Change of Season

We woke up to our first snow

Of this winter season.

And this poem just goes to show

I'll rhyme for any reason.

So I want you all to know

They're not all people-pleasin'.

When your back is out of whack,

It is time to see a quack

For a chiropractic crack.

This is what happens: I wake up at 3 a.m. and start thinking about strange and eclectic things...and I start putting them into rhyme. This really helps when I'm working on and worrying about a lyric; otherwise, I get wacky stuff like this. Or stuff that makes me cry. Or laugh. Or want to quit because it's all shit.

The thing is....if you don't get up and record even the shit, it's gone forever. You gotta grab for the gusto — and the ideas, thoughts, and words — while they're in your consciousness. If you don't claim them by writing them down, they move on, and somebody else who is awake and ready with a pen and paper gets them. And you have no one to blame for that loss but yourself.

I woke up and our dark curtains looked brighter; peeked out and saw snow. My back has been wonky for a couple months. I was awake. What would you do?

Mama's Grade-School Friend

Mama, what do you wish when you see a falling star

Or when you blow the candles out on your birthday cake?

Do you wish you'd followed different dreams when you were still a girl

Or are you happy with the way things are?

Are you glad you're my mother and that you're Daddy's wife

Or do you wish you'd lived another life?

Mama, what do you wish when you listen to your heart?

This is the (slightly modified) chorus to a lyric I wrote, got music for, and hope to get recorded. It's about my mother. Really, it's about me...maybe about a lot of us. I wish I'd taken time to know her better before she died and it was too late to ask. But answers come in mystical ways...

A few days ago, I got a call from a woman who said she was looking for the daughter of a woman her father had gone to grade school with. She said her father (AZ) and my mother were the best of childhood friends and that he had written a story about her. He wanted me and my siblings to have it. I was amazed, and of course said I'd love it.

Yesterday I got an envelope with a cover letter from the daughter and four neatly prepared copies of her father's story — one for each of us kids. The story had a foreward in which her father said that he wrote the story because he owed his family an explanation of why he held on to an old violin that he never played or even talked about. And he wanted his family to find us so he could let us know about the "wonderful and compassionate young girl who became their mother."

"The Pencil Box and the Violin" is a childhood memory with an O'Henry twist. It tells about a young Polish boy whose family moved around a lot so his father could find work during the Depression. In 1932, they family settle in Beeville, Texas, and the boy started second grade in a parochial school there.

A nun taught three grade levels in each classroom, with 12-15 students in each grade. The boy was terrified because of the number of students, the chaos of so much going on all at once, and because he didn't speak much English. Fortunately, a little girl named Sally Suzanne Swiger was in the same class.

"Sally did not laugh at me. In fact, she adopted me. She and I studied and played together all the time. Many times we did not go out at recess but stayed in the classroom and studied."

My mother was a lonely only child; a brother had died as a baby. Her own mother was distant. Her daddy, whom she adored, was a petroleum engineer who traveled a lot. I have an an old black-and-white photo of her dolls and doll house with her caption on it: "My Playmates." It seems very sad, because Mama was a real people-person. I'm sure she was just as grateful and thrilled for AZ's company as he was for hers.

AZ started playing the violin, and Mama loved to listen to him. Her mother could play piano by ear, and both families loved music. The friendship flourished — and nourished both of them — until the fourth grade, when AZs father was transferred. "When I told Sally that we were leaving Beeville...she cried real tears as if her heart was breaking. I did not know what to make of this as no one had ever cried over me before."

"When Sally knew for sure that I was leaving, she gave me her pencil box. In the early 1930s, if a student had a pencil box, it was a real status symbol....The pencil box was half the size of a loaf of bread and half as high. It had compartments for pencils, crayons, scissors, erasers, etc. That pencil box was a marvelous thing. Sally had a pencil box. I did not. And this wonderful young girl, my best friend, gave her pencil box to me. I guess she wanted me to remember her always. Sadly, I did not appreciate this loving gesture at the time."

AZ couldn't take home such an expensive gift, because his parents would demand to know where it came from. He was not prepared to tell them that, so he left the pencil box behind with a note to give it back to Sally. He and Mama never saw each other or spoke to each other again.

