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.

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.....

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………

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.

DRIVE MY CAR

The moment I became aware that Los Lobos would be ringing in the New Year at City Winery I wanted to go. It’s been almost three years since Dakotah Blue presented the band at WPU and I had a craving to hear one of my most favorite bands live. Traditionally I spend New Years Eve with friends and when I mentioned going to the city to see the show no one was able to commit. In early December the Fab Faux decided to play 4 dates in the week between Christmas and New Years. Tickets went on sale December 12^th and the sold out shows in City Winery’s intimate setting were amazing. It was a bit of a shuffle for Jack who was also playing at the Bowery Ballroom, in Patti Smith’s band. The close proximity of the venues and the earlier timing of the Faux gigs made it possible for me to pick him up after sound check at the Ballroom getting him to the Faux gig in time despite the mountains of snow throughout SOHO (or should I say SnowHo?) After the Faux encore, car service was running him back to the Ballroom. I was the back up plan in case the car service didn’t show up so by 8:40 we were checking out side for the car. The service did arrive and the first night after speaking to the driver, Rennie went inside as they were finishing the encore to be there to escort Jack out to the car. I remained outside by myself thinking how beautiful the night was. I was alone on the street just outside City Winery’s huge oak doors listening to the music spill onto the street. I noticed someone negotiating the snow bank and the melted snow pond forming on the corner and I looked over to see David Hidalgo of Los Lobos walking right toward me. Two women were accompanying him. I quickly said hello and re introduced myself letting him know that I work with the Fab Faux now. It turns out David, his wife and their friend were coming to hear the Faux so I brought them in. The show had just ended but they joined everyone in the dressing room. I was elated to have met up with them and I overheard Jimmy asking if they’d be able to come back the next night. It was all left up in the air when they left however the air in Manhattan is apparently filled with magic. The next night just before the show started, with the room filling with people, I saw them back, this time with Conrad and his wife and grandchild. We got them seats and I took off to look for Denny Laine who was arriving late after his own car issues. Needless to say David played during the encore, along with Denny who was a scheduled guest. My very first story here, written last December was of the surprise chance to work with Los Lobos and now I close out the year with another tale of wonder, or is it all just Serendipity? Either way it’s brought me so much happiness.

Feelin' Groovy

The beginning started at the last minute and the table was the issue from the beginning. If you can truly follow that you must be a friend of mine, just like Corinne, Karen and Evelyn. I waited to make reservations for Evelyn’s Birthday, unaware that at City Winery the method is to go online and chose a table. A couple days before the date, feeling guilty with procrastination and sitting alone at my dinning room table with my laptop, I became overwhelmed with the challenge as I looked at the diagram on the website. Certain aspects of the map were reminiscent of Harry Potters Marauders Map in that if the eye diagram was clicked the room floated on screen appearing at different angles to give a better visual of the stage. Unable to summon the courage to take on the responsibility of this decision, I called Corinne. Her sun sign is Leo the Lion so courage abides in her naturally. We stayed on the phone, each with the City Winery floor plan open and after exhausting the choices left to us, finely decided on a table in the mezzanine. Two days later we arrived to hear Harper Simon and Rhett Miller, drink lots of wine and argue over what appetizers and dinners to share. We were walked to the table by the host to find it was a bar table with backless bar stools. Immediately, in hushed tones and glances around the room they wanted to see if we could be moved. It was early enough and next thing I knew I was off to ask the concierge who I had to wait in line to speak with. From where I stood I could see the waiter come by and in a flash the bar stools were exchanged for stools with backs. I went back to the table, finding that the discussion about the table had been tabled and everyone settling cozily in with the surroundings. Besides wanting to hear Harper Simon, I was excited because I had worked with pedal steel virtuoso Jon Graboff last month and was hoping he would be joining Harper on stage as he accompanied him on tour in Europe late Spring. It turned out Harper was solo and I was a bit disappointed because I love the pedal steel. Meanwhile, I had focused on Graboff and it never occurred to me there might be other guests. Anyway, the empty table next to us was getting the chairs changed as well by some spirited wait staff with trendy coiffed hair. I noticed the reserved card being placed and I was in mid sip of my chardonnay when I read the look on Karen’s face. Walking past our table to the adjacent one tended only minutes before was Edie Brickell and Paul Simon. While it was happy hour before, the vibe became instantly elevated to feelin’ groovy. Paul Simon is just a national treasure and to have him and Edie share airspace while listening to his son was such an added dimension to the smile factor. Needless to say, we had a great time, loved the winery, the music, the cool vibe that Paul Simon unknowingly brought to our table. Can you imagine being a person that just the site of makes other people happy? Oh and I almost forgot, the unexpected fortunate turn of the tables with our winning game of musical chairs.

