ouch! Seconds later, I scurried and tried for another, quicker cover behind a few metal garbage cans.

As Wayne’s count was reaching the end, I ran over to the trashed cans way too fast. In the semi-dark I tripped on one of those lawn divots and dove headfirst against the metal garbage cans. They noisily rattled a metal alarm for the ‘seeker’ to easily find this non-hiding hider. Naturally, while rubbing frantically the little knot on mmy head I was next to be, ‘IT’. One; One, two, three; threeee, fourrrrr…

I can’t recall spending any time sleeping during that in tired night. Although I can still see the exact landscape of Wayne’s back yard; as well as many parts of our immediate growing up surroundings. Our beds that night were the many coloured blankets, white sheets and pillows with green grass stained covers that used to be white. Lucky for us we were given bedding that could get that way without having to face a fate worse than death for treating them otherwise.

Wee little tykes spent most of the time playing, making up games, talking as fast as many wee little tykes do while running around the small yard in an excited freedom of the night that didn’t happen often enough for our carefree lifestyles.

Still, when recalling that one specific and unforgettable experience, I guess it must have been a time that at that time like many times, we’d never imagine we’d remember in future. Since then, the dawns and sunsets seemed to have ascended and descended faster than the speediest roller coaster in life’s too short dream ride. I’mm glad to have been given a ticket and to have scene most of it.

A Milk Paint Painting

2010-03-09T11:27:00.001-08:00

March 09, 2010
The first time I resided in the area of The Big House stadium, I was living in one place while painting at another. Nancy a very nice person with hermit tendencies had a big two car garage that was falling apart and of course needed repair.

The roof at the end and a big space towards the middle were going to fall in unless someone either stood there to hold it up or it was repaired ASAP. After doing little assessments aye, the ASAP guy sleeves rolled up, end under to work.

Supporting what little needed supporting he quickly destroyed whatever needed destroying and began the rebuilding and recovering process. This saved everything that needed to be saved including her nice little but barely ran car.

Divulging all this is for no other reason than the preliminary that one thinks has to be told about a part of some people that does not exist in many others. Well let mme change that. It does exist in most people but some may have a lot more than others. It’s specifically the quality of, or a potential for an amazing kindness.

Nancy had an amazing kindness about her. When almost completing the big fix I was in need of a painting space. By painting we’re referring to art here. At that time I requested of the Nancy in question, if one could rent her mostly unused garage space and turn it into an artist’s working/ painting studio. Or to share it.

She thought about it for a while and then said… no. Before I could respond or think anything about her immediate answer she continued. She said that she wasn’t thinking of renting her garage to anyone but she thought it would be great if I did in fact use it for a painting studio. She then calmly said that she didn’t want to charge mme and in deed or in fact I should have it for free.

“Free? Why is that?” I asked. She said because she thought it would be nice to let mme be in it and to paint to mmy hearts content. She said she liked the work that she had seen mme do otherwise and she thought it would be good for mme to continue on a larger scale. Ah yes, there was a big room to paint when in the place I was living had no room at all. I was in heaven and very thankful. Still am.

Shortly after that conversation; like days later, the not so little changes began in order to set up another working studio. MMined you, this wasn’t the first. It was the next. It was soon renamed, ‘The Guhraj.’ Although sounding the same as the ‘English’ spelling, looking at it now you see what was meant by - renamed.

The Guhraj was a great gift from a kind person and one whom I still have kind feelings for as swell. Nancy is definitely a one of a kind human being. She’s been a grammar school teacher for a long time and lives not too far from her work. While painting in The Guhraj I had more than one can count opportunities to repair parts of her abode; and did whatever she would ask shortly after she did.

One was a kitchen faucet that hadn’t worked in over a year. She washed her dishes in a tiny, tiny corner sink in a small bathroom just off to one side of her kitchen. When noticing this, that situation was remedied quickly enough. It shows you how simple and unencumbered Nancy could make her existence.

Getting back on the track here; the first painting created in The Guhraj, ‘Harmony,’ was completed in a few months. This was after moving in whatever had to be moved in, in order to begin the painting process; including building shelves for paints, cabinets for all sorts of storage things, and of course a few big tables with wheels that could move from hither and fro depending on the sighs.

I’ll never forget the very next painting that was painted. Like the first painting and most others that followed at that time, it was a digital design originally created on mmy computer. It measured about four feet wide by seven foot tall; titled ‘Face – The MMusic.’ The painting’s image is at the bottom of this blog. Needless to say, it too took many enjoyable and long hours to accomplish, fun.

Before it was completed and more when it was, Nancy sat in front of it for long periods of time. I don’t remember asking her why at that point but more times than one could count, she’d be sitting staring at it. Without a doubt Nancy was back then and still is when thinking of her, a positive influence in mmy work.

When it was warm she’d come out to The Guhraj to watch for very short periods of time, or to say kind words. She’d not stay long because of her wont not to interfere; although expressing many welcomes to her whenever she did venture out. She’d say she just wanted to bring mme a cold drink or a sandwich. When it got cold she’d bring mme hot herbal tea and more sandwiches, or even hot soup.

The woman was kind, endearing and very nurturing to say the least. I’ll always be grateful to her for all the kind things she did to help mme feel comfortable. She encouraged the work and eventually when it did get too cold to be in The Guhraj, she invited mme to convert one of her downstairs rooms into a smaller studio. It was something with heat so again I accepted her warmer hospitality.

The little bedroom had nice dark refinished wood floors and molding. The walls were recently painted plaster. In order to work in that room one had to cover everything with plastic and a huge blue tarp. The only things in the room were a small round table, many kinds of paint, clip hanging lights and artist’s brushes.

For a few months Nancy suggested trying to incorporate Milk Paint. I had never heard of nor used it. Researching on the net followed. It’s really expensive because of what it is and how it’s made. It’s used for all kinds of things including antiques, old, wood things and such. After quick drying, it has a very hard finish.

Fortunately for mme she had a small bottle of black. Still in powder form. She gave it to mme to use at will, and I did. The only design painted with it was ‘Time Out.’ The round table in the room inspired the painting you see at the top of this blog, the exception being a round base.

The same design was completed several times, but as squares. Two were four feet square. One painted on ¾” plywood and the other painted on a 1/8” plastic sign material. The latter painted years later was a reverse of white on white. The former donated to a Food Bank in northern California, the latter was part of a larger gift to a mmusic school in Chicago. (The People’s Music School)

This rendition was to be a round one. Its base was made from a two foot diameter sink cut out of pressed plywood with Formica covering but painted on the reverse side. When it was completed it was hung outside of The Guhraj.

Milk Paint is water soluble but I wanted to see what would happen if left out in at least one day of rain. It wasn’t too long before finding out. It was the coolest thing! The base was painted with an oil base white paint so nothing happened to that. The black Milk Paint on the other hand, no matter where the black was painted curled, curled and curled some more. The effect was quite remarkable.

All the edges as well as some of the insides of the black curled and peeled upwards. It looked so great that I brought it in to dry and to work on it a bit more. After it dried, applied were three really thick coats of a thin translucent sealer. The purpose was to help it stay that way for as long as no one touched it, felt it or rubbed themselves or anything against it. It was pretty hard but delicate.

For a few months afterward, it was kept hanging in The Guhraj the whole time. Whoever came to visit no matter whom or when it was always commented on its amazing texture and design. Two of those people, good friends at the time were getting married. Yes, you guessed it. It ended up being their wedding present.

They could thank Nancy for that really. By the way, before leaving the big M, while packing everything for another move, this time across country to Oregon; I stood among all the completed paintings still hanging and sitting about all the walls and floor space. Everywhere I looked part of mme was looking back.

I guess there were thirty or more paintings painted on all sorts of recycled and new backing materials. Most were pretty large in size. Quite a few measured four by eight feet. All of these were completed thanks to the generosity of mainly one individual and quite a special person. Without hesitation I didn’t pack one painting; ‘Face – The MMusic.’ The gift is hanging in a certain house to this day.

Thanks again for everything, Nancy.

March 09, 2010

Vista By The See

2010-03-08T12:45:00.000-08:00

March 08, 2010

It was still summer but the whiff of the unstoppable march of daily mornings air released Mother Nature’s secret that fall was drawing closer. ‘R’ and I were on one of our loosely planned weekend adventures. This one was another of her ideas really and one I had looked forward to by returning to a favourite area.

I had spent almost twenty years living not too far from the place she wanted to visit; the sea shores of Point Reyes, California and its -on the road to- environs like Nicasio, Olema, Inverness, Tomales Bay, Drakes Bay, and much more. Great ride.

In the mid 70’s I had set off on the long ride with one passenger. It was a gorgeous full moon. I had driven the whole way; from Ross to Point Reyes Station with no head lights or traffic. The moon was pretty bright. It was like driving in a negative photo; eerie it was but still beautiful; and no I was straight as an arrow that night.

R and I’s first night was going to be in a small hotel not far from the famous Cliff House located on Ocean Parkway and one of San Francisco’s long waterfront beaches. At the time we both lived further north; she in a cool part of Sacramento; I in the ever changing hills of California’s gold and another wine country counties.

We lived about an hour apart from each other. Sometimes for wont of face to face connections, it seemed more like an eternity. Ever since our first meeting and the year long friendship, to this day we’ve always marveled at how many amazing places we managed to visit and fit into a very short amount of time. We had fun.

Although travel always breaks up this life we still seem to hook up and catch up from time to time on either the net or by phone. Like other poet friends in different parts of the world, ‘R’ too is quite the wordsmith. R on the other hand is more than a leading poet in the town she resides. A beautiful and gifted woman, I’ve always admired her creative genius with words as well as her green thumbs.

Without a doubt, she has inspired this guy to not only improve by working harder on the craft, but she has encouraged the explosion of more words in bags then fan letters sitting in the general deliveries of any and all post offices addressed to Elvis P. or Santa C. Like the latter mentioned, her presence always felt like Christmas.

Besides sharing this poem, no one has to look further for proof of this fact then the blog entries, Her Toy Coat, Birds of a Feather, Angels of the Nite, Mokes Hill, The Cure, and more. Those words as well as about a dozen other personal poems have been part of the many shared experiences in R ‘n I’s memory. I’mm a lucky mman to have accompanied her to many unforgettable places as gorgeous as the:

Vista By The See

The bending, descending
Gradually measured grade
Unlocked our view
As we left the dense
Green puzzles behind us;
Releasing our vision to
An expansive panorama before us.
The rough surface of jeweled asphalt
Transformed silently into
A seemingly untouched image,
Stretching out to shades of
Sapphire ponds and smooth water lagoons
Framed by rolling golden hills
In the distant, faded landscape.
Hand in hand we glided on
Drifts of tan and ginger sand.
The malleable surface and
Softly crunching sound
Greeted our bare feet,
Separating our toes with acceptance.
As we gazed down the stretch to the left
We witnessed an encampment of years past.
Assembled by an almost forgotten humanity
Its weathered and worn log slices
Shaped in pyramids by an ancient culture
Had curly knots dried like bones of
A dejected society revealing scant
Stories of how they survived and
Thrived the wilds, embracing
Mother Nature’s elements of time.
Looking behind, left and to the right
Besides light rhythmic tones of diminutive waves,
Desertion and desolation imposed its silence.
A more modern and rustic
Reminder of human’s later existence
Under a thick green canopy of
An ancient tree that stood for support,
A large outhouse with
The greet of a crescent moon
Erected for modern convenience
Was within walking distance
For anyone who would find a path to
The welcoming door of relief.
More hours drifted bye when R ‘n I
Noticed the ‘Indian Trail’ sign.
We trudged up the long, narrow
Steeply at times rise and fall
Twists that and this way, all the time
Being made aware of unexpected roots
Making their own path that grew up
And across our cautious footsteps.
After the jungle of dense woods
And drying vegetation, elation
Found our eyes wandering from
Side two sighed as a the forever walk
Revealed another part of the secret beach
That it seemed no one had discovered
In millennia before our arrival.
We marveled at being alone once more
As did happen many times on shores
Of our always together scenes of serene.
The multiple shades of everything gorge us.
R so wanted to run for fun
That she jogged the length to a bend; an
Out of sight race with her self, ending
As she was returning into view,
Her smile of freedom’s reach was
Shared at the finish line when
Two kissed with the bliss of
This vista by the see.

(Luv to you, R)

The Sauce

2010-03-07T07:56:00.001-08:00

March 07, 2010

Of course I’ll always remember, ‘The Sauce’ recipe. Like I’ve told doctors who wanted to take small samples of mmy veins contents for one reason or another. What will pour out rather then the usual and ordinary blood of a human would be naturally mom’s special recipe red sauce. It’s part of our capillary heritage.

It was mom’s handed down recipe from her mom’s mom to her mom and much further back then that I’d imagine. Something like an ancient sourdough mixture still usable and found in small clay pots by archeologists in whatever place that was found. I remember they discovered it in a hole in a Yew tree dragged up Mount Kilimanjaro during the first battle between Zeus and Alberto Einsteinini.

Like many Italian mother’s I’mm sure, everyone’s mom has shared the best sauce recipe this side of their close or distant relatives original country. On any map you’ll notice the shape of a big boot? That’s it. The tradition is still the Saturday’s smell wafting well into the next days amorous sniffs of red heaven Sunday’s.

Unless of course as a young family we visited our grandparents house (mom’s parents) where basically the same smells lingered in our nostrils throughout the day. This was when any number of aunts, uncles and cousins visited as one big family. The men sat in smoke clouds and watched TV sports in the living room. All the women talked in the kitchen while Nana cooked. Wee kids had our small card table or two where the adults sat us out of the way to ‘play nice,’ they said.

It was usually a Saturday afternoon when mom would begin the hours and hour’s preparation for The Sauce. It was meant to be devoured as a family the following day. Most of us couldn’t wait that long. When she started cooking the breaded meatballs, the smell all day long including that whole night was just devastating our taste buds anticipatory glands for the next days red satisfaction.

Mom usually kept her eyes open for any bodies that even tried to get close with their little intruding fingers or hands. No matter, any one of us would still try to sneak a spoonful or two well before the actual time of perfection. I can remember a few plots of diversion that were very necessary to accomplish a taste mission.

Grown ups had an easier time of doing this as I recall. Our Uncle Lenny who lived upstairs at one point used to come down in a hurry while over the years using any number of sly excuses as a reason why; usually to stick his mitts in the big pot of red for a before it was finished taste. His tricks accomplished his treats.

Sometimes he’d deliberately stand in front of the stove making idle conversation with mom. In an incidental kind of manner he’d ask her if she would toss him, “just a little piece of bread,” or a spoon so he could taste her weekly treasure mixture of red. She usually wouldn’t resist HIS request. Most times he’d sneak tastes while she was busy doing other things. Across the small kitchen room we would sit in disgust of him being the first taster. We sat in pure red face jealousy.

I know for a fact he was the main cook in his household. He also had the same mom’s recipe. For some reason he said his sister and our mom’s tasted different; even better than his own. He couldn’t figure out why but decided the more tastes he had sooner or later he’d discover the missing ingredient; that never happened.

After watching him demolishing the stuff I think every time he said that, it was just a ruse to have another taste; better or not. When you grow up with the red stuff it’s hard to say if you’ve ever had enough. I’ve still not reached that point.

Like I’ve said, for some of us it’s in the blood. I’ve always thought that at some point like a reverse osmosis it must leak out unnoticed, little by little so that at any given point, there’s the medicinal urge to replace it, or have more, otherwise odd things would happen. Like maybe one would get cravings for Brussels’ Sprouts, Swiss Shards, Viennese Saws Edges, Hungarian Ghoul Losh, Mexican Jumping Beans, Spanish Flies or maybe even French Fried Potatoes inbred.

Needless to say, I’ve observed mom on countless occasions whenever The Sauce was in the making. With her it was and wasn’t always the same ritual. Sometimes depending on the budget or really the whole meal to be served, she’d add different kinds of meat in the beginning or at the end of the cooking process; meatballs, chicken, chop meat, Italian sausages, pork chops or bracioles.

Later on in life besides asking her for the amounts or measurements of the various ingredients, she mostly always had the same answer no matter what she was making. Like cooks of old she’d say, “Oh you know, a pinch of this or a pinch of that.” I’d have to watch anyway to see how she pinched things. In case you non-cooks don’t realise, it matters greatly which fingers are being pinched.

This was true of most of her cooking habits. Unless when searching for a new taste or trying to cook or bake something that was unfamiliar, she herself followed a recipe. If I asked any questions at that point, then she’d just shove whatever cookbook or an index card with her own hand written recipe scribed just for the occasion in mmy face and ask mme to read it to her. And that I did.

I was always interested in mom’s cooking and being around her when she did. The very first job I had when at the tender age of sixteen was in a restaurant; maybe for that reason. Although I wasn’t a cook then, but amm now, being around the preparation of food was always a joy. Mom made it fun; especially when it came to the varieties of food she could make with similar ingredients.

You’d like the ingredients of mom’s Red Sauce? I must tell you it in no way is remotely close to Mr. Newman’s Own bottled crap or any bottled, canned or packaged anything. Like the ad that once touted, “It’s in there!” It really is NOT.

It’s also a well kept family secret. Perhaps the others in our family may divulge it if they care to under penalty of the laws of divulgifcation which are serious grounds for family ostrich sigh’s meant. Tell or to write it down; a serious crime.

As for mme? Just call or email mme and I’ll come on over and make it for you. I remember how mom taught it to mme and I’ll do the same for you so that without writing it down, you’ll never forget it. Besides that it’ll mean a free meal in a place I may want to visit anyway. Hopefully you’re far away and in a warm enough or not too climate that long johns or mosquito netting is never an issue.

There is one last statute to follow. Depending on where you are of course. It’ll cost you Purr Diem and gas; from a gas station, airfare or/and ships passage. The latter with a pool and access to 24 hour pizzas; nothing at all like coach or close to engine room accommodations. Strictly first class paid in advance please.

Oh yes, I promised mom I wouldn’t forget to tell you this. There is one fair warning that should never be unheeded nor disregarded because without a doubt it goes with the territory. That is unfortunately, I or any relative no matter the location, spouse, children or pets, including frogs, won’t be held responsible for the change in your future red blood count. It’s that potent. Bon Appétit!

Execute Love

2010-03-06T08:55:00.001-08:00

March 06, 2010

Just about every day, I try to read a little of what’s going on in the world; not only local, state or national news but especially international news made available to us on the World Wide Web. Don’t you just love it? The world is much smaller thanks to the existence of the net, wireless; the advent of computers really; next in the future?

MMy Favourites, or Book Marks - drop down menus are chock full of stuff I’d like to visit over and over again; most of which we don’t, but it’s great to have those things available just in case. Over time they’ll get deleted one by one and like an old tool that sits in the garage waiting to be used, those book marks are there for the same reason of being quicker to access, aren’t they? Life’s never end of re: searching.

Well, that’s the idea anyway. At this point, four years down the road mmy personal computers memory is just about full; including a few new flash drives, older CD’s on down to scores of colour coded floppy’s plopped in boxes from the passed. Sometimes we’re so organised it takes more memory to find that special one thing over the paths leading through the categorical jungles one to the next and next.

Regardless, it was a year or so ago, maybe a little longer - back there in synapse land, when searching through many of those news article mazes that the following words came to mind. Most of them were inspired by either the headlines, the content of the articles or just synopses of what the whole article, or group of articles were about.

I can remember that day as seeming to be one of the most appalling when it came to reading the world’s news. The ending words were actually the first time this kind of an exercise took place. Since then more have followed like word steps walking up and down mountains of good and mostly evil supplied by little elves or news people.

There doesn’t seem to be a shortage of the negative news in this world. On the other hand it takes a little longer for some reason when we’re in search of more positive news, especially when the Whole of earth is concerned. Negativity sells news papers, more and more of which are nothing more than sensationalism selling lives/reality?

When reading news or views it‘s difficult to find the positives. They’re hidden or it seems like if they’re written at all, they’re usually in a font size that one would need a microscope to find it. Even reading between the lines doesn’t help that much.

Now a day because so much of what do, we call it; information – right; is made available, it always amazes mme how one can write any number of short stories, or maybe even whole books just from reading the headlines and - bye lines. In this case that particular dazed news, all of which was negative brought thoughts of how humanity in general seemed to be in a sad state of re: peer. The more things change?

From the beginning to the end of composing this poem, I took in all the negatives of that day one could find. It was the last two thoughts that chilled the most. It’s when we take into account all of these things and try to justify any one of them for one reason or another; depending on why the crime was committed in the first place.

Like witnessing a person facing the ultimate penalty for the ultimate crime they’re accused of. If at all possible whomever person no matter the age or circumstances of the person who did commit that crime, someone would or more importantly COULD think it occurred with good reason. The ends justify the means perhaps?

I’mm not sure if it was last year or the year before when a driver of one of those big milk-tank trucks crashed into an Amish school locking up all the children and the teacher; then one by one eliminating all that didn’t escape, including himself. I think that in itself is the worst crime. Children, innocent bystanders in that person’s life.

No matter the consideration of ANY excuse for any crime; I wonder if we all can understand these things when it comes time to:

Execute Love

Beat the homeless
Maim the child
Kill the in know sense
Meek; end mild
Raise the price is
Tomb the cars
Annihilate - Sacrilege
Pass out S.A.R.S
Blow up smiles
Damage treasure
Chop to death
Just ‘fore pleasure
Tear down centuries
Antiquities glance
Deforestation
Never scene plants
Greed is goaled
‘Ain’t my job’ pool
Soul’s hour sold-bye
‘In the clear’ tool
Spoil the land
Tock sick’s bred
Malicious roomers
Raze the dead
Reek, the havoc
Pander moany ‘em rains
Starve - who cares?
Need ills - pain
An our key heaven
Ammo seek your
Smash the gentle
Dearth the poor
Famine the mind
Water the rich
Slaughter children
Use sum of a bitch
Murder the truth
Slay fellow man
Execute Love
Just cause?

You can.

The First Time I Was Afraid

2010-03-05T13:53:00.001-08:00

March 05, 2010

I guess it was grammar school. No, I don’t guess, it WAS grammar school. I was living with the family on the first floor of a two story house mmy folks were in the process of buying. The house was located on a semi-busy street in one of New York City’s boroughs. The one closest to another state to the left on maps. To the right is ocean so I’mm guessing’ you’re guessing pretty close. Are you?

A city bus stop began only about ten feet to the right of what long ago was a tiny driveway that separated our house from the one next door. The small space divider had been cemented over by who knows how many owners before. The driveway was actually what we called an alley; no car fit through its width.

The bus stop continued to the corner and to the end of our block. Those four corners were where our street ran perpendicular to the other and much busier street. Our house was across the street from an asphalt playground that had a ten foot cyclone fence surrounding it on all sides of its rectangle. The entryway to the playground was on the street that ran perpendicular to ours and up about half a block; that was about 70; 80 feet or so. (25 meters)

It’s two swinging out and in gates were locked every night. That didn’t stop us when we were old enough to climb which didn’t happen very often in those days either; by us or anyone else for that matter. Respect for property that belonged to others was rampant. Not to mention the fact that the playground wasn’t lit at all during closing time like one would see years later. All day for us was enough.

Across from the gates was a huge and very noisy city bus garage. More times than I can remember, the sounds of bus horns as well as the loud beeps and voices proclaiming unclear things came drifting like intruders into mmy bedroom windows, no matter the time of day or night. Winters not as much because their doors and our windows were closed to conserve a little heat.

