Geronimo

Once upon a time it was 1970 something and the radio was playing in my mothers kitchen. The song was about Geronimo riding in a Cadillac and I was young enough to not quite get it although I really liked the song. My Dad was sitting at the kitchen table drinking a Budweiser and checking his lottery tickets. I asked him what it was about. I had never heard of Geronimo’s Cadillac and didn’t understand the song. He replied it was one of the ways the government tried to dehumanized Indians by allowing cars to be named after their people or their tribes. He said the car companies would never think to name a car after an English King or any other ethnic group. You could never call a jeep a Grand Jew or a mustang after Mussolini.

Fast forward to 1990 something and I’m watching a late night talk show and an American Indian musician is playing the flute. The music was a beautiful enchantment and I watched not wanting the song to end. He then sat down for a brief interview and the enchantment continued. He was engaging, interesting and just had a way about him that was infinitely cool.

The next morning I remembered the whole scene……….. except for his name. Whenever I found myself in a record store I would ask for help, not able to offer too many details other than he was Indian and he played flute. An obliging employee would walk me over to the World Music section and hand me a CD of R. Carlos Nakai. While I can appreciate Nakai’s music and I have seen him live, for me it doesn’t hold a candle to the man I heard playing the traditional wood flute that late night.

His music remained in my heart and I never stopped looking. One day in the World Music section I saw a CD by Bill Miller. I was convinced he wasn’t the musician I remembered because he primarily played guitar on this CD but the last song was Geronimo’s Cadillac so I decided to buy it anyway. For some reason that early interaction with my Dad regarding the lyrics remained etched in my mind. Four of my Dad’s step brothers were raised on the St. Regis Indian Reservation in Canada so my Dad had insight to the American History that the teachers in school never taught. I learned those stories at home instead.

Anyway, I had found him! The CD was Reservation Road. Part of it was live and all of it was wonderful. I became a repeat offender catching his shows at Music at the Mansion, The Towne Crier, Bergen Community College and Cabin Concerts in Wayne. That was my favorite show because he asked if anyone had a request. Several people called out songs and I was the last to summon up the courage to ask for Geronimo’s Cadillac. He looked up from where he sat and asked, “Who said that?” I was so shy. I tried to blend into the wall and whispered “me” at the same time. One month from today however this wall flower will be ever so pleased to present Mr. Bill Miller at Mexicali Live in Teaneck. It will be a great honor for me. It is his first area show since winning his THIRD GRAMMY. And so the enchantment continues. Can you hear my smile?

Wild and Whirling Words

Last Tuesday before the snowstorm I opened my book of wild and whirling words. The book is really a journal I keep reserved for poetry quotes and notes from family and friends that hold great meaning to me. I need to know where it is at all times even if my life keeps me too busy to open it. When I get a chance it’s usually to add words that I believe are enlightening or heartfelt. On Tuesday, February 9th, I unexpectedly came across something I want to share. It is a ‘Thank You’ that I had received in 1966. My Mom had saved it for many years, giving it back to me a while ago. Cards and notes she saved for me trigger many of my early memories. My mother also was adept at telling original bedtime stories all of which began with ‘Once Upon a Time’. It may be that my reverence for words is based on this oral tradition common before people believed tv could entertain a child better than a loved one. Anyway, most of her stories centered around three little girls that went on adventures and interacted with a myriad of strange characters. Meanwhile, at times my own childhood could have served as a script. My Dad had very few friends that were not crazy and within this circle Mr. Ramisch was without a doubt certifiable. I write that with great affection for him. On the first occasion of meeting my Mother and myself he came to the house with a baby squirrel that he had found. He entered the house never mentioning the squirrel. It was climbing up his pant leg and immediately following introductions he unzipped his pants and to my Mom’s horror a baby squirrel scattered out. This tiny squirrel became mine and was kept in a birdcage in the kitchen and feed with a baby bottle. Maybe it was my love of this little squirrel that endeared me to him. Mr. Ramisch lived with his Dad in Northwest Bergen County. Their house was on a piece of property where hehad found many Lenape Indian artifacts and I loved them all, especially the arrowheads. He was kind enough to share with me, allowing me to bring them to school. To read between the lines of the note is to understand how he liked me…… however he hated his Dad. I remember as a child being surprised to hear how Mr. Ramisch had gotten into a fight with his father. A couple of days later, still angry, he cut a hole in the floor just inside the front door. He also cut the carpet and fitted it back in place. When his Dad arrived home and walked in he fell one floor to the basement and broke a few bones. Imagine reality tv in the sixties……

Anyhow, above is his ‘Valentine’ note to me that I treasure. The morning I had unfolded it I had just come in from feeding the birds and squirrels in the backyard because the next day the winter storm was to arrive. Seeing the date on the note was exactly 44 years ago when he reminded me not to ‘forget to feed the birds’ created wild and whirling happiness looking back on ‘Once Upon a Time’.

Blowin' in the Wind

A few years back I unexpectedly heard Steve Winwood singing on a Saturday afternoon Celtic radio show. I had never heard the song before. The lyrics and his voice were haunting and absolutely beautiful. I learned it was a Davey Spillane song from his CD ~ A Place Among the Stones ~. Davey Spillane is a player of the uillean pipes and the low whistle. An accomplished musician on his own, their collaboration in the song Forever Frozen left me breathless.

It was a hide and seek story with this song until it was recently posted on youtube. I found it on the night of the Wolf Moon last week. I have tickets for the upcoming Winwood tour and am looking forward to seeing him on the 13^th. The happiness in finding Forever Frozen reminded me of a serendipitous Winwood incident when I was 15. One Saturday in winter my friend and I had walked to the Garden State Plaza from Wood-Ridge to hang out in Sam Goody’s record store. Perusing the albums in the TRAFFIC category I came upon an album I had never seen or heard of before. The cover was a sepia toned picture of Steve with WINWOOD printed in bold black letters on the side. It was a double album anthology of his work to date, from Spencer Davis to Blindfaith. There was only one and it was $4.99. I had all of two dollars and my friend had one. As it was we already planned on walking home so we could save the .75 for the bus and instead eat. I went home thinking of nothing else but the album. I had loved his voice since I was nine. My brother who had endlessly played the first TRAFFIC album introduced me to it. Not allowed to touch his records I would sit on the steps near his room when he played the album and listen. Winwood’s voice always stopped me in my tracks. Dylan, my brother Brian’s favorite, would keep me going.

On Monday morning I walked to school as usual going up the hill of Marlboro Road. I wasn’t happy about reaching the top because it was so windy and the steep incline of the hill offered protection. I was walking in the gutter because the sidewalks were so crooked from the oak tree roots and should I encounter other kids I wouldn’t have to walk around them. The second reason speaks directly to my teenage years. As I reached the crest of the hill something was blowing directly toward me, in a hurry. I thought it was a leaf, but it was green, not winter brown. I reached down and picked up a $20 bill. There wasn’t another person out on the block. I was amazed. That night I begged my Mom to take me to Paramus. She worked full time and I’m sure it was the last thing she wanted to do on a Monday night after cooking dinner. She relented after I explained there was only one though I believe she too was amazed how the money had found me. As I write this, the album is on the table next to me, thirty something years later still one of my favorite things. I guess on some level I was listening when Brian played Dylan and he sang, “The answer is blowin in the wind”.