Postcards from the Future

My brother planted sunflowers

Evergreen, daises, forget-me-nots too

He shared the seeds, igniting the world

With vibrant, subtle, changing hues

In the backyard garden of home

And a tree farm far away

The same breeze that whispers love

Arrives but not to stay

Fueled with the same mischief

That dances in the stars

My brother planted sunflowers

In a meadow forever blue

Like an evergreen he was rooted

With courage to grow and go

His star sight reached beyond the field

Where all the flowers grow

So in the Spring reminders bloom

Of love so strong and true

Sunflowers, evergreens, daises

And always forget-me-nots too

I wrote this last November while I was cooking dinner. The words just came to me rhythmically; reminiscent of a chant you’d jump rope to some long ago summer. A bouquet of sunflowers on the counter nearby, a flower my brother loved, may have been the catalyst for the poetry. I never dreamed I’d be invited nine months later to visit the farm Michael worked on in his early twenties. Through the kindness of two childhood friends who I connected with on face book, I was invited to see the farm and creek on a recent trip to Cooperstown. Evergreens are abundantly growing in the adjacent field and on the walk down to the creek. It was Ann Maries comment that my brother planted them that reminded and enlightened me. I was so in awe being in a place that was legendary to my family that I forgot the most obvious, he was there to plant trees. In the background of Steven’s smile is a row of White Pines, the tree the Iroquois Nation called the Tree of Peace. Planted by my brother as little seedlings, they now towered over us, majestic in the sun filled landscape, bringing peace to my heart. Thank You Ann Marie, Tim and Bonnie for your thoughtfulness and good medicine. It meant more to me than I can convey in words…

Another postscript is one I find typical of my brother and my interactions. Michael called me up one day to come by and take home some flowers he had for me. When I arrived, in my new car, I was really annoyed to find 4 huge muddy flats of what looked like weeds for me to bring home and plant. I brought them home and it took me all week to plant them, still angry at what appeared to be an endless pack of weeds. He called several times during the week to ask if I’d finished which made me feel obligated to plant them all. I ran out of sunspace so put a lot in the wooded way back of the back yard just to get them in the ground. The following Spring he was gone and the flowers forgotten until two years later when I walked in the way back early one May morning to see what needed to be gardened and instead found a virtual field of forget-me-nots that had reseeded and now grew everywhere.

I believe his insistence on giving me the flowers and my poetic scribbling was nothing more than postcards from the future, postmarked with Serendipity.

Little Tiny and the Great Spirit

Recently a friend asked me, through email, if I had a dream job what would it be? My response was, ‘don’t make me WRITE it.’ I’m not sure if it was understood but my answer of course was, ‘writer’. A simple but complex six-letter word. After all, I can dream can’t I?

Later that night I was in front of my mirror when I remembered that question. I’d never been asked that before and I was simply thinking how it was kind and thoughtful to be asked. My sometimes-dangerous mind became dangerous and automatically answered without thinking, screening or filtering from me, ‘mother’. Another simple but complex six-letter word that knocked me off balance. I laughed silently knowing the answer was from my heart this time, not my mind. I felt awkward about having a realization that at once created happiness and resignation regarding my own dream.