AZ continued with his violin lessons at great cost in time and money; he travelled 32 miles by bus every Saturday from Kenedy to Beeville. One day, his and Mama's old classroom teacher ran into him at a violin lesson, and she "berated me at the top of her lungs...for what seemed like an eternity. She told me in no uncertain terms that I really broke Sally's heart by not accepting the pencil box. I sobbed and cried all the way to the bus station...."

AZ never played the violin again.

In 2003, AZ saw Mama's obituary in the San Antonio paper. AZ told his wife his story, and when she asked why he had never tried to find Sally, he said, "I was too ashamed." AZ goes on to tell us about his life and show remarkable parallels between his and Mama's lives. And he closes with the simplest yet most heartfelt of words: "Thank you, Sally."

I cried when I read the story; I'm crying as I write this. I miss my mother every day.

"Star light, star bright

I wish she were here tonight."

Mama, what do you wish?

Thank you, AZ.

P.S. AZ, I do know Mama forgave you and would wish for you to forgive yourself, pick up the violin, and make music again. You loved playing; she loved listening. Remember your shared joy...and play. Play in her memory; play for your family; play for love.

Columbus and Us

In fourteen hundred ninety-two

Columbus sailed the ocean blue.

He discovered something new —

This land that’s home to me and you.

(Some believe this isn't true!)

But even if it’s not true, so what? Who can ever prove it, and why waste time trying? He explored; he found new lands; he got the credit; we’re here. It’s a little too late to squabble over who discovered America. And obviously, we weren’t the first…the American Indians were here. We were just the most determined to stay, and rule, by any means necessary.

I teach a volunteer American Citizenship class at the public library. It’s fun…and eye-opening. I started class in March, and out of 6 students, 3 have passed; 2 are scheduled for their interviews; 1 will apply this month, when she has been here the required 5 years. We had a young Hispanic man join us briefly, a senior in high school, who wants to become a police officer or join the military.

This boy speaks perfect English, knows American history, is personable and smart, and has been here since he was 9 years old. His parents brought him here from Mexico. He has grown up in America and has assimilated into the culture — except he can’t become a U.S. citizen. He’s an illegal immigrant.

Obviously, when we realized this, he didn’t stay in class. His only hope for citizenship — and for pursuing any kind of legal, good-paying job in what he considers his home country — is for a blanket amnesty for people like him. He sure as hell ain’t going back to Mexico. If employers won’t hire him because he’s an illegal alien, through no fault of his own, what will he do when he graduates? What kind of “drain” will he be on the economy then? Ah, the sins of the fathers…. His? Yours? Mine?

Two of my students were Hispanic, a man and a woman. They had already been preparing for the test and just wanted some reinforcement and, I think, confidence-building. They both easily passed the test and became citizens just months after starting class. My remaining students were highly motivated women: two from Thailand, one from Laos, and one from Russia.

By December, from just one small class, the U.S. will have gained 5 new citizens. Two of them plan to open their own businesses. All will continue to work, pay taxes, and now vote. Most of them came to class knowing more civics and history than many Americans I know, and I had to look up a few things, too, because I didn’t know the answer to their questions.

I’m proud of them and happy for the many. I’m very sad about the one.

My Blank Pages

An empty page is a writer's invitation

To feel the rush of reaching a writing goal.

But before you can begin the celebration,

You have to fill the emptiness with your soul.

"Writing is easy. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein." — Red Smith

I don't see the blank page or computer screen as a threat; don't face it with dread. I love it. It's a challenge; it's a dare; it's a vehicle for courage or a ticket to humiliation. The bottom line is, though: once faced, the blank page must be touched with words. "Filled" is relative; a piece of writing is done when it's done, and then it has filled the page, no matter its length.

No, I'm not going to go on and on about writing; many writers far superior to me have done it better than I ever could. I won't have much to add except for an occasional personal nugget now and then. In rhyme.

Why Being Specific Matters

I wished for more work, and now I am buried.

I went from laid back to more than just harried.

The universe heard me and ended the dearth,

But the work that I now have is more than it's worth.

I've learned my lesson, and I'll tell you, honey —

You can bet that from now on, I'll just ask for money!

The freelance life is one of feast or famine. When it's a famine, you're afraid you'll never work again. And sometimes when it's feast time, you almost wish you had a "real" job. Almost. But then there's that beckoning finger of freedom....

Creating rhymes within rhythm is more fun than fun and work that is so good that no matter how hard it gets, it's worth it. For me, it's the thing I must do to feel that I'm living my best life. I think everyone has something like that, and it makes it all worthwhile.

