A Note on Music to Mom and Dad

I was driving Emma to her friend’s house tonight to practice for her ensemble performance.  I told her she could play music through the car radio from her i-Phone.  I didn’t know the music or band, and wasn’t sure if I liked it, but asked her who it was and how she learned about it.  For some reason, it made me think about music and both of you.

Music has always been very important to me.  At least from a fairly young age.  Could never really play a lick of it, but sure as hell enjoyed listening to it.  Still do.  Music has always brought out emotions, and evokes memories.  I can measure stages of life with the music I was listening to.  There is a song that used to come on the radio, particularly when my clock radio alarm would go off in the mornings when I was in 7^th grade.  It was the month or so prior to spring break, and we were going to Anna Maria.  It seems that each time I heard that song, it was a day closer going to a place I loved.  It was that much easier to get out of bed.  When You See a Chance, Take It by Stevie Winwood, in case you are curious.

It started with sitting in the rocker in the living room in Milford, where the stereo was.  I listened to my first album, The Monkees’ Greatest Hits, over and over.  I knew it was the best music ever.  As I sang along, I wondered how it couldn’t be. 

I realized that musical tastes are often cultivated in the car.  There’s the radio of course, but in my formative years, it was the cassette player.  Dad-You had a tape that I think about to this day.  It was a year’s worth of top hits from the top country artists.  I remember listening to the lyrics of Skip a Rope, by Henson Cargill (Had to look that up on the Internet) and D-I-V-O-R-C-E by Tammy Wynette.  I learned that songs told stories.  I didn’t realize I was learning about social issues, as well.  And talk about stories.  I’m quite certain that cassette tape contained Jimmy Dean’s Big Bad John.  I realize now how parents influence their own children in various ways.  I might not have admitted that I liked that music then, but I sure do appreciate it now.  I understand and love the fact that traditional music, Americana, builds on the blues of the south and string instruments of Appalachia.  With XM radio, Outlaw Country stays close to the roots.

Mom-You took me to my first concert.  Neil Diamond.  I wish I knew where we saw him.  Riverfront Coliseum?  I’m just not sure.  I remember my Neil Diamond phase.  My favorite song is still Shilo.  About the boy who had the imaginary friend.  I remember feeling comfortable enough to play my music in the car with you.  The Buick Regal.  I’d play my Jimi Hendrix, Led Zeppelin, Rolling Stones, and music I wasn’t sure you’d appreciate.  But you were always ok with it.  That was important to me.  I felt like I could experiment with music.  Test it out to see if it was worthwhile.

One thing I will always remember is that neither of you ever censored my music.  In Milford, I finally got my own turntable for my bedroom, and I bought and listened to KISS.  Davy Hemminger wasn’t allowed to listen to that band, so he’d have to come over and listen to it at our house.  I remember my first job, cutting Mr. Pauly’s lawn each week.  He paid me $35 each time.  I spent a significant amount of my earnings on records.

One of the most exciting things you ever bought me was my first stereo system.  Dad brought me to Swallens, and we picked out a tuner, cassette player, and turntable.  We added a cd player my freshman year at DePauw.  I still have most of those components, though they’re not functioning any longer.  I hang old records on the wall of my classroom.  They’re kind of like antiques to the students.

It makes me smile to think of such things, as music goes.  I’m happy that my children appreciate music, and can actually play it.   I love that I understand the influences in my life.  Music isn’t a cure-all.  But it sure can make you feel good.  And if you want, it can provide a soundtrack to life.

The Old Guy’s Still Got It

I’m going to start my piece, which happens to be about a Jimmy Buffett concert, with 3 questions.

1.     My sister:  “How many Jimmy Buffett concerts have you been to?”

Me:  “The first time I went was 1987.  I almost got into a fight with a group of men and women who felt I was encroaching on their lawn space.  I was young and stupid, still in college, so I had an excuse.  I’ve gone just about every year since to at least one show between River Bend in Cincinnati and Deer Creek in Noblesville.  So somewhere between 25 to 30 shows.”

 

2.    My wife, Laura:  “Are you going to continue going to Jimmy Buffett concerts?”

Me:  “Yes.  Jimmy Buffett is young at heart, but getting up there chronologically.  I still enjoy seeing him perform in a setting that is accurately described as Parrot Head phenomenon.*  I will go see him as long as he continues to perform, which he does not need to do, and as long as I am able.”