A few feet away from where I was in front of the mirror, in a box in my closet, is an old Thumbelina doll. She arrived brand new one Christmas morning, a gift from Santa. She was my favorite doll ever. Once I held her I never put her down. I would watch TV, play and jump on the bed with that doll wiggling on my left shoulder. I broke the original dial that made her move like a baby, from overuse and was devastated. My Mom, in her infinite wisdom, sent her to a doll hospital to be repaired. I vividly remember the moment in the kitchen when my Dad opened the box the hospital had addressed to me, with my repaired Thumbelina. They had changed the dial to a pull chord however I knew she was mine. By then she and I had the same wild looking hair. I knew my baby when I saw her.

I didn’t know though that she may have helped create me……I thought I could play piano, I thought I could be a music therapist, I thought I would teach preschool music, I thought I could be blah, blah, blah. God and Thumbelina thought I would be a mother. Who could undermine such a power couple?

“I am what I am and I’ve yet to figure out what I can be”

A Merchant in the Nutmeg Grove

Maybe I love children’s verse and rhymes because I taught preschool music for twenty years or maybe I taught preschool music for twenty years because I love children’s rhymes and verse. Looking back I think it’s the second half of the previous definite maybe that’s true. My dad and I had very heated arguments when I lived home because I would take his poetry book, The Oxford Book of English Verse, and not return it to his bedside table. Even if I had been out with friends and stumbled home after midnight I needed to read some ancient English verse or from Alice in Wonderland or the Arabian Nights before sleep. Archaic language and poetry were mind expanding even if I was reading through remnants of the nights purple haze. Last week I heard on wfuv radio that Natalie Merchant had taken children’s verse and put it to song. The next day I was the happy listener to her beautiful renditions of classic poetry. I am so pleased that from happy one can get happier because her songs have created happier in me. For now I will just mention “The King of China’s Daughter”. I love the orchestration, the imagery, the idea of being in a fragrant nutmeg grove. I love how the words tell their story of love with admiration and spirit awakening stories in me beyond knowing. It is just that effect in humanity that makes poetry invaluable. Thank you Natalie Merchant for reaching around the world and bringing timelessness and beauty into mine. And thank you Daddy for last spring when I found the Oxford Book of English verse in an old box of books, you remembered and gave it me. It’s been on my bedside since…

The King Of China's Daughter

The King Of China's Daughter,

She never would love me,

Though I hung my cap and bells upon,

Her nutmeg tree.

For oranges and lemons,

The stars in bright blue air

(I stole them long ago, my dear)

Were dangling there.

The Moon did give me silver pence,

The Sun did give me gold,

And both together softly blew

And made my porridge cold;

But the King of China's daughter

So beautiful to see

With her face like yellow water,left

Her nutmeg tree.

Her little rope skipping

She kissed and gave it me -

Made of painted notes of singing-birds

Among the fields of tee.

I skipped across the sea;

But neither sun nor moon, my dear,

Has yet caught me

Music Herstory

The band has approved the Early Elton show poster and we are less than two months from the show. I was trying to think of a way to advertise it and my own story replayed through my head once again. This time though I recognized another spiral of the universe and somehow the composition of the spiral touches upon insight, piano lessons, friends, dreams of music that began at 12 and continue now, amazing to me still. So, the story is this. I took piano lessons from age 9 -11. I loved it in the beginning and then after a while did not want to practice. I gave my Mom a hard time about it until she finally relented at the end of 5^th grade just in time to leave my scales and arpeggios behind for summer vacation. A year later Elton Johns’ album with ‘Your Song’ hit the airwaves and I bought the songbook for the album. At home I began to work on ‘Your Song’ and ‘Burn Down the Mission’. My friend Michele also played piano and would come by to help figure out chords or to practice at my house. Without saying a word about it to me, my Mom arranged for piano lessons. I remember that argument vividly, not because I lost but because it was my first fight with any adult that a compromise was involved. I was really annoyed but she told me I had to take the lessons for six months and then if I still didn’t like it, I could quit. Well, I didn’t quit until I had completed my Music Therapy degree about 12 years later. Give or take a year……..