MMy brother and I shared the small room with a closet. We had bunk beds that at times were placed one on top of the other and some times not. I don’t remember why the changes happened more than once but I guess it had to do with a spatial question. There was very little when the bunks were un-bunked.

There were two windows in the room. They were tall in those days; single paned, double hung things. Some summers they had screens on them that covered the entire height of each window. Other times the folks would put in these little slider things that were about eight inches tall and reaching from one end of the window to the other. The weight of the window sitting on top of these things weren’t very bug proof. This is how the mosquitoes still got in. It wasn’t a mystery. I’d imagine any number of other openings weren’t closed all the time.

One window was situated right next to the double door closet. It and the closet basically took up the whole wall of that side. That side faced the street in all its glory with rackets galore heard in most crowded cities or while living across the street from a school or industry. In this case as I’ve said, it was a playground.

The other window faced the house next door. Old Mr. Huber’s house. If we opened that window we could touch his shingles and pick ants from the crevices. The never ending army used the separate tracks for either lines of communication or like an African Safari; the armies of ascending, descending, horizontally and vertically hungry marauders of shade would bring food from one place to wherever their Queen was in waiting.

They then were to return to her camp and once again go out for more and more. Ants seem to be a revolving door of moving every which way specifically for food gathering or banding together to combat other ants.

If you’ve ever witnessed an ant colony for any amount of time, then you know they never stop except for taking little breaks after a dose of Raid or a few hammer type encounters. These would only be short breaks of course because the Queen was still waiting. Even when you see just one ant they have the same purpose; to scurry to and fro until death or unfortunately for them an ant eater.

I can distinctly remember stored in the deepest fissures of this brain powered by not much anymore, trucks with chain drives as well as more modern machinery in later years as well as busses, cars, and walking traffic of every size, age and shape passed by our front window.

During most days including some nights the street was alive with everything you can imagine and some you probably can’t. It was more diversified than a box of crayons; and writely so. Humanity was close at hand at all times.

Not too far of a walking distance from the house as little tykes we rode our bikes to as far as we dared in any direction. We never got lost of course but we did manage to explore many places. One of them during summer months mostly was a stadium located a little less than a mile from our house.

Weissglass Stadium and its surrounds as I’ve mentioned in another blog story before this one, was a place we visited on many of those exploring occasions. During the summers there were all sorts of buy a ticket to this, that or those outdoors happenings. Wresting and boxing matches, high school football and baseball games, tiny traveling circuses, midget car races on the almost circular asphalt track, demolition derby’s and more was the stadiums entertainment.

Our all time sneak in times were the every Saturday night in summer Stock Car races. I can’t say I ever watch those things now because as an adult I just distanced mmyself from that kind of a thing. Back then watching the crashes and hearing those engines whine with all the power and crowd noise emanating all that energy was just irresistible to us young boys and girls.

I can remember our opened windows of summer. Many times the sounds of those racing cars came loud and clear through the window screens. We could also hear the intermittent roars of the crowds as maybe a winner was announced or some car actually crossed the finish line. Sometimes I smelled the exhaust and saw slight clouds of dust which was amazing considering the distance.

Now I could care less about racing engines of any kind except maybe if two hearses were racing to see who would find mme first. NASCAR? Indianapolis 500? The Winston 4 million or whatever it is and such? Sorry. I appreciate what they do of course and glad others find happiness in their running circles around each other but for some reason I lost interest in who wins, loses or ties the knot.

One thing I DO remember about those racing car days was a summer Saturday night even before being old enough to know there was a racing stadium that was located not far from our home.

I was frightened to death of death because of it.

I was fast asleep. It was very dark and quiet in mmy dream world. The only light on in the house was usually one little night light that the folks kept on in the kitchen in case of anyone’s need to reach for the bathroom door knob.

The only lights outside were the dim yellows of streetlights placed few and far between; like Gene Kelly’s every so often Singing in the Rain spotlights. Back then there was no need for the ultra bright’s of the supposed criminal deterrents one may notice presently. Gone but not forgotten is the warm of yellow lighting.

I must have been five or six at the time but I can still hear what I didn’t really see at the time. When it began it woke mme up. When it continued I ducked under the covers for fear it would come into the house. It began with a loud boom that startled mme awake. Then another boom happened. By this time I was still groggy but wondered what I had just heard. It sounded like two cannon shots.

A dead uneasy silence followed for too long. I was lying down looking around the dark room but nothing was stirring. All of a sudden I heard what I know now as the creaking of a car door that didn’t work very well. The hinges must have been tangled or something. I heard the sound of metal scraping creaking metal.

I heard a woman scream one of those long curdling ones that make you wonder what she was looking at. A man’s voice followed; then another door opened and a different mans voice yelled at the first man. The woman screamed again and I heard bumps on what sounded like things being thrown on to a car.

The woman screamed something like don’t hit mmy man anymore, can’t you see he’s had enough? Then the woman screamed again and more bumps were heard. I guess it was a full fledged fist fight happening in the street and just outside the window right in front of our house.

The woman kept on screaming and the men kept fighting. The reason I suppose was an apparent accident between their two cars. By this time mmy folks had awaken and turned a small light on in the kitchen. The glow came into our room.

Then I saw one of them walk towards the front of the house while passing our bedroom door saying something that made mme think whoever it was, was pretty perturbed at being awoken.

The fighting was still going on including the screaming and yelling for someone to stop someone from hitting her man. I got under the covers and didn’t dare look out the window. MMy eyes were wide open at this point and hoping that whoever that man was hitting the other one would stop; or maybe both were flailing at each other at that point. I couldn’t tell. It just kept on continuing.

Within minutes I heard a siren stop in front of the house. There were more voices in the mix most of which I couldn’t distinguish what was being said. The woman had continued screaming at this point; but this time to I guess it was at the policemen. Their voices sounded reassuring to her as she calmed down.

I was glad of that. I heard another siren approach and then another and another.
A gaggle of human voices were discussing all manner of things unfamiliar at the time. I overheard a different sounding one coming from what I know to this day as a radio dispatchers voice escaping from an opened door of several police cars.

After what seemed like an eternity of discussions, I heard the sound of several tow trucks, towing lines whines. It wasn’t long before their engines roared away with the sound of a further and further distance. The dark became serene again.
Still under covers in the protection of the deep and dark quiet of the room, I heard the comforting voice of a mother’s love. Softly she whispered that if we were awake, not to worry, things were sorted out; everything’s OK; go back to sleep… and that I did.

Monkee Business

2010-03-04T12:45:00.001-08:00

March 04, 2010

Dave Mackay was a bass player friend of mmine. He had the same exact name but with a different spelling of another bass player friend mentioned in a previous story that was posted on this blog just a few days ago. The first Dave I met when I was fifteen years old when we both lived in New York City. Dave, meet the other Dave.

This other Dave and I lived in California. In the early 1970’s we used to play together in several different mmusical groups. One group I was a member of was a gospel street choir consisting of 25 members. Dave filled in from time to time.

The Fairfax Street Choir had a small gaggle of five men singers, most with lower voices for the purpose of accompanying the often and quite noticeably overpowering angelic misses. Six to sixteen were equal odds with most choirs. Two band members sang; the pianist and the member bassist Clyde.

The leader of the long haired entourage was the same pianist; also a woman. In addition, the band included yours truly along with four male banned members most of whom didn’t sing.

Our excuse was that there were no microphones with stands designed or not yet invented to accommodate the more often then knot energetic movements of each sweating more than normal instrumentalist. Besides that our leader said we couldn’t sing worth a damn anyway. She was right of course; the band was without a doubt, the real singing choir members screaming tool.

At the end of a rehearsal one evening Dave asked if I’d like to join him on a short road trip to be involved in somewhat of an audition with a friend of his who lived in Southern California. I said, sheesh Dave that’s a long trip, isn’t it?

Carmel was the town, but he wouldn’t reveal the name of the person nor band he wanted mme to enter the trial by fire unless agreeing to his request. “What are you kiddin’ mme pal? Who does that?” I asked with a band dumb meant.

After frowning a lot then laughing for a short while I acquiesced after he reminisced how he’s never let mme down as far as green and mmusic was concerned. He also pointed out that we have never lost our shirts when involved in any of our mutual mmusical experiences. I buttoned mmy shirt at this point.

OK, I’ll give him that I said but this was a little too far away from home to trust him without further knowledge of the future events. There had to be a warm bed not under the stars as well as food other than mars bars or cheap take outs. I asked him of the future prospects if agreeing while mentioning that I’d like to see home again. After all I had two dogs and a roommate to consider.

Naturally he couldn’t answer those questions because he didn’t know himself. All he knew was that this person asked him to find a drummer and bring him down; then we’ll go from there. After thirty seven more minutes of cajoling I kissed mmy home, mmy dogs Red and Sadie good -bye. I didn’t kiss the roommate named Richard but asked him if he’d feed the dogs if I never returned.
He agreed if I’d bring him back a large cheese pizza with no anchovies.

Instead of driving down on route five, the main highway towards our final destination of Carmel Mr. Dave chose the very scenic Route 1 which tossed and turned us like two bugs in a bed of shivering timbers. His vehicle headlights didn’t work, the shocks were non-existent and he bumper made scraping noises.

The stranger in question was Mr. Mike Nesmith. One of the Monkee’s. I finally trusted him when we drove into the driveway and Mr. Monkee was standing right in front of Dave’s car when we pulled up.

As I opened the passenger side door Mr. Monkee walked over to mme, thrust out his hand like a turnstile would after dropping in change and said, “Hi, I’m Mrs. Nesmith’s son Mike.” I immediately fell in love with the guy and his humour.

While shaking his hand he said we were going for a jog. We were to leave our stuff in the car and follow him to the track. The track was a local college stadium that had an outdoor oval he and his wife used everyday. I was out of shape and looking forward to vomiting somewhere in the middle of all the neglected exercise. I was searching for the nearest bush after half a lap.

Needless to say it was hard to get a word in edgewise between his asking questions about several people of our mutual acquaintance and the fact that he was running more than jogging didn’t help for a shared conversation.

To keep up I had to concentrate more on where mmy feet were as opposed to not biting mmy tongue during the long jump steps between each word. He noticed mmy panting but didn’t slow down one mile per our. He may have gone faster.

After telling him a little of mmy typing experiences he let mme know that if it weren’t for his mom’s initial help of inventing White Out he probably would have had a harder time to get to where he was that day. I told him he owed mme half his house due to mmy mistakes but I’d accept a box of onion skins instead. I never received the onion skins; not even one of those small bottles of White Out.

MMind you the mman was quite the inventor himself. After what I thought was a long jog but was his shortened one, we slowly walked back to the little castle on the beach to begin our mmusical acquaintance. The first thing Mr. Mike presented after a grand lunch was to show Dave and I how his Elephant Parts was coming along.

Elephant Parts turned out to be one of the first if not (thee) first purely mmusic video ever made. He was experimenting with all kinds of moving and sound equipment in the process of producing this first of its type. He pointed out all the nuances of each segment before showing us the almost completed version. Little did I know how little I did know what was coming in the world of videos.

We spent over two hours jamming in his mmusic room. It sir prized mme to learn that his mmusicianship was of the highest quality, reminding mme of what some have said; he was the only real mmusician of - that bunch of Monkee’s. Peter Tork was no slouch either. Living in the same area we shared more notes.

Mr. Mike’s lyrics were much better than I’ve ever heard Monkee’s sing. Some say the Beatles copy band never wrote words for groan ups. Mr. Mike was quite the humour us Monkee. He smiled wide when looking us in the eye’s as he sang, when we conversed and while discussing our parts to his songs. His knowledge of his instrument was quite evident.

His electric acoustic guitar playing was clean and precise. He only spoke soft while his personality always projected kindness and confidence. He has a distinctive voice and phrasing that only he can claim. His jokes and friendly attitude from the beginning to our goodbye helped mme personally feel after we left like one of the prime mates.

On Mother's Day

2010-03-03T09:30:00.000-08:00

March 03, 2010

This blog is about just one of those times when we may meet someone and possibly never see them again. Like many of these stories, they’re just fun to remember and to write about.

Late one morning after the workings of the past late evening including a few morning, noon and nights before, I was resting so quietly on the hard flat comforts of the floor when all of a sudden, a soft knock; once, twice, three times.
The three delicate knocks on the door were followed by an even softer hello.

A few seconds after being awoken so quickly but quietly, I cleared the sandy eyes of the faint sleep dust that gathered in the past few hours. I was trying to catch up on a little rest from lack of sleep due to the design deliriums that happened with the passing of three days and nights, give or take an hour or two.

The home was just off a two-lane country road; an out of the way place. No one had to stop there unless their vehicle broke down or something leads them to enter the long driveway and on to the front door like when asking for directions.
When first moving into the place the owners said this happened once in a while.

After looking into the bright sunlit morning towards the soft, tender voice still beyond the curtains, I heard another kind hello. The vision of a young woman with a big, wide smile came into focus as I opened the door a slight sliver while searching from whence the friendly sounding voice had come. It was an Angel.

I opened the door all the way still unaware of the waking up appearance.

She smiled broadly, gazed at the disheveled sight before her and asked, “Are you the person who does those cool paintings hanging on the walls outside? While still rubbing the bright sunlight from mmy eyes I sleepily mumbled a, quiet yes.

At first I thought I was still dreaming. Her manner was very kind and out of the way friendly. She wore a delicate pink flower on top of her long, blond braided hair. It was kept well back beyond her silky smooth and quite sensuous face.

We didn’t exchange pleasantries nor ask each other’s name at first. The art was the question answered quickly and gladly; with sand still in sleepy eyes. At this point exchanging names still hadn’t occurred to us until much later in our visit. Although I did think during the ongoing conversation that this stranger has no name. Who are we was the question that wasn’t answered until much later.

As you can imagine, I wasn’t quite all with it as of yet. She began to say while pointing towards the driveway and the wall to the left of mme that she passed here a lot on her way to school. She often wondered who did the paintings that stood in her glare as she passed. I’ve never seen paintings like that, she said.

She continued talking about the display affecting her in such a way she thought to stop every time she passed. She didn’t because mostly she was late for class. She had it in her mind that one day she might take the chance to reach for an answer. Today was that special day; a Saturday; no school was to stop her query.

Of course I had to admit to her that it was moi. I asked her if she’d like to take a closer look; perhaps see more of the work. She said with a most polite voice, Yes, I’d love for you to show mme more, thank you. No sooner said then done; thanks for stopping by with your interest; was the response. I had bare feet on hot rocks.

“Hold on a minute, please give mme a little time to flood mmy face with water, put on shoes and I’ll be right out,” I said. It took three minutes to open face pores while trying to be presentable enough so as to not offend whoever this was.

Opening the door again while apologising for the time gone by I took the first step to guide her out the door and to the left. A painting titled, ‘Community of Cultures’ was hanging on the outside garage wall close by. We stood there for about fifteen minutes while discussing it, her and all our work in general.

All through our conversation she had a glow of youthful anticipation. I was in wonder of her visit and amazed at how this young woman had the courage to not only stop for a peek but to also accept a further tour from basically a stranger. I was glad the art had sparked her interest while projecting a spirit of friendship. I guessed at this point that she hadn’t seen the movie Psycho.

Bizarre as how such things seem now a days as far as talking to strangers is concerned, especially young women and older men strangers in particular. Mind you we were out in the country, flowers in bloom, we had a beautiful day and we both could hear the herd of cows that grazed about fifty feet from us.

In other words the situation didn’t seem threatening, at least to neither of us. Bonnie and Clyde could have come to mmy mind but it didn’t. Needless to say I was glad to see that the negative news of the world didn’t interfere with our being alone with her inquisitiveness and sense of adventure. It was too early for mme to care otherwise and the visitor didn’t appear to be mmy worst nightmare.

While being conscious of a safe distance, I welcomed her with a smile while thanking her for the gracious visit and warm persona under such circumstances. I excused mmyself, walked inside to bring her something as a gift for just having the guts to stop and for being very neighborly-like and complimentary.

I handed her a MMusic – MMedicine For Healing poster as well as a few magnetic business cards and a stack of self printed greeting cards to peruse. Each card had different digital mmusic designs on the front. She flipped through all of them and asked to have several she was fond of. If you really like them, OK, I said.

I also let her choose as gifts, a few post cards and one other greeting card also to her liking. After seeing the ‘Song of Prays’ greeting card she said it was her favourite design and that she’d give that one to her mom today.. I flashed on mmy mother’s face as this particular card like many had a little story.

Mom had passed a few years earlier and for some strange reason after the visitor said this I thought of her visit as a gift sent from mom. One never no’s, eh? The reason I thought the card she loved was very special and apropos when considering the day was mostly because a few people have seen a cameo in it.

Not everyone can say they see it really because it’s one of those hidden kinds of shapes. It was one of those designs when first creating it I thought mmy mmom’s presence was in its original creation; although I really had no idea at the time how that particular shape happened. It wasn’t until later that it was discovered and pointed out to mme by someone else. I remember creating it and it fit perfect

I’ve since asked other people without pointing it out if in fact they see her; some can’t, even to this day. After explaining this to the visitor the same way, without pointing it out, she saw it while pointing it out as well. It’s a gift when that happens because it doesn’t happen all the time really.

She then said, “I’ll give this to mmy mmom today. That day she said was Mother’s Day May 13th, 2007. She touched mmy heart. Maybe it was a dream. Her name was Sarah.

Thanks mom.

We Must

2010-03-02T12:14:00.000-08:00

March 02, 2010

I was thinking about this the other day when questioning what this blog thing is all about. Not just this one really but anyone who puts themselves out there for whatever reason or reasons. What’s the point? Connect with anyone; it’s the net.

I originally started this thing because I wanted to give mmyself an incentive to keep writing; on a consistent basis. It’s been three years or more since the first blog I’ve tried. One entry happened and that was it. The second year and about the same time really; another New Year’s revolution that didn’t pan out. Next?

But this year I thought I’d try something different to spur this blog thing along. I like writing so I took a few writing classes. Those are the things that helped to get on the stick so to speak; and get on with it; keyboard to fingers and move it.

Like a lot of people I guess, too many friends, relatives, acquaintances and just plain strangers, after hearing a story or too, had expressed that in deed, they should be written down somewhere. So here it was and here it is, here, now and then; past, present and maybe if I’mm lucky; future? That’s the question really.

Maybe I’ve said this before in an earlier blog; but to tell you the truth, I can’t remember. Like someone has told mme that if fact be ‘Martha has said,’ “…it’s a good thing.” Of course I agree with her. Whether or not she is known for saying that I could care less but whoever said it, it’s certainly true in this case; if for no other reason then it’s pushed this guy to put fingertips to keyboard, daily…

Also what’s helped a lot is being close to a local library. Not that I haven’t been before but this one is the first really where I’ve actually paid attention to what they’re paying attention to; and that is it’s community. Good for them; and us. So I guess I’ve got them to thank as well… and have more times than I can count now. That’s also a good thing because I’mm sure they’re not thanked enough.

In any case, writing groups, audio books on all sorts of things as well as Steven King’s On Writing, ‘regular books’ if there is such a thing, have also helped; or so I think. What you or teachers think is another story, eh? Well, at least this guy is happy with the progress. Sorry if you’re not but you may be in time. Ya neva no.

MMined you I’ve dissed the comment thing on this blog stuff because I don’t want conversations online with every Tom, Dick and Mary, friends, strangers, American or foreigners. But I DO invite anyone to email their anything if there is a thought, comment or question. On the other hand if you can’t find that address on this blog then follow other URLs and you’ll find it sooner or later. Sail on…

I’ll welcome you if you are cool, or keep your cool. At this point I think a few thousand tiny font words of those precautions listed on other sites apply but you know what’s expected of you and the humanity of being a human… Next?

Not all of these blogs are, have been or going to be violets and roses. Like the best perfume you’ve ever nosed or the worst that smells like sh_ _ I’mm sure you’ll find a definition for any number of these things. So have at it; and thanks.

Try this one.

One thing I have a really hard time with is cigarette smoke. This is one of the few places we can thank the government for stepping in to end the fogs of inconsiderate in public places. It’s about time the state and states took control of the people who could either care less about their own death wished on to innocents or those who can’t bring their addiction under control. I wish ‘em well.

I’d also point out too much of any kind of smoke really sucks, but I wouldn’t care to diminish the meaning of the first sentence here. Anyone aware of this writer’s past history knows that Cig’s smoke has been more than a pet peeve for decades.

Tobacco Warning here;

When discussing this subject, especially aversive is when smoke flames out of a human’s mouth. I don’t care what flavour or aroma it or they have. Not to mention, the initial habit has played a large part in the demise of a childhood mentor; one I still miss to this day. Smoking was not his very lucky strike.

Although anyone who has visited a tobacconist or smoke shop you’ll find that like any food, perfume or flower display meant to attract the love of humanity through the olfactory glands of smell how nice; tobacco smell nose death is near.

MMined you, I love to sit by a mesmerizing living room fire; although I’ve constructed a few that because of their heat inducing qualities, also made the place smell too much with the more than hot burning wood fire built too big to vent well enough. MMy fault of course, but have since learned more heat control.

I mean what’s the point of a warm fire when in order to get the heavy cloud of smoke out of the room, one has to open not only the vent but all the windows and doors to the outside for fear of dying from smoke inhalation; and that’s the whole point really, isn’t it? Smoke inhalation any fireman will tell you - kills.

When thinking of the beloved and long ago past mentor, the following images, scenarios and words were brought to mmind. Like any habit there’s nothing anyone can really do about it unless the habitual offender takes it upon themselves to change their behaviour. For whatever reasons even facing death can’t seem to do this for some hanging from thin strings of cemeteries bell ringer.

Perhaps you’ve a family member, a friend or maybe you’ve seen strangers walking with walkers; or they’re deteriorated, emaciated humans in wheelchairs, hospital beds or any form of what’s considered unbelievable chemically induced behaviour was caused by the dreaded fly-trap like plant; STILL some may have a cigarette dangling from their mouth while breathing their last fateful breath.

No one can really blame them of course. Especially now years later; after all the congressionally questioned corporately sooted liars were caught in their mostly financially stimulated gluttony of creating someone else’s death whish.

Yes, they’re the same jet setters, bauble bangers and diamond danglers whose pockets and goaled force its grew more and more everyday with the addictive additives they hid in their pants puffing self-indulgence for years and years and years while they flew to and built themselves greed golf courses, mansions paid with tombstones, and their families educated with other’s relative’s pine tar per chased caskets. Like opium in Afghan its stamp, tub whacko state’s lively hoods.

Perhaps their good nights sleep is helped knowing how their wont for financial superiority has led to more grief than they’d ever wish on themselves or their children; borne by and with the death caused by their smiles on the way to the bank some of them owned or still have shares in.

Amazingly enough, and I’mm sure for lots of constituents monetary exceptions big tub backo is still in business, aren’t they? Now even bigger than before. It seems the world is their oyster filled with more pearls of death reincarnated but with more foreigners in mmined. Don’t get mme started; Next?