3.     My buddy, Mark, with whom I have attended many Jimmy Buffet concerts, including this one:  “Are you going to disappear tonight?”

Me:  “A fair question, as I have done so in the past, moving stealthily from the lawn with my friends to the pavilion as  a rogue fan, intent on seeing the band perform in a closer and more personal setting.  But, no, since our tickets are actually both in the pavilion, centrally located, on the end of our row.”

 

 

 

July 16, 2013

I still love seeing Jimmy Buffett perform.  I missed him in Indiana this summer, but scored tickets in Cincy, and asked the afore mentioned friend, Mark, to go.  It’s somewhat of a tradition for us, as guys go, and there’s no doubt that he will appreciate the show any less than me.  And what can you say about a concert that starts with the strange, low moan of a conch shell horn?

 

I was happy with the introduction, Kinja, from Jimmy’s and Herman Wouk’s collaboration on the off Broadway production of Don’t Stop the Carnival.  As a matter of fact, he followed that with a late 70’s gem about sailing, Landfall, and an early 80’s song celebrating the nightlife along the northern Gulf of Mexico, Stars on the Water.

 

 

I mention this because I’ve gotten to a point that that I can take or leave the majority of Jimmy’s Songs You Know By Heart.  I’m interested in the songs he places between the greatest hits on his set list.  That being said, I still love the lyrics of Changes in Latitude… and I have my arms up in the shape of a shark’s dorsal with the best of them during the inevitable version of Fins.

 

I appreciated Cultural Infidel and Knees of My Heart, and actually enjoyed the Coral Reefer Band’s rendition of Lionel Ritchie’s All Night Long.  A song that I was not familiar with, but took a fancy to, was one called Back Where I Come From, which was penned by, unsurprisingly, Mac McAnally. 

 

When it comes right down to it, the part of the show that most touches my heart, is the last song of the encore.  For a long time, it’s been just Jimmy and an acoustic guitar, like his pre-Key West days, busking on the streets of New Orleans.  On this particular evening, he serenaded us with his love song to Cayo Hueso, I Have Found Me a Home.  And like this island, among many others, upon this stage, he has.

The days drift by
They don't have names
And none of the streets here look the dame
And there are so many quiet places
And smilin' eyes match the smilin' faces.

[Chorus:]
And I have found me a home
Yes, I have found me a home
And you can have the rest of everything I own
'Cause I have found me a home.

My old red bike
Gets me around
To the bars and the beaches of my town
And there aren't many reasons I would leave
Yes, I have found me some peace.

And the ladies aren't demanding there
They never ask too much
And when you're coming off a cold love
That's sure a nice warm touch.

[Chorus]

The days drift by
They don't have names
And none of the streets here look the same
And there aren't many reasons I would leave
Yes, I have found me some peace
Yes, I have found me a home.

Written by Jimmy Buffett from the album:

 

 

A Family's Loss, A Neighborhood's Grief

If there is anything I try to adhere to while writing for this blog, it’s a sense of light-heartedness and joy in the topics I choose.  But in a world that defies explanation, there are topics I find necessary to broach that tug at ones heart and hang there heavily, waiting for explanation that generally does not come. 

In late spring of 1998, my family moved to Fishers, Indiana.  The neighborhood is called Sawgrass, and we have been here ever since.  The family that first greeted us in our neighborhood has the name of Riekhof.  They lived across the street.  Mike and Mitzi had two young daughters and a son came later.  They moved to another neighborhood eventually and another son was born to make a family of six. 

We’d see the Riekhofs from time to time, and I even had the pleasure of working with their oldest son on math and reading one summer.  Those details aren’t really relevant. 

Just last week, one of their daughters went missing.  It was out of her character not to contact somebody at home, and a network of communication was put into place immediately.  Yesterday, I asked if I could be of use, and was instructed to search a stretch of road with two neighbors.  Our goal was to locate a cell phone or any personal artifact or clue to her disappearance.  With a number of members of our community, and some outside of it, there was a search and a hope that an 18 year old daughter and member of our community would be located and safely returned to her family in a reunion as joyful as that as a certain prodigal son.