Fast forward to last summer when I helped out at the Early Elton Show at the Bitter End. Rich Pagano, John Conte and Jeff Kazee form the trio that represents and pays tribute to Elton’s first American tour with Nigel Olsson and Dee Murray. The night was way cool, the room filled with the magic of songs that were true to the early Elton catalogue. These were songs that I had dreamed upon and although I didn’t know it at the time became the catalyst for my own spiral into whom I am today. The relevance and importance of the music is shared by many including Conte, Kazee and Pagano who in their own acknowledgement of the power of this music are creating a spark of their own. They researched the first American Elton John tour and the show is a reflection of the far-reaching influence and love of the music played with integrity. Recently, during the Rock n Roll Hall of Fame Inductions, Little Steven referred to the nineteen sixties and seventies as a Renaissance period that he believes will only grow in importance. He was insightful and eloquent as only a Soprano can be. The collaboration between Bernie Taupin and Elton John created a signature song form with the piano taking center stage. What they wrote was unique at the time and today resonates still. Enough of my music history, I mean herstory. You know I’ll be there and if I could get Mitch to come up from Lynchburg, Virginia she will be too ;)

Passover the cheesecake........

Here I am back in the kitchen. I had sworn off cooking, particularly baking, a couple of days ago in anger. The week before I had made a pumpkin pie, rice pudding and a Guinness Cake, which is similar to a spice cake, in honor of St. Patrick’s Day. All were made from scratch. Well I did buy the can of Guinness that was needed. Sacred ingredients notwithstanding, the pudding, pie and cake were made from scratch over the course of the week. A couple days later I noticed the pie plate in the sink and washed it. A little while later I experienced a sinking feeling when I noticed a small piece of pie in the trash. The following week I saw crumbled remnants of the Guinness Cake being disposed of in a similar fashion. The where abouts of the rice pudding are still to be determined although I believe it was all eaten. In my anger I decided not to bake anything for the next year. In reading this you may be concluding that the desserts were bad. That’s not the case. My family is just spoiled. They just don’t care for left overs so they devour what they will fresh from the oven and then pretend there isn’t any food in the house. Anyway, it all made me really angry. I read recently that anger is addictive and I believe that’s true. I’ve seen that in my own extended family. It’s usually those that respond first and the loudest to any inconvenience so I decided quietly and with some thought to not feel hurt. I thought I’d change my own behavior and stop baking, for a year or more. It worked for a couple of days and then tonight my youngest child suggested I make a cheesecake for dessert for tomorrows Passover dinner. He made the suggestion just as I was creating a shopping list for tomorrow, needing brisket and turkey and more. I began to rant. I began to rave. Then I began to check out the Philly cream cheese package recipe and add the ingredients to my list. Four packs of cream cheese, coconut macaroons for the crust, oranges and strawberries for the sauce, etc. etc. As I write this, the cake is in the oven. It was the youngest child in the house that asked the four questions.

1. Why are you so angry Mom?

2. Why don’t you just live in the moment?

3. Who is coming for dinner tomorrow?

4. Can you make this cheesecake for Passover?

I never made a cheese cake before but it looks like a happy thing. The edge is slightly cracked and it’s a beautiful creamy color with flecks of orange rind throughout. Tomorrow it will be adorned with a strawberry orange sauce that I will spike with Grand Marnier, to make it an even happier thing. Is it Serendipitous that during my own Holy season of Lent cooking dinner for Passover would remind me of the power of love?

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”.

