Enough Said

It was the Mama’s and Papa’s song ‘I Saw Here Again’ that I turned my partner onto because I love it so. It’s their harmony, the momentum built in by the strings and the sheer power of the vocal line reminiscent of a Bach chorale that I love. It flows with so much energy that there is no way not to be affected by it. Enough said. There is a space in the timing toward the end where there is a hesitation, the vocals start, stop, the strings play and then the vocals resume. To me it was as planned as when Bach leaves out a voice in a chorale giving another a chance to shine. That was my reality. My partner differed and said simply, ‘It’s a mistake and they left it so.” It was ridiculous to me and during dinner at The Fab Faux show last week at the State Theatre in New Brunswick, I stated my case and started the conversation with Rennie, Joe, Carl, Bob and whoever else was crammed in the small production office waiting for a chance to grab dinner from the buffet table. Everybody listened again to the song and then friendly fire began about mistake or miss take. Jimmy V wandered by and when I mentioned it’s like a Bach fugue, he commented “I don’t know about fugue but they certainly did feud”. There was a momentary smile and then someone mentioned ask Frank. Frank Agnello is a compendium of knowledge and he can instantly draw upon it, not only regarding music but culture and art. I went off to find him having dinner with Will Lee and interrupted their conversation like a kid at the grown ups table. Frank immediately said it was a mistake and Will asked for clarification having not heard my question. I mentioned the line and he simply said, “It was a mistake, that’s what John Phillips told me.” Enough said. My reality came crashing down in a huge smile. It hadn’t occurred to me that this amazing guy actually worked with John and can clarify in a split second ending any speculation or my rhetoric of nonsense. It was an awesome moment for me to remember there is no mistake in how I feel about the opportunity to work with these guys. It’s Fab. And that’s reality.

STITCH n BITCH

I haven’t written anything in quite some time, there are stories I have that just can’t yet be told. Meanwhile life just keeps happening. Tonight however when I was knitting away I realized I was holding in my hands something that was serendipitous.

On my first Thanksgiving Day, my cousin Marie taught me to walk. I’m not sure that my mother was so thankful because that’s when the trouble of chasing me around started, but she taught me nonetheless. Since that walking moment she has taught me many things, gotten me a job when I was 16 and has always looked out for me in her own way. Most recently I was really honored that she gave me a hope chest that belonged to our Grandmother and she had saved for many years. Around the same time Marie called to ask if I wanted it, I told her I wanted to learn to knit, knowing she would teach me. She told me what type of needles and yarn to get and I mentioned my Fall work schedule was going to be busy but would when I got a chance.

Soon after that conversation, I was going to Portland, Maine for a gig with The Fab Faux. Through Newark airport my phone rang as I was running late and being stopped at security. I was too harried to pick it up although I saw it was she. In Portland the Eastland Hotel was in walking distance to everywhere and having an afternoon to spend exploring, I thought I’d look for a yarn store. Since I travel often enough I was thinking it would be nice to buy yarn in different cities. I wasn’t aware that right around the way was a yarn shop but I found myself in front of what was called Central Yarn Shop. Gingerly I made my way in and looked around, relieved that the owner was busy so I didn’t have to feel rushed. I was more overwhelmed; there were beautiful yarns in this unassuming yarn shop. I took me a while but I fell in love with expensive Italian wool that was a rich bouquet of purple, gold, green and blue. I didn’t care about the price, I was kick up my heels inspired and in love with the beautiful colors. That’s what grabs me about knitting, to find yarn that has colors vibrant as flowers. Anyway, the shopkeeper was very nice helping me find the size 7 needles and I went on my merry way out the door, remembering that Re had called and I hadn’t played the message. I hit my voicemail and there she was as if by wizardry telling me that since I travel often it would be nice to try to buy yarn in different cities to knit with. Ok, so we think alike, that’s not serendipity, I know.

The following week at her house she taught me how to knit and I will say that it was probably easier to teach me to walk.

As I left for home she handed me a bag, telling me there were some clothes for my daughter, a couple of articles she pulled from the newspaper and a magazine and a book of hers to borrow called Stitch ‘n Bitch. When I got home, I took the things out of the bag. The magazine article was a lovely story about the same shop where I bought the yarn and there was a picture of the woman who helped me chose the needles in the shop. I was so surprised I dropped everything and called Marie. She said that after she left me the voicemail the morning I left for Portland, she turned the page of Country Living Magazine, read about this shop and thought of me.

Maybe there’s a book to be written here called Stitch ‘n Witch, cousins’ edition.

Tie-Dyed Yarn

Speaking of yarns, so many stories abound about Jerry Garcia that my friend Tony, who is born under the sign of Gemini, the master communicator, once told me when meeting high profile musicians as an ice breaker he often asks, “So what’s your Jerry story?” And inevitably he gets one! So here is a yarn, tie-dyed to Jerry in reflection but meaningful and serendipitous to me nonetheless. It’s about noticing how the universe aligns and if you pay attention the awareness is awesome.