But as I said, our world often leaves us wondering, and late in the afternoon, a beautiful girl was located, not of this world any longer.  There is a family, one that has touched our hearts, who is hurting in a way that I pray will never affect the ones that I love.  There is nothing I can say, write, or feel in my being that will ever offer peace to that family who lost a daughter, a sister, a granddaughter, and a niece.

One aspect of this site is to recognize people who, in my heart, represent a sense of light.  These thoughts derive from feelings of neighborhood.  A truth, and what I feel to be a burning sense of spirit, is a group of people who have been there from the first lonely realization that a family member wasn’t home.  David and Susan Delafield have been with the family every day.  David has headed a tactical search station for the community each and every day she was missing.  Dave and Sandra Sutton have been available to the family before, during, and now in this phase of the situation.  I take strength in the actions of these individuals, whom I am proud to call my neighbors.  I only hope the Riekhof family can find some strength through those who care so very much.

Hilton Head Island, South Carolina, June 2013

 

 

 

 

 

Live oaks, draped with Spanish Moss, make me look Heavenward and appreciate what lies in my line of vision.

And thus, my appreciation  for the South Carolina low country can be summed up in fairly few words.  I have been blessed, as my parents have owned a home on Hilton Head Island for the last 15 years.  We've visited during the less crowded winters  and prime summer months during that span.

Always, I have been aware of the water surrounding me.  The Atlantic Ocean rolls toward the island at the beckoning of our moon, and winds lift salt into the air, invigorating one's nostrils so that little doubt is left as to your location.  A latitude and longitude that gives way to sunsets silhouetting cabbage palmettos on the horizon.

In personal terms, the words fresh seafood are legitimate, and the majority of shopping can be done at a grocery called Piggly Wiggly.

And while driving, or pedaling a bike on that island, I will look up, and see the outlines  of Spanish Moss hanging against a sea blue sky reflecting light on a low country island and the surrounding ocean.

Connor and the Oysters or "Give me oysters and beer, for dinner every day of the year..." *

Upon arrival in Hilton Head Island the third week of June, I was put in charge of daily dinner suggestions.  Generally indecisive, and usually willing to roll with the punches, as well as drink choices, I took this honorary role willingly, as food, especially in southern U.S. regions, is of extreme personal interest.  As we traveled southward, my sister’s oldest son, Connor, texted somewhat regularly, as he and his family were meeting us on the island.  One message in particular caught my eye.  He needed to try oysters, with Uncle Brian, at Captain Woody’s, a Hilton Head institute for laid back bar drinking in a restaurant that serves grouper melt sandwiches and he-crab soup that keeps locals and Midwestern tourists like me coming back for more.

My nephew’s request continued when we rendezvoused at Plantation Club Villas in Sea Pines.  Now, I am definitely no oyster expert.  I probably couldn’t differentiate between a Blue Point and an Apalachicola, but if I’m in an Atlantic or Gulf Coast beach town, give me oysters!  It doesn’t bother me too much if the month has an ‘r’ in it or not.  If they come from local waters, by God, give me oysters. 

So, my first dinner command, upon our second night, was Captain Woody’s, in its new larger location on Target Road.  Finding out our wait would be an hour and a half, Patrick, my brother-in-law, courageously volunteered to help me man the restaurant buzzer in the vicinity of the outdoor bar, cooled by large rotating fans on the ceiling.  The plan was simple, and put into action.  Everyone else would commute to Coligny for shop browsing, and I would order oysters while waiting, happy hour prices still intact.  G.G. would bring Connor back to the restaurant ahead of the rest at the designated hour.

Time of reckoning.  A simple dozen on the half shell.  I told my nephew this is how it would go down.  First, a squeeze of lemon on the 12 gifts from the sea.  Oyster 1, forked from the shell, straight to the mouth and down the hatch.  Neat.  Oyster 2, a dab of cocktail sauce and hint of horseradish on the bivalve.  Oyster 3, placed center of a saltine, with cocktail sauce, eaten as a one-bite open faced sandwich.

“From here, nephew, you’re on your own.  Do what you will.  Eat as many as you want, in the manner that pleases you most.  I’ve done what I can.”

I cannot tell you the guidelines or expectations of Uncles or Godfathers, but if one duty states introducing said young, impressionable mind to ocean dwelling delicacies, sign me up.  Please.