We Must

We can't understand sickness - incurable
Butt wants – end’s the flame - deplorable
When the self - deep ends
And/butt wants - defends
Crept the need
End did heed
A door - able

We may understand weighs of happy nest
Butt to cig's - jig's up- end of life? - One guess
Taste did fire – be grins
Sad as pyre’s – end’s grim
Help me docks
Blood from rocks
Cure - end duress

We may help to a point every one of us
To the unpal - per bulls - innards sank 'em - bust
When our fill’s - to tend
Ends a life - dear friends
Right the wills
Unpaid bills
Know more
We must.

Reflecting on The Reflections - 2

2010-03-01T09:36:00.001-08:00

March 01, 2010

Depending on the immediate situation of course, to this day if I’mm the one to do it, I’ll keep a medium but steady pace while building the little erector set/drumm kit. What’s taking you so long, MMick? Was always the question Chuckey’s mom would ask as she grew more and more impatient to hear her favourite beginning band of brothers. The little time it took for this to happen was like an eternity to her.

Ms. B was like someone who really needed to go to the bathroom in the forest but with only poison ivy leaves to pick for comfort and cleaner jeans. It seemed the shear fact of her survival was at stake with every turn of the drumm key. When we were ready, so was she. Her pent up energy would be like a hot boiler ready to blow until the release valve of the first song began her dancing with all extensions flailing.

Unfortunately I don’t remember her name but I can still see her long red hair and very thin, short body. Her face read warm. I especially remember her wild ways. She smoked like a fiend and loved to drive really fast. Her pride was a sparkling white convertible, top down with red leather interior. She was everybody’s favourite mmusic crazy woman; fun to have around and definitely our most important fan.

Whenever we drove as a band on a break with her, Chucky just egged her on by yelling, “Come on ma, put some lead in your foot and give ‘er the gas!” At which point she did. It was like one of those speedy Steve McQueen in Bullet kind of rides.

I think it was an Oldsmobile; had to be around 1958 to ’61. The big car’s souped up carburetor was installed by dear old Chuckey himself. We could always hear when it would just suck in the gas while emptying half the tank. The vehicle would morph into a NASA rocket ship every time her dainty foot plunged hard onto the gas pedal.

Because it was a convertible, with no seat belt laws back when, our hair would fly like we were riding in a wind tunnel. Forget about wearing hats or small talk. Chuck and we would scream like cowboys just let out of the shoot while holding onto the thick rope of the buckingist bronco this side of Amarillo, Texas or Psycho’s Victorian.

Dave our bassist had an amplifier almost as tall as he was and just as heavy. I remember his sound was so clear, defined and refined when in his nonchalant knob turns he knew what he wanted his sound to be. It wasn’t Stanley Clark; more like Chas Chandler, the bassist in the famous House of the Rising Sun/Animals. Although Dave wasn’t like Flea his notes were still steady and always in the groove.

Dave was constantly there when as a drummer I needed him to be and still there when I didn’t; which wasn’t that often. A happy chap with blue/black hair like Elvis; the original. Like Elvis, his smile could melt a clay Venus DeMilo statue. His laugh was infectious. His height in low shoes made mme feel like I could parachute off a dollar bill; or at least a dirty dime threw in a dice game played by all little people in flip flops or bear feet.

Bob on the other hand was at least as blond as or blonder than Lady GaGa. His guitar was an off white and black DanElectro. Don’t quote mme on that one either. I’mm not one of those guitar aficionado’s. As a drummer I didn’t pay much attention but have seen a lot of them as well as other guitars made through the years.

After more years than passes through a time machine, I just phone talked to Bob the great who informed mme and core wreckedly so, that indeed the change you see here but don't notice now because it was his doing was from a Telecaster to the DE. The mman knows his guitars. Unfortunately Regina past his synapse.(Thanks Bobbymman!)

Bob was now that I remember, more than a pretty good guitarist; simple but effective. MMusic back then was mostly instrumentals. He played like the revered, often copied guitarists of that era; in groups like The Ventures, The Beach Boys, The Champs, and any number of bands whose names I can’t remember off the top of mmy head but whose radio sounds came wafting through loud and almost clear from the tinny car or transistor radios of the day. Mr. Bob was also a short guy which didn't get in the way of his ear for blues and soul. No matter his height his notes rose like the brilliance of the sun on the next new day. I always loved his playing.

Chuck was tall. Back then everyone seemed tall to yours truly. Chuck always wore dirty jeans, a cowboy shirt with snap buttons and of course the mandatory muddy boots. He never had cleaned hands or nails as I recall. Grease was his sheriff’s badge.

Chuck was always working on his cars. Black hands and oil were forever part of his DNA. He was our lead guitarist who always had the loudest amplifier. Unlike later in life, while rehearsing at his house no one ever told us to turn down the volume. If anything, his mom always asked us to turn it up. Damn the neighbors, it’s mmusic!

The other day, I was talking to Dave for the first time in over too many years ago when I remembered an image I had of Chuck playing his guitar. He had one of those real dark red, solid body Fender, Les Paul guitars. Chuck would play the high notes on the thinnest strings. The sound coming out of his amplifier could break Plexiglas.

The tones could be really ear-piercing. Probably why I’mm half deaf to this day. Not really, that happened in later stadium venues. Chuckey’s amplifier was verging on the upper ranges of loud enough to crack and maybe topple the Empire State Building from forty miles away. Dave and Bob couldn’t nor would want to compete.

One night we were playing one of the high school dances we were lucky enough to get. Drummers were always set up in the rear as bare cement block walls were mostly our security blanket. The ceilings were high. Dances were always packed with screaming teens and other intoxicated adolescents from different high schools.

We usually set up on the floor. There was no stage except in the auditorium but dances weren’t held there. If it wasn’t the basketball court in the gym it was the hard, foot square linoleum type floors in the cafeteria. All solid surfaced, square angled walls and such; the sound always atrocious. Every band sounded like a busy steel factory pounding out metal notes like a Titanic was being built inside an empty gym.

Each note bounced and echoed around the giant rooms like twenty five bowling balls being thrown against the walls, ceiling and floor all at once. Nothing was too defined. Most times it was one big blur of boom, boom bah doom like canons of a pirate ship exploding against the English Armada in a rough ocean battle to the end.

The High School dance lighting was usually dark with barely enough light to see the person standing next to you. I don’t remember the song we were playing at the time but it doesn’t matter really. We were basically in the throes of playing a medium fast song. Chuckey was in the middle of an even faster and very loud guitar solo which sounded like we were performing in a packed with fans, Madison Square Garden.

Chucky always had longer guitar chords then anybody. He liked to roam around while playing. No jumping to or fro or rolling on the floor for him. He sounded like he was really into it. One time before I turned to look, I pictured him with his eyes closed and grooving like Stevie Ray Vaughn or any guitar soloist under a spotlight. He’d be sweating with drips of soulful perspiration getting into his eyes and the corner of his mouth. He’d be bent over or leaning back gripping the edge of heaven.

At this point he was already behind mme and to the right when I finally turned around to see what he was doing. I took a double take in the dark because as he was scurrying through his guitar solo, I also saw one of the high school girls saddled up next to him. They were in full conversation, both smiling and talking a mile a minute.

It could have been a recording for all I knew because as I looked at Chuckey’s hands I noticed they were doing the correct thing alright, but he looked very casual. He might as well have been across the street or at Macy’s having the same conversation with a salesperson, but without his guitar going full blast. The guy was funny and a pretty amazing guitarist even in those days. Where is that guy now, I wanna know.

Needless to say like someone’s first date, love, girlfriend or boyfriend there’s so much more to reflect on when it’s the first ever, together High School rock band. The Reflections members were quite a crew. Future stories about the band abound.

One day or two, now that the synapse has been awakened from decades of past history naps I’ll have to enter a few blogs of the old neighborhood friends who tried to be a band once or twice. Rehearsing above their parent’s appliance store and walking mmy drumms in a line like a safari or an unofficial parade; we were definitely something not to miss in sight and sounds. Our neighborhood awoke.

Those and other stories about childhood, the bus garage, grammar school and Levy Playground are ones to consider. Hopefully more will be written before the people in white coats come to ask for the car keys while directing their find on how to slip into the coat and pants with all the belts, straps, buckles and locks.

Being able to type on this computer during a ride back with the red dome circling on top, the institution I may have left behind will be a welcome serenity scene once more. Reflecting on The Reflections does that to a guy. Chuckey’s mom would agree.

Reflecting on The Reflections -1

2010-02-28T10:00:00.000-08:00

February 28, 2010

More times than not, the World Wide Web sir prize is the hell out of mme. Maybe like yourselves, a group or someone you may or may not know or remember will connect with you after finding you somehow on some kind of web search. Lucky Us.

Whether searching for people with cooking disorders, long lost childhood or High School names who you knew were cool way back when; they connect with wild a banned done. Maybe even an old flame or two, or someone you recognised on the news the day before, featured for eating 2770 slugs in a day, hanging from a ceiling fan will connect too. One never knows from whence they came, went or still are hear.

Even high school friends, acquaintances or the smartest science class student who you sat next to copy answers from and one who you thought for sure would be the reincarnation of Werner von Braun, they’d find you or you’d find them. It’s that easy. Some people have to take that chance because like the Enquirer, they gotta know or they’ll die of a question unanswered when death doo us finally part ways.

Maybe you wanted to see what more they’re doing in life to maybe eventually find out they will be doing life in either a prison or some kind of live-in, marriage or divorced situation where they lost the house, have to support the seven kids and wife left in it while they live in a tent; the latter net connection perhaps thanks to the Starbucks corporation, a stolen i phone or the local grocery stores bulletin bored.

What kind of meet is revealed is determined only when the wait staff come with something you may have ordered or possibly not; one never knows, unless it’s like an open faced sandwich when both you and the sandwich in question face each other before the final countdown when hunger takes over or you sit there and starve.

The net today makes all that possible. Where is so ‘n so anyway? They still owe you thirty seven cents from lunch back in high school and you thought to connect not really hoping for the change but maybe you’re just bored to death with whatever you’re doing in retirement or the third in the series of forty needle point classes.

Or besides the wonderful activities you’re diligently asked to participate by your senior center smiley faces, net searches are what you gravitate towards because alone in your own fish bowl, they take up a good part of your well thought out day.

No matter when or how many times it happens, at least in this guy’s life, it’s mostly been a treat. The past will connect through mmy home page because that may be the first thing that comes up in their search. I’ll usually figure that out because that’s how those things work; the address and forward always and easily recognisable.

This most recent touch from the past was an old high school guy. He appeared as one note in a ascending and descending glissando that comes and goes like an express credenza featured at the end of an unfinished symphony only to either stop because of fainting spells or to leave the stage because of overpowering stage fright brought on by Silence of the Lambs. Maybe as a diver an air tank ran out, wild hiding from one of those too big to ignore, very dangerous and hungry gold fish.

In any case Bobby connected from out of the blue. I’ve not heard hide nor hear of him since high school which seems as a dream and a forever ago. Now, he has sparked those old images of our past only to be refreshed; in this mind anyway.

In his one sentence message, mentioned was a few things just to let mme know how much he knew about mme and to see if in fact I was the real person he thought I was when he found whatever he found wild searching the net. He was right of course otherwise I wouldn’t be writing this little blurb about it, us and reflecting right now.

Mr. Bob wrote that he and another HS bud; one famous Dave, were discussing their past. I guess our old band name came into the conversation and for some reason mmy name came up as swell. I gather from a later and most recent phone conversation with Dave who has connected with more than the initial response that they both are in different states. One north the other south, one thousand miles apart.

As the story goes, in High School, Bob and Dave asked yours truly to be in their band. Actually I think that they didn’t have one yet but they thought if they added a drummer, then they would be well on their way. The rest is not clear. I imagine this is when another guitarist came along; the infamous and mechanically inclined Chuckey B. Another manifestation of the same band came more months later. Gene?

We were the very first mmusical/Rock ‘n Roll version of, ‘The Reflections.’ We also did our first gig before anyone ever knew of the Beatles. Our hair stayed dissimilar is probably why we never became more famous than eggs, toast and hash browns.

At the time I had been studying drumms for about six or seven months. I made sure they knew this but that didn’t seem to make any difference or bother them. They admitted to not being stadium material yet, but thought with mmy help they’d at least be able to play a few high school dances, birthday parties and a picnic or two.

The rehearsals began at Dave’s house I think. His parents seemed to be the ones with the better temperament or maybe it was the biggest living room so don’t quote mme. I don’t remember rehearsing at Bob’s house. Dave reminded mme just the other day that in fact we also rehearsed at mmy house, on our front porch to be exact.

Although I usually practiced mmy drumms to death in the basement I’mm going to go out on a limb here and say that we practiced there too. It was barely finished as I remember still seeing the rafters and subfloor in what would be the ceiling. I also had a few leftover Christmas tree lights strung around the place to give it that festive, sexy atmosphere well before those glass disco balls ever came into vogue.

Dave as I recall was a cool guy. He was the bass player who later on in life especially during rehearsals everyone would emulate because he always stood up to play. He wasn’t that energetic to jumping around when he played but just that he stood helped mme feel that his whole body was into the mmusic and especially mmy beats.

Besides that I admired his genius and inventiveness when being too tall. The basement floor to ceiling height was just over six feet but Dave’s head fit nicely between whatever two rafters he chose to stand in between. Sometimes he’d go from one to the other just to show how really versatile, creative and very funny he was.

This all had to be summertime because although our porch was closed in, it had no heat; neither did the cellar/basement. Winter wouldn’t be very conducive to warm hands or instruments. One place I DO remember rehearsing a lot was at Chuck’s house. Chuck lived in what was then farm country where the cops didn’t roam free.

HIS mom was shall we say, the most congenial and the one single parent who just went nuts over our little but getting longer song lists. She just couldn’t wait for us to finish setting up to play. She always asked mme to hurry up and set up because she just couldn’t stand to wait much longer. We could see her pacing back and forth.

To Be Continued; Tomorrow

The Cat House - 2

2010-02-27T10:01:00.000-08:00

February 27th, 2010

Another reason I remember is because The Cat House was the first and last time something like that ever occurred. All the memories from that experience are as fresh in the noggin as if it was mmy service number and we know how that went. On the other hand, I have forgotten things that happened just yesterday.

In this case, I know it wasn’t a dream because so many visuals are clear in mmy mmined, including John’s face; and that’s something I’d sooner forget then remember in any nightmare. Only kiddin’ John. This is just a little, fun story, eh?

You’ve actually a lovely face except your last Christmas photo with you kneeling behind other family members could have used better lighting; but you’re the film guy so I guess you were in a hurry to clean up after the unwrapping trappings.
(Sit here Hon and you here little Johnny; don’t smile - MMicky will think we just woke up)

So I called John and asked him if he’d like to make a few bucks doing what he said he’d love to do. He asked mme what is that? I said he’d be filming us making a Cat House. He asked, what is that? I said don’t ask, just bring a favourite camera, a tripod and we’ll go from there. Be at mmy place at 8 a.m. tomorrow; don’t dress up and bring your lunch. We’ll be all day for two days.

He said, TWOOOO DAAAAYS?!? I said yes, one at a time, see ya tomorrow. OK, he said. The very next day, after 9 o’clock I called him again to wake him up. He asked if I could pick him up in a half hour; he’d be ready. I said, OK; don’t forget the camera and tripod. It was early, he asked what for? I said I’d tell him soon.

When I arrived at his house, he came out without the camera and tripod. I asked him where they were. He said, inside, why? I asked what he thought he was going to do today. He said he didn’t know. We sat there for about five more minutes when he knew the drill, went inside to retrieve his tools and we were off

The drive was a short one but we were late already. After a few seconds I thought, these are two Doctors, waiting for them shouldn’t be an unfamiliar situation. I relaxed and drove a few feet before John asked if we could stop for breakfast. I asked him where his lunch was and he said he’d like to have breakfast first and why did I ask about lunch when it’s still so early? I love John.

At this point I was reminded of how short this life is and sometimes we’re actually meant to enjoy it. This was one of those times. I was lucky not to be in too much of a hurry although there were further pressing situations; most of which had nothing to do with immediate so I just took a deep breath, smiled at John and asked him where he’d like to eat? He pointed and said, “Over there.”

Over there is where we went. One of the great local breakfast and all day really, food places in town was the next stop. For how long? I didn’t really care. I looked at it as a day off with a little sweating in between the laughs. I was happy to be with a pal. John is a pal and at times I wish we lived closer to each other. He’s a good mmusician, artist and friend. Creativity is our commonness. I love the guy.

During breakfast, John moved from table to table schmoozing like he usually does. It’s a small town restaurant so most patrons are regulars. I did the same thing really. Breakfast got cold but it was an enjoyable way to continue the day.

Like any Doctor will tell you, patient’s is a virtue. Two hours later we were again on our way; with the camera and tripod in tow as well as all the tools necessary to make both Doc’s happy, and hopefully their cats too. John was already happy. Having his breakfast, coffee and time to relax. We also had dates for that night.

We arrived at the Doc’s house less than seven minutes later. As soon as we pulled into the driveway, both Docs’ came out of the house not smiling. John and I exited the vehicle, both smiling. As I recall I wished them a good afternoon.

It was getting close to noon and I could understand their temperament if in fact they weren’t Doctors; but they were. All I said was that we were so sorry but we had a patient with an emergency and they understood. All smiling we went into the back yard. I did the preliminaries and asked John to film everything; from now until I say stop. He asked how long that would be. I replied, all day.

I’ll have to plug in an extra battery then he said. I said fine. He said that was left at home. The Doc’s were back in the house. I left a note on the back door that the lumber guy called and that we’d be back in five minutes. On the way the lumber guy did call (lucky mme) and another stop took place. It concerned material for the Cat House that wasn’t there yesterday so I felt relieved and still honourable.

We were back at the same spot forty five minutes later. Now it was past noon and John asked when we were going to have lunch. I said we just ate. He said that was more than an hour ago; besides that was breakfast not lunch. I said we had to do a little sweating first and if he passed that test then I’d buy him lunch.

He said, OK. He plugged in the extra battery then began to film everything. He shot footage of us taking tools out, stacking them up and dismantling the same stack in several different ways; including in slow motion. We set up one of those 16 foot folding ladders every way it could fold and work, laughing all the way.

We spinned the ladder, sat on it, stood on it as it lay sideways, made a Z with it, an upside down U or like a scaffold would be. I stood on that in the middle of the yard as John just shot mmy legs and feet; we just had fun. Two cats on a lark.

We even set different tools on the ladder in positions that would never work but looked funny. Mind you this was not something that was paid by the hour. I’ve always wanted to do something like the Marx Brothers, Three Stooges, (in this case two) Laurel and Hardy or just be crazy and have some fun in a way that things ‘normally’ wouldn’t be happening. In this case they were happening… so;

After all our fun that day, the next day I went back alone and built the whole thing in five hours. The Doc’s were ecstatic with the results of their feline’s new recreation spot. The woman Doc began placing cat toys, cat furniture and cats everything inside including the cats. That was the final test of safety and security.

They too were happy once all the sniffing and scratching for a way out was over. There was none even remotely evident. After discovering there was no escape through the door or chicken wire everything worked out fine. John was happy. I was thrilled and so was the Doc’s and cats. The day sunny, air fresh; smiles? Yes.

A few days later after a little editing on John’s part, I returned to further review the whole situation and to make sure nothing was left to chance. I gave the Doc’s a copy of the video. They wanted to see it right away. I stood in their living room during the final cut. I was even more thrilled when they just cracked up and gave thanks for a fine addition of safety for their ten family members. Life is coolier.

Thanks John.

The Cat House - 1

2010-02-26T13:01:00.000-08:00

February 26, 2010

Somewhere in and around the early 1990’s I was living in Marin County, California; again. Because I’ve moved around so much I’mm not sure what number time this was when returning to the Golden State. It’s one of the fav’s.

I can back track in the annals of time if you really want to know. Like the old history classes, I’mm not good at remembering dates other than a few birthdays, anniversaries, the fourth of July, Christmas; I always forget Easter and Thanksgiving because they keep changing. I remember mmy discharge date.

I also remember mmy military serial number mostly because when it was given under duress by one of those loud mouth confidencio’s with stripes and a mean demeanor, he said it would be branded in the noggin the rest of mmy life. Until most recently, and I’mm talking just the other day about forty something years later I thought that a fallacy until I actually did have to prove it at a VA visit.

The town was named Fairfax; the street was Mono, no less. Coincidentally I moved there married; stayed there after being divorced. The marriage continued, (sort of) there for sicks months while we were Stereo. Five years after that I was still mono on Mono. Women were once more in MMicks mix, and writely so.

Fairfax is situated across the Golden Gate Bridge from San Francisco and north on highway 101. You’ll make a turn exiting west onto Sir Francis Drake Boulevard then drive perhaps three or four miles and there you are. Fairfax, Ca. cool little burg. Town parades; anyone can call up the mayor; that kind of thing.

While living there I was asked to build a Cat House. For any of you thinking otherwise, it was not what you’d think. The structure was meant to be named just that because it was really for Cats; felines to be more precise. Pets no less.

Ten of them to be exact. I had met the owners. A Doctor as it turned out was the wife and I think the hubby was a Psychiatrist or something; I forget. But I’mm sure of the wife’s vocation because she was the one who wanted the structure built to preserve her little menagerie of felines from street traffic; little there was.

Not too many weeks or months earlier I had met John at a jam across the street and at the house of another friend, Tim. As usual I don’t use last names in this blog, mostly because they’re innocent by standers so to speak, and goodness knows I’d not like for them to be embarrassed at anything I’d reveal without their knowledge; unless of course they read these things too and either ask to change the lie or say something else to express their happiness at being left an anonymous entity. This saves court cases while I still have the stereo and car.

John was an out of work something. At the time he didn’t know what that was either so I can’t say anything that would contradict that. He did tell mme that he was interested in films after attending a film school in Los Angeles, but as far as I know he didn’t get too far with that. Presently he designs green playgrounds.

Back then he was unemployed and living with or in the same house as one of his girlfriends; or girl friend was not clear at that point. When he reads this he’ll probably correct it on more than one count. We’ll see if I can keep the car.

After talking a bit with the Doc and hubby who it seemed could care less about the upcoming project, the Doc and I walked outside to their little backyard. “There, is where I’d like the Cat House,” she said. ‘There’ was up against a cinder block wall; one side of their garage. “Come out from there,” she said.

At this point I asked her how big she wanted the thing but like most people who daily don’t look or pay attention to or at any kind of measurements in their lives, this was the problematic question of the minute. How big is small or vice verse?

Without going into any great detail here just let mme say that one could write a book on this little subject alone. It would include whatever happened in our grammar school systems but suffice it to say I just brought out the 30 foot tape from mmy pocket and gave her a few examples of length, height and depth.

This usually saves time when trying to figure out the difference between inches, feet, and yards and how tall the person standing next to you actually may be, give or take a foot or four. After a few examples the Doc decided that a twelve by twelve foot structure would be a good size for her ten furry creatures in order for them to have enough space to get into trouble or each other. Most were fixed.

Then of course the question of height was to be solved. She decided that although a normal cat’s height was less than a foot; a four foot height would be plenty. All well and good for the cats I said but if a human is to get in the thing to do whatever, then she may want to think of those friendly exchanges in the furthest reaches of the so called Cat House. How good are you at crawling?

I guess the other option was if she’d like to stand up while doing whatever with any of the ten furry beauties or did she think crawling on all fours was even better? I didn’t have to explain further; after all she was a Doctor. That’s with a capital D. When big D’s think measurements, centimeters are their specialty but not really feet; unless we’re talking podiatrist - maybe. I’ll have to look that up.