Smile du Jour

The Song du Jour on the Dakotah Blue Facebook page quells my desire to share music and sometimes sparks a memory or an interesting dialogue. Yesterday I posted a Richard Thompson song called ‘Beeswing’. It is one of my absolute favorites although I haven’t known it long. I don’t remember the first time I heard it but somehow it missed being on my radar until recently. Richard Thompson however I have known of for (ouch, this is a reality check) forty years. I grew up loving Fairport Convention, Sandy Denny, Richard Thompson and early English ballads and music. Together with Steve Winwood and Traffic, their music was a kind of soundtrack to my childhood and growing up years. Fast forward to October 2006. I am all grown up and accompanied my friend Assunta to San Francisco. Her husband Tony was playing at a huge free 3-day concert in Golden Gate Park called Hardly Strictly Bluegrass. He had left several days earlier to rehearse and teach a workshop in the Bay area. Assunta and I spent time with Tony when he was able, touring the city and visiting Chez Panisse in Berkley for a most memorable lunch. Primarily though it was three full days and evenings of music. It began on Friday with Jimmie Dale Gilmore and Elvis Costello. On Saturday we heard Gillian Welch, Guy Clark, Steve Earle, Jerry Douglas, Earl Scruggs and Billy Bragg. Sunday was filled with the music of Hazel Dickens, Tim O’Brien, Molly O’Brien, the Del McCoury Band, Emmy Lou Harris, Iris Dement, T Bone Burnett, Hot Tuna, Richie Furay and the Waybacks w/special guest Bob Weir. Besides hearing all this music I was able to meet many of the performers and for the most part saw the shows from the stage. It was an unbelievable experience and I am still in awe of it. I learned that weekend that Assunta and I shared a love for Richard Thompson’s music as well and although we tried to hear everyone we loved, there were 5 stages and Thompson was performing on a stage we wouldn’t have reached in time. He was on late Sunday afternoon and we had to catch the red eye home. Time was running out and the sun was beginning to set. We looked for the courtesy van for performers and family to return us to the hotel. We found it and had to wait for a few more people to arrive before it was ready to leave. Our hotel was a half hour away and we had just enough time to get our luggage and a taxi to the airport. Hardly Strictly had been a phenomenal time however we were both bummed a little but resigned to the fact that we had missed Richard Thompson. Assunta was having a cigarette when I decided I was too cold to wait outside so I climbed into the back of the van where it was warm. There was one other person already waiting inside. I chose the last seat as it was away from the open door and as I turned to move my pocketbook I realized the only other passenger waiting with me was Richard Thompson. He too was waiting to get back to the hotel….We were joined a minute or two later by his sound guy, Assunta and several other band members. Through the streets of San Francisco there were jokes to be traded and conversation with the driver who was a Hardly Strictly volunteer. The smile traded between Assunta and I though was hardly strictly anything but happy and for my part filled with wonder of the way of the Universe. Remember Serendipity? An aptitude for making fortunate and magical discoveries….unexpectedly.

Follow the Red Brick Walk

The Freedom Trail begins in Boston Common and is a self-guided tour that meanders for several miles through Boston’s historic neighborhoods. I’m familiar with it having followed the red brick walkway several times since I was in my teens. Last November I walked the trail for the first time with Steven, my youngest. My husband and son Eric were visiting Berklee College of Music. Steven and I were free to explore the city. It was his first time seeing the historically significant places in Boston. We began at the beginning, just like the yellow brick road, except we picked up a map full of “points of interest” at the tourist kiosk in the Common. (I don’t remember Dorothy finding a tourist kiosk in Oz.)…… We walked by historic buildings and churches, entered ancient graveyards (at out own risk) and visited Paul Reveres house in the North End. We learned when Mr. Revere bought the house it was already 100 years old. Two hundred forty years later it is surrounded by Boston’s Italian neighborhood and it is a couple of blocks away from the Old North Church. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow immortalized Paul Revere and the Old North Church with his poem of “Paul Revere’s Ride”. Also, the oldest bells in North America are at the Old North Church. They are rung every Saturday morning. We left the Historic Revere House and continued to follow the red brick walkway toward the church. The approach is through a rear courtyard to the front entrance. It is a brick lined, park like area with an enormous statue of Paul Revere on his horse. We had been on the Freedom Trail for four hours and my expectation was to quickly tour the church with Steven and end the trail there. We walked quickly because the sun was beginning to set and the wind had begun to grow stronger. As we walked a few people looking at something near the garden caught my eye. Curious, I automatically went toward them and that was when I first heard the sound. It was kind if a jangle and I didn’t recognize it. I was also unsure of what I was approaching. The small group there was quiet. After a moment they stepped aside and I read the sign that stated simply it was a Memorial to each of the fallen soldiers in Iraq and Afghanistan. Every dog tag represented someone who had lost his or her life in these wars. The dog tags chimed and as they did I realized that the same breeze moving the dog tags and caressing my face my have been the same breeze that was in Iraq or Afghanistan on the day when these soldiers spirits moved on. The same sun that touched upon them blessing them with a new day was now setting and softly illuminating their memory with a hazy glow. The same moon now rising shares the secret of the pain of those who loose loved ones.