The first evening of fall in Portland Maine settled in slowly with twilight barely fringing the unseasonably warm grey day. Most of the Fab Faux and crew were on the way but a few of us arrived early and just by chance I had learned about a retreat on the ocean I wanted to visit. Earlier in the week, on my facebook home page, a friend of one of the Faux’s had recommended the Inn by the Sea in nearby Cape Elizabeth. Suffering with the spirit of adventure and a strong desire to see the Maine coast, two friends and I shared the cab ride to the Inn to have dinner and hopefully explore the beach a bit. We arrived a little early for our reservation and as the Dinning Room began to glow with candlelight, outside was beginning to darken. We were greeted by the hostess and on her advice walked out the back porch onto a stone patio, past an indigenous wild flower garden and onto a boardwalk that led to the water. It was amid a natural beach setting with sea grass, flowers and trees that closely edged the wooden planks. It looked cozy in the dimming light and the ocean could be heard calling us ahead to hurry. Walking single file, Bob stopped to take a picture and discovered through the lens pure magic, tiny orbs floating everywhere however invisible to the naked eye surrounded us. Happily I had my camera and now have a snapshot of the memory.

The beach was calm and dreamy, an impressionist moment of sand, water, seaweed and foam. Unable to find a shell I reluctantly settled for a white stone. Later that night in the light of my room, I discovered the stone was flecked with mica and sparkled randomly in the light as beautiful as any seashell in sunlight and waters reach. It sparkled as if it understood how special it was, and is.

The next day as I spoke with one of the crew from the State Theatre and mentioned where I’d been. He told me that the Grateful Dead always stayed at the Inn by the Sea when they were in town. Later in the afternoon I searched the internet for more about the Dead and the Inn, finding a recording of ‘Believe it or Not’. The story is that this tape was found in Jerry’s room after he had checked out. I had never heard it before. I’m so glad it found it’s way to youtube. I think Jerry would have loved youtube and how his music is shared through it while he is far away but close in spirit in ¾ time with a beautiful love song.

Sacred earth emanates energy that draws one in and to appreciate the Serendipity here is to understand how I knew nothing of this place 5 days before and now I hear more clearly how the universe sings. Uni Verse. One verse that holds meaning for me in the connection and song.

Jerry still has a part in creating stories, simple but lovely as it may be and for me that’s what a long strange trip it’s been.

Make Something with Yarn

I immediately felt that phrase when I saw the picture of the above crocheted trivet on a way cool artists blog last night.

Noticing the vibrant colors I wanted to make a similar beautiful thing however it’s extremely inconvenient that I don’t know how to crochet. I can only weave using words, spinning my own yarn, one of the numerous tall tales that swirls around me in fragmented sentences.

Sometimes so fragmented that my friend, who has the patience of a saint, will abruptly say, “Finish your thought with words.” The guilt I feel in his confusion slams me into his reality. I would hate having to understand spontaneous not understandable phrases fraught with excitement at the prospect of a new arrangement of words.

Words whirl, that’s just what they do until they become attached to some emotion that I am trying to convey and then the space I’m in gets crowded with unspeakables…..half sentences that trip out of my mouth with right words, wrong words and animation that vibrates from my being.

It matters not if Love is attached although it does appear that while some words make it out intended to share some just echo around my heart unable to be free and exposed for what they are. Amazing. I remember dropping everything and running one day to a hatbox in my closet that’s filled with letters, notes and cards, 20 years after my Grandma was gone. I had the most disturbing thought that maybe she didn’t know I loved her. She was positively Victorian and I was a bit afraid of her yet I needed proof or it would have tormented me. I did find a card I had written to her and she saved, saying I love you……

I suppose that exemplifies that inner yarn can be so deep that it takes a while to unravel. Knotted up emotion that arrives only when the fabric of the yarn is soft and not pulled in too many directions.

Forget about it if there is fear attached. Then words hide as I hide from confrontation and the unpredictable reaction of the common man. Predictability predicates whether or not it’s safe. A yarn that’s tied to instability is colorful but not always able to hold it together.

That’s what this is about anyway, reaction to a trivet that was put together beautiful, remember? My reaction to a trivet and the desire to spin a yarn or a design that sparks a yarn in my heart. The stitches that hold it together are made with the same hand that takes it apart. And Monday………I will take the step and buy myself some yarn and a crochet needle. Just because.

SUMMER STEW

There’s no getting away from the fact that I cook a lot, in part because I like to. There is a difference however in being creative in the kitchen, deriving joy from coming close to replicating the Holiday Snack Bar Fluff Cake from Long Beach Island’s famed snack bar or in watching the clock tick the afternoon away, knowing at 6:00 pm the expectation is that I’ll have dinner on the table, regardless of my desire to cook or even to eat.

Some dinners are so routine that even on hot summer days when I’m feeling half-baked I can cook them on autopilot. Those meals involve the grill, not a simmering pot on the stove or another hot spot. The simmering can occur when an outside source, adds a most volatile ingredient, anger. The appearance of anger, an emotion that works as a toxic spice is not good for digestion. The oxymoron here is that anger is an emotion that REQUIRES feeding. It takes quite a bit of energy and self will to create this constant stew. It is easy to deceive oneself into thinking that something that erupts so suddenly can actually be what it is. Usually it’s simmering right along until the pot gets stirred.

I collect beautiful wooden spoons and my favorite is called a double love spoon that my mother brought me from Wales. The beauty of the carved artwork intended to feed newlyweds in love can’t alter the blend of ingredients once anger is infused in a simmering pot, nor can I beat it out with my wire whisk or favorite French rolling pin. I suppose that technique is in a cooking class I’ve yet to master.

The paradox is that the feeding of anger is as addictive as eating chocolate. It doesn’t taste as good though and I much prefer chocolate, especially if it’s from France.

Tonight’s menu will be ‘Take Out’. I am still on a mini vacation that has turned into a staycation at my brother’s house on Long Beach Island, whisking away any desire to be in a hot summer kitchen, happy to have a break from summer stews and looking to carve out a new kitchen view.