In any case it didn’t take too many increments of a minute before she was convinced that seven feet was a good height. At this point I added that most times lumber is stocked in even amounts of increments; (notice I said most times) so an eight foot height may save some labor time of cutting the proposed material; all of which was yet to come. She agreed. We continued with the design

OK then. That’s all settled. The next step was to give her suggestions as to material options. A good range of those were locally available depending on a few different scenarios she may like to consider. For example; use was one. What did she perceive the occupants would do; like to see; have in it with them; those kinds of things when comfort and even weather were concerned. Is there a roof?

That’s when she imagined just one very open pen. Meaning all the sides, including the top or ceiling was to be chicken wire. The side with the front door I was to make was also to be the same material. Basically the whole thing was to be open to the air outside, which included the wind, sun, rain, moon and stars. There’s not much snow in that part of the world to actually make a difference.

Cats being the animal that they are have no problem handling cold; really. Some humans think otherwise when their pets as family members are concerned but that’s again; another little story one could write about animal to human, human to animal behaviour. When I lived in South Dakota with FACE (mmy cat) she just loved to trek in 50 degree below weather; sometimes for a few days hunting.

The only problem I had with this was that in that part of California, like many others really, in winter it rains like hell for days at a time. Floods in that area are not uncommon. When the Doc realised this she said that the cats will then not be allowed to be outside during the worst weather. I gathered then that this enclosure was to be more of a spa for them, than an actual home. No problemo.

I stood there thinking for a half a minute then the Doc and I went back into the original Cat House, or her home really and I drew a picture of what she’d actually see when the structure was complete. She was satisfied, I was thrilled and the next phase was to take place. Here’s where John a local friend comes in.

John as you recall was a film guy so I called him up and asked if he’d like to do a short film. Years later which was about a month ago I called John to ask if he remembered this and he said, No, he didn’t. I know there was a VCR copy of the rest of this experience at mmy place on the rez but forget trying to find it as the situation stands; asking John was another option but the guy has no recollection whatsoever, which I found to be; well, John, really. Some things don’t change.

The only reason I remember this actually happened is because it actually did happen and John’s image as well as his voice is on the tape. Like Nixon and Watergate, I know if the tapes were available it would be definitive; truth proof.
TO BE CONTINUED;

Dead Man's Hill - 4 - The end

2010-02-25T11:00:00.000-08:00

February 25, 2010

I had a very difficult time seeing where we were headed. Gary and Sal were screaming at the top of their lungs that I should maybe try a little braking just to slow us down a little bit. Sal was of course screaming the loudest because he was perched precariously on the top of this monster X. Gary safe inside yelled out to Sal not to jump off or for sure he’ll break every bone in his eyes, nose ‘n throat.

As the driver of chance, I quickly took mmy eyes off the road while looking up at the top of our plywood cab to see Sal’s fingers appear like they were becoming part of and melting into the plywood. At this time I wasn’t screaming to high heaven like they were because I was the steerer-driver and in full speed control.

Like Mario Andretti, Jimmy Johnson, that guy with the nice feathers in his cowboy hat and even Danica Patrick all rolled into one, I was without a doubt going to win this Fourth of July 500 miler with just one lap to go. No one was going to cut mme off or pull ahead at the very last minute because I was faster than a speeding bullet but not disguised as Clark Kent. I was the great Andretti for sure.

By this time Sal was screaming so loud for mme to pull over but I couldn’t because that’s where all the parked cars were. A little further to the left and we were almost in the middle of the street. I had enough sense about mme to be aware that just by chance someone may open the driver’s side door of any number of parked cars. I yelled that caution to Sal but I’mm not sure he heard.

I yelled that to Sal again but he didn’t care; he said his hands were about to fall off or he was trying not to let go; I think he said; and again reiterated he just couldn’t hold on any longer. It was definitely a bumpy ride. On the roof Gary and I could hear Sal plopping up, down and sideways while screaming – HELP!

Gary of course encouraged him not to let go while passing along in screaming tones that if he did he’d really be sorry. “Just hang on Sal, we’re almost there,” was Gary’s next bit of sagely advice. He tapped mme on the shoulder and began to laugh uncontrollably. This made Sal scream even more and even louder.

When I looked past Gary and out the back window/door Sal’s legs were flailing like two dead seals caught on the end of a whale boat’s hook. He had only one shoe on. When I yelled this to Gary, Sal in his panic tones said that same shoe fell off just about the time he jumped on the top before this Luge - type run began.

I yelled to Gary that after we stop we should wait for Sal to go back and retrieve his shoe or his parents would be real angry if he didn’t. Gary didn’t care, he said; just turn around and watch where we’re going or I’mm gonna kill us all; poor Sal

Needless to say he was right. As soon as I turned back around one of those parked cars driver’s side doors opened out. I had just enough time to react. I turned the wheel slightly towards the center of the street thereby missing that door by a millimeter or less. The thickness of the paint probably made the difference I said while correcting the wheel again; this time to the right thereby missing an oncoming bus full of passengers watching with mouths wide open.

I then quickly looked back to witness Sal’s flailing right leg hit the guy getting out square in the stomach as we passed him like lightning in a tornado. The guy doubled over while shaking his fist exclaiming something about our mothers as he slowly fell; knees down to the pavement. I thought we were leaving a trail of destruction even our hero mr. X would be proud to witness. We raced onward.

“Luckily the leg that Sal smashed him with was the one without the shoe. He’ll be alright. I just hope he’s not still there when Sal goes to get his shoe,” I screamed. Gary said he didn’t care again, just as long as we don’t crash. As soon as he said that I immediately thought to apply the brakes ever so gently in order to slow us down; but not too much. I squeezed the pedal down with confidence.

As soon as I did the brake cable broke and now Gary started to scream too… and right in mmy ear! Now we were at top speed. Chuck Yeager’s X-15 had nothing on us except he was in space and we were down here on earth with Clove Road traffic. Like the racing pro I thought I had become I yelled to Gary that now it was up to him to stop us. Sal heard this and began to curse in between his yells.

I’d say what they were but I’mm not sure what words were coming out of his dirty mouth. All I can remember is that truck drivers and demented, crazy people couldn’t understand him either. What we and everyone would know is that he was definitely freaked out from almost slipping off the top of the cab ride.

Remember the brake lever you’re supposed to pull in these kinds of emergencies I yelled to Gary. Whereupon Gary grabbed the thing and with as much muscle as he could muster, pulled back with all his might. The wooden lever broke in Gary’s two clasped hands. WOW! I yelled; he should have pulled just a little at a time because we were facing the horrendous speed faster with no brakes at all.

Sal didn’t hear this because that’s when he yelled for Gary to pull the extra lever emergency brake and for mme to pull over to the right as we slowed down. I said we couldn’t slow down at all nor pull to the right because the extra brake lever was now broken in Gary’s hands. Sal didn’t hear this above Gary’s screams.

I then begged Sal to hold on; the entrance to the park’s driveway was coming up in a few seconds. I was gonna make as wide a right turn as possible in order not to turn over which I explained in a panic would make Sal some kind of version of mince meat as he would roll on the hard pavement and maybe crack his skull.

I yelled to the boys that when I count three or they felt us turning, to lean to the right. That may help the overcompensated turn and maybe prevent us from crashing and turning on X’s left side. They were mostly in panic mode but I was making the final turn for us to win the 500 and no one was even coming close.

Looking ahead we all thanked the heavens that there was absolutely no other human in sight; no pregnant women with kids; no strollers in the way or anything so frightening as even two dogs would be. Even senior citizens were no where to be seen. It was our turn for some luck and here it was. We held on hard.

I looked ahead at the fast approaching cross streets that at this time of day were busy with traffic streaming and speeding back and forth from left to right, right to left. Instead of the dreaded turn, for a split second I thought to take a chance on a green light but in the next millisecond I said hooooooooold oooooooon booooooooys herrrrrrrre we goooooooo!!! ONE! TWO! THREEEEEEE!!!....

Luckily in those days the good ‘ol park department crews were always on top of it with their proud versions of manicured lawns, trimmed trees, bushes, beautiful gardens, clean ponds and clear sidewalks. When I turned into the slight incline up the very wide driveway it was more than enough to knock Sal off the roof.

Gary and I both heard him scream like we’ve never heard him scream before. X got lighter as Gary and I leaned towards the right as much and as hard as we could but monster X was going so fast that her right front and back wheel kept lifting up and up and up as we tried to make the fast turn without any damage to X or most importantly to ourselves. Our monster X was about to flip over.

As hard as we tried for a safe landing, it wasn’t to be. Monster X’s new Soap Box Derby wheels gave way and began to bend out of shape with all the weight and I’mm sure an inordinate amount of centrifugal force. The sounds were deadly.

Gary and I both yelled in fear of death as monster X finally tipped over on its side while leaving the asphalt and headed to a meadow while chasing a few very scared and scurrying squirrels. X slid another twenty or thirty feet on the grass. Gary and I pushed our faces to the plywood floor which was now really a wall, in hopes of not breaking any bones, heads, lips or teeth. Time was in slow motion

The plywood monster made crunching sounds the whole way and abruptly came to a full stop that jerked both riders miraculously through the front window and on to a nice green meadow landing. We lay there laughing really hard while yelling for Sal and at the same time wanting to be sure that we were actually in one piece each. We had small cuts, bruises and green stained clothes.

Half a minute later Sal came hobbling up to us with torn pants and blood on one cheek. Other than that he said he was in great shape. All at once we yelled and screamed each and every occurrence from when we first began rolling down the hill to our fateful and non- serious medical inducing landing. We were ecstatic.

Sal gave us his view from the top and we gave him our view from the inside. This euphoria lasted for a good fifteen minutes until walking back to monster X. Slowly we examined around the scratched, dented and frayed at the edges mess.

We decided that all monster X needed really were some new wheels, new brakes that would work next time and a new white paint job. White because we thought the angels must have saved us from a fate worse then our parents could dish out.
We all agreed that we’d paint a big black X on our car. We’d not abandon hero’s.

We could also live with the dents as they would show our experience in several crashing and survival techniques that we promised ourselves we’d spread the tale of our own Dead Man’s Hill by writing it down some day; OK-Gary and Sal?

Post Script.

This ride was not on the real Dead Man’s Hill; but it was this experience that far surpassed anything we’ve ever encountered on that little slant with a bend. One day I’ll write about that particular hill. The one that was really called Dead Man’s Hill and the one where many times we all were champions.

Dead Man's Hill - 3

2010-02-24T10:11:00.000-08:00

February 24, 2010

Sal and I began to push the lone rider towards our final destination of Dead Man’s Hill. After a few short steps we all agreed that the two man starter-pusher was the best solution. Gary’s next suggestion was to add another block before the switch because it was that much easier therefore the ride would be too short. So that we did, even though we all knew he was still in the driver’s seat. We puffed.

After the four blocks Sal got in and Gary got out as we continued toward our destination. It was at this switch that we all asked each other where the famous helmet was stored. No one bothered to remember the thing. I said that at monster X’s speed I’mm not sure it mattered that much. Sal said that he thought it would help us look more professional. Gary couldn’t believe it was left behind.

At this thought we all agreed with Sal seeing as how that’s why we even made the hood hinges the same colour; for the same reason. We all decided it was too late to go back. By this time, about 11 a.m. the main suburb streets were beginning to get cluttered with more vehicular traffic. Now trucks and big city buses spewed exhaust in our nostrils because we were at that lowest position.

We rested after Gary’s last block. As a group we decided to add a few more blocks to the predetermined route not just for safety and smelly reasons but most importantly due to hills we’d encounter on the old way; the same one’s we didn’t realise we’d have to trek before heading out of Gary’s driveway. The traffic changed route was longer but we were still determined to reach our final goal.

After the initial four plus blocks there was no turning back now; by the way crossing a street didn’t count as any part of a block. That was just something we had to cross to get to the other side to begin counting the rider’s next block.

At this point I was beginning to really get tired and was trying to think ahead to just exactly where mmy turn as a rider would begin. I asked Gary, the new partner starter-pusher where he thought it would be. He said in a dry, flat, bored tone, “After Sal’s four blocks.” “Thanks Gary,” I said with eyes rolled upward.

I took the new information into consideration when trying to calculate mmy turn to ride. Best as I could figure, it was the very beginning of the last hill we’d have to climb. I thought to mmyself, oh heck I wonder if it’s too steep to ride inside. In three blocks I was to find out soon enough. We continued pushing Sal. He smiled

Sal’s four blocks went pretty easy as most of his turn was a straight away with a few stops in between for red lights and cross streets. Also in our travel we encountered a number of irate male legal drivers and their honking car horns.

The mostly adult drivers were yelling to us to take that thing off the road; we’re causing undo hardships to those who have the right of way. They usually did this by sticking their heads out of their car windows; passenger sides as well while presenting us their gritted teeth as if to show us their new dental work. We of course thanked them with little kid’s smiles continuing on our way; waving.

We had no choice really, unlike now a day when some corner curbs have sloping cement. Back then it was still a four or five inch drop from sidewalk to pavement. This was the second time we considered adding shocks; not just because of each corner’s obstacle but observing the uneven and multidimensional sidewalks we all thought that if the men in blue came along, it would be a much harder push.

We were now reaching the end of Sal’s last stretch. Straight ahead and at the end of this block and its red light it would be mmy turn. Unfortunately for mme the light had turned green for our right of way. Before I could jump in for the quick switch Gary started pushing harder as Sal yelled to both of us to quickly push to the other side of the street so we wouldn’t have to wait in traffic. We puffed on.

I did this reluctantly not only because I was beat and it was mmy turn but I had lost the opportunity for the uncounted ride across the street to the next side. That wasn’t the half of it. We reached the other side of the street, which was Clove Road and the same street that was one side of the park we were to enter. A hill.

This is where the one long up hill began before we were to go downhill again just before entering the park. At this point we stopped again to rest and to take turns swigging what little water was left in the single, small bottle we had brought to quench thirst. Yes we were all quite thirsty and a bit tired, Gary and me. It wasn’t an easy slog. Sal got out, I quickly got in as he and Gary pushed. They puffed.

It wasn’t long, maybe about twenty feet when both of them said that the hill is too steep to push anyone who wanted to ride inside. We’d all have to push at this point. Needless to say I was quite unhappy about this but it was obvious they were telling the truth. The slog was just as slow as at the beginning. The grunts and groans coming from the two emaciated Clydesdales was another clue that in fact I had to get out and be the third starter-pusher. I was gritting teeth.

Of course as had happened at the beginning of this excursion, I had no sympathy for either one of them. After all it was finally mmy turn and it seemed like we had gone at least several miles before it was. I asked them to try a little harder while at the same time lifting mmy butt off the plywood seat in hopes to make the car lighter. That didn’t work. I also couldn’t use the brakes this way either.

Of course I know now as an adult with a little more education in these things the new position wouldn’t work. Begrudgingly I exited X and began to help the two starter-pushers. Now all three of us trudged our monstrosity X with no motor, up the asphalt hill and up to the hopeful precipice where I was to jump in again.

Meanwhile the whole way I kept saying that in fact although we were passing a few corners which would be considered blocks this wasn’t part of mmy ride because I wasn’t actually sitting inside steering. I was steering through the opening we called a window but Gary and Sal decided that our butts had to touch wood in order for it to be considered a true ride. I was relieved at the truth.

It took us just as long to reach the top of that hill as it took us to get from Gary’s beginning ride through Sal’s and on to mmy turn; it was only three blocks more. But those three blocks were much longer in length than all the other eight combined. It was certainly a long, slow slog but we made it and now we were at the top of the Clove Road hill. The park entryway beckoned our quicker arrival.

The next ride was mmine of course. As we stopped at the top of the hill looking down we thought there’d be no way I should brake anywhere along the downhill route before we approached the slight curving entryway to the park. Just beyond that was one of the busiest intersections around. We had to turn in.

The park entrance is where we knew there would be no more vehicular traffic to hinder us. As long as there were no pregnant mothers or strollers in our path we could just barrel our way downhill and coast as far as we could before anyone had to push again. This more than excited us as we took in the long downhill run

Gary came up with this scenario I thought later on in life mostly because it was his turn to push. Sal of course agreed wholeheartedly as the partner pusher. They also thought there was no need to push any further because of the long downhill so he and Sal thought to ride along with mme. Somehow all three were to roll on.

Gary was the back seat passenger so to speak while Sal would jump on the top of the cab and ride with us all the way to as far as we could go. An added bonus Gary said was that their extra weight would ad even more momentum to our ride, thereby giving us the first real thrill of the day’s fun to run activity. Until…

This scenario made mme squint both eyes while thinking of how fast we’d actually be going when reaching the slightly curved entryway. As the steerer driver mmy first thought was for all of us to gather and pray that nothing got in our way when we reached the bottom where most mothers and their babes in strollers would most likely be congregating before entering the park themselves.

Needless to say, the boys didn’t give us much time to think this through. All they seemed to be concerned about was not pushing and most importantly of the ride ahead without exerting much energy on their part. I on the other hand as the designated steerer-driver was being a bit more cautious; not to mention skeptical

I asked the boys if they thought both our braking systems would work just in case of not only the mother and child scenario but I was concerned about senior citizens as well. They of course would not be fast enough to jump out of our way, right? That question was never answered. Speed took control of their minds.

In unison as if to assure their mothers in a lie that they indeed finished their homework before being allowed ice cream, the boys yelled their confident affirmations with a long scream of Bonnnnnnnnn-Saiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!!!

Like World War Two Kamikazes unafraid of death while giving their long running, getting faster and faster to a final push; I as the steerer-driver had all our lives in mmy two little shaking hands, wrists and skinny arms. God help us.

The getting faster and faster downhill run without a windshield was making mmy eyes blurry almost immediately like a spring release when the crisp, fresh air rushed into mmy pupils like a dam’s waterfall being let out after a winter’s run off and fill up to the top of the dam before finally running over. I couldn’t see

What happened next frightened all of us out of our nice dry pants…

That’s right; to be continued:

Dead Man's Hill -2

2010-02-23T12:07:00.000-08:00

February 23, 2010

We painted our car top to bottom all black of course. We also painted a big white X on every side including the hood and top of the cab just in case airplanes traveling in low altitude overhead were to notice our every intention to be found.

The overall paint job copied our favourite local bad guy stock car driver. He had big X’s painted on his car which was disqualified more times than not. This was due to just a little extra weight of a few sand bags he laid in the back trunk for traction. Unfortunately this was discovered most times, especially after a win, which wasn’t that often. But we loved him just the same. He was our pack leader

Mr. X and his X painted coupe was certainly our hero with no number unlike the rest of the pack of mostly mechanics who raced every Saturday night in the summer. Weissglass Stadium was just down the street from where we lived.

The ‘Stadium’ was almost a quarter mile oval track that with a little tweaking could have actually been considered a circle; it was that small. Other times we’d see little league baseball or high school football games in the same place; an every year small time circus also planted itself there for a few weeks as well as wrestling and boxing matches. It was our little ‘hoods’ outdoor everything spot.

Anytime anything we wanted to see but couldn’t pay for like the every Saturday evening car races in the summer, our little group would try to sneak in the front gates. Most times we’d ask to tag along with an adult or we’d walk fast during a thick crowd entry hopefully not to be seen by the ticket taker on either side of the rather wide entryway. To slip in unnoticed we asked to hold strange adult hands. Sometimes we surprised them by just grabbing theirs. Most didn’t agree.

These turn downs were largely due to our vaguely planned begging to escape to inside. One by one we kept on trying our luck anyway. It was a numbers thing. The gathering spot was predetermined mostly because X needed our crowd of cheers. We cheered even louder when he turned our way to be recognised by us.

So of course our car had to be dedicatedly constructed in X’s honour. Instead of a real car’s round contours ours had to be flat and straight on all sides due to the difficulty we decided was too much for the cheap plywood we had to work with.

Finally the construction was complete. One thing we decided was not a very good idea to forget was to put hinges on the front hood. We thought this important just in case we had to work on the engine like X must have done.

Of course we had no engine but that didn’t matter; it was the thought of having one that did matter. Besides, we still needed to work on the steering and brake system after the body was constructed so we pulled all of those nails out and asked Santa Claus to buy us three hinges for our redesigned hood/engine cover.

Gary’s dad suggested we search in the older garage for more jars that may hold the exact hinges we needed. Gary’s grandfather saved everything he’s ever owned so luckily we found two that matched and one that didn’t but it worked anyway. We decided to paint them all the same colour as they’d show in public and we wouldn’t want to be embarrassed as seeming to be unprofessional.

We labored more summer days on the actual workings of everything we needed to steer and stop this monstrosity. Needless to say, X wasn’t a very small car; and because it was all plywood it had rattle sounds that metal would never make. We thought shock absorbers could have been added but we didn’t know where to find any used ones for free let alone any that would work with our special car.

When we looked under and behind the huge tires, specifically at the shocks of Gary’s parent’s big black Packard limo, we just couldn’t see how something like that would work anyway. Without much discussion we decided to go shock less. Besides we were all impatient to start our new and daring driving experience. The thing rolled so we were excited and more than ready to begin our joy rides.

As planned Gary got in while Sal and I yelled out ‘Shotgun!’ Whoever said this first was automatically considered the front seat passenger for the simple fact of calling it out first. To Sal and I, it didn’t sound like the other was first so Gary was the deciding vote. He said we had both said it in unison. Gary’s solution was that Sal and I would ‘shoot for it’ with the game known as Odds or Evens.

One person called Odds and the other had Evens which meant that whoever won three times first, they were the winner. For those not familiar with the hand game of decision makers; someone would call, ‘Shoot!’ Then both parties would shoot out one hand with either one finger or two fingers protruding from a fist.

To further explain, if one person had one finger out and the other had two, that was an odd combination and Odds would win. If both had one finger out, or both had two fingers out then Evens would win. A win three times determined who won overall. I called Evens and so did Sal.

We probably did this more times than necessary when Gary said, “I’ll say GO.” Just to decide who the Odd or Even guy was took a little while longer but in the end, I was eventually Even, Sal was the Odd guy. (That doesn’t look right, today)
Finally, Sal won so I was to be the first starter-pusher for what we had predetermined to be about three city blocks for each turn; rotating from the passenger to the driver and so on until we got to a hill of any consequence. At that point all of us would be pushers. The person steering from the outside also would take turns. Inside the car they entered and push, I began… or tried to.

Like the wolf in the three pigs, this nine year old short and very thin guy huffed and puffed just to get the monster X and its two passengers to the driveway exit of Gary’s property. That thing was more than a heavy, struggling push for the first thirty something feet. I was tired by the time we reached the driveway exit. Most of the push was on grass but we were convinced the street would be easier.

Luckily for mme the driveway was a short, four foot, steep slope. I pushed hard enough to watch the big monster X drift for about ten feet into the street while Gary turned right to head the car further on. I ran to catch up to continue the momentum but the thing just crawled to a halt. I pushed again while struggling to gain a continued rolling motion. The car was too heavy for mme to make much headway with the kind of speed we all expected to feel while inside or out.

At this time we all noticed we forgot to install a speedometer but we were also sure that at this rate we’d not threaten any land speed record any time soon. Like a stalled car with ignition problems or anything that kept any kind of real car moving slower than a slug as the stuck and lonely driver tried to push car’s beast to the curb; and as much as I tried, the monster X was even slower than a slug.