Crackpots and Cooking Pots

Some say alternative health care's for crackpots,

Or just for the "haves" and not for the "have-nots."

But everyone's riches are based upon health,

In spite of ignorance or lack of wealth.

And there are small steps that we all can take

To keep ourselves safe but not come off half-baked.

For example: my cooking pots were all aluminum.

I stashed them away and am no longer usin' them.

Several years ago, I quit using nonstick pans. The coating that flakes and chemicals that leach into your food will kill you slowly. And aluminum is not the best, either, because it has been linked to degenerative diseases like Alzheimer's. In fact, just about every metal leaches, but some more than others. And so does even glazed ceramic cookware...especially if it's made in China.

I still use my old copper-bottomed Revere stainless pots and my mother's well-seasoned cast-iron skillets. However, I recently discovered that Mom's old larger pots, the Magnalite pans and Presto pressure cookers, are aluminum. Too bad; they're great pots, but I won't use them anymore. I want every edge in staying healthy.

According to people who study us wacky, "ageless," over-consuming Boomers, we are flocking to alternative health to help us live longer and better lives. I know I have, having seen mainstream medicine do great harm to many...and getting really pissed off that every single commercial on TV seems to be for a drug. Get real. Restless leg syndrome is something that needs a pill?

My personal favorite online doc is Joseph Mercola (mercola.com). I like stuff that makes sense to me, and he does. I think Mod Med (modern medicine), much like the government and most people, is good for dealing with traumas and crisis situations but not so good about just handling the day-to-day life things in a reasonable way.

So please take me to an emergency room if I'm bleeding, unconscious, or break a bone. And if all there is to cook food in is an aluminum pot, I'll do it rather than starve. But if there's an alternative that seems safer and makes more sense, then I'll try that first.

And I keep searching for safer glass or ceramic cookware that doesn't weigh a ton and cost a fortune. So far, not much luck.. Then again, what price good health? Good thing Christmas is coming! And Mercola has a set....

Moving Into the 60s

I've done a lot in my life and times.

I've had some fun and written some rhymes.

But I wouldn't say that I'm a success.

Some of the time, I feel I'm a mess.

Still, I'm on the move, and barring some glitch —

Next on the docket: too thin and too rich!

Gonna have to go some to get those done...but the journey continues, and a girl's gotta have a goal or two! At this rate, I'll just have to keep going and never retire. Not a happy thought, although some would say I've always been retired. Meaning I have enjoyed a lot of personal freedom in life. Freedom was always more important than making tons of money (when I could work it out that way), and I'm a great money manager. Don't need much; don't spend much. Ergo, haven't made much, either!

Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose? Exactly! Nonattachment. Not having a life cluttered with or dependent on too much stuff. But I'd like to have enough money to buy the best alternative health care, not worry about the cost of anything, know I could retire someday and still live comfortably...all things that take money. So I gotta get to work. Guess I'm living my life backwards!

Hey, it only takes one hit song. Writing lyrics isn't work; it's fun. Getting them put to music, demo'd, marketed, and recorded is the work...and it often doesn't work at all. It's a crap shoot, but what in life isn't?

Holy Shitsky, I Turned Sixty!

Sorry; "sixty" is a word without a perfect rhyme. Doesn't matter; lots of words suffer the same fate yet make it successfully into songs, poems, and whatnot.

I've had a good day so far — funny cards and gift cards and e-cards and two dozen roses and presents yet to open. Gotta love it. And rhymes from friends and family. Too cool!

From sis-in-law MJF:

"May you always have sunshine

To brighten your road.

May you always have joy

To lighten your load.

May you always have friendship

And a glass of good wine.

May you always have Jim

To keep you in line."

Good one, eh? Ha ha on that last sentiment. As if! But wait, there's more from MJF!

"Age is just a state of mind,

So pour yourself a glass of wine.

Enjoy your day and don't be sad.

Growing old is not so bad!"

From my dear friends Filbarb, aka Babs and Sailor, came this cute animated-card copy:

"I once read about a lady who made ice cubes out of leftover wine.

I never knew that was possible.

To have leftover wine, I mean.

Restock the wine shelf for our next visit!"

More later on My Big Day...but for now, 'nuff said, eh? Thanks!

59 and Counting....Down

You can't always get what you want...

But sometimes, you get what you need.

Mostly, you get what you get.

