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.