As I said, I like to cook, so I’m always on the outlook for a new recipe, and it’s all the better if it includes chocolate and doesn't simmer.

On the Eve of a Starship and a dark Moon, it's no Little Feat

Tomorrow will be the 4^th summer concert of my favorite job EVER. Each year Dakotah Blue Music handles the entertainment for a private beach party that takes place rain or shine. Hosted by the nicest couple in their magnificent waterfront back yard, it’s all BBQ and beach fun for a hundred of their closest friends. In the past the guests have been surprised with Southside Johnny, Felix Cavaliere’s Rascals, America, Don Felder of the Eagles, Mark Farner of Grand Funk Railroad and Dave Mason. Sometimes the road cases are borrowed from other bands and that leads to speculation however it’s a closely guarded secret until the band takes the stage.

Tonight I’m recuperating from an asthma episode so with inhaler in hand I will be leaving tomorrow at 9 to idle in Parkway traffic. I’ve washed stage towels, packed up my bag of tricks and picked out something to wear, kind of. That said something came to light this afternoon about one of the bands having a guest and I can’t help but believe life is just a serendipitous karmic spiral. Once upon a time when I was 16, I started working at a hotel in a nearby town. I worked 4 nights a week first as a hostess then graduating as soon as I was legal at 18 to a cocktail waitress. I meet many musicians throughout the 70’s because it was the closest hotel to the The Capital Theatre in Passaic. I served dinner to Van Morrison, meet Dickie Bettes who sat in with the house band one night, The Dead arrived and took over a floor in the hotel for several days, and yes I was the only one who worked at the hotel to be invited up by BOBBY. That’s another story. Poco was the band I loved and attended every show but never saw them though they stayed as well. I did become friendly with one of the Roadies, Paul Schoenburg. We shared the same birthday and went to the city to celebrate one winter afternoon by bus. By the time we got back the band had left and the crew was frantic waiting for him so they could leave. Life before cell phones allowed for that type of spaciousness that allowed you to have an experience and friends, not knowing your whereabouts, actually waited for you while you had dinner and polished off some fine French wine. I digress.

Last year I met a guest at the party and as we spoke he mentioned a Clifton connection. After the event and pictures were posted on facebook I noted the hostess Maiden name was the same as the family who owned the hotel chain I worked for.

This afternoon my partner texted me that one of the bands wanted to bring their manager as their guest. Way back in the 70’s he had been a promoter and his business had a direct effect on shaping my early years and on my best experiences at the hotel. I believe even today in the work that I do, my background in hospitality has made this a natural fit for me as did the frequent exposure to talent.

In this twisted turn of events where as luck would have it, I have walked a tiny bit along a path he blazed, I am thrilled now at the chance to meet the man, though he’ll be walking the backyard with little feat. Tomorrow I’ll be looking for the starship to rise towards the dark moon in Leo, a sign of creative self expression and entertainment. For me it’s been a long walk from Passaic and the all too small lobby painted black at The Capital Theatre but as above, so below. You can find me in Monmouth Beach, wrapped in a dark moon blanket of expansive serendipitous starlight.

Can you hear my smile?

a gypsy in the shadow of THE HOUSE OF SEVEN GABLES

Last Friday, on my way to work a Fab Faux show, I stopped in Salem, Massachusetts. I was in one of the Wiccan Shops when I noticed on the counter a pack of 'Gypsy Witch Fortune Telling' cards. They are the exact same pack that my Mom had bought me. Actually the difference is this pack has a bar code however the rest is identical. It was so long since I had thought of them but they came up in my blog last week and a couple days later they materialized. I was totally surprised and after purchasing the cards I had to sit on a bench outside that was flagged with a witch saying 'sit for a spell', open the pack and check them out. Across the street was a local bar called In A Pig's Eye. There was some great acoustic music spilling out onto the street so the place called to me and I stepped in for a recovery Guinness. As you may know, Guinness is a medicinal and highly recommended brew from the remnants of my Celtic childhood. Soon as I take a sip the lead guitarist begins to play the melody of Gasoline Alley, one of my favorite Rod Stewart songs from an album released the same year I got the cards, 1970. It’s one of my favorite songs about going home and quickly turned into a powerhouse rendition taken by not one but THREE guitarists. It was like being haunted by Crazymaker, Sweet Thing and Keeper of my Heart. It was too much synchronicity, happiness and good medicine. Started to cry in The Pig's Eye.....

THREE O'CLOCK SON

Crazymaker, Sweet Thing and Keeper of My Heart sat at my country French kitchen table in the late afternoon. The three o’clock sun streamed through the lace curtains and spilled onto the black and white tiled floor where the dog lay sleeping. Crazymaker, who recently learned that his Mother occasionally read tarot cards, dominated a conversation that was speckled with laughter regarding the cards. It had been her deep secret. Long ago as a child her own Mother, Crazymakers Grandmother, had surprised her with ‘Gypsy Witch Fortune Telling Cards’, much to Mothers happiness. She would read them but as she became more adept, Crazymakers Grandmother began to warn her of becoming too attached to the clues and direction given in the cards. Grandmother, rooted in her Pisces habit of giving mixed messages, next gifted her eleven-year-old daughter with a ouija board. Right from the beginning it seemed more of a novelty, something that incited skepticism. The child worried that cousins and friends who may have wanted a certain response were directing the spelling of the answer. More than that, she was superstitious and secretly concerned that something unseen in the room would assert itself, so she was a bit afraid and did not trust the board. The cards were different. The pictures intrigued her and sparked her imagination. An inner admiration of readers who could provide insight and comfort began to form in the child. The cards invited inner dialogue between the seeker and the reader on a level that Mother, even as a child would normally be unable to access. Trust could be found in a candlelight room, in the symbols from esoteric astrology books or the revelations of the cards. Trust was in the element of Air, perfumed with the smoke of incense, in which thought itself lives and creates magic when it shape shifts into form.