And if you're lucky, it's kismet.

Tomorrow I turn 60. (Yeah, the Stones wrote those first two lines, so sue me.)

Jim had to go on a business trip, and Chris was going to be here today but wrenched her back and couldn't come out, so I'm growing old on my own. Which would have happened anyway...and the best laid plans...and blah blah blah. They both feel awful about this, but it's okay. Really.

If you don't believe me, put on the CDs listed below, really listen to them, and you'll get it. Well, you can't get mine yet...unless you ask me. I'll be happy to send you one. I'll get my songs on here soon. My CD is very short — 3 songs; 4 tracks (2 versions of "Mama, What Do You Wish?). A demo, i.e., songs for sale.

So I have a sage smudge stick lit to cleanse my soul; I'm polishing off a bottle of Mouton Cadet (red, of course)(oops, it's suddenly gone!); and I loaded our 5-disc CD player with this assortment:

"Truth" (Jeff Beck, with Rod Stewart singing the best fucking version of "Old Man River" known to man — or river; the boy has a voice, no matter what else you think of him. GET THIS ALBUM; it's fantastic.)

"I Knew Her When" (Marsha Kearns, Greatest Lyric Hits Vol. 1/3)

"Nashville Rebel" (Waylon Jennings, Disc 2 of a boxed set)

"After Hours" (Raul Malo; one of the best voices alive today; I LOVE him; buy this CD)

John Lennon Boxed Anthology, CD 1 ('nuff said; one of the best musicians ever in life, forever and ever so there)

I share a birthdate with John Lennon...and his son Sean. I love that. John was always my favorite Beatle, and for many more reasons than that. Not going there right now.

Music is heaven, and everyone of every age knows that. There's just so much of it, who can keep up with it all? We get locked into the music we grew up with, which makes it a surprising treasure when we hear something new we like. What chance does a 60-year-old broad have to write a song that someone will sing and make great? Chances are every chance and no chance. Ain't that 50/50? Good enough for me!

Anyway, I ran out of wine, so I drove out to get another bottle. After all, Jim will be back tomorrow night and want some heh heh. It was magic! The Book Cliffs had lit up pink earlier, but when I hit the road and could see the Monument, the sky was alive and joyful.

Sometimes the light shines on one landform or the other, leaving the others in shadow. But not tonight. The October evening fall light blessed everything equally. As the light slowly faded, the Monument became an Eagles album cover picture, and the Book Cliffs and Grand Mesa were stunningly and beautifully alight at the same time. I damn near got whiplash looking back and forth.

Then I saw weird blinking blue/yellow lights ahead and thought, as I slowed down and concentrated on the road instead of the sky..."What the fuck is that?" Of course, my next thought was: cops. Hey, I haven't lost it. At least it wasn't in my rearview mirror. It was a motorcycle cop who had pulled over SOMEONE ELSE BUT ME!!! Yay!

Do you think some young cop would have believed the smell on me was a smudge stick and not pot? I think not. But, although I have smoked pot, I don't like it. Never have. I don't like to smoke anything. I lit a cigarette once to use as a punk to light firecrackers, but I've never smoked a cigarette. Unless you count decades of breathing secondhand smoke...which, unfortunately, does count. There are better, funner things I fondly remember, having been cut off for decades. I now live for flashbacks. I mean that in the most innocent way. ;-)

I digress...and often will. I like to digress. Tangents are good. The road not taken, except in your mind, is often the best way to go. And I have to get up and dance around the kitchen quite frequently, which diverts my attention.

I know I'm rambling, but what the fuck? I'm turning 60 YEARS OLD TOMORROW! Do you know what that means? So humor me or log off.

Oooh, wait just 3.25 minutes. Waylon's singing "Amanda," and I must waltz. Mike Metheny's gorgeous jazz instrumental "Manitowoc" always does the same thing to me. The girl's gotta dance!

Okay, I'm back.

Anyway, this afternoon 3 huge buck mule deer came into our back pasture...6-point antlers. That's big for mule deer. Then later 2 younger bucks, one who has been here since birth. How do I know? He lost one antler as a baby, and now that one antler is a bit withered, but he has a new big one on the other side! I'm so proud.

The 2 young deer wandered through our south pasture to the west, and I went out onto our front porch with the smudge stick and wafted the smoke on me as I watched the deer move off slowly. They watched me and weren't worried at all. For some reason, I thought of the movies "Deer Hunter" and "The Queen." They were magnificent.