I was breathing heavy. The boys riding inside weren’t too sympathetic until the exhausted crawl set in about thirty feet later. It was at that point that we all wondered what would happen when reaching any kind of a slight grade in the up direction. Going downhill we discussed was not going to be a problem.

Like our hero X, the human cargo carried like his sand would take us to any finish line with flying colours. But that wasn’t our immediate problem. Momentum was. It was a hard decision we must have talked about for ten minutes or so. I came up with the idea of two guys being the starter pushers thereby making the car lighter while adding another person was like a bigger engine that much more speed would surely be the result. X needed two guys.

Both Gary and Sal didn’t seem to like that idea at this point. They were very comfortable even at the slow speed. I suggested either one of them to at least try the starter pusher part for about five feet to experience a little ahead of time as to what their turn would be like in a different position. I promised that if they did this then they might change their mind when it came time for their turn.

An extra incentive stressed was that the monster X would go even faster with two people being the starter-pushers as opposed to the slow crawl of just one in that position and the fact that the other two would probably get pretty bored going so slow. It would even be slower when considering the time it took the starter pusher to rest in between the huffs, puffs, aches, pains and the mandatory water breaks; especially since we had only one very small bottle to go around.

Then of course we had to be back by dark; not to mention the fact that Dead Man’s Hill steep downward grade was waiting to be challenged that same day. Look how many joy rides we’d miss if we took so long to get there; was the best scenario and one that finally convinced the two riders to change their minds.

So Sal being the passenger was the designated starter-pusher helper seeing as Gary was already holding the steering wheel tighter than a cowboy grabs the rope on a bull. The fact that there was two more blocks to go before the switch didn’t help Sal to get out ungrudgingly of course but we all decided it wasn’t really any fun going so slow after all.

Besides, we also conceived that our Dead Man’s Hill arrival would be that much quicker just because we had just made a level headed decision and the best for all concerned. Of course Gary said that after Sal and I had yelled in unison, “Only two more blocks before we switch, right?!” Why we yelled that with a question ending was that we as starter pushers didn’t think it fair to begin again from the new decision spot. After all, it wasn’t as if the rider-steerer had just begun either.

… So much like this little story began; again it will continue on the morro

Dead Man's Hill

2010-02-22T14:03:00.000-08:00

February 22, 2010

Looking at the title there, it doesn’t seem as ominous today as it did years ago when life or death stared us in the face. Clove Lake’s park was where Dead Man’s Hill and Dead Man’s Curve were located. At this point I’d have to ask siblings the actual name. It could have been either. I’mm guessing it was the former; the latter named was the dreaded turn that sooner or later awaited us all.

In any case ‘The Hill or The Curve’ was the same place we used to visit many times during our early years before high school. I think even the first few years of high school we visited and accepted dares. It was the challenge place of heroics; to live or die by how fast we braved to travel in a down hill direction.

It’s impossible to count the times we as a large or small group of kids walked up and down the long, steep, somewhat curved and not so wide asphalt pathway. More times than not we challenged each other by two’s. Many times as a whole group we’d race to achieve first place and the minute by minute, hourly, daily, weekly or even an over all lifetime honour to be champion of Dead Man’s Hill.

Whether it was running on foot, on beat up scooters, tied or untied roller skates, bicycles with fat tires and no gears or even with our self- built, orange crate go cart designs; Dead Man’s Hill was the main challenge whenever we thought to compete for the ultimate reward of going for the gold… ‘Last one’s a rotten egg!’

I can remember so many different groups and instances while visiting the childhood spot. The exhilaration of going downhill seemed like an Olympic event. Coincidentally, as the Vancouver Winter Olympics of 2010 are taking place as this is being written, the Olympics of our day took place most times on this same hill no matter the weather, day, and time of day, week, month or year.

Sunshine, rain, sleet, hail or snow like the postman’s code of never stop, nothing really got in the way of those fun-run visits. Impossible to recall how many times each of us were champion. Everyone who participated seemed to have received the honour of being ‘Champ of the World,’ at one time or another; didn’t matter the reason or race. We constantly repeated or made up new challenges daily.

One particular trio of friends was Gary, Sal and mmyself. Gary had a huge yard where we did a lot of childhood things. His dad who was a banker supplied us like Santa Claus in July with all manner of tools and materials for whatever projects that happened to be our next most important activity. One was to build our own race car that of course was to be put to the test down Dead Man’s Hill.

To this day I wish I had photos of the thing. At this point I’ve lost touch with both pals. It’s quite possible either one of them has a photo or two but I certainly don’t. Although at the time I know we all took turns sitting in the driver’s seat while photos were being taken in more locations than one. The photo up top is a self built and year’s later version. It has the exact same kind of wheels. I built that one for Philippe, a little French five year old. He and his mom lived next door.

The year’s earlier car too was constructed entirely of plywood. The four huge wheels were acquired from the authentic Soap Box Derby (SBD) people who at the time were the local Chevrolet Dealer. One year Gary’s dad, who had helped probably more than he should have, bought the special wheels in order to have Gary be a recognised and therefore legal SBD entrant. Dads helped illegally.

I remember his car quite well. Like many SBD entries of those days the car didn’t quite appear as if a nine or ten year old had designed or built it. Granted maybe now this may be the case but back then, his and his dad’s design was an all sleek gray and white painted fiberglass car. It was so professionally done that it looked like one of those Indianapolis 500 midget racers from the thirties or forties. It had an open cockpit, smooth curves and a helmet hand painted to match the car.

The modern difference was the missing motor. Gary and his dad were allowed to enter the thing but I’mm sure he didn’t win. What he or they did with that car is not a memory. I do know for a fact that we recycled the wheels and other parts to construct our own new version built on the order of an old Model T. Ford. We copied a favourite bad guy stock car racer who cheated endlessly at a local track.

Losing the big race that year didn’t seem to bother Gary but he was kind enough to dismantle the wheels and start anew after the big, well publicized SBD race was over. The potential transportation racer built with Gary and friends occurred especially when Dead Man’s Curve was brought to our young dare attention.

Gary invited Sal and I shortly thereafter to join him on the new venture. All the supplies were waiting for us as we arrived early one sunny Saturday morning. Several full sized sheets of the same thickness of plywood was the main body.

The nails and screws however were mostly a hodge-podge of whatever opened, used vegetable cans, glass jars with no lids or plastic yoghurt containers that held any number of shapes and sizes of the things we thought may be OK to put stuff together including a few different kinds of glue. Also on Gary’s picnic table were several lengths of rope, pliers, one hammer, two rusty saws, and a spoon. The spoon of course Gary explained was for the exact placement of glue to wood.

Gary’s one and only legal SBD helmet sat on the table as an incentive to finish the project. The helmet of course could be worn just by the driver who we all voted Gary to be the first mostly because it was his backyard, his stuff, and fit his head.

Very important was Gary’s memory while working with his dad since also saved from the SBD experience were the complex mechanisms we recycled for the steering and braking systems. A big part was the steering wheel Gary (or his had or both) had dismantled from a real car that was bought and brought from a local automobile junk yard just down the street. It was larger than the car needed

Also on the table; several lengths of metal cables, eye hooks, pulleys and legal, long rod axles we were to nail in place. The axles were installed by hammering over four or five dozen nails in each board. Bending them over the axle was what would hold each rod in their correct position. It seemed even that amount may not be enough. Overkill we thought was better than being killed in case they fell off due to weight or rough, pothole roads encountered; we were very cautious.

The boards with axles and wheels were the first to be built. They determined how wide the car should be. How long didn’t seem to make any difference but we made it long enough for two guys to sit down in the car; butts planted flat.

The rear guy’s legs straddled either side of the front guy. The front guy did all the steering. His legs stuck through an opening that would normally be called a car’s firewall; extending through what also would be, if it was real, the hood of a car. That’s also where the steering shaft as well as the braking system resided.

If the foot brakes built exactly like the SBD brakes failed for any reason, then like the pro car builders we were, there was an option for the passenger guy to pull back a wooden lever, connected to a simple but hopefully effective ‘Rubber Stopper Brake to Wood and Wheel Pulley System,’ which is what we called it.

This system was devised by all three of us which took only a few days of squabbling over the drawings and materials to be used to decide what was best in order for the thing to work. This was to save our parents the heartache of what could have been a triple funeral. Yes, that’s right; it would be a triple funeral.

After the two were enclosed in the inescapable and covered cab with a not too easy to escape fast, hinged out back door, the third guy being the starter - pusher was the one most likely to live through the potential tragic experience; or again so we thought. None of us wanted to lose the other two of course especially when facing crazy and very disturbed parents might have been concerned.

Being just the starter-pusher was the one who would be the watcher and therefore will automatically be killed by the other two sets of parents for letting the whole thing happen in the first place. Then of course the parents of the only survivor was also a dread seeing as how a lifetime of servitude may be the risk.

Part of the designing of the most important steering and braking systems were conversations of our parents asking us at the potential tragic demise of the two friends and our well designed car as being, “ Didn’t you see the bus was too close? Or how could you be the starter-pusher when you saw the cement truck was that close to the street signals? What the hell were you kids thinking?”

In foresight, whether or not the lights were red, green or yellow didn’t seem to matter in these tragic scenarios; nor were the advent of stop signs. We also took into account that having no motor meant we could follow our own rules; a vehicle registration not needed; a driver’s test? Nope. It also went without saying that a legal license for the thing was never a question. After all we were just kids!

In any case, we all thought that the extra braking system would help the two riders be safer if the one well thought out system broke or became unusable in the first place. This was especially important when the three of us were thinking we’d be the only one left to face the consequences of potentially six but for sure four taller and due to the unrehearsed and tragic situation, very angry adults.

Regardless, none of us wanted to be the last one standing in the family court of death to the one who should have known better. How could you as the starter- pusher send our son’s to their death? All those questions were soon forgotten when fun took over and Dead Man’s Hill was the first real challenge. The initial problem of course was just getting us and the thing to the top of the famous hill.

We had a few miles to find out, and for you dear readers as they say in cliffhanger land;

To be continued;

Voices From a MMoonscape

2010-02-21T10:47:00.000-08:00

February 21, 2010

More times than I can remember, I’ve sent the poem that follows and is part of this blog to a few friends and more than a few acquaintances. Without a doubt after reading the poem you’ll realise that in many of these instances, although not all the time we shared great land and ocean distances.

The thought originally began with a stranger, a person I met about twenty years ago. The stranger’s home was in a rather remote place in Africa. At that time neither of us had cell phones, the internet or a satellite connection.

The only way to talk in a real time kind of way was through a short wave/long wave radio relay based in the city of Mombasa. Although it was tried a few times the radio connection had a lot of and too much static. There was another way.

The alternative thought was that if either of us wanted to talk to the other, didn’t have access to any of the wired or wireless communication channels at the time or just couldn’t wait, then while looking up at the sky, we both knew the moon was the common sight and one that we could refer to and share as:

Voices from a MMoonscape

Was i mistaken when i heard your voice
Full moon’s smiling slow paced,
Flying, gliding with glimmering stars?
Did your eyes dream reach that festive place
And mirrored down - two gazed his face
…and did my thoughts just hear yours sounding revelry?

Was i mistaken when i heard your voice
Basking ‘neath moon’s rising
Uncompromising view?
Once more i tried
To hear your voice drift down - sounds dance
‘Fore eyes raised up to greet - our glance
I listened…
The pale round’s glistening;
Plea’s – time be silent.

Was i mistaken when i heard your voice
As moon’s smile played through night’s proud shade
Before a breaking day
Before the suns tone rise
Glowing faintly as pale skies
Lifts morning’s darkened yawn
Phased moon’s drifting byes
… and did i hear you softly whisper… tender ... " night.... "

Giving Voice to Your Heart

2010-02-20T15:29:00.000-08:00

February 20, 2010

As an artist, in the present, in the past and probably will in future; I spend an inordinate amount of time on the net; many other forms of information also while in a continual search for anything new. It’s pretty amazing more frequently than not to meet people with mmusic surprises up their sleeves.

Often it’ll turn out to be someone with a mmusical background that has nothing whatsoever to do with their current daily occupation; the reason for searching and finding them in the first place. The blog today is about one such person.

I can’t remember her name but I’mm sure with a little back tracking that fact can be remedied. There are a lot of people like her so the name is not that important really. The point is that these people exist in the peripheries of our everyday lives. Until we find them, although their circles of humanity will have heard, as strangers in an international world we’ll never know who they are.

Discovering the woman who inspired these words, I learned from the beginning that she was a lawyer. Her business practice concerned mmusic, mmusicians and all phases of contract negotiations in the mmusic field. Connecting with her son initially was how I found her. They both basically had the same vocation. He was a lawyer as well as a weekend warrior/ drummer. His mom was the CEO of the little family run business and originally a singer.

The drummer son was a member of his own copy band. They performed gigs of all kinds; mostly weddings and parties as I recall. In our connection he’s the one who told mme his mother was also an opera singer. The son directed mme to her web page. To mmy surprise there were over a dozen MP3’s on her web site including a bio of her quite extensive operatic and mmusical background.

Curiosity always takes over when discovering mmusic things. Of course this was no exception. I clicked on the first song, then the next, then the next until I heard every single song posted. All the songs were produced like any professional mmusician would, including great mmusical accompaniments. She was awesome to say the least. I couldn’t believe it but mmy ears heard the truth.

Traveling and living across the U.S. A. it always amazes mme when hearing of people finally discovered like Mrs. Boyle, I think her name is; one of the latest American Idol contestants. They’ll come out of the woodwork like ants to food; that someone would give them a chance to shine is another story; hope lives on.

It seems no matter where we look, they’re always out there with the highest quality talents never to be discovered unless and again like Ms. American Idol and the like, they’re brought to our attention by the ‘ pick a number in the hat’ lottery; wild, they are:

Giving Voice to Your Heart

We’ve felt your heart.
You lay it out there for everyone to touch.
We’ve felt your heart in your voice; it’s trust.
Your expressive, studied voice sings truth.

The one you’ve worked so hard to achieve.
The emotion your mmelodies embrace; believe.
Your voice emotes, you’re passion; the creed

While reaching higher notes of perfection,
Of truth; your voice in tones, inflections,
Pitch, scales devotion, perception; plays honesty

We’ve felt your heart.
We tear; we smile; you touch our spirit.
Before and after that special note came
It comes and goes again and again and,
Wild; Waiting for us to hold on to and then…

You know the one.
You sang it more than once.
You sang it in more than one song.
It summons us to listen more
You sing, we feel your song’s a door

To hear, to hang on longer; wish in,
Your voice, profoundly mmusic ambition.
The coloratura your truth imbues; plea’s, listen.
It’s your soul.
Do you know you’re blues?
You’ve not rocked that role but
You’re Pro; your song; deep honesty, truth.

The tone of your voice; sincerity.
We’ve felt your heart.
We’ve heard your heart.
We know your heart.
It smiles and welcomes us, all.

Children Of War

2010-02-19T06:36:00.000-08:00

February 19,2010

Children Soldiers; maybe it’s a bizarre scenario to you too. It shouldn’t be happening no matter the circumstances. But then again I don’t and maybe you don’t live in those countries where it does happen Even in the world’s so called civilized societies we know it’s a reality occurrence in our neighborhoods as well. Petri dishes of poverty.

Child soldiers are one aspect of wars I could never validate nor agree with those who claim its justification. Perhaps we’re not close enough to the struggles of those people’s or nations to understand their necessity. But then again, from what most of us are aware, it’s not really any kind of a legitimate fighting force who enlist, train and drug children to be killers. When these army’s are short of men, children are the next to fall.

Obviously, no matter what the struggle, children shouldn’t be killing other people let alone other children who are sometimes trying to kill them. We know even in our so called civilized societies gang warfare in inner and even outer cities is a lot about children. Grammar school age kids with guns. Poverty, especially jobs and such can be attributed to rising numbers of children involved in gang activity; belonging to survive?

In any case that subject is one part of this blog entry that we’re learning more and more about. Just the other day I was in a store, not a book store, and looking through books on one of those turning racks. The book that caught mmy eye was one written by a young boy, still a child of sixteen and one who was a soldier in the country of his origin. He was living in New York City at the time but was recalling his days as a rebel soldier.

I’ve not yet finished the book but in other instances of children being left out of society we have no further to look than the recent news of the last earthquake that happened in Haiti. Many of the adult people killed have left children on the doorsteps of humanity. Opened arms or not, they’re still there with the question of what possibly can be done to help the entire lot; again left to beg, scrape or steal for food and the wont to survive.

What happens with them at this point is anybody’s guess. Some will find another home, most probably won’t. Huge earthquake disasters are catastrophes that occur too fast and are too large to help millions of distressed and starving people. To shelter, feed and heal everyone in short order, is impossible. A huge tragedy, not just for the people whose country the earthquake occurs but for the whole of humanity, earth’s family.

Like wars, no matter the ruin or country affected, children are the greater part of the abandoned in the worst of circumstances. Positively, many countries are trying to pull together to help the people of Haiti. Thankfully, a good sign for our earth’s concerned communities. Just the other day I read a sign on a hardware store where one of the local angels of good was trying to collect mmusical instruments to send to Haiti… great.

Catastrophes give us no choice of easy circumstances. Beginning at birth and especially in times of war children are always the helpless. As in many wars past and of course present wars, continuing as we speak; children are relegated to marginal or collateral damage; lost until accounted for; like being buried or hidden in mass graves some will never be found nor recovered. Name the country, you’ll find young walking wounded.

The very young as well as the very old are the last segments of society caught in the middle. Like bullets gone astray; guns pointed skyward to find its unintended mark of an innocent. In a neighborhood it may be an accident. In a war they’re always the illegitimacy of the times sucking them into the circumstance of so what; distant eyes.

How many recent photo’s let alone those in history when there were no cameras, video’s or I phones, have we seen missing or wandering children roaming the streets of despair or lost in a desperate battle of survival for food, shelter or most importantly, love? How many milk carton memories or products advertising anguish of a family’s lost child or loved one have you seen while having breakfast in your warm cocoon?

Most children come into this world as little gifts of expectancy to their parents and in turn their village or community. I don’t mean that to be as the parents just had a baby. What I mean is children are born with the anticipation of growth; to travel miles and to live some years to reach the heights of knowledge while gaining a lifetime of experiences towards and beyond adulthood; in turn to have families of their own.

In whatever amount of years it takes to be contributing members of world societies they are born into or gravitate towards, children aren’t expected to reach death until much later; hopefully after gaining the whole of a so called normal existence.

Wars and especially poverty can definitely hinder or stop that process. Many children really have no say in how or what happens to them because they are or they become:

Children of War

…in all the

World's War's

End of all the

Whirled's Words

Wrongs soar rites

Light id paths
Or
Language shadows

Children of War
Sing
Verse is anticipating

Life
Width

Chorus is precipitating

[Death]+

SPRING

2010-02-18T08:00:00.000-08:00

February 18, 2010

Yes, I’mm dreaming; it’s still February. Here or most places in the U.S. it feels like, and we still are in the throws of snows. Perhaps where you are you may be colder than if you were sitting like one of the cubes in an ice tray. Or maybe you’re in one of the supposedly hotter climates. In any case, here is where I’mm thinking of the not so distant future when ‘Spring’ comes to mind.

Those of you who do live in the balmy climes either here in the U. S. or in other countries are probably already experiencing Mother Nature’s flower inducing blanket of blue skies and sunshine. The birds are whistling and so are you.

Although not long ago and maybe still, all the U. S. states except Hawaii were lucky enough to have the white stuff in their weather mix; southern states included. Those who deny global warming have only to look to ancient history I suppose in order to justify their mind set. Ah yes, the two sides battle it out.

It seems really strange to mme that with all the evidence put out there, including Mr. Gore’s little frightening exclamations, that there still ARE two sides of the global warming argument. I’mm reminded of the fictitious story of Superman.

These times are seemingly a parallel episode. Anyone who has seen the movie or read the books if you’ll remember the scene when good ‘ol Jor-el, Superman’s father was involved in that tribunal or court case while trying pass along the information of the on coming doom.

He was, to no avail trying to convince the powers that be that in fact their planet, the famous Krypton, was facing an imminent demise. There too although he had the floor and a pretty good argument, no one really believed him. Most of us know that outcome, don’t we? I wonder if this story will turn out the same.

I’ve decided to compete with Mr. Branson’s crew and began building a private rocket ship of mmy own. I’mm not too sure where to point the thing but our moon seems as good a place as any although I think any number of the rubber bands I’ve chosen are a little too weak to lift mmyself, mmy cat FACE along with a case and a half of Guinness.

Trying to past the gravitational pull of our at most fear, the half a case is extra when thinking I may have to drop a precious bottle at a time just to be sure to make the outer limits of space and the safe environs of who knows where besides the earth’s moon? Lord knows that place will be in the same condition in no time when earthlings decide to inhabit it in bubbles filling up with land full. ‘nuther life

Well, in any case that’s neither here nor there. I’mm still looking forward to the coming spring. The warm blue skies and the aromatic fragrances of blossoming everything’s everywhere you look brings you springs scenes or even summers shorts; wild retorts of screaming beach balls, surfers racing waves, cotton candy, sandy shores, S’more’s at a campfire enjoyed near a mountain stream? Yes…

Fortunately for us, we’ve got all that and more to look forward to in just a few short months. In the meantime, we can still dream of the days coming when we too will join warm or hot as hell as the world turns and the sun shines our way once more; well at least after:
SPRING
Isn't it grand to have a warm, calm, slow daze
Watching hurried wings soar; statue lizard plays
It's nigh's to here the birds
There singing hi; pitched tunes
It’s nice to know 'ol Jack Frost
Winter's white blessed is through soon.
To walk among the blooming trees
It's coming, spring – sea’s waving, please.
'sNice to take the time
Passed the minutes; ours
'sNice to real eye’s colours,
Fields of green; raise flowers
'sNice to feel warm breeze; is too
Watching bird's free flight-Wow! Phew!
Sun raised plays, enlightened lift
Moon’s phase-change storms; winter rift
'sNigh's to see, touch happy things
'sNice to have the snow, sleigh flings
But thanks full yes, it's becoming
SPRING!

The Best Small Town Library 2008

2010-02-17T08:05:00.000-08:00

February 17, 2010

Two years ago mmy current library thanks to the people who work, have worked and are still working hard there; was voted Best Small Town Library in the nation.

‘IN THE NATION’ mmined you; not just in our little town, bigger county or even larger state, but in alllll of these contiguous United States; ‘IN THE NATION.’ That’s pretty darn good wouldn’t you agree? For those who may be playing ostrich, that’s the great donated building, remodeled, dedicated and rightfully named after its benefactor family, The McKune Library located on Main Street.

Well, that was then and this is now. I’mm hoping you’ll join mme and our fellow town’s folk in keeping that title. Not that it has to be voted on again, to be chosen best in the nation, but just knowing it can still be best in our town forever is still a good title. Our library belongs to all of us. We’re certainly proud of what we have.

There is one not so recent but just the same, a deep concern. Our school kids not having a big enough or a good enough place really, for them to meet and continue in the learning process as well as just plain ‘ol getting together to be themselves. Grand parent, parents and all us older folks were teens once so you know the drill. It’s time for them and you all know this still. Will you help them and our library?