The world of Crazymaker was rocked by the knowledge that Mother read cards. It was evident with his loud voice comically mimicking his vision of Mother on a moonlit night reading. He had his audience in Sweet Thing and Keeper of My Heart and he was not taking any prisoners. No one really knew what Crazymaker believed in or trusted but it was not his Mothers’ world. He alone gave Mother reason to reach for the cards or as it happened for the cards to reach for Mother.

Over 40 years had blown by and the fortune telling cards kept in a corner desk by Mother as a child were long forgotten. On a winter’s day near her birthday, hearing Mother was ill, a friend stopped by with a small paisley bag, a thoughtful gift from a beloved friend. Mother opened the bag to find a new pack of tarot and the ghost of an old memory, the warning to be careful with the cards. She was delighted but the memory created a bit of reluctance to handle them. She did welcome the cards in her heart yet kept them in the beautiful bag in her closet. Everyday she saw them but at first was too sick and then too busy. One day she was healed enough to be in the kitchen to cook and while reaching for a pot, the cards called to her. She had been thinking of the dinner she was preparing when she became aware that she needed to get the cards and ask a question. It was such a strong feeling that she left her stew simmering on the stove and walked directly into her own heart. That is the creative genius of the cards, to allow one to use intuition and think with the heart. Since that moment the cards have again called to Mother. The third reading enabled her to use the Celtic cross pattern during the reading and through that pattern weave a story of present and future.

Crazymaker, Sweet Thing and Keeper of My Heart mirror each other and reflect a world different from the world Mother experiences. It is not necessary to be of the same world only to appreciate and provide illumination, just as the three o’clock sun illuminates the room with the conversation of the three sons, silhouetted in soft light, shape shifting the present conversation and future thoughts where nothing is really black and white, not in my kitchen anyway.

Looking for Clues

My eyes are sensitive and always take a bit of time to adjust to changes in light. Today, a little after noon, I arrived home from the Farmers Market and drove into the garage, still wearing my sunglasses. I opened the car door and simultaneously heard something rustle in the hodgepodge of furniture I had pulled from the basement for a garage sale. That mess is adjacent to where I park. I hurried on my way to open the passenger side door when a medium sized something crawled out from under my car. It was dark colored, somewhat pointed and looked as if it was searching. I was soon to discover that it was looking for its friend. I went running out of the garage and up the steps of the deck looking for my son, hoping, the first time ever mind you, that he would still be lounging on the couch. Thru the screen door I yelled to him that I thought a jackal was in the garage. Startled and too surprised to argue, he jumped up and we ran back down the steps to the gate. Just as we opened it, two proud peacocks with dark feathers and brilliant colored plumes strutted by from the garage. Walking side by side they hopped over the stone row that divides my yard from my neighbors and continued regally thorough the woods. I was immediately reminded of the Aubrey Beardsley artwork in his illustrations for Le Morte Darthur as only through his imagination have I ever seen peacocks roaming freely.

Never mind the fact that I live in New Jersey, not in any artists imagination or in Pre Christian England or in The Gardens of King Herod where Oscar Wilde wrote about peacocks adorning the garden in Salome.

I’m just a Jersey girl, living on the alternate side, busy enough helping to road manage a band that travels weekends and distracted enough by my family to not get my garage sale going. Recently the business I started 3 years ago has become something I am focusing on, hoping it will grow. My forever character flaw, brought to my attention one day by my mother, is of thinking my day is filled with clues. My understanding of the world is contingent upon the clues giving me direction so I’ve looked up what type of omen a peacock is and here I share in case one should ever cross your path.

The Peacock can represent spring, birth, new growth, longevity, and love. It is a good omen, signaling prestige, success and contentment in relationships and careers.

I choose to believe they presented in my garage at just the moment of my arrival for the Universe to reaffirm that my work will be successful, to remind me to stay focused. The fact that they are birds that have successful partnerships was not lost on me either. Birds have long been believed to be messengers of the Creator due to their ability to fly between heaven and earth.

I am hoping to fly as well.

Weed

In Honor of My Father and Family.......

Defining moments are really what shape people although many little moments become deeply buried in their being, in their heart. This is my story of little moments and the weaving of family interactions and love that was given to me long ago.