Standing in front of the memorial was the most profound moment of 2009 for me. Reflecting on the constant chiming of the dog tags in the shadow of the church that held the oldest bells in North America gave me chills. Let freedom ring. “America”, was first sung at another of Boston church, on the steps of the Park Street Church, across from the Common where we had started. I had learned that earlier in the day when I read about it on the map. The Freedom Trail that I had walked several times before this time walked me to a place unknown in my heart. I didn’t notice a destination of the heart on the tourist map or the change in the pattern on the walk way or how it got me there. I did however recognize how heart wrenching and poignant this memorial was and I was aware I wasn’t in Kansas anymore…

Code Talkers

Last week the telephone rang jarring me out of a daydream. I reached for it with reluctance until….my eye caught the area code that had appeared on the caller id. 605. A happy rush flooded me as I was greeted with “Hello”. Cheryl Between Lodges was calling to shoot the breeze from Pine Ridge, South Dakota. Pine Ridge is the heartbeat of the Oglala Indians of the Lakota Nation. The reservation is in Shannon County, the poorest in the United States. Due to some crafty politicking it is not identified as such with the census because Independent Indian Nations are not included in the census statistics. The photo on the left was taken by Hector Emanuel. More of his work can be seen at www.still-standing.com. Recently photographer Aaron Huey visited and the link on the right will bring you to his photo essay. Please visit these sites to learn what teachers never taught you in school. Anyway, I have never met Cheryl however I consider her a highlight in my life and believe we became friends through an unseen code of the universe.

In the early winter of 1997 I was in Barnes and Noble with my kids so they could spend their Christmas gift cards. Through a miscellany of means, actually Russell Means, I bent down to tie my youngest child’s shoe and when I looked up on the shelf was a book entitled “Where White Men Fear to Tread”. I remembered news reports of the author Russell Means. Back in the day, before TV was censored, the Vietnam War raged daily, protests shed light on “everyday” peoples perspective and Wounded Knee unfolded on the TV screen in my mothers kitchen. The book ignited my desire to filter through my childhood memories and to hear his story. The book captivated me and I was unable to put it down. I finished it a week later feeling angry and lost. I needed to hear more stories. I went through the “Mom motions” at home but my thoughts wandered to Pine Ridge wondering constantly what it was like. On the third day after I finished the book, just as the sun was setting, my phone rang. It was before caller id. I picked it up and a woman identified herself as Violet Means. She was calling from the Native American Heritage Association looking for money to help with their fuel drive to heat the homes of elders. I was stunned and said yes to everything she asked. She seemed stunned that I was so agreeable. The next day I sent a check for $25 to NAHA. Several months later South Dakota called again. This time I asked how they got my number and was told they have a list that they call seeking donations. To this day I have no idea how I got on the list. I had asked my Ramsey friends and none of them were ever called. Also, I had paid for the book with the gift card so there was no way to track it….