Right now as I understand it our still Best Small Town Library is trying to raise funds to fix up part of their building; a big part really and one that they already have available for this purpose and this new proposal. It’s on the table so to speak

The space is located on the lower floor of the McKune building on Main Street. You know the place. It needs remodeling simply because it wasn’t meant for any purpose other than to store books and other things. The floor and walls are still bare cement so it’s just an interior makeover really.

Most importantly, the kids need our help. The library needs our help too! What say, are you listening? I hear the tinkling of change already. How can I say this?

I see our teens just about every day after school closes. They want to be at our Best Small Town Library. What a great place to meet, wouldn’t you say? Most of you probably don’t even frequent the library enough to recognise this but now hopefully you’ll know; perhaps after sending this to them and you, maybe others will too because of our local newspaper or the library will enter this little blurb on their web sites; how to pass their word around otherwise? It’s up to you as well.

It’s time. It’s time for all of us to grab our little piggy banks and change jars to collectively join in to help our kids have this place; a new place at our library and one to replace the old, outdated from the beginning small and inadequate place called, ‘The Teen Space.’

Its evident there’s really no space big enough for all who want to be at our Best Small Town Library. Imagine that, they need the larger environs of a library too!

Several of the librarians had expressed agreement that the original architects really had no clue in foresight as to how the kids of our town would be drawn to our library. It’s their library as well, isn’t it? They present that fact by showing up consistently no matter the weather, day or program specifically directed to and for them. Heck, even without programs going on they still visit ‘The Best’ in droves.

They frequent it daily and love to congregate for lots of reasons. The main one I’d venture to say is to learn; that’s foremost; but you can bet as school age kids, they also like to learn together; like they do in school. It’s a book of words hangout.

In addition we as residents of this town know there’s actually no other place for them to meet; that’s the sad point. They need our help. They also need to help us help them. This is another time to show our collective communities face, to smile on another segment of our society who needs and most certainly deserves it.

Whatever or however the generals of the McKune decide to begin the collecting process? One suggestion would be to have a huge fish bowl on a table and stationed just inside the lobby. Have another? Pass it on to any librarian you see.

Every time visitors or those who drop off a book or video or just plain want to help, they also can walk a few more steps and plop their pennies, change, dollars and sense of ownership where each piece of material being paid for will collect. Everyone will bare witness and see as it grows and grows. No doubt in a short time the new space will be a reality. Are there a few volunteers to stand guard?

Needless to say I’mm being facetious. Collecting large quantities of change and whatever can be stuffed in a fish bowl needs to be emptied as its being added to. A chart on the side can show the collection process; nothing new but I think if one can see a daily build up, it may encourage more of the same; that make cents?

Wouldn’t you like for our younger generation to have a special place to learn as well as to have fun, to be around their friends and especially BOOKS? Perfect! I say.
What do you say?
Pass it on…..

The Shoe Tree

2010-02-16T09:18:00.001-08:00

February 16, 2010

The Shoe tree was located somewhere in Oregon, I think. I’mm not exactly sure where because I’ve only read about it in a newspaper article and at this point I’ve wracked mmy brain with no internet help whatsoever; to know a veil. If you know then pleas write the answer on a postcard, send it in an envelope along with a cashier’s check for $5 and address it to mme. I’ll look it up and tell ya later

At the time I was living about two hours south of Eugene, 100 miles north of Medford, miles west of Kirk and more than an hour east of Bandon, Oregon when a local friend brought the article to mmy immediate attention. The following poem was created due to those and these facts.

It seems a, not that very old tree tried its best to survive with the help of many branch huggers of course. Locals refused to let the town take precedent over its continued existence because no matter how ugly some thought it may be, after all whistled the crime stoppers, it was still a living thing; or so it a peered.

Over time the tree’s branches accumulated an immense amount of humanities shoo’s. The talked out walkers of every gender, type, colour, shape, age end sighs hung when flung with random a banned dumb meant, reign nor Shine.

Because of the too high graze all were rightfully left. Won; two hung when heaved by the sum of inept pitchers who’d never make the professional grade of anything this side of minor league baseball, triple A or little league for that matter.

Pop Warner league was out of the question. The simple fact being that the lowest branch was not low enough for little tikes emulating the Babe, Ty Cobb and the like. A first try for them led to a second and a third if need be four them. Two stayed if they were lucky or taller people were around to assist as throw hards.

Like the con’s of any decent leaguer’s tryouts, without their own referee’s of nothing’s to strike out for, the thrown up’s still counted repetitions in order to stick by untied strings of the chucker’s feat when finally wrapped in the grip of anything that branched out to catch them. One bye one, two, and moor were left.

The shoe tree was added two so many times that it could have passed for a new device to organise Imelda Marco’s well documented and demented patent leather, rub ‘er soul’s, pulled on while the protagonist faced the laced ped’s filed end hoarded to exploseive proportions in her dainty palace closets or boo’d waa.

The tree got to be famous because more than the population of a kindergarten class with the same amount of brain capacity of pee wheeze type individuals I’d imagine, decided it was time to really play havoc on the tall, barely spread out and barking wonder. They tried once; that didn’t work. Then once again and…

In the end, who knows who the final diss guised culprit or culprits were, but because of one too many vandalisation’s, the famous shoe tree ceased to exist in real life terms. Butt width, roots still planted firmly in the ground, it still stood still while its roots firmly planted in the ground helped.

Them, of coarse the wood bee fireperson’s rejects tried again and once again to burn it to death. Once wasn’t quite enough to undo Mother Nature’s resistance to each wring of fire. Like the Joan of Arc scandal, time and again the vandalino’s played the part of match to grill wild the lone standing tree was a stake at heart.

Now of course the town father’s or mother’s I can’t remember which but it was probably a combination of the too, said; something had to be done ‘fore fear of the town’s continuing blight. After all, the thing was beginning to stink to a higher heaven. Anyone who passed it once admired it from a distance after that.

This singular blight, they continued, might set a precedent then weed be fighting any number of blights that may frighten newcomers to alight our little burg even before they land at our welcoming door step. What shall we, doo? Yes, thought the town criers. We should and shall ax those who dare to cut it down ASAP.

The thing is dead, is no good to no one; ‘sides those feat’s need to be left to their right full owners. Whether or not anyone would claim them wasn’t the point. After all, they were shoo’s left to write:

The Shoe Tree

Before cutting threw The Shoe Tree
Well, before vandals did, burned it down
Any won could throw shoo's up their
Weathered knew, worn, tossed, lost or found

As far up as the branch is reached
One could toss dead shoes - threw the top
Who'd figured sooner than later breached,
Dissed play's of shoe less feats woods flop?

'Fore whatever reasons, weave noted
Site's soul of shoes hangin' free's stunk
Views aired, some sore at Shoe Tree's gloated
End one wonders who torched, dissed dat trunk?

Fun of most all was toss, watch ‘em
If shoes were thrown right in there place
If bye chants there pitch was bad, botched won
Twisted landings led to frowned face

Unsightly group leathered 'n unlaced
Some said should come down, too the dirt
Vandals torched loves soar 'd proudly re: placed
Mattered knot tree nor how humans hurt

Sow, morally wronged was barks wonder
Blaming flames engulfed its surround
Shoe’s smolder, lace singed, sinners ponder
The Shoe Tree, its friends lost was downed.

The River, Two No We're

2010-02-15T08:58:00.000-08:00

February 15, 2010

This little short story is one of a few I’ll enter in this blog, probably later rather than sooner depending on any number of whims in the MMick’s. This was writing in a class exercise; a ten minute one at that. It was also in the initial stage, a handwritten one and won I did knot; arrows were as crossed as eye’s closed.

Anyone who wreck in eye’s is the friend’s ship of this post it buoy no’s full well mmy handwriting by any stretch of the imagination is know less undecipherable than any four legged animal with pen or pencil in hoof or paw. They in fact would be better with any writing tool in each appendage and still a peer superior.

Just to let you know that when retyping this thing, yours truly had to not only exchange several pair of glasses in the most difficult process of search and diss try but a borrowed mmy crisp scope was used to distinguish periods to comma’s.

Bye the way, and also understand this, that this is not what I really like to write or even come pose any think, this way. The following is all made up stuff that is knot the norm of yours truly, meaning in fictional form. Stories from way back when or even are for that to now be stowing many thinks in this stuff is so what.

Needless to say, besides other forthcoming end treaties, I’ve got the great watcher of words ‘n wiz dome, Ms. Nancy Seligman to thank for this addition to bloggo whirled. The said Ms. Published expressed her whish of another lesson of plea’s continue with your wonder full class worked; home work dear stew dense.

On the other ham’d you may note this; Ms. Paid Author/Booker end print sis has stressed a long with any numb burr of dear wrist classed mates, mmined you all ovem wimmen if that makes scents, that in fact this crap is harder to read then if a pig in a poke had a pen and a stroke before writing such drivel ‘n dopey stuff.

“Dopey stuff?” asked I hurtedly wild being in crud duel us. Moving away from mmy sighed of the table of babble, “Aye” whisp purred all they sir ripped tsk usly. “Sheesh!” said mmoi, and then felt dead in their ayes. Oh well, better daze a wait aye guest. Pleas oh pleas Ms. Seligman, will you help mme? Plea’s was mmy knee’d down beg in position too stand up wordsmiths of everyone in class.

So then, and even now eye doo ask cure, ‘fore give nest dearly folks at large. Aye, adjust, cain’t help mmy self. ‘Sides a missed pelt word hear’s; end there? Sorry ;o)

The River, Two No We’re

“I KNOW Branson, but from what I can remember when we both picked out this thing at Cabellas, we decided it would be great for us because it appeared to have two fronts, or bows, or whatever they call that part of the boat,” said Timothy.

“It’s a Canoe, and yes Tim I realise that,” said Branson, “but if you also recall, you and I made an agreement and yes at Cabellas as well, that we’d both take turns steering the thing, and it seems to me that you’re doing more steering than oaring, or whatever THAT term is for, you know, putting that weird shaped wood thing in the water… as we try to move forward in this God forsaken river to no where.”

“That WOOD thing is called an O-A-R, an OAR dear Branny… so where ARE we by the way?” asked Tim.

“Damned if I know!” replied Branson.

As they rowed further and further down the river while switching their oars from side to side, the silence of the banks was interrupted by the sound of a distant screeching Osprey that suddenly appeared and swooped down while entering the water with a diminutive splash beside them.

It dove so fast and entered the water so smoothly that both Timothy and Branson turned to the sound and to see when it would come up and what it would be carrying. All of a sudden like an emerging submarine with full ballast allowing it to rise to the surface too fast the Osprey scooped up its lunch in a millisecond and reappeared with the violent movement of the considerable cargo of slippery silver quivering ferociously in its beak.

“That reminds me Branny, far as I can tell we’re about three days and 2 hours to food,” said Tim while rubbing his bulging, over the belt hanging and very pregnant looking stomach as it growled and churned with hunger pangs.

“…tell ya what Timmy, if you keep thinking about food instead of helping me oar this thing then we’ll never find our way back to civilization. All I can figger out is that we’re headed downstream, which is a good thing I suppose, if we’re gonna end this two day excursion which has now taken us three days plus,” said Branson with concern in his voice.

“You know Branny, I keep thinking, or feeling really, that ever since we turned into the left fork in the river, back there about a day or so ago, that we may be going the wrong way. Yes, I know we’re headed down river, downstream, but if you know anything about geography, or topography for that matter, rivers do have a tendency to break off every now and then, to form or do that capillary thing,” said Tim

“You mean… TRIButary thing, interrupted Branson… “TRIButaries is what you mean… NOT capillaries fercrysaches, where did you get your high school diploma from boyo, at, Sears?” asked Branson.

“Oh, ha, ha, ha, VERRRRRRy funny budzo... you think you’re so smart then maybe you can find our way out of this paper bag of a muddy river. I think we’re lost and waaaaaaaaay back there is where it happened,” said Tim.

“LOST!? What do you mean lost? How lost can we be if the only thing we have to do is to follow the river and the current? … And that’s what we HAVE been doing… the river or current always heads downstream… down, get it? … meaning water always finds its level, which is down, right?”… and that’s where we’re headed,” said Branson.

“Yeah down, yes, I know, yes, I know. But if you recall what I said a few minutes earlier, I think we may have taken a wrong turn, the wrong fork in the road so to speak… and that can mean that we’re in fact yes, headed DOWN stream as you so smartly put it, but then again, we may be headed some other way then where we originally intended to land up and that may be the sea!!” said Timothy. “TRIButaries do that too, don’t they?” asked Tim with indignation in his voice.

Branson just rolled his eyes then looked at Timothy with a questioning and disbelieving gaze. “Pray tell Mr. Robinson Caruso, exactly WHAT fork are you talking about that you think we wrong turned at? If you’ve been paying attention then you KNOW that we must have passed four or five forks in the river by now, and each one, at least to me, seemed like the one before it. As a matter of fact, they ALLLLLL looked the same to me. LOOK! Here comes another one straight ahead. Now what do you suggest? Do we take the left one or the right one?” asked Branson.

“Geeeeze O’man, I’m tellin’ ya Branny, this river doesn’t seem to want to quit trying to fool us. Yes, I admit that this is the first time we’ve ever been on a river cruise together before this jaunt, but doing it in a new canoe is not the fastest way to get to the end of our journey or most importantly to find our way out of what I think is a lost situation.

How the heck are we gonna tell our wives we’re OK when they realise that we’re not going to return when we said we would?” asked Timothy.

“What do you mean, ‘Tell our wives we’re OK?” asked Branson.

They both looked at each other with knowing and squinting eyes as if to say, you know that we’re both experiencing the same thought. Branson’s eyes opened wider than his mouth, Timothy raised his voice while his face got redder than a ripe tomato at harvest time and both exclaimed in unison,

“… because YOU dropped the bag with our cell phone’s in it!”

I Remember - The Sky is Blue

2010-02-14T10:40:00.001-08:00

February 14, 2010

Today, being a celebrated day for love and friendship, I thought to share a few words composed not long ago. They’re two poems actually. This blog is mostly composed of these two poems then the rest of the preambles were of blogs past and probably future one’s will be.

I Remember and The Sky is Blue are two poems like a few really, that because of their subject matter, and the time in which they were both written, were pretty easy as well as most difficult to think about during their composition. Many of you who like to write words most likely have had this experience.

It was at a difficult time especially to compose The Sky Is Blue. The person it concerns had passed days earlier. I had arrived at mmy sister and her husband’s house the same day that poem was written. A part of our little family was assembling for the funeral of our mmom. Needless to say unlike today a few years later, it was a somber gathering.

The Sky Is Blue poem began as memories of a childhood, traveling through the short years to adulthood. That day especially, I felt the need to put down on paper some of the things that mom and her life, her short existence had brought to mmind. Like most of us our moms were pretty special people; the one who brought us into this life to begin with; the one who gave us life.

I can think of a few well known examples of some who may have had the opposite kind of a relationship with their mom but the fact still remains that without that person, their person wouldn’t exist. Some of you out there may or did have difficult times with your mom but regardless, it was she who was the most important part of your beginning to breathe process. Just celebrating that little part of us; that in itself is worth celebrating.

Like most of you, of course these poems have brought both happiness and sadness to this blogger. Suffice it to say because of the time passed, the happiness has taken over. The sadness comes and goes when the wont of a mother’s voice, her touch or even her view is made more clear.

When we remember the multiplicity of feelings we can have with a person though a shared lifetime, especially when considering days like today; today is another day to celebrate happiness because:

I Remember
I remember her hands, so warm to the touch.
I remember her smile, her laughter ‘n such.
I remember us walking to stores not so close.
I remember our hand in hand Sunday’s to Post.
I remember her morning sounds stirred us for school.
I remember her coaching us, “…try golden rules.”
I remember her asking, “…you fighting again boys?”
I remember her yelling, “ …you two stop that noise! ”
I remember her roar from above, “The phone’s ringing!”
I remember her listening to the radio, singing.
I remember her worry, “ Will you be gone very long? ”
I remember her law, “…home when lights first come on.”
I remember her kisses, the Shine in her eye.
I remember her tears, long embraces, goodbye’s.
I remember her talking,”... so long’s, “on the phone.
I remember her silence most times we’re alone.
I remember her singing when singing meant glad.
I remember her soup spoons wild swingin’ when mad.
I remember her stompin’ the floor, “Ends drum beats!”
I remember her calling, “Come up! Time to eat! ”
I remember her baking, warm tastes from the oven.
I remember her hot bread and butter was lovin’.
I remember her pies, cakes, cookies - sweet treats.
I remember her croquet’s, mmy favourite meat.
I remember her soups, short food stretched the week.
I remember her special tastes, pinched her left cheek.
I remember her saved recipes, preparing our meals.
I remember her band-aids on scratches and heal’s.
I remember her spoonfuls of medicine were wiser.
I remember her treatment for colds, ”...Vaporizer. “
I remember her sponging mmy back; hot bath’s - tub.
I remember her saying, “ ...get the Vicks Vapo-Rub. “
I remember her charges, she took care of many.
I remember her sacrifice, so we would have plenty.
I remember her washing each baby in the sink.
I remember her colour of choice was pure pink.
I remember her ‘ Happy ’, each parakeet she named.
I remember her gladness, finally driving in rain.
I remember the first time I rode in her car.
I remember mme thinking, “She’s come really far.”
I remember her gifts of sewing our new clothes.
I remember her huggin’ when we almost froze.
I remember her Afghans, each one specially made.
I remember her feeling, her warmth wouldn’t fade.
I remember her voice most times whispered near.
I remember her love in, “Goodnight,” oh so clear

The Sky Is Blue

Holding our hand – kind nest, warms touch
Seen’s in our hearts - dear’s loved - loves hush
Tucked in pure night - soft spoke - kin words
Songs on pillows – pink’s flight - her birds

Walking new whirled’s – each sighed hangs on
Heaven’s at home – clouds drift, bygone
Gone won’t forget – lasting lifts wings
Summer, fall’s change - winter think’s springs

Two as one live, five as won grew
Colours pique’d love, reach of one hue
Dark shades, too bright – light leads two ‘fore
Love conquers all – journey’s amore

Family’s tree speech – birthed leaves begin
Roots whole’d to earth – reach new life’s grin
Deep is loves well - only love’s true
She coloured skies
The Sky Is Blue

Sun's Set View

2010-02-13T08:58:00.001-08:00

February 13, 2010

The words at the end of this blog are about a long time friend. Ralph was a person who with his friend Jim walked up to introduce themselves. It was after the first set of a gig I had with a band at a small club in San Rafael, California. Jim was to become a friend as well. They were both with Ralph’s wife who at the time everyone called, Blondie. Another woman both he, Blondie and Jim knew and also with them was Kyle. All were to celebrate relocating to the sunsets of the west.

The year was 1975 but don’t quote mme; that year was the beginning of a long friendship. After a few years because of mmy constant relocating, our friendship still continued but mostly at long distance. The small group had not long before relocated from their home state of Florida; Fort Lauderdale I think it was. As far as I recall that’s where the rest of Ralph’s family lived.

In the following decade or so, once in a while we’d connect by telephone; cell phones not being the norm at the time. Another few decades later cell phones did become the norm but our connections were still infrequent. It wasn’t until I relocated to the town where he had bought a house/sign shop combination that visits were more often. The distance was about 15 miles and a few towns away.

During that same gig, Ralph’s party was not a quiet one but as this was a small club, they were pretty much the only one’s there. It was still early when our first set had begun. From then on they stayed the whole night which lasted until one o’clock in the morning. After each set we seemed to gravitate to each other and had a great time; the whole night, especially Ralph’s image still in mmy memory.

Just relocating from Florida and in a new mmusic club Ralph was kind of flabbergasted at the quality of the mmusic. He said it was unlike what he and his group of friends had experienced in similar places they’ve frequented in Florida. Needless to say they were all quite complimentary the whole evening; and years to follow, they would follow wherever we performed. Ralph the camera clicker.

Three decades later he still had favourite songs that he continually talked about and listened to from those early days. Ralph was a fan and we (our band) were fans of Ralph. A great guy with a great family. A photographer with an eye for yes

Anyone who knew Ralph would realise sooner or later, mostly sooner, that he had a free flowing vocabulary. His letters to editors, frequent home town radio interviews or just plain call in to banter on the air programs are well documented. Depending on the subject and that I loved listening to the guy, a conversation with him was a glad long listen with short bursts of interjections or to push the buttons of ‘hear more,’ in order to help his passions intensity and once in a while to join in.
His language was colourful, his eyes filled with compassion and passion for others

Every weekday at three o’clock his favourite TV program kept his eyes wondering from that screen to the work at hand; or he’d just drop the work at hand to pay attention to the craziness conversations of those troubled souls Springering their guts over the err waves directed at their mates, the audience or just to the public.

He was captivated by and glued to the insane ramblings of those sad individuals who confessed their crimes, their inhumanity to friends, relatives and to the world of humanity. The crazy die hard TV audiences more times than not ridiculed their every extramarital affairs, baby sitter woes or just plain cruelty to others and self.

Ralph’s inherited genius was that of a sign painter. He owned a sign painting business handed down, taught by his father. He in turn taught his son who I met when he was two years old and who in turn is teaching his son the same vocation.

Kam the son teaches his son Michael a bit more stuff besides the creative processes of sign painting. Michael is quite an accomplished artist himself. Like his granddad and dad before him, he too is winning many awards. He’s a good kid.

Ralph’s sign painting encases the town he worked and lived. No matter where one looks, his creative works had a special glow with his well recognised stamp of approval signature. For a long time, his prices were competitive with a new adversary competitor until it came time to change to digital, which he didn’t or couldn’t, I’d imagine mostly because of the new technology; although his son did.

Besides being an amazing sign painter; artist really, Ralph was also an equally great photographer. His black and whites have won numerous awards. He has won first place in many photography contests competing against thousands of entrants from all over the U.S. His photo awards were a great pride to him as well as those who published his photography in any number of top line magazines.

I remember one particular black and white photo he shot of a lake not far from where I was living at the time called, Phoenix Lake. Petersen’s Book of Photography used that photo as an example to present to other photographers the intricacies of depth of field. I still have the huge signed poster Ralph gave mme.

It’s a great distance shot of the lake; rolling hills in the background layered with various trees; the thick to thin mist of a soft fog; very clear shot. Eerily like the Robert Frost poem the fog seems to be creeping over the landscape on cat’s feet.

Ralph’s position was perfect as usual. He also took many chances with his life to get those perfect shots. Like others who witnessed his many times unusual shots, he was always enthusiastic about his work. His photography was chocolate. Before digital he spent many hours in his dark room experimenting with light and shadows. Cityscapes, winery fields, clouds, name it really and Ralph had a photo.

Incredible composition and magical forms almost seemed like the norm when perusing through his vast portfolio. The mman knew his crafts and worked hard while like any pro he would make the finished product look like it was easy.

Anyone could feel the love and see the technical knowledge he had transferred from his eye to the camera or the brush flow through his hands into his work. The way he moved his arms to his wrists that held his delicate sign painting brushes was like an ice skater’s difficult challenge become a smooth glide to a perfect ten.

The photo at the beginning of this blog is one he shared and said it reminded him of mmy signature. Where the building is or when he took the shot is unknown to mme. He had another one of a mmoon with a lake on the left with what looks like caves to the right that also seemed to form mmy first two initials. Like the above, the bottom photo is black and white.

