Words like "sigh-REENS" and "worsh" never had a place in my world. Growing up on a tropical island, my native tongue consisted of a strange but delicious concoction of English, Hawaiian Japanese and Chinese. Language originating from the corners of West Virginia and Maryland country side, was about as natural to me as Cajun (which as far as I'm concerned should be illegal to utter without subtitles flashing below the speaker's lips). But after a week around the people who use words like "sigh-REENS," I'm oddly comforted by the simplicity of their speech, mannerisms, and way of life. Where the atrocious grammar once used to offend every fiber of my being, what lies beneath the careless speech is something sweet, innocent, humble, gracious, and even beautiful.
My love had not seen his family on the east coast for about 15 years, and after a much-needed knee surgery had finally found the time and desire to make the 950 mile journey. So with that, we packed my new car and journeyed from Wisconsin with our 3 children to the eastern part of West Virginia for a week-long vacation.
Upon reaching our destination, I was kind of taken aback by the first impression of our accommodations. The River Bend Campsite consisted of camper trailers whose owners had ingeniously built around the simple structures, turning a once-simple camper into an oddly functional hybrid home of sorts. The residences in the campsite were an interesting breed of dwelling that would be produced if a camp site and a Country Living magazine had sex and produced a child, complete with all the creature comforts we town-dwellers know and love. Though small in size, you really could want for nothing, and we were completely comfortable. The campsite sat smackdab on the Potomac River, and was, in a word, picturesque.
Our hosts for the week were Warnie and Jean (who housed the kids) and Alan and Betty (who donated their extra camper to my love and I to use). They were the epitome of graciousness as they extended their homes and food to us for the entire stay. Conversations were light and laughter was heavy every night with our hosts, as we lingered over campfires and deliciously grilled dinners, our smiles illuminated by the light of mosquito-repellent candles in small aluminum buckets scattered on the plastic picnic dinner tables before us. Fireflies (nicknamed "twinklebugs" by Miss Savannah) lit up the tallest maples, the bushes as well as the grass, surrounding us like wintertime Christmas light displays, blinking bright, yellow and festive. Our youngest was all smiles as she spent her twilight hours tripping around the yard, cupping tinklebugs carefully between her small hands. She would carrying them a few yards before opening her fingers to reveal her sparkling friend and then release him in the air, ready to catch another.
The days were sensory-filled as we took lazy boat rides down the historic Potomac River, skimming across the glossy black top, the wind in our hair, the sun on our upturned faces. My subconscious concentrated on taking pure, deep cleansing breaths, somehow knowing that it would be a long long time before I'd experience this level of tranquility again (it was well into the boat ride before I realized that I was breathing deeply, and then wondered why I was doing it). This author is also happy to report that she was not susceptible to motion sickness while on the boat trips (big bonus).
More lively afternoons were spent at the pool with the little one, who enjoyed them immensely. Little wet, tanned bodies clothed in brightly colored spandex suits frolicked about the glisterning pool, laughing, yelling, and splashing water in every direction. Balls, water noodles and inflatable tubes were thrown and retrieved, thrown and retrieved, as the afternoon sun shone down, lighting the pool up with a million little sparkles that reflected back on the slippery skin of the rambunctuous youngsters.
No matter who you are, trips to "back home," where ever that may be, always include the requisite tour down memory lane. Somewhere it is written that when you take someone to your old stomping grounds, you are required to point out every street you ever rode your childhood bike on, every house you ever lived in, every place of employment you held, every memory you've EVER had, in painful, excruciating detail to the poor soul that accompanies you on this pilgrimage. Needless to say I know more about Frederick and its nearby town of Walkersville than its first settlers. It is what it is. I've been guilty of doing the same, so stones will not be cast from this direction. The good thing that came from this three-hour-tour is that my love got to reconnect with the place he calls "home," and I got to steal 1/2 an hour away to have a proper spot of delightful chamomile tea and homemade scone (complete with clotted cream and passion fruit curd) at a tea house in historic Frederick. That more than made up for anything else that failed to capture my attention that afternoon. All were happy. We headed to a store called "Trouts" for our next adventure.