“Mean” while I began to look on line and found a woman seeking toy donations for the Head Start Program in Pine Ridge. I had many things to send having four children and working in an area preschool. I sent along boxes and from then on did so almost obsessively. Cheryl left Head Start but fosters 3 boys slightly younger than my own so I have sent new and gently used books, toys, clothes and food for about 13 years now. She calls me from time to time and we share stories of family, work and life. I feel so lucky to be able to send things and fortunate to share the code of friendship with her.

To me, area code 605 is synonymous with the Universe sharing its very own code of Love. It’s another story of serendipitous magick that can reach anywhere and tie together heartstrings, not shoe strings. And now I have to go, I hear the phone ringing…It may be area code 605. Can you hear me smile?

A Candle Burns Bright

Serendipity…….By definition it is “an aptitude for making fortunate and magical discoveries….unexpectedly”. Seredipitous moments have surrounded me always and it is here where I intend to collect them and send them out into the world hoping that I will receive some back in acknowledgment of the generosity of the universe.

The spark for this forum came by surprise during a recent astrological consult with Stephanie Azaria. Stephanie is a certified professional astrologist who uses not only her expertise in the field but her intuition as well. One of the issues she addressed in my natal chart is my twelfth house. Neptune rules the twelfth house and among all it contains is the house of dreams, of spirit, of sacrifice and secrets. In my chart that is where the planet Mercury is placed, in Capricorn. Mercury is the planet that rules communication. Stephanie’s enlightened comment regarding my constant inner dialogue was liberating for me. I have always had something to share but often keep it to myself for a myriad of reasons. Through our discussion I admitted that I write stories, poetry and scribble in merriment. She encouraged me to share and that lead me here. The true beauty of her readings lies not only in her skill, insight and sensitivity but her delivering it all in a way that empowers her clients to be who they are without fear.

That said, it is my great pleasure to launch this on December 11, 2009. This is the eve of the feast day of the Virgin of Guadalupe. She represents a Marian apparition and is known as the patron Saint of the Americas. My tie to her is new and woven into the fabric of the Dakotah Blue Music Company that I began with my business partner Rennie Pincus in 2007.

The year we created the company we worked primarily handling classic rock bands for private parties and corporate events. Toward the end of that year we had decided to co produce several shows in the spring of 2oo8 at The Shea Center, a 900-seat venue at William Paterson University in Wayne, NJ. Our first choice was a Brooklyn based singer songwriter who I adore however was reluctant to commit to pursing because of the size of the space. Rennie and I went back and forth about the idea for several weeks. One day while at the market I found myself in front of the religious candles. I picked up the candle of the Virgin of Guadalupe not knowing anything about her but thinking she looked beautiful, robed in a cloak of stars. I brought the candle home, lit it and said the prayer on the side of the candle. I continued to do the same each day when I was home. My intention was general for the business not specific to my thoughts on the booking. Later that week Rennie called to let me know that the musician we were interested in had taken another gig however we did book Los Lobos. He knew I loved that band. David Hidalgo is one of my favorite voices ever. I had no clue that was an option but apparently it came up in speaking with the agent.

Now just in case you are unaware, the Virgin of Guadalupe is a symbol of significant importance to Mexican Catholics. Los Lobos is a band out of East LA and of significant importance to me and to American rock music…..Los Lobos was booked for Friday, March 7, 2008. It was the one-year anniversary of losing my brother Michael to pancreatic cancer. I thought of it as a Blessing itself to be able to present a show with a band of this caliber and one of my most favorite lead singers, so special to me on a day that was so painful. The day the show arrived, it was hectic and I was setting up the catering in the green room when Rennie called to tell me to meet him onstage. He was standing by the guitar stands that held about 10 guitars all tuned up and silent, waiting for the chance to express their own inner dialogue. He motioned for me to come closer and look. The first one in the stand had a guitar strap with a beautiful pin of the Virgin of Guadalupe…..It was David Hidalgo’s guitar. Remember serendipity? An aptitude for making fortunate and magical discoveries……..unexpectedly.