As Ralph’s eye for invention clicks our snap to attention you’ll notice quite striking contrasts. His unusual scents of artistry, imagination, form and composition shake the reigns of creativity for our wild ride to in joy meant.

I won’t mention his name here in reverence to Ralph but as I recall, Ralph never liked this particular comparison because like a true original he was his own mman. On the other hand he did admit from time to time that his work especially that of Half Dome in Yosemite, appeared on par with the mman made famous for taking all those shots of that same huge rock. He and Blondie traveled there often.

In winter’s, in summer’s in the fall, in spring, no matter the time of year, Ralph took many a trip to that same area to photograph the same landscape near and around that whole region. Being the second one to do so, the comparison just couldn’t be avoided; especially since Ralph’s shots were just as great. He went so far as to have a painting in his sign shop that he painted himself of Half Dome.

Wouldn’t you know it; his son is doing the same thing. When I lived close to him, the boy called a few times to ask for a traveling partner or if I’d just like to tag along with he and another friend for the drive to Yosemite. There was a break in the winter weather; the roads were cleared, the sky was blue but there were still many cumulus clouds to enhance any scenery in that wilderness. Knowing the son, I went with more than a slight feeling of trepidation. His license is from Sears.

The son being the younger of course had a ‘souped up’ car with wheel rims that appeared to touch the pavement. Being the front seat passenger I found the seat belt to be the life saving rule of thumb. Unfortunately for this calmer soul, when the boy drove it was like he needed to feel his sometime rocket ship, gravitational pull acceleration seem like his dashboard should be located on the car he was tailgating and appear to be its back bumper. One could touch taillights of any car.

It also seemed that one could smell its license plate while sitting in the back seat.
While using what I thought were calmer examples from years of experience, and no matter how one tried to convince the Danica Patrick wanna be otherwise, the boy thought the two foot snowfall would melt before we got there in less than two hours. Time was of the ass sense. In retrospect, a helicopter would have been a better choice. I’mm sure if that were the case a jet Cobra would have been his.

In ANY case, I’ve enjoyed all those years with Ralph and his family. Good times, bad times, happy times and sad times. The saddest one really was when Ralph passed away a few years ago. It was devastating to mme really. Losing a friend one has for over three decades isn’t taken lightly mostly because of all the conversations, stories and memories they may have shared in that time; not to mention just the near and far physical presence of it all. Earth; now Ralph’s home.

Maybe because of distance some people would think that Ralph and I weren’t really that close, but like in the beginning the end was the same when it came to passing Ralphs passing to the people we both knew. He helped our band with his photo’s as well as his wit and kindness. His topics of talks are legendary in town.

From the very beginning, the very first night he shared his heart when he offered his ‘Earth Sign Shop’ as a rehearsal space we needed desperately. He said, ‘in the back,’ free of charge, come on in boys, mmy house is your house. His only stipulation was to be able to photograph us while rehearsing and that he did often.

Many of his shots could be seen in our past, present and probably the future as well. He’s part of the history we all share. It was an honour to call him friend. A few years ago like his father, he had cancer. It didn’t take long before he wasn’t with us anymore but a last party at his house is where many of us got a chance to say goodbye in a celebration of the mman. Like many of his photos that only he had and now his family has, there’s a shot of all of us during his ending days.

When he passed it seemed way too fast but fast it was. After the funeral I went back to his resting place to sit and talk to him for a while; to visit like old times really; to just repeat what I had told him many times before. I’mm not sure but I think he had already picked out the spot before he passed. While sitting there it looked like there’s no way he couldn’t have. Homage to a Mom Nature setting.

Everywhere I looked I could imagine Ralph taking a photo of the surrounding landscape. It was and is beautifully blessed with colours painted by the greatest painter of all; Mother Nature. Fitting for a mman with Ralph’s eye for perfection.

Not unlike his old world, birds fly in, around and through his new world. A place in California where it doesn’t dip to freezing very much; his earthen bed is within a constantly running water fountain. The steady but changing sound the fountain makes is like a mmelody a number of Ralph’s photos would play for us too, in joy.

After visiting at different times of the day; one last time I had stayed for a few hours before the end of a beautiful day. True to Ralph’s amazing photographic scents at one particular time when the sky just exploded with colour it had an awe inspiring and most majestic peaceful feeling. For Ralph and I it was a magnificent:

Sun’s Set View

We feel the place you lay to rest
The view, wind’s lure, ridge, sum its crest
The gentle’s sway, boughs tender bend
The trees pure heart, reminds us friend

The nature’s spell, lush blossoms tune
The fragrance bouquet dwells in your room
The sun’s wash rocks, the fountain’s cooled stone
The water’s announce, your splendor home

The grass, land’s lift, knolls rolling trend
The voice in whisper’s peek, no end
The shadows abridged, pro found bequeath
The point of view’s, the visions speak

The angle’s rite, the all weighs eye
The soft test touch, the seen’s reap, ply
The mmusic’s heard, reflections glance
The figure’s fleeting, the picture’s dance

The dark room craze, the form’s re: born
The image phrase, fine textures, storms
The seconds passed, the song’s required
The mmelody’s cast, the mo’ meant’s in spire’d

The vista’s shared with life’s help hands
The Half Dome’s height, climbs, beach you stand
The summers, falls, the winters, springs
The daze flew by, remember rings

The circle’s wholed, wheels never end
Husband, dad, grandpa,
Brother, cousin, uncle, friend
The seen is played, the best ‘fore you
Eternal joy of Sun’s Set View.

Good heart, kind soul, noble peace

(Thanks for sharing Ralph)

Sculptor of the Earth

2010-02-12T10:47:00.001-08:00

February 12, 2010

Two years ago while living on the west coast of the U.S.A. I had the opportunity to rebuild another old structure. It too was a barn aged over one hundred years. The amount of time didn’t help it from not becoming a gray and red parallelogram.

The old barn appeared like it was basically going to fall down. Like a lot of old barns, they later do; and for whatever reasons many outlast a generation plus of octogenarians. Sometimes this depends on the foundations or what the heck is keeping them up in the day to year’s unknowns of construction; buckets of galvanized as well as square nails of every size and in each board works wonders.

The barn was right next door to an 85 acre place where I was living. When first noticing, anyone would think it was part of the same property. Someone would have to tell them differently. In this case no one did until the barn was well past the beginning of the rebuilding process. Regardless it was magnificent; creatively.

The mman in charge of this process was the Sculptor of the Earth. While he was in his 80’s he was both quite physically and mentally fit. Physically his knees were still working pretty well and the rest of him seemed to be in good shape too.

Mentally, Bob’s head was probably working better than most 50 year olds, give or take a decade. When first meeting him he was in the process of taking the second floor of his house off; piece by piece with the help of hand tools and many electrical tools at his side; huge tractors, back hoe’s and of course a few good dogs. Year round an important tool was a large cooler of lite beer kept full, at the ready.

Later he did rebuild a new roof over the first floor while adding a back porch as well as almost a whole new interior. His house had to be over 5000 square feet after the deconstruction and rebuilding process. He was also a lone after building.
While noticing his deconstruction I had asked to rebuild the old barn. Before entering in the rental agreement I had hoped this to be a possibility; a new studio.

I had in fact asked if this was possible at the time of signing the rental agreement. I was hoping to use many of the materials he was going to discard as recycle building materials. The rebuilding of the old barn was the issue. He gladly said yes after deciding he liked the idea of saving everything he could for a new use. This of course saved him the trouble of digging a bigger hole behind his house.

He knew I wanted to use the new/old barn as a working studio but waited a few weeks before agreeing to this. I later found out that he in fact was not the owner. That’s more stories but suffice it to say I did use the place for just about a year after working on the remodel for over six months; alone with all the tools at hand.

Bob was a hard worker that’s for sure. He woke up in the dark and went to bed well after dark; most times by falling asleep to the TV. He was a long time retired Marine but still a part of the active reserves as a sergeant. An E-8 with hash marks up and down the sleeve of his uniform was his pride of joys or something on that level of dedication. After Iraq began he tried to go active again but age said - not.

He was part of the cadre of enlisted men who will always have Marine in their blood and of course other parts no matter what clothes happen to be hanging on their shoulders. His conversations always began or ended with a drill sergeant’s tone of search and destroy confidence of either a Sir, or a, Well, son;

Being around Bob for as long as I was, naturally there are lots of stories to tell about the mman both from looking outside and those he’s expressed from within. He loved working, period. Being active all his life I’mm pretty sure not being able, won’t kill him if he couldn’t. Although I’d not want to be around during all that.

He’s one of those guys who will hang on until his wheel chair, not oiled will disintegrate to rust. But that will never happen because he’d notice the rust. He’d probably train a new dog that could move to oil it. By that I mean if there’s a weed to pick or a small pebble to move Bob will find a way to do it, regardless.

Needless to say, the man was and still is an amazing human being. I’ve not heard from him for a few years but sure he’s still in the same routine of dark to dark. Guys like him are like the old military saying they, ‘Never Die but Fade Away.’

Maybe he’s slowed a bit with the passing of his long time girlfriend. I wouldn’t doubt that he’s done other things to pick up the slack. Last time in his presence he was still working in his back yard; sitting on one of those huge tractors with a humongous bucket on the front. What was he doing? He was digging a new lake.
Bob is definitely a:

Sculptor of the Earth

He carves the earth - sow paramount,
Contours ‘n colour - his plates
Its beauty that sir round’s us
Yes, we si his love’s his weight

His heart’s the goaled
That heaven’s scent
When he begins his day
His sun rise waits
His sun’s set - miles
His aggra gate’s June to May

Excavate, bury all earth his tern
Heaves up, sighed, downed, pour now
He unlocks blocked ponds, hose Gray flows
Walk’s back yards, feeds the cows

Heel’s plant pleasant flowers
Greens reach, trims, bushed
No scraggly mess in deed
He’ll even bend down his ripe’s old age
Hands pull ends, prods dew, phew! Weeds

Sow, that’s not all, no nary, try far
His wake hours dark to dark
His final play his bed two rest
Works gazed his place; a park

His bye end bye his hands ‘n aye
This relic of Bob dark earth
Won’t stop until heels seize for sure
Wear better since his girth

Just one moored won ‘n sow he goes
Yes, no he won’t stop their
He’ll climb his roof and yours, too know
Fix damage, clean, re: pare

No matter angles up high ‘fore low
Your miles, watch, never dumb
Until he knows for sure his worth
Jar head, cut crew he’s one

One day heel’s say, “You know this pal?
Our world will be no more
Wheel’s locked ‘n watch another race
Our bars won’t shut their doors.”

Well all one asks when questions that is
Brothers still are banned?
Our? Those who live the faith full claimed?
Sculpt earth, love plants, fellow Man;

The Cure

2010-02-11T07:53:00.001-08:00

February 11, 2010

The year was 2008. One summer night, a Thursday, I was working with a new design on the computer. A good friend called asking to visit the upcoming weekend. The friend lived in somewhat of a busy city about an hour and change away. The trip was always a lovely one except of course during the rush hours of sixty mile an hour, bumper to bumper horns and countless one finger greetings.

The two lane country blacktop meandered through Mother Nature’s dark green winters when rain brought out the emerald beauty. Summer’s dry hills were also where wine country beckoned. The opposite ride, as lovely but the destination of course, was also just the opposite; not a bad city really, in fact it was a good one.

The initial plan was for a relaxing few days in more of a country atmosphere then where the friend was living. Before the arrival I was informed it was to be more of a healing situation because the friend was not only feeling under the weather but was indeed sick. Later we learned she also had a slight temperature.

I had no problem with this mostly because it was a really good friend and one I cared for a lot. She sounded so out of it that I gladly welcomed her and asked if she felt OK to make the one hour plus trip. After the affirmation she was told a warm spot would be readied as well as to expect to be waited on hand, den feat.

Coincidentally a few days before while craving the taste, I had brewed up a huge pot of mom’s chicken soup recipe. Everything mom threw into the pot was more than any human, animal or bird would need to stay healthy in not only blizzard conditions like Antarctica but also the sweltering heat of volcano proportions.

As sick and stay at home from school children, besides Vicks Vapor Rub rubbed all over our chest and foreheads as well as those weird boiling water mist/vapor things mom always stuck by our nose, the soup by far seemed to work the best.

Although quite often with a cold it was definitely not easy to distinguish what the heck was what in the hot concoction. Recognising colours and shapes were barely clues to taste if there were any. Smell and colds was knot in the MMicks.

Needless to say I’ve recalled many a time that in itself mom’s chicken soup has done medical wonders in our family’s past. I always thought mom should put the stuff in jars and sell it to bus drivers, taxidermists and just about anyone who didn’t want to take over or under the counter remedies. It was more than good.

At the door greetings, upon the friend’s arrival I kept a hermetically sealed safe distance. The shades and curtains were drawn, the healing spot was warm and the soup began to heat on the stove. Within ninety seconds of reaching the warm healing spot, the patient was fast asleep. I shut off the soup with a smile and continued silently working at the computer for the next four or five hours.

From time to time the patient would toss and turn while emitting muffled, anguished sounds of suffering, torture and physical torment. Often when hearing this and stepping silently into the room to keep an eye on the patient I had noticed FACE found a comfortable spot at the bottom end of the bed.

FACE you may remember is the feline who has lived with mme ever since 1995. We’ve been pals for a long time. I know FACE is definitely aware when someone isn’t feeling up to par. She’ll always get more affectionate and stay close at hands. Her voice more than other times will have special questioning inflections.

Each time I checked, FACE was moving closer and closer to where the patient could touch her. After the five hour nap without warning the patient awoke with a surprise that made FACE move back to her original spot at the end of the bed; playing Monopoly when having to travel back to Go with no reward of any kind.

When the patient noticed this with sleepy eyes she summoned FACE closer. There they lay; FACE, on the patient’s chest as they looked at each other, eye to eye. FACE purred as the patient twirled her fingers through the soft feline fur. It seemed like FACE had a new owner and I was relegated to the soup kitchen.

The following words of ‘The Cure’ describe how the rest of the time went really. It didn’t matter if the soup got cold or wasn’t even tasted, although much later we both welcomed it to the dual empty cavities. She wondered what those little red things were floating around in her bowl. Unrecognisable tomato, the reply.

Regardless, nothing I could do compared to FACE’s healing treatment bestowed upon the patient. It was definitely the two of them operating within each others scents of companionship that appeared to work medical wonders. As a spectator so to speak one could imagine it was mostly FACE’s version of concern that inspired:

The Cure

She sleeps in cold’s sweat wounded
Her body’s grief within
Her strength’s reduced to nothing much
Her forehead’s burning to the touch
Her lips join sorrow, hands are clutched
Her victual’s repeated sour rush
Her eyes share saddened, opened just
To witness love’s to mend her.

She’s lost the search for comfort
Through turn’s ‘n tossed, the strain
His FACE has sensed her agony
She climbs, confronts her misery
As if to show the heal is - We
She lies beside her loyally
They touch the kindred spirits tree
And witness love’s to mend her.

She smiles in pain’s releasing
The Cure begins to win
She seized their love bond to her chest
Her hands caressed charm’s tenderness
Her eyes perceived souls kindliness
Her health’s restored - her grief regressed
Her wound’s defeated helplessness
She witnessed love’s to mend her.

I Had A Dream

2010-02-10T08:10:00.000-08:00

February 10, 2010

I had a funny dream not too long ago. Two friends were the main characters. One person Ron was an Army buddy; one not seen for over 40 years. He was the host. Many things happened in a small group of limited ‘locales’ so to speak. I remembered it early the next morning, about 7a.m. and began to write it down while some scenes were so fresh in the memory; the synapse adhered to the sun.

What little I know now of Ron is that he’s a mmusic professor in a southern town not far from where he was born. He was a great guy with an unforgettable laugh that from time to time since reconnecting I try not to poke him in the ribs too much about it. Although he’s a sweet dude, he’s also a bit taller than I.

In the dream we were in a location, (wherever it was) to present some kind of a drumming program; basically for children and adults. The situation seemed to take place in some sort of grammar school grounds. It appeared not to be the normal kind of a grammar school, or first form; remember this was a dream, yes?

At the time of this writing I wasn’t sure about the ‘beginning to end.’ That’s how dreams go, sometimes there’s neither. This was no different as it seemed like this was in fact, the case. This then is the gist of the dream as it was remembered.

I recognised another friend in the dream. It was a guy I hung and jammed with sometimes while living in Oregon. Mickey Beach is his name. (Say Mickey your name is spelled funny ; o) You were in it too for some unknown reason.

Mickey runs a deconstruction/construction organisation in the town where he and I lived. He also is in charge of a resale company that sells those deconstruction things; part of the local private development company that reconstructs homes as well as new, from the ground up; for low income families.

His company owns and runs a one million square foot building holding everything and anything Mickey’s crews and other local contractors take apart piece by piece.

Any kind of structures they deconstruct as well as all kinds of materials that the public may bring for resale or recycle travel in and out of the huge building like a constantly revolving big box store. Bits and pieces of everything set in order on shelves. The building part is similar to the Habitat for Humanity Corporation.

If that’s not enough Mickey is also a blues guitarist who sings, writes and has a great blues band as swell. Quite the creative hard working person he is; like Ron he’s also a grandfather with kids and their families. Mickey’s also on the board of the local Artist’s organisation. His is in the only photo on their wall presenting the board with a guy wearing a ponytail; least he was the last time I’ve seen it.

When doing a mural project with the library system it was Mickey who helped mme acquire most of the materials. He’d call mme up and say he just received something or other and asked if I could use it for the project. Mick’s very cool. He’s always there to support anyone in his town that will in turn help the town.

Why he was in this dream too and ‘plays another main character’ I guess is because it was a dream; part of the synapse. I’ve been to visit Mickey several times over the years, each time we found time to jam. In the dream I remember talking while sitting at a table with him as well as walking with him before giving this presentation. For dream reasons Ron was always with us as well.

The rest of it was what seemed like at this point as being a longer process of walking around, meeting people, talking to Ron and Mickey, while a lot of people were moving about getting prepared for a party; all part of this dream.

One of the scenes appeared to be a birthday party. A grouping of folding tables or whatever was set up in one place close to water; a pond, a lake or whatever it was, wasn’t clear but I can distinctly remember the smell of the water close by.

The tables were full of people, mostly NOT children but adults. Table cloths looked festive, folding chairs where people sat at the tables were set up on a lawn near the body of water. As we entered, this entire scene was to the left and down a little hill. The dream kind of gave an overview of the entire area.

A house sat surrounded by a garden of plants; almost hidden in a jungle scene really. The house was close to us but appeared to be in the background. I DO remember talking and walking around the tables with Ron and Mickey. After waking I can’t remember the conversations but these guys were in the main ones.

When Ron, Mickey and I first arrived the party scene was empty of people until we showed up; then all of a sudden everyone else was there as well. The dream continued from an empty scene to full in milliseconds. On the way to it, we were walking on rolling, grass covered hills. As we all looked up and to the left up on another long hill that ran horizontal to where we were walking, a train was passing at blimp speed as in an advertisement or something. It was strange.

It wasn’t a normal train of course, being a part of the dream. A locomotive pulled the cars. It looked short with maybe seven or eight cargo cars each with closed doors. Instead of the usual train the cars appeared like all their sides facing us as they passed were remodeled. Each had huge holes opened in them like a can opener kind of broken metal would appear; uneven, jagged edged humongous holes with massive metal pieces sticking up and out, around the uneven holes.

Each car had a different vehicle planted, bolted to and held inside the holes; it was like each car, antique ones like in the 30’s or 40’s had crashed into the side of the train but interestingly enough, all were in pretty good shape in the crash scene. All of them appeared to be a long slow moving ad for drunk driving.

There wasn’t much colour and it all looked like graffiti paint, white and black really; chalky looking. The whole train just slowly passed as we were walking along on the way to the party scene. There was a train moving sound so all of us looked over to it while it passed. We didn’t say anything as it looked like art.

When we got close to the party, on the way to it and just before it like where we had to step, it turned into sort of a long, sloping slide; the bottom and sides were bordered in about a 2” red line. It was too steep to walk down so we had to get on our butts and slide down. Like one of those huge multi-lane slides you’d see made specifically for doing this; like a water slide but with no water.

The slide had kind of a white widely spaced pimply surface, but it was no trouble to slide down. It seemed and felt like it was rubberised. We didn’t make a big deal about it as we slid on down. It was like it was a normal thing to do on the way to where we were going. We talked nonchalantly while sliding down.

The dream skips around at this point. I can also remember when first arriving there was no one at where we were supposed to go, like Ron didn’t seem as the host, prepared for this party; embarrassed that no one had shown up; until later. It’s fuzzy at this point but after a while the place was full of people; I mean it was chock full and packed with a huge and boisterous crowd. It had an air of fun.

MMusic was playing from somewhere and everywhere; Mickey and I then began to walk around and schmooze for a while. Ron, Mickey and I talked as a trio while standing up, casually dressed in the middle of the banquet scene for a long time like it was a normal thing, smiling, laughing; I can remember Ron’s laugh from 40 years ago; we were having a ball. Mickey and I at one point bending over in a huge laugh after one of us said something I can’t remember.

Next I recall sitting down at one of the tables; Mickey was across from mme and Ron, was to mmy left. Someone else was on mmy right but I can’t see them. When we did sit down, the tables were really high for our seats. Our mouths height was just under the top of the table so we looked like little kids sitting at the table too high for our bodies; we weren’t wearing any kid’s cones party hats.

We just laughed about it and continued on like it was nothing really. The table was full of some kind of foods, tableware, glasses, dishes, utensils; lots of goodies that I can’t remember seeing clearly or even tasting for that matter. Everything appeared extremely colourful and festive. Everyone else was eating but us.

At another point there were adults, women and a lot of men most of whom were there specifically to see and hear the drumming presentation. I walked around talking to some of them and welcomed them. I remember speaking to them and saying that if they felt like joining in, then just come on up and we’d jam and have a good time no matter what; don’t be shy, it’s a community fundraiser.

They were welcomed to be a part of it too if they cared to because we’re all here to have fun and not necessarily learn anything but we were gathered there to help some kind of a cause; a benefit for a purpose that wasn’t clear.

I also remember one of the women being an old girlfriend I dated and almost married; this part is true. She was a great drummer I knew for a short time before moving to England. The separation was the main cause of that not happening. She’s since passed away from smoking/cancer but I can remember seeing her face smiling at mme at one point. She was such a cool person; Ginny, her name.

Her daughter a few years ago emailed mme asking for a story or two about her mom. I’ve never known her daughter because she hadn’t been born at the time. She found mme on the net from a site where I mentioned her mother. It was then that I learned of a love’s too early passing. Her mom was a very good mmusician; awesome in fact. Her mom and I spent a lot of playing time together.

Most people at the party were or we knew were mmusicians or drummers or both. We didn’t talk to all of them; they were just there with the crowd which estimated at this point to be over four or five hundred; all sitting at the kid’s party tables and having a good time. Conversations were a din like at a banquet kind of a background, mmusic was piped in from some place; lots of activity.

Towards the end of the dream I got up from the table and began walking around by mmyself while wanting to talk to whomever I felt would be interested in whatever it was I was to present. After a few conversations which I can’t remember, Ron, stood up at one point walked over to mme and began introducing mme to every table member at every table.

I heard him saying at each table, and kept on repeating it; “This is MMicky Shine, he’s a good buddy I had in an Army Band we both were members of;” Ron said this continually while leading mme from table to table.