*In case you were wondering, Jimmy Buffett penned the end of the sentence with “…and I’ll feel fine.” in his classic song, Tin Cup Chalice, from 1974’s album A1A.

 

 

"Walkin' by the water..." because "Life is short, but sweet for certain..." Dave Matthews Band June 21, 2013

Emma, Eric, and I went to see Dave Matthews at Klipsch Music Center.  Brandi Carlile opened for him.  She has a nice sound and described how she was brought up on Willie and Johnny.

Dave was excellent.  His music has formed a bond between Emma and myself, and I will go to as many shows as I possibly can with her.  It was cool to see Jeff Coffin on the stage with DMB after seeing him on the Fishers High School auditorium stage last winter.

I especially liked the guitar and vocals in "Lie in our Graves", a song that is a new favorite of mine.  Notable were "The Best of What's Around" and the encore which was highlighted by "Ants Marching."  Even though I didn't get "Two Step", that's alright.  Maybe he'll play it next time I see DMB with Emma.

Tribute to a favorite place

A special friend of my family, Bill Smith, passed away this summer.  He followed his wife, Betsy, by approximately a year.  The Smiths were my mom's next door neighbors in Mariemont, Ohio, which is a suburb of Cincinnati.  When my mother's parents passed, Betsy and Bill Smith became an extension of her family, and mine, when my parents married.  Events like Thanksgiving meals and Christmas day visits to the Smiths became tradition for me as a child, and I think back to those days with longing and wishes to duplicate the feelings derived from the experiences.

In the late 1960's or perhaps the early 70's, Bill and Betsy Smith bought a duplex on a Florida island called Anna Maria.  South of Tampa and just north of Sarasota, it sits in the Gulf of Mexico, making itself available with just two bridges from the mainland.  In October of 1976, I made my first voyage to Florida with my parents and sister, my Grandma Dorothy, and my Uncle David and Aunt Barbara.  Of course, it was to Anna Maria Island.  My family stayed in the left, and larger side of the duplex.  My relatives stayed on the right.  Driving from the Tampa Airport to the island, I can visualize tall palms against the late afternoon sun through the rear window of the rental car, and understand now the beginning of a love affair with this state blooming in a young mind and heart.

I remember driving there with my family in our Jeep Wagoneer, and listening to Elvis all the way home as he had just left our world.  For most of the 80's, Anna Maria was the spring break destination for myself, my sister, and my mom, who would sell Tampax stock to pay for our airfare.  I brought my close buddy, Rick, there for two consecutive years in high school.  In college, I brought Laura there for the first time.  Betsy and Bill actually encouraged us to marry some day.  We did.  We have traveled there with Emma and Harrison, my parents, and my sister's family.  The last time we went, we took our good friends, who claimed that part of Florida was unlike any other they had seen.  To this day, my son, Harrison, occasionally mentions that we "really need to get back to Anna Maria."  I don't disagree.

The following is an ode to the island.  A love song.  I believe I wrote it on the back of a couple of postcards during a trip in 2000 or 2001.  Nothing has changed.

Anna Maria

Your latitude is such that the rays

of the sun shine radiantly,

bathing your lush foliage and

sand white shorelines in a swath

of ultraviolet persuasion.

It’s a Technicolor oasis that at once

bedazzles and terrifies the eyes

with its clarity of shape and form.

In the confines of your tiny perimeter,

blooms of deep, luscious pinks and whites

comparable only to a Yankee snow thrust

out and sway decadently if a breeze

from the Gulf saunters through,

but mostly hang in an Island stillness,

from the defensive arms of plants

whose magical gift is to exist in

more hues of green than is logical

to man’s eyes. 

Move outward in any direction to the

blankets of crushed rock and shell,

pulverized to a fine, finger caressing smoothness,

the Island’s pride, its trip to the bank.

And no one’s surprised, what with its

suggestive contrast to the Gulf of Mexico,

a glowing  turquoise giving way to deeper

tints of blue, home to scads of fish,

roaming dolphins, occasional sharks,

and the vulnerable manatee.

Two age worn piers, reaching out

into  the water, run parallel as they

connect land and sea,

drawing us out farther, yet never

too far from this haven, this Island.