It wasn't all fun and games, though. There was learning to be done, and I received my education on dissecting and eating the famous Maryland Blue Crab from two seasoned veterans. Black, lifeless, beady eyes stared up at me as I sized up my opponent and received step by step instruction on how to deconstruct this creature of the sea. Approving nods from the patriarch of the family, accompanied by sweet smiles and loving glances from my love told me that I was a good student and was doing it right. We sat around a plastic picnic table layered with old newspapers, digging out and consuming every edible morsel of these savory crustaceans coated liberally with the time-honored "Old Bay" seasoning (heavy on the celery salt). The hours went by as the sun sank down silently over the horizon, and soon all you heard was the sound of cracking shell as the crab eaters methodically worked each crab over one by one...cracking, picking, eating. A word or two of conversation would pass, but not much more as the crab consuming held out attention, riveted, we were, in our task. Only when our bellies were full, and our lips burning from all the spice did we concede defeat, and pack the remaining crabs on ice to face them another day.
It was this trip that brought about appreciation and respect for my elders and how they went through the day. In one's youth, it's all about excess. Nights with friends was all about seeing who could outlast the rest, who could outdrink the rest, who could be the wittiest in conversation. If we had a bonfire, for pete's sake man, stoke that thing up so high it can be seen five counties away (nevermind SOMEONE had to stay up until it went out, which could be a good 12 hours later). It was all competition, really, and pointless, especially when the body decides it's time for bed. The older, retired set are severely misunderstood with their lifestyles. Logs are only thrown on the bonfire as needed and for as long as they anticipate people staying awake to enjoy its warmth. Bedtimes are dictated by what their bodies tell them so they can be up at a decent hour to start the next day, not by the "last man standing" rule of thumb. It's not excess, it's measured moderation, and there's comforting, logical wisdom in that. I suspect that my soul is about 30 years older than my chronological age, and that suits me fine.
The entire week wore us out physically with the endless summer activities available to us at the camp, lunching with people, dinnering with people, and sight-seeing. We spent our last social night surrounding a campfire near the river in light conversation, under a blanket of stars, on a comfortably cool night. Around 10pm we all parted ways to retire for the night and went back to our respective quarters. As we drove our golf cart back to our camper, I rode on the back, looking towards the river, our humble campfire slowly disappearing in the distance. Far too late in the evening to expect anymore excitement, a few fireflies buzzed past my eyes in a last-ditch attempt to draw attention to themselves. They lit up briefly and buzzed away as a smile crossed my lips.
It's the simple things you find you derive the most happiness from. This entire experience was proof of that.
July 24, 2009
July 12, 2009
confessions of an unwilling star
I had the enviable offer of being flown out to Oregon to sing in a 2-day jazz festival. Not having a band of my own to tote along, I accepted anyway, taking background tracks with me. I felt severely out of place, knowing there would be bands there adding to the whole live music thing and I may be viewed as some naïve girl with karaoke backtracks to sing along to ("oh, isn't that sweet....karaoke hour"). Still, as it would look good on a resume and I needed to get over that hump of stage fright once and for all, I agreed to go.
Amidst various technical difficulties (CD deciding to stop mid-song, mic feedback that didn't make sense), I made it through my first of two sets (over the course of 2 days) alright. I found after my first song, the nervousness had faded and I was going to be fine. Still, I couldn't help but feel weirdly stupid on stage singing songs everyone knew. Misplaced perhaps, but still weird.
After my set, the band that followed invited me up on stage to perform with them. This was an amazing four piece band with a keyboardist that is out of this world and classically trained, a trumpet player rivaling Chris Botti, a guitarist that could make an axe weep, and a smooth sounding drummer (if such a thing exists). I felt giddy being asked to sing with them, like a kid getting chosen first round to play with the other kids in a dodge ball game ("oh, they want ME on their team!"). Bopping up there the five of us performed a gorgeous rendition of "Misty" that I will forever be proud of. Silent thanks went to my mother for singing that song over and over ad nauseum during my childhood at her own gigs.
My brief 4 minute participation with this band made the entire trip. I have discovered that as a solist with no band, I do not feel complete. I don't like being the only one to play by myself, and it feels about as normal as a cat flying an airplane. But being with that band, now THAT was something I could get behind.
I realize that finding that perfect synergy with a band is like looking for a needle in a haystack, and a once in a million opportunity for a soloist. I do not see myself performing live again, alone, ever. It is completely unfulfilling, and I find there is strength in numbers where music is concerned. I was offered an all expenses paid trip back (by the band's largest benefactor and manager) to perform with them at a summer fest next year.