It was like he was a recording; repeating and repeating the same words over and over again that echoed in mmy head. At that point it could have been the same wake up call which was FACE meowing her usual son rise alarm, kneading mmy chest while staring dire wreckedly into mmy eyes. Good morning sweetheart…

Why? Why? Why?

2010-02-09T07:50:00.000-08:00

February 09, 2010

It seems like so long ago when mmy first and most important mmusical mentor passed away. It was the day after a birthday in 1980. I hadn’t heard the sad news really until much later. Family had contact information; I was in the middle of one of those difficult times, not out of touch but wild living in Los Angeles.

Besides all that I couldn’t even venture to guess otherwise. At the time and even though it was only a short while later nothing could have changed the situation. anyway. He was an interesting person as well as a good man. The mentor was an uncle who basically was a second father; Uncle Lenny; Leonard Terri was his ‘adopted name,’ changed from a longer Italian one for convenience and clarity.

He was more like a father at times mostly because we had many mmusic conversations as well as having more things than mmusic in common. We had spent hours and hours together in countless mmusic and art conversations, scores of creative ones as well as just plain hanging out as pals.

At one point he lived upstairs from us in the house mmy folks had owned. Our two families shared a number of Bar B Cues as well as in summertime, as you see in the photo at the top of this blog. I’mm to the left, unk in the middle and mmy brother. Unk, our aunt and cousins used to hang to enjoy the back yard with us. This was about the time of the first guitar lessons.

Since the age of eight or nine uncle took this youngster under his wing; helped him to grow in more ways than realised or could ever have imagined at the time. His knowledge, influence and insight would help a great deal in a future mmusical life. His ideas about teaching being one of the most important subjects.

He began by giving mmy brother and me guitar lessons. It wasn’t very long before the guitar had ceased to be fun anymore. In hindsight I suppose the most important reason was that I didn’t really like to practice. The only instruments the folks could afford for both of us were two hollow bodied and very thick acoustic guitars.

The strings were the things I never really got used to because of the lack of practice mainly. It just hurt too much to play; to get to that point of acquiring hardened calluses that would help alleviate the situation. In addition, the lessons were free because he was an uncle who lived upstairs. It was also convenient but there was no sense of loss if the lessons didn’t progress very well.

In any case, the lessons stopped. To this day I have no idea what happened to both guitars. I suppose the folks let ‘unk’ (as we called him) take care of that business. I used to walk up the stairs a lot to watch and listen to him practice or he’d let mme sit in on a lesson he was taking from his own guitar instructor.

Years down the road he studied with a few famous Jazz guitarists-recording artists as well as a violinist; a New York Philharmonic orchestra member. By that time he was well versed in his instrument and was studying Flamenco to expand his mmusical knowledge. As I recall everything else just bored him to death.

His teaching was well known in the area. He had a two year waiting list because of all his students who did so well further on down the road. He was a great teacher whose students all loved him and practiced hard to please him as well as themselves. He mostly traveled house to house behind schedule all the time because he took extra time whenever he felt it necessary or it was just plain fun.

I traveled with him many a time to tag along; asked sometimes but most times he offered to bring mme just to watch and listen. Another reason later on when I began drumm lessons was to meet a few of his more advanced students in hopes that we’d jam or maybe as what happened a few times, we’d start a band.

Yes, a few years later he helped convince mmy folks that indeed I should begin drumm lessons. He thought this is something that I would really stick with. He also found mmy first drumm instructor. After two years he helped to find the next one. Unfortunately he had moved before the drumm lessons began.

Somehow I think he was grateful to miss all the headaches mmy folks used to get during the long practice times. When he did move it wasn’t long after that I had a car and would visit him often. Being old enough he took mme to Jazz clubs as well as many lounges to hear friends of his play. He asked them to let mme jam.

I remember a few specific times when he asked mme to tag along to one of the well known Jazz supper clubs in New York City. One of his ex-instructors was performing. I remember his first and his last teacher. Both were miles apart musically. The others in between weren’t that many but all had skills he learned.

One evening he treated his young protégé to a long dinner experience of great food in a red table top, candle lit atmosphere while listening to The Chuck Wayne Jazz trio. A few days later he took mme to Mr. Wayne’s house. He lived not too far from ‘unk;’ in our same borough but more out in the sticks as I recall.

At the time of our arrival Mr. Wayne was wearing carpenters tools while remodeling his own house. He was in the middle of installing an old, weathered, darkly stained oak beam and asked us to help. He wanted to lift the thing that eventually spanned the whole living room. We were just in time to help, he said.

Mr. Wayne was a big man so he lifted one end while unk and I lifted the other. The beam was placed in both designated positions without much fanfare after which Mr. Wayne invited us for lunch. A rather long intimate guitar interlude happened after that and consisted of a few new songs he was working on.

Leaving his presence I couldn’t help but see the gleam in unk’s eye’s as he thought to work on the new chord changes himself. Unk was also a composer of a few songs. One he said he had played for someone who later on used it in a song that was recorded by a famous singer. Unk wasn’t too happy to know that he’d not get credit or any remuneration of any kind. Still a mmusic life challenge.

He mentioned that from time to time as something he was proud of but it also made him disillusioned about the mmusic business part of life that he never really entered. He was just happy to do what he was doing. He enjoyed teaching.

Although he was offered gigging and traveling opportunities, he always turned them down. His family and students were the most important things to him; family especially, so leaving all that behind was never the option. He was happy.

Unk and I used to watch late night T.V. a lot; Johnny Carson’s Tonight Show being one of our favourites. I’d usually arrive early to his house to greet mmy aunt and two male cousins. One later on in life became just like his dad; a mmusic teacher, band director. Now he’s the principal of a New York school where the arts are the main focus. He’s as inspiring a mmusician as his dad was.

Unk has left a good legacy and many memories for a lot of people; his family, students and friends being the most important. He always said his mmind about anything he felt like saying whenever he felt like saying it. He held nothing back.

I’ll always be grateful for the knowledge he freely shared; all the Jazz, listening to classical mmusic; his teaching; those many mmusical conversations; all the times we spent together creating art with all the tools and inspiration he supplied; for the caring, the warmth, the fatherly advice and close friendship he shared; but especially it’s the love in his heart he gave so abundantly. When hearing and never forgetting the voice of his heart I’ll forever ask:

W h y? W h y? W h y?

Do you have to be
Of a childhood scene;
Ends.
A memory … dreams?

Why? Why? Why?

Do you come to mme
Clear as hands true touched
Of a mist; two clutched?

Why? Why? Why?

When eyes sea for you
Does it ache to feel
Time's gone bye, too real?

Why? Why? Why?

Do I wish it's so
Every time and go
"…know you're here,"… but no …

Why? Why? Why?

Can it never be
Like it was back then
When we called you … Len.

Posey To LAF

2010-02-08T07:10:00.000-08:00

February 08, 2010

On more occasions that one can count, jams have been a part of mmy DNA. I’ll go beyond any lengths within or without what would be considered humanly possible or sometimes insane to find a jam. If it’s possible and especially if there is a drummset anywhere in the vicinity, they’ll be one pole of a magnet I'd be attracted to; like peanut and butter, apple and pie, earth and sky, body and sole.

Needless to say this has led to what can be, several volumes of books when within the pages would be written stories surrounding every single one of them. I can’t tell you how many times a jam was discovered let alone a drummset to pound on in mmy usual quest to touch tubs with sticks. I’ve amazed a few people as well as mmyself when finding a drummset on a hunch or a guess.

One time when living near Santa Cruz, California, I was walking with a friend on a back country road when on our right a house built like a geodesic dome appeared. The 25 foot diameter structure was covered with cedar shake shingles and located at the end of a few hundred foot walk. At the end of the walk sat the dome built right next to a two story house. I told mmy walking friend while never being in that area before that there was a drummset in that dome.

So yes, you guessed it. We had to walk or trespass on that property to find out if in fact it was correct in what I had thought not an assumption. We walked up slowly. There were no gates to stop our interest on the gut feeling. No dogs?

MMined you, vicious dogs are always in the MMicks when doing this stuff so we were well aware of the closest way up and over. The long, wide driveway had a four foot fence on either side. A dog on either side as well as the driveway itself running towards us with growls and snarls would definitely have caught us like goats stranded on the pinnacle while begging for help with high pitched yelps.

Fortunately for us there was no such thing. Arriving at and in front of the house a ton of children’s toys was strewn around like many presents imaginable opened the day after Christmas. We thought the place to be occupied so I knocked on the door to ask permission to affirm the dome feeling. No one was home; at least no one answered the door or our yells of is anybody home; none.

After waiting for about three or four minutes we gathered no one was home. At that point I asked the walking friend to go up the five or six steps of the dome built off the ground and to peek inside. The door was halfway open but it was too high off the ground to see the interior. Besides it was very sunny outside which made the inside of the dome a little dark. So the friend who is a seven degree black belt and not afraid of most things that move and some that don’t, smiled and walked up the short stairs; mind and body ready with a Ninja pose.

When he stepped to the top landing he peeked inside. Like a true Ninja he waited for his eyes to acclimate. Looking around for less than two seconds turned to mme with a big smile and said there was nothing inside. It was empty.

Empty? I asked. Yup, it’s pretty empty, was his reply; but there’s really only one thing in here he told mme… and what is that? I asked. He directed mme to come up to take a gander. Before I could reach the top of the stairs he said, there’s a full drumm set with everything including cymbals, sticks and a seat. Of course we stayed a little longer to enjoy a meeting of kicks, wild sticks to skins and mettle.

Another time that happened was on the east coast. A new relative brought mme to what he thought was going to be a surprise. As we drove up, while still sitting in the car, I guessed it. I’mm bicoastal when it comes to drumm a we’re nest.

In any case, this particular jam, of which the following words were inspired, happened on the east coast of the U.S. of A.; New York City to be exact. A free jazz trio of buddies got together for the occasion of fun and to answer a request to listen from yours truly. Yes, it was fun and a good listen when not taking the option of playing but just to compose this:

Posey to L.A. F.

Housin’ at the jam
Drummer’s groove in hand
Lou wiz shop in textures
Hearts drive all the band

Franisois rumbles slowly
Nothin’ else to prove
Guitar is heightened melodies
Harmoniarian all out dudes

Colours of the ups ‘n downs
Back ‘n forth in toe
Listen scenes of hear ‘n now
Energy praise as mmusic goes

Mother’s milk in ten din seize
Left to write won glow
Bass electric moods in ease
Power down end, the flow

Spirit sounds to razor rings
Tap at heaven’s pour
Clouds ‘n purple scatter flings
Change pulls up the floor

Spaced in timin’ – laid to crest
Freedom’s wrestle winks
Phew moor times together now
The boys fly - on the brink.

The MMan's - A Mark in Time

2010-02-07T06:55:00.000-08:00

February 07, 2010 Super Bowl Sunday

I’ve a good friend back on the rez who used to be very abusive to people at times. It didn’t matter who they were really, he verbally abused just about everyone. Other times he’d have a little Boy Scout streak and want to help save the world. The opposites were determined not all but sometimes by how much alcohol he would consume and where he would be when consuming it.

While riding up one of the streets on the rez that ran parallel to Main Street he asked mme why he couldn’t get a job. After all, he said, he probably knows construction better than most people around; so why won’t anyone hire him?

I looked at him in such a way as to say, what are you kiddin’ mme, pal? Then I said, “You KNOW why bud, you’re not too easy to get along with, especially with anyone who at the time is your boss. Strangers? Friends? Same story.

You won’t listen because you think you know better and no one can tell you any different. You show up on time alright but to tell you the truth, your attitude and getting along with any or all bosses or with people in general stinks; that answer your question? ‘Sides, we’re in a small town, aren’t we? They all know you.”

“Yeah well, I guess you may be right, MMick,” was his reply. He continued the conversation describing several scenes of how he thought he was right to act like he did and so forth until I stopped him in mid sentence and said, “You know mman, I’d like to write a song about you. You deserve a song that’s for sure.”

“First of all,” I continued, “I think you’re a great dude if you want to be; you know a lot about a ton of things; you can ride a horse into the ground and you can work the butt off of anyone who tries to keep up with you. You’ve got a great heart…at least most times. The exception is when you’re not sober.

Maybe you’d like to think about how much of a good influence you can have on the kids around here if you’d only smarten up; hold your tongue if you’re not the boss; maybe try to control your drinking; the last issue maybe the most important one; OK, how’s that so far for starters?” “…pretty good start,” he said.

The guy was really a good guy in mmy opinion; a tough cowboy who just couldn’t handle some things but he was great in many respects. One day he asked if I would show him how to start a garden. He’s seen a few photos of the green thumb and we discussed the subject a few times; yeah, sure was the reply.

After measuring out a big empty plot he toiled with the soil. The rez soil everyone knows as gumbo; a heavy mixture of a lot of clay and little dirt. Needless to say all of what was needed we added until it was so soft and beautiful it was a shame to just plant grass; which is what he didn’t do luckily.

He planted corn, squash, tons of tomatoes, peppers, beans of several varieties, lettuce, carrots, onions; I mean the guy just went bonkers on every seed he could get his hands on. He wanted to have a good lunch without going in the house. If he wanted to sleep next to his plants I bet he would every night if it didn’t rain.

The guy loved working hard at it and did the best he could to have a lush harvest. Well, don’t you know; of course harvest time came and his garden was a garden of Eden. Food everywhere we looked. It was definitely his baby alright.

Next thing we knew he just gave most everything away. He was so proud of what he grew for the first time that he walked to houses of people he knew and some he didn’t; just handing them bags of the stuff; one of the two restaurants in town as well. Every time with a smile. Like I said, the guy has a big heart.

I really loved the guy and still do. I arrived home one day after listening to one of his bag drop off’s surprises and began to write words that I thought would turn into a song about him. Instead I ended up writing something else which is at the end of this day’s blog. Obviously, he was the inspiration for most of it.

Amazingly enough the day I wrote the 48 or so lines of words, they didn’t end up being a song at all; least not yet. When thinking of things around the subject, the words just came out of the computer keyboard like running water. Most of which didn’t concern him personally. Once on the roll it just wouldn’t stop.

One line after the next, no pauses in between just ended up being something else; about men in general and their relation to women and vice versa. That’s the way it goes at times. Think about one thing and something else hitches a ride to eventually take over the whole exercise; free association or however that works.

A few hours or so later while searching on the net I found out for the first time ever that it was ‘International Women’s Day!’ Who’da thunk it, eh? Bet many of you out there especially U.S. women have never heard of it; least that’s been the consensus so far when conducting an accounting through a personal experience.

Amazingly enough other countries are more up on this then the U.S. is; Imagine that. The actual date is set to be annually on March 8th if anyone’s interested. Here’s the home page of URL: http://www.internationalwomensday.com/ . Here’s the URL that gives the history of everything you might like to know: http://www.internationalwomensday.com/about.asp … pretty interesting stuff.

In any case just to be sure before putting mmyself on the chopping block; years ago when this was composed as well as ever since and along the way; not that long ago again but in many different places; N.O.W. friends have read this as sort of a precaution; primarily I’d like to be around to celebrate the next birthday.

Good luck reading or maybe even figuring out this one. Written too long ago I don’t really want to change it or update it so to speak; even I have a difficult time with it; so if that tells you anything, you may not want to bother. I’d hope otherwise. It’s like one of those tongue twister - puzzle things; fun to write but….

For those of you who have reached the age of yes you can, you might like to take it slower with a wider glass of whine while drinking in the efforts so to speak. Or you might like to print it for your next pen the tale on the done key. In any case one would hope you have time for and maybe a little fun with:

The Man’s – A Mark in Time

the man's so brave, the man's so bold
the man's so tough, the man's so cold
the man's not easy…
"Get along with you man's!"
the man's got you shakin'?
You 'fraid 'a him too? Man!
the man's a digger,
of diggers sweats, and diggers bones.
the man's a talker,
of talkers talks, 'n talks tomes.
the man's all gritty,
of dirt 'n such mans things.
the man's a dreamer.
Whose dreamin' dreams takes wings?
the man's the best…
'When man's let sleepin', ' Say some.
the man's man ain't smart?
Those man's man ain't dumb.
the man's all shootin' man's,
and straight from man's man hip.
the man's takes nuttin' man,
" No nuttin' ma'ms!" Mans lip!
the man's will ride 'em man!
When all other man's thinks can't.
the man's hard hide 'n man!
Hard ridin' man's, and ma'ms bams!
the man's a rootin' man,
a tootin' man's 'o man's cattle.
the man's a champ 'a man's spurs,
a ridin' man's, 'n man's saddle.
the man's a wonder of earth,
'n them thar - "Them hills!'
the man's hard knocks, 'n bad spills,
'n CRUSH!! A bad man's chills!
the man's all up 'n up 'n do it up
'n do it up 'n up agin'!
the man's will take it man,
'n take it ma'm! Man's grins.
the man's a rider man's of hard's up's
'n hard's man's downs.
the man's a drinkin' man's.
That man's no thinkin' man's! Drinkin' clowns!
the man's is a cruel man's…
The man's when this 'a thata way.
the man's when other man's,
the kinder man's, ma'ms stay.
the man's can match 'em man!
Of bulls, 'n ride 'em broncs, 'n cows too!
the man's all hard horses,
man's bucks, broncs, and WOWS! WHEW!
the man's can ride 'em man!
They shakes 'em man's, then shuddas!
the man's eight seconds time!
" Like 'n no man's!" Man's uttas!
the man's a hunter man!
A bunter not - man's, He!
the man's home runs hits?
Man's the sparks, 'n barbs, 'n carp, 'n trees.
the man's as kind,
and as kind as kind can be matters!
the man's no sinner man's,
so show 'er man's, 'Sooo badders!'.
the man's all smiles man.
The man's all jokin' plenty.
the man's," Broke too man!"
but gives man's last penny.
the man's don't mind doll minds,
"Dull minds no matter."
the man's hurts to man's?
The man's man - i's sadder.
the man's some women know.
Know women no man's land.
the man's some women love.
Other women love? No ma'm!
the man's loves sportin,' man!
The man's birds - "Let the man's be!"
the man's can catch 'em all man!
Wolves'n bucks'n buck shots these.
the man's some lonely man's
but who isn't man's man, Yo'!
the man's a friend 'a man's,
'n yes the man's a man's bro'
the man's all these man's!
Ask the man's," What's man's doin'?"
the man's, "Just waitin' man!"
The man's man just brewin'?"
the man's all hard,
'n best as man's man knows how!
the man's quest, "What's doin' ma'm's?
Let's duet' ma'm! Man's wow!"
the man's a smoker man's.
" Mo' smokin' man? " A man's crust?
the man's 'a livin' hard man's,
" livin' hard ma'm's,”
As livid hard man's must!"

COWBOY UP!

2010-02-06T12:54:00.000-08:00

February 06, 2010

When relocating to a Native American reservation in South Dakota, it was like no place I’ve ever been before. Everything was different, even the weather. On a day to day basis, in the summertime it was much hotter than I’ve ever experienced. On the other hand it was much, much colder with 50 below winters.

I loved the chopping wood part though. After building the home it was really a joy to go in the snow with the reliable and extra low gear pick up (or outfit) in search of wood for heat. I didn’t have to look far because many offers to either cut down dead trees or cut up downed ones was always available it seemed.

The reservation was a pretty unforgiving place when it came to the extremes of Mother Nature. Residents had to be prepared beforehand in most cases. In winter times if one wasn’t, death could be lurking on a lonely highway as well as right around the corner from one’s home. One kept aware of weather reports.

The following lyrics were co-written with a good bud. Reed Henschel lives in the tiny town of Faith, South Dakota with his wife Donna. Faith is west towards Mt. Rushmore and off the reservation 40 miles from the town where I had lived.

Reed and Donna are the sole proprietors of The Tower Stool Company. Their URL is: www.towerstoolcompany.com you’re invited to visit their website. If you’re interested in talking to Reed or Donna about anything, I’mm sure they’d invite you in; just as easily as they welcomed this guy; very friendly people.

It took three times of visiting R ‘n D’s place before meeting Reed. Donna was and still is a great host. She’s not only Reed’s wife but she’s a true supporter and a ‘full of stories’ advocate of everything Reed does and invents. Needless to say they make a great pair and have been for more decades than I can remember.

Yes, Reed is an inventor alright. He’s also a very good cowboy poet as well as a short story writer, a tile guy, a mason, a sculptor of rocks and wood. He’s an excellent man with just about anything Mother Nature has given us to work with; be it his hands or all the tools he owns. Reed is a genius when it comes to lots of things. Most of all he’s one of the humblest people I’ve ever met.

I’ve shared many dinners, conversations, sleep over’s and work times with Reed and his wife Donna. The third time I visited The Tower Stool Company and Reed was in residence for the first time, it took about twenty steps to reach him from the front door to where he was standing in his huge well lighted workshop.

As soon as I opened the door we caught each others glance; we both smiled the whole way until our handshake meeting. We spent a good two hours talking about our past and present while presenting some things of who we were to each other. We both talked like we were brothers and had known each other for years.

After reading a few of Reed’s poem’s I asked him if he’d like to collaborate on writing a few songs. “Of course, I’d love to, “was his immediate reply. “Even if it helps only one person or nobody really, it’ll be fun to just try.” Reed’s an open book of idea’s, loving, caring and one of the hardest workers ever at the age of 75

We composed two lyrics together way back then. The first one concerned kids with a rare disease. The second are the lyrics you may read here. We’ve experienced this subject matter not only locally but most places we’ve seen in our lives; and like Reed has said, “Even if it helps one person, “it’ll be fun to try:

Cowboy Up!

So you sit at home drinkin'.
That's the way your life has been.
You've got no job.
Things are tough.
Your future's lookin' dim.
You beat your wife.
You hurt your kids.
They said, "This is the end!"
You treat 'em like dogs.
You're no cool cat.
And now you've got no friends.

C O W B O Y UP ! C O W B O Y UP !

Grab those bootstraps fella.
Set down that whiskey cup.

C O W B O Y UP ! C O W B O Y UP !
Do yourself a favor…

Say your life it ain't worth livin'?
Matter of fact it downright stinks.
So you go and grab the alcohol
And pour yourself some drinks.
Your wife, she up and left ya,
Your kids ran out the door.
They said, "Dad, you keep on drinkin',
We ain't commin' home no more!"

C O W B O Y U P! C O W B O Y UP !

Grab those bootstraps fella,
Set down that whiskey cup.

C O W B O Y UP ! C O W B O Y UP !
Do yourself a favor…

Now your court case is pending.
Smokey's caught you in the car.
He said, "Man! You've been drinkin',
Now you know you've gone too far! "
Then he hands you a D U I
And you know that ain't no fun.
So you wonder if you're gonna stay
Or are you gonna run?

C O W BO Y UP ! C O W B O Y UP !

Grab those bootstraps fella.
Set down that whiskey cup.

You've got two choices podnah
Listen to mme do.
Sober up or be locked up,
That's next in line for you.
And if you insist and do persist
That boozin' is your goal.
Then all you'll get is covered up.
In a deep, dark, lonely hole.

So you say you've got some problems?
They're not as bad as you may think.
The cure ain't in a bottle,
Or the bottom of a drink.
So come on 'fess up brother,
You know you've had enough.
Get up and get tough Cowboy

C O W B O Y UP !