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.

Curiouser and Curiouser

The price of being oneself. Is there a scanner anywhere on the planet that can check for the amount? Now that’s an opening sentence and question with so much possibility… and terror. My inner world resonates with alchemy of the soul unable to express the uniqueness of me. I recognize everyone’s inner world is rich and unique to them alone. Being able to share some of it creates intimacy and dissolves lonely into a pool of long forgotten tears. Alice, in her Adventures in Wonderland cried from fear and frustration of being larger than life, trapped alone and not sure who she was, created a pool that became a recreational place for antiquarian creatures and woodland animals. In the middle of swimming, she noticed a mouse and struck up an accidental dialogue about the inner most fear of the mouse, which may have reflected her own anxiousness, even as she rephrased her conversation to distract and comfort him. Good thing the dodo, lorry, duck and eaglet swimming nearby did not speak. Who knows what direction the conversation would have taken. Maybe that’s what I need, a distraction from my fear of lonely and the price of being myself. If only I could go to Macy’s and scan a cosmic bar code imbedded in my DNA to get the true price, the price that reflects what I ultimately pay for being myself. After all Macy’s is where so many housewives of NJ buy shopping bags full of happy. I was there myself two weeks ago partaking in a momentary fix. I suppose that’s the clue word there, momentary. I’m learning to live in the moment. I’ve noticed that much of my writing in Serendipity draws upon past experience and memories. Hidden in the spelling of serendipity is the word Serenity. I would like to find a way to access Serenity, not just on paper within another word but within myself, and be able to express it allowing the rippling effect of the energy pool to effect positive change with the dodo, duck, lorry and eaglet swimming with me. I’m thinking that letting go of everything that’s past and living in the moment is the way to access Serenity.

These comments are just thoughts from a housewife in NJ living on the alternate side.