After day one at the fest, I was greeted with the standard gushing ovetures of "oh you're amazing" accolades as I responded with humble "thank you"'s and "I'm so glad you came"'s I was then whisked to one of my perks for the weekend participation: a 2 bdrm log cabin, completely tricked-out with every amenity imaginable, nestled in the Oregon woods. Here I am surrounded by the faint song of birds, the audible soft shush of the wind blowing through impossibly tall pine trees, beneath a beautiful cloudless blue sky. Swinging gently in a hammock secured by two sturdy pine sentinels, I am emotionally miles away from the energy, excitement and chaos of the entertainment world. I catch a glimpse of a gossamer strand of spider web floating off some pine needles in the tree, shimmering in the sun. The cool breeze lightly scented with wood blows across my face, pushing my bangs in my eyes, and I am at peace.
Is this peace reward enough for the stress of being an entertainer? Yes and no. Yes because everyone deserves compensation for hard work, and this is the perks of all perks. No, because amidst all the praise and rewards and experience, I cannot ignore the harsh, constant sting in my heart being away from my love, and wishing he were here to share this with me. It's a lonely existence, being on the road and trying desperately to enjoy enjoy enjoy when your heart is elsewhere. The sweetness of all that surrounds me suddenly turns bitter and unattractive.
I've come to the conclusion that I'm not cut out to be a professional singer, nor do I want to be. I will prefer the role of loving wife and mother every time.
March 27, 2009
some people search a lifetime
My seven-year-old daughter found a four-leaf clover in the front yard, amidst a zillion run-of-the-mill three-leaf clovers. Proudly she pressed it in a dictionary after wanting a photo taken of her with it. It was a big day for her, as she declared herself "lucky." She is out in the yard today looking again. I told her that I didn't think there were any. Undaunted, she optimistically replied "you gotta look REALLY HARD."
I have no idea where the myth originated that four-leaf clovers were lucky, or even in existence, for that matter I'm guessing that because clovers are normally three-leaved foliage, the odd chance that a mutant four-leafer would be found would indicate one of two things: 1) you're lucky (to have found one), or 2) you are a magnet for finding the freaks of and in nature.
I know people that have purposely searched for these special/abnormal clovers over the course of a lifetime, only to come up empty handed. Shrugging it off, we figure we aren't meant to be lucky. C'est la vie, oui? Maybe, maybe not. Is finally finding and obtaining the elusive a matter of perseverance? Faith? Hope? Fantasy? Or is it a little of all of the above? How much disappointment must we endure before we give up the search altogether?
I know that people say that things tend to fall into your lap when you're not looking. This holds true to Savannah, who claims she wasn't specifically looking for her treasured clover when she happened to see it. So with that, luck was shining on her that day, and she seized the chance to have it, and plucked it up while she could. Had she left it there, she may never had seen another one again (I know *I* have never seen one before).
So here we are again outside, as I watch her hunt for another one. No surprise, there aren't any to be had. This whole clover exercise has me thinking about the run-of-the-mill three-leaf clovers that have been loves in my lifetime. Never thinking that a real, true, deep, complete love existed (for me or anyone), I never actively hunted for it. No one searches for something their logical brain says does not exist. If it did exist, it was a freak of nature, and I'd certainly never have the chance to have it. So you lose heart, lose faith, and lose the will to press forward and find what you truly desire.
Karma smiled on my daughter that day she found that coveted clover, and continues to shine on me with what I know to be the love of a lifetime. I've found my four-leaf clover, and even when I wasn't looking for it. I am grateful I have the smarts to grab it while I have the chance.
February 13, 2009
January 11, 2009
Deacon Blues
What are the blues? A color? A life? Yes yes and yes. I sit in the dark lounge area of an authentic juke joint smack dab in the middle of nowhere north Louisiana, with the sounds of an amazing band and a front man singing "The Thrill is Gone". It's a version that massages your soul from the inside out until you FEEL the pain emanating from the sweet sorrowful strains of an electric guitar literally weeping. You feel it to your core. You close your eyes and the pain in the lyrics are filling your mind like something so familiar, so primal, so true, so surreal. Your conscious has an "a-ha" moment and jumps up and cries "I recognize that pain!" It's at this moment that you connect with the blues, its soul and yours finding each other.
I look around at the musicians and music lovers in this slice of yesteryear, and they possess a style that is intoxicating. Low black turtleneck paired with a mustard coat, silk black slacks, leather shoes, and to bring the ensemble together, a tailored flat black hat. The hat. It's the hat and coat look that screams "I AM IN AND OF THE BLUES SUBCULTURE!! BOW TO ME!!"