When my father was nine years old, his Father died. My Grandmother had five children, my father being the youngest. She remarried several years later. My Step Grandpa also had five children, so my Dad gained four step brothers and a stepsister. They were American Indian, and all but Aunt Gertrude were raised on a reservation in Canada in tradition of their mothers family. Needless to say, they had their own way of looking at the world and their own brand of humor. My Dad married my Mom at thirty, so by the time I can remember family gatherings I was one of the littlest. Most of my cousins, from this combined Irish-Italian-Scottish-Indian mélange, were older than me. Between the ten siblings, their spouses and the assorted grandchildren every holiday at Grandma and Grandpa’s tiny cape cod style house was filled with people and most of the people were filled with alcohol. That being said, it brings me to the story at hand. My older cousins all had honorary Indian names. The boys had camp or sports related names while the girls had beautiful “Flower in the Rain” type names. At some point before my memory kicked in, I was given a name. Mine was definitely different. Baby Weed. Weed Baby. Tiny Weed. Sometimes it was Tumbleweed. Being ever so young, first I answered to it. As I grew, I began to realize that:

A. A weed is not a good flower.

B. None of the other girls had a funny name that made people smile when they called you.

For a long time I pretended it didn’t matter however just before entering first grade, after one particularly hot Fourth of July family picnic, I finally did complain to my own older step brothers. They laughed at me and replied, “Weed girl, it’s because you’re always playing in the dirt, and you never let anyone comb your hair, even for days. You actually look like a cross between and elf and a weed, an elfweed!” That night, looking in the mirror, I could see what they meant. I was old enough by then to realize I might be teased or even been given a worse name like maybe “stink weed” or “yucca tree girl”, so I continued to pretended not to be bothered by it and all the while the name remained.

The following May, it was time for First Holy Communion at my church. I was a year behind the Communion Class so it wasn’t my turn, though I remember vividly how beautiful the girls were all in white, wearing beaded veils and carrying flowers. It was the first time I noticed how the year older girls looked. My friend Sharon’s lovely dress, Susan’s lace gloves and Patty Kay’s unbelievably breathtaking hair. Ah yes, Patty Kay’s beautiful curled hair. I was amazed hair could be that pretty and stay in place. I was kneeling in church when I first noticed it. I looked for a minute, then turned away and began to pray for Patty Kay hair. I made up the pray myself and it was the only prayer I remembered for a long time. I believed God would be proud of me for writing my own prayer and one day I would wake up to the miracle of “Patty Kay Hair.” Every morning when I awoke I would run to the mirror to check but I had the same fine celtic locks as always. One day, I decided to try to create my own miracle. My mother had brought home Breck shampoo with Cybil Shepard on the label. In the 1960’s, the Breck girl surely was the “saint of beautiful hair.” I thought it was a sign from Heaven that my Mom had bought this bottle. I proceeded to wash my hair and included a Holy Water (procured from my church) rinse to be extra religious. Well, my hair was very clean and looked nice, but it wasn’t “Patty Kay Perfect in Church Hair.” Disappointed, I just continued to say my prayer each night and yes check the mirror, though not as often.

Later that Spring, my Aunt arrived to take me to the ballet at Lincoln Center. I was seven, in my prettiest dress, with my hair combed and pulled back in a ponytail. My Grandpa was driving us to the train station. My Aunt Jean was up front and I was in the backseat, feet not yet touching the floor when I heard it. Grandpa referred to me as “Weed” in his conversation. His reference to me was automatic, as were the tears that immediately ran down my face. I tried to stop but couldn’t. I was embarrassed because I had never cried in front of them before. Grandpa quickly stopped the car and they both got out and opened the back door. I could see they were upset and asked immediately what was wrong.

I just blurted out, “I’m wearing a dress, I’ve been washing my hair with Breck shampoo and waiting for beautiful hair but still you call me Weed. Of everyone I have the ugliest name of all. No weeds are beautiful. No one likes a weed. You pull them out of the garden to get rid of them.” They both looked startled but involuntarily managed the same old “Weed Girl” smile. I felt crushed, but my Grandpa didn’t miss a beat, he instantly replied, “You misunderstood all along. You were different. Flowers are delicate and temporary and need special care. You are delicate too, but tough. A weed can be pulled out of the garden thrown over the fence, blown in the breeze but it will take root again and grown even stronger. You were wrong. Many weeds are wild and beautiful. Some even bloom in the snow. You were born on a snowy day without even a doctor. Weeds can take care of themselves. Just like you.”

The rest of the drive to the train I proudly wore the “Weed Girl” smile. I sat on my Grandpa’s lap steering the car, all the car windows open, my ponytail pulled out, and my hair all tangled in the breeze and in the love of my family.

In the picture above my Dad is wearing the white carnation, holding a cigarette. My grandma is on the right and my Dad appears to be looking at her. Although the focus on her is a bit blurry she looks beautiful to me. It was way before I was born, unless of course you believe in simultaneous time ;)

Bertha, Eddie and My Brother

Today my iPod was cued to ‘random’ when Los Lobos’ version of Bertha caught my ears by surprise. It was from that moment and song that this recollection showed up.

My brother and his friend Eddie loved the Grateful Dead and in the early 80’s when the Dead where playing a run of shows at Brenden Byrne Arena in the Meadowlands they had tickets. Each night the preshow parking lot was filled with Dead Heads, gypsies, fans and over night entrepreneurs from East Rutherford cashing in on the influx of The Following, making grill cheese and flipping veggie burgers. Both Eddie and my brother had been celebrating for hours, not that these two needed a parking lot full of helium balloons, pot brownies, grill cheese makers or the make shift vendor village to celebrate. They grew up in the suburbs at a time when kids roamed after and created fun. It was real life social networking and they never lacked in finding or providing it themselves. It flowed naturally within the geography of the Meadowlands infiltrating the surrounding towns and had far reaching effects on character building. And these two were characters. On a recent camping trip, they had spent all day canoeing and exploring the Delaware and all night with another famous and historic liquid, beer, which they consumed until they were toasted by the campfire. My brother was the only camper who did not sleep in a tent preferring a hammock under the stars. Around 3 am when the sky opened up and the monsoon arrived, he twisted out of the hammock, stumbled to the canoe, found his life jacket, put it on and went back to sleep in the hammock. Eddie had watched this peering out from his tent and would explain to Michael the next morning when he wondered aloud why he woke with his life jacket on. On the night of the Dead show however, once inside the arena, Eddie and my brother found their seats, way up in the balcony. So now these two, who were quite high are way up in the balcony. I felt the need to point out the obvious there. At some point after the music started they separated and soon after the Dead began to jam on Bertha. It was during the jam that Eddie heard his name being called over the microphone. Alone and believing he was being paged; he began a long spiral descent through dancing and twirling dead head women, concert folk and security from the balcony toward the lower levels of the arena. He was stopped by security but managed to keep going toward the stage insisting that his name was being called and his friend was missing.