As well we should. Their true and honest definition of life, if only on the outside, is that of elegant grit, determination, and a century of heartache, pain, and oppression-- rolled into a SOUND. In a sound, an individual can recall of memories so thick they couldn't fight their way past them in a crowded room. The sound that says I'm a survivor, a widow, the downtrodden that was left behind to rot in lost bliss. If you've lived in the roughest of times that challenge your very being, you will know blues when it reaches you. You will sit there in amazement and disbelief that this sound is as comforting as a heartbeat, as mesmerizing as a campfire, as naturally familiar to you as your own child. You will want to embrace it as you would a lover, allowing it to fill you to the brink with its elixir of passion and raw pain. You hear it and YOU start to ache. How does it do that? How is it that hatted men in stylish suits can hail the soul out of your body simply by manipulating strings, and showing off in his voice alone, the emotional scars of a lifetime? It can.
You listen to the verses of songs that do not conform with how you learned a song should go, e.g. verse, chorus, verse, chorus, end. Songs in the shade of blue go on and on and on. It's a sadistic act really. You want to, NEED to feel the pain in that song, and you think to yourself, "I can't let it end! I mustn't! I won't allow it! PLAY ON!! PLAY ON!!" You want the song to go on 20 more verses, 30 more...because it hurts so good. You WANT the pain. Sadistic? Perhaps. But nothing will do now. You've been officially owned. Just keep the shunt in my vein and pump it in.
There is nothing purer than the blues. It's a sound, a color, a lifestyle, a trance, a drug. At the end of the night you know you'll sadly watch the mysteriously alluring men in hats exit the alternate reality of lights and cigarettes and whiskey. The sensory overload is all but over. Forever.
Until the next gig.
January 07, 2009
a facelift for '09
Since I moved in, I hated my 1/2 bath off of my bedroom. It was painted institutional green, had a rickety metal useless white shelving unit that stood around and over the commode, and the whole thing was basically awful looking. Motivated by my sister's presence, I decided that I was going to give the bathroom a much-needed facelift.
This half bath was so teeny anyway, any ideas of painting it light airy colors to make it look bigger was a lost cause. My mother has always been afraid of "making the wrong choice" and has never bought a paint to put on her wall that might be too dark and then she'd have to re-do it. Me...it's all about being bold. And bold I went.
With that in mind, I figured I'd go with what I loved: red. I've never been afraid of color, and thought it was high time to go with something bold instead of something "safe." I've always loved red, and picked a shade that I thought was just gangbusters. Painted the walls and trimmed the place in white, and then with the help of my sister, constructed a white over the toilet cabinet that I screwed into the wall.
Needless to say, it's all beautiful. :)
December 24, 2008
the road to recovery has no dead ends
...this time.
Looks like Dad's getting sprung by Christmas. Here shown with Savannah, finally feeling 700% better.
What a rocky road this has been, but in the end it all turns out, no matter what the final destination. This time, it's back home with the living.
December 23, 2008
morning television
Anyone who knows me knows I love the show Dirty Jobs, and the host Mike Rowe. This morning Savannah crawled into bed with me wanting to watch some tv. On the tube was the beloved children's classic (and one that I watched when I was her age), Sesame Street. Mike Rowe made a guest appearance and helped Oscar the Grouch do his dirty job.
I don't know who enjoyed this episode more, me or the 7-yr-old. Prolly me.
December 19, 2008
in the name of god or self?
Around the world individuals every day deny themselves pleasures, comforts, and happiness, all in the name of god. While the Catholic church has received a bad rap lately, a good number of priests and nuns everywhere practice abstinence, and take vows to forgo worldly pleasures in the name of god. For him, they say. But is it really for him or for selfishly for themselves?
I would argue that there is a safety in never engaging in relationships and situations that would promise or bring happiness, pleasures or comforts. And why? Because unlike the love and unconditional support of god, mankind can and will certainly fail you at some point in time. And you will be left with only yourself, and your god, whomever that may be. If you even have one.
So the holy men and women around the world hide behind god's admonitions to forgo these pleasures, while in actuality they selfishly protect themselves from disappointment, despair, and the risk of suffering from a broken heart. They point to an ancient holy tome and say "here, I do this for my god", when they really do it for themselves. Tuck their hearts far away from harm and avoid intimate personal relationships with everyone save their god, an intangible all-knowing being, here, everywhere and most importantly unlike a human person, *no where*.
There was a time when I knocked the religions for self-denial. Today, I applaud them. There is merit to what they do, and for whatever the *real* reason, gets the job done.