He reached the seats on the floor of the arena just when the song was ending. It was at that moment he stopped hearing his name being called and he found my brother who had earlier meandered down into the crowd. He also found out that the lyric Jerry was singing was actually, “Bertha don’t you come around here, any more”. My brother had to explain to Eddie Moore that he wasn’t being paged he was just hearing the song as…...Bertha don’t you come around here, Eddie Moore…….

I’m sure those two shared more stories that I’ll never know. They shared friendship, the love of camping and canoeing; countless beers and ultimately they shared pancreatic cancer. When my brother was too sick to be left alone, his wife had to work and my Dad on occasion couldn’t come by, Eddie would keep him company not knowing that he too had the same disease that would be diagnosed three months after my brothers death. That’s a long sentence but it’s not my fault. The universe made it that way, not me. Within four months of each other they each left beautiful daughters who were just shy of their teenage years in this parallel universe filed with stories, forget-me–nots, Love and tears. Happy Birthday Michael. This picture is from the first time I ever saw you, when Mommy brought you home.

I’m sending Love and Light to you and Eddie and I’m going to play the Dead’s version of Bertha and dance like angels are with me ;) and all that because I may very well be a character too………

Fractured Fairy Tail

On Mother’s Day I was asked to write a tale. It was a spontaneous question following a joke about my sister’s bilingual dog and the subsequent comment that the dog is living the American Dream. So here, for Kathleen, I will document the true story of how she came to acquire the dog. This tail, oops I mean tale, may even be serendipitous. It is not tall but true and so here I begin.

Once upon a time my son Richie kept company with friends that live in a nearby neighboring town called Hawthorne. It was mid autumn and the nights were getting cold and frosty, not unlike one of the beers that he no doubt downed during his visit. It was a gathering of old friends and new and ‘twas here that he met Brandy, a girl with long blonde dreadlocks who traveled the country working at various Ren Faires. The ‘Ren’ of course is for Renaissance. In her migration from Faire to Faire her brat accompanied her and was friendly to all. Brat, of course is for Boston Rat Terrier. On this night she sought lodging at the home of her friends parents. They would not allow the dog inside for reasons unknown. I am told that as the wind howled through the Hawthorne trees and the late night half moon dimly lit the sky, my son, outside having a smoke, noticed a dog in a nearby car. And so it was that they became acquainted - my oldest brat and the brat, who had been named Beans by his Ren Faire family.

And it came to pass at some point during the visit, possibly due to alcohol intake, instant karma or by sorcery that Richie decided it would be in the best interest of the dog to be brought to our home. We have a blonde golden retriever named Jade and another animal is not an option, yet I awoke from a pleasant dream one morning to find that Beans had been brought home and hidden in the basement. It was supposed to be for one night while the traveler visited friends but lo and behold by dinner it was decreed that she could no longer take Beans with her from Faire to Faire. I was informed of this change of plans and asked if I knew of anyone who wanted a well-behaved puppy. I immediately replied, “Ask Aunt Kathy, last weekend she mentioned she was thinking about getting a dog.” And indeed, just a week earlier she had told me that she was thinking it would be nice to have a dog, almost as if she let the universe know.

Richie called my sister and then the two brats disappeared quickly out the front door just as my husband arrived home through the back door. Later that evening Richie arrived home without Beans letting me know that Aunt Kathy had taken to the dog and he would stay there a night or two on a trial basis.

Beans was extremely well behaved in his new home during the first week. My sister was pleased and all appeared well in the realm of Midwood Avenue in Glen Rock, outside of the fact that Beans was not particularly fond of her husband. Beans was now taking center stage in Kathy’s world with fancy dog beds, dishes and toys appearing as if by wizardry in each room. Soon however it became evident that Beans may have had a stomach problem. He would occasionally get sick and throw up. At first it was thought that he was getting acclimated to new surroundings however it persisted. Some days it was here, there and everywhere. When he threw up on Kathy’s bed pillow in the middle of the night Beans was promptly brought to the vet who declared him to be approximately 8 years old. In trying to obtain the records from his previous owner it was discovered that she adopted him from Petco. He had been abandoned as a puppy and found with a pack of wild dogs roaming the streets of Detroit. Brandy, the Ren Faire previous owner, told my now frantic sister over the phone, that he had received shots but all his records were in a storage unit in Kansas or Wisconsin, she couldn’t remember which. The vet diagnosed him with Pancreatitus or a sensitive stomach which is about as distant a diagnosis as Kansas is to Wisconsin. He then charged my sister $3000 for testing and treatment. My sister promptly looked into health insurance and enrolled the dog.

Beans is very sweet, good-natured and a bit underweight. He now roams the streets of Glen Rock on a expensive leash, sleeps in a king size bed, dines on boiled chicken and rice that my sister cooks specially for him. Or should I say arroz con pollo. My sister’s friend has been speaking to him in Spanish and he appears to understand even though it’s spoken with an East Rutherford accent. Maybe he picked up the Spanish traveling the streets of Detroit or maybe during his days with the migratory Ren Faire gypsies. All I know is if this dog could talk he would have some story to tell only I wonder if he’d be speaking in Spanish or English? Either way I’m sure he’s found his Happily ever after in my sister, the Queen of his castle in the Glen.

Tales from the Wood

May 8th will be 5 years since my Mom left the planet. I intended to write something in honor of her for Mother's Day however in my Weed stories I came across one that always makes me smile from when I was 5.

For my Mother with Infinite Love...................

Some people believe in the power of charms, crystals and talismans. Weed believed in the power of Cowboy boots. They could walk her through any dangerous or scary situation. She learned of their power and used it in time for Kindergarten.

When Weed was about to be enrolled in Kindergarten her parents broke family tradition. Her two older brothers, along with her ten cousins, had all attended Catholic School. Weed was enrolled in a neighborhood public school and she was both annoyed and confused about it. She asked her mother why she wasn’t in the same school her brothers’ had attended. Her mothers’ reply was honest. She told Weed that because her brothers had constantly misbehaved and gotten in trouble she was afraid the Sisters who taught there would remember what her brothers had done and it would be held against Weed. They were legendary having done everything from shake down kids for lunch money to selling fireworks to classmates to use on the eighth grade class trip. While Weed had no choice but to listen to her parents concern she resented it. Over time she settled this resentment with her own imagination. The school she was to attend was called Catherine E. Doyle School, named after a prominent and much loved teacher. Her cousins went to schools with regal and mysterious sounding names such as Academy of the Holy Angels, St. Thomas and Our Lady of Assumption. Weed knew enough religion to know that Saints were greatly loved and admired by many. In her world Catherine E. Doyle sounded like a name from a phone book. In her world it sounded much nicer as St. Catherine Of Doyle.

Weeds interest and admiration of Saints had begun a year before when she met Sister Saint Anthony from Our Lady of Assumption Church in Wood-Ridge. Back in the day, Nuns were allowed to drive but not alone. The Convent had an old 57 Chevy for her to use but Sister St. Anthony needed a companion to drive with. Weeds mom had known her for some time and when no one volunteered to help, she did. Sister St. Anthony wanted to visit her family an hour away so it became routine to walk to the Convent, get in the Chevy and drive with Sister St. Anthony to her families home.

On the very first trip though something transpired that Weeds mom could have never anticipated. Sister St. Anthony started the car and put the pedal to the medal. She traveled at 70 miles per hour regardless of whether they were on the highway or on the Boulevard in Wood-Ridge. Traffic stops were taken at a screeching halt. All corners were turned on two wheels. Also, in the early 1960’s the habit that Sister wore was very long. The only parts exposed were a little bit of her sweet, angelic face and her tiny snow-white hands. The black wool sleeves were huge. Weed could see the horror in her mother’s eyes as Sister St. Anthony grabbed the steering wheel. Later at home, Weed heard her Mom tell her Dad how scared she was, not only of the speed, but also of losing sight of the steering wheel in one of the wide sleeves.

When Sister suggested they pray the rosary on the way down, Weeds mom looked relieved. Weed guessed her Mom now understood why Sister St. Anthony had a hard time finding a companion to travel with and needed the rosary to help her find a way out of this.

At age four, Weed was pressed against the back seat by the sheer force of speed. In those pre-air conditioning days all the windows were down. Weeds hair was blowing in the breeze and becoming more tangled by the minute. Having been teased about her unkempt hair as far back as she could remember, Weed was sure by now it was a bird’s nest. She just hoped with all the prayers being said in the front seat that the Holy Ghost itself would land in it to keep her safe. Weed passed the time watching the treetops and clouds race by. On the return trip it was more of the same, with the rosary being said in the front seat sounding like a soundtrack for the race between all she could see of the tree tops and clouds.

Weed and her Mom made several more trips with Sister St. Anthony to see her family. The night before the second trip Weed had watched Gunsmoke with her Dad. While watching it, it occurred to Weed that Sister St. Anthony drove like a stage coach driver being chased by a posse. The next day and on all subsequent trips she wore her cowboy boots, bandana and hat. As the treetops and clouds raced by she pointed her cap gun out the window to protect Sister St. Anthony and her Mom from the Unseen.

The trips ended with the beginning of summer. It was just in time for Weed and her Dad to take walks after dinner to the school she would be attending in the fall. They did this occasionally in July and August so Weed could learn the way. It was just six blocks from her home.

When the first day arrived, her Mom was preparing to walk her to school. Weed demanded she stay home. Actually, Weed demanded she not follow her outside. The very independent Weed left the house and waved to her Mom who was holding her brother and watching from the front picture window. Then Weed turned away looking down at her new shoes and pretended they were her cowboy boots. Once she visualized her boots she felt for her trusty cap gun she had hidden in her pocket the night before. She then skipped her way to her very first day at “Saint Catherine of Doyle.”

Several years later when Sally Field debuted as Sister Betrille in “The Flying Nun” Weed was sleeping at her Aunt Theresa’s house. She watched it with her cousins and was mesmerized by the story. When she returned home, she found her Mom and told her the story of Sister Betrille while jumping nonstop on the couch in her excitement. Her Mom, sitting at the kitchen table with Weed’s sister on her lap, listened patiently while smoking her cigarette. In the end she said nothing but hugged Weed and laughed.

They both knew the real Flying Nun.

POWDER & PAINT

She was a delicate woman with a powerful voice.

On a sunny afternoon in San Francisco, her performance at Hardly Strictly Bluegrass attracted the other musicians who I watched leave the green room or walk from other parts of the park to hear Hazel sing. I met Jorma and Jack walking on their way from their tour bus to hear Hazel. I watched Steve Earle, Emmy Lou Harris and Alison Brown sit stage right as she performed. All were in awe of Hazel and it was my friend Assunta who knew her and cued me into what all the musicians knew. Hazel was the Real Deal. Assunta began to cry as Hazel sang Black Lung, a song written for her brother. The crowd was hushed as she performed, held captive by her songs and in respect of this woman who was a national treasure.

The evening after she performed, many of the musicians were meeting at one of the hotels for drinks. I was standing on the sidewalk with Assunta and Molly O’Brien when a cab pulled up and the petite Hazel Dickens stepped out. I was introduced to her and during the course of ‘small talk’ one of the women commented on how pretty she looked. Hazel quipped, “Powder and paint, makes you look like what you ain’t”. It was so illuminating for me, the juxtaposition of this prolific woman who paved the way for the likes of Alison Krause and Emmy Lou Harris sharing her bit of women’s wisdom with a smile that was part inside joke yet something we all knew to be true. It was a moment in time I will always smile about.

I am sorry to write that she lost her battle with pneumonia and died last week. Thank you Hazel for crossing my path and bless you wherever you are among the stars.

Walking Girl

This morning I went for a walk with a couple of the Taylor siblings, kind of. A bracelet Sister Kate made for me was on my wrist, James was on my iPOD and I was present in the moment. Something in the way he sings is entirely comforting to me as is the rhythm of walking. My neighborhood is laced with an occasional sidewalk but primarily I am in the street or on the dirt. There is a great benefit to walking and being aware of your local geography. It opens up your perspective when walking, a different understanding of the landscape rather than to zip by in a car at 40 miles per hour and believe you know your way home.

So many ancient and indigenous cultures recognize sacred geography and in their alignment with spirit lived, prayed and communed in sacred earth. The land where I live belonged to the Ramapough and I have been told is charged by a vortex that emanates from the Ramapo Mountains. That’s the little I know about the background of these meandering roads however I know a bit more of sacred geometry, which I learned from my seashell collection. I’ve always had a love for the sparkle of a seashell tossed within my reach on the shoreline. My affinity with American Indian art translated early on to seashells and jewelry. I have two beautiful bracelets of wampum. Friends gave me one and it is an intricate silver cuff with a deep purple shell made by a traditional artist. The other bracelet is made of sea glass and beads by Kate Taylor. I had seen her work in a magazine article about artists on Martha’s Vineyard following an award she had won. I instantly loved her way of combining the shells with resin and sea glass, in contemporary design, creating necklaces, bracelets, belts and unique pieces.

I kept the article for years and then one night, at a ‘meet and greet’ following a Fab Faux show at Radio City Music Hall, I walked into the room filled with 300 people and noticed a woman in velvet, lace and wampum, the very enchanting Kate Taylor. We met and it was easy to reference what I knew of her art since she was wearing several exquisite pieces. She was lovely and it was a conversation that STILL MAKES ME SMILE. Her warmth and beauty clearly evident in her art and it was at that time that we exchanged email and I was able to commission a bracelet. Two months later she was touring in NJ opening for the band America when much to my happiness I met with her again to pick it up.

Originally, it was as Sister Kate that I remembered her opening for America in the 70’s. My Rolling Stone collection from back in the day verifies it as well. Since then I’ve heard her perform in the city and I remain in amazement at what the Universe has brought to my own landscape. To have read of her and kept the Rolling Stone , to find out of her talent with wampum jewelry keeping the article out of admiration and then to meet her by chance while at work, I just can’t help believe it’s not serendipitous or part of the sacred geography of the path I walk. Hopefully it will continue to take me hOMe.

Ramble On

A couple of hours ago I was making two pies, a zucchini and lemon meringue. Right from the beginning the lemon meringue was instilling fear in me. At times the meringue turns out ‘Greek Diner Happy’, an impressive and beautiful thing as only witnessed in a diner showcase but other times it is temperamental and can lose it’s height quicker than Jersey girl hair without hairspray. The zucchini is always reliable and really good. It’s considered a mob hit in my family, especially when it includes thin slices of pepperoni, which it does today. So now these two distinctly different pies, one a side dish and one a dessert, are on my counter being evaluated to see if I should bring them both to Levon’s Ramble tonight. I’m worried about the lemon meringue making the trip to Woodstock and arriving with the integrity of the meringue intact especially since it’s raining out. It’s intimidating to cook for a group that probably has its share of excellent vegetarian potluck food cooked and given with love in honor of The Ramble. Mine are made from scratch however outside of cooking for my own family I don’t have any real cooking expertise so the idea of placing my pies on Levon’s table heightens my sense of insecurity. Or at least it was, until I was informed this afternoon that I’d be stopping by John Sebastian’s house first. ……. There’s been a seismic twist in my perspective and I now have a sheer and luminous sense of just plain old inner happy. I’m smiling randomly around my kitchen and thinking the pies will probably be all right and that maybe I really can share every homemade Lovin’ Spoonful.