And then they safely crossed the road and moved on. Isn't that just what we all wish for?

Random Thoughts on Kindness

Life's a bitch, and then you die.

Life's a bitch, but so am I.

I did what I did and it's done.

Didn't mean to hurt anyone.

Unfortunately, I've not been the nicest, kindest person in the world. Good, yes. Honorable, mostly. Truthful, almost always. Done some bad things, wrong things, illegal things, and hurtful things. I regret the hurtful things most. It's one of the things I intend to do better with in my next phase.

You don't get do-overs, but you can always do better. I will be kinder to people from now on. More patient (I hope!). At any rate, I'll practice doing better in this area. I think it will make life more pleasant for me and those around me. We'll see!

Late Bloomer

She's a late bloomer, a sweet Baby Boomer.

Her hair soft and silver as a mourning dove's wings.

After much joy and sorrow

She still dreams of tomorrow

And she'll take on whatever the rest of life brings.

There's a bit of a waltz...chorus? verse? Don't know yet, and I know it's not the final version. I already don't like part of it. And no, it's not about me. I'm not sweet, and my hair's not quite all silver yet, although it's turning fast. Late bloomer? I hope so!

When I was about 13, I asked for a typewriter for Christmas. And Santa brought me a used, upright Underwood, accompanied by a battered guide on learning how to type. I loved it and promptly taught myself to type. Foreshadowing?

When I prepared to go to the University of Missouri, my Strong Vocational Aptitude Assessment showed what I was best suited to be, in this order: artist, author, music performer, librarian. So what did I do? Studied Spanish (I have a knack for languages, and I've used my Spanish a lot) and education (I've taught many things, but never Spanish in a public school).

I guess some people know what they want to be when they grow up when they're that young, but I sure didn't. And college got to be too much fun to spend a lot of time worrying about a career path.

I never even dreamed of being an artist, at least not in the way you think about it. One of my brothers is, though. Has degrees in art. The other brother has a degree in music composition; actually, both are good musicians. I can't sing or play an instrument, so music performer was never an option. I love libraries and would like to work in one now (except they don't pay much), but I wouldn't have wanted to study library science when I was 17. Too boring.

Author. I've written many, many things, which makes me an author/writer, I suppose. But I've never written a book, other than some little phonics books and picture books for children. One is getting published on Kindle, but it was work for hire, so no royalties. I've written 4 unpublished screenplays; a jillion poems; a dozen song lyrics; and lots of short stories and poems and nonfiction articles for educational publishers. These were published but were also work for hire. As a freelance and an employed copywriter, I've written thousands of marketing and corporate communications pieces. Seems like my assessed specified interests have blended into different forms.

I figure when I sell a song, I'll finally have a real career. It's about time, doncha think? And I'll get royalties!

Nothing's Perfect...Yay!

Daisily, I love the sun.

Lazily, this rhyme is done.

She can't keep up! you may scoff...

Well, even God took one day off.

P.S. I reserve the right to blog at will. Mine.

And to write crappy rhymes from time to time.

What Matters

I wonder what's synonymous

With someone who's anonymous?

It may not mean it's cowardice

To always speak unknown.

I don't believe Anonymous

Is trying to be ominous,

But, rather, just autonomous.

I'm sad he's so alone.

What a waste for those who act anonymously

To only be appreciated posthumously...(if ever).

Anonymous's comment on the Tao of Willie post reflects a lot of people's thoughts about their lifespan. I never understand this point of view! What is so damn wrong with living as long as possible?

Chris and I have been talking about this recently, because she hears the same thing a lot...and that is people saying "Oh, I don't want to live that long." Say what?

Sure, there are circumstances under which you would not choose to live, but surely growing old in a regular, relatively healthy life can't be one of them. Neither can having another shot at life, if it were possible.

I think Anonymous is poking me here by taking the opposite tack of my first post, and sometimes I jump when poked. In this case, his sentiments are relevant because they seem strangely prevalent.

People who believe in God think they're going to live forever. People who believe in reincarnation think they're going to live forever. Not in the same form or in the same place, but forever nonetheless.

People who believe when you die, you just die and are gone are wrong, too. The second after you die, life goes on. Maybe not within you, but certainly without you. And the matter that was your body becomes a different matter — and none of that matters! Ashes to ashes, fun to funky, we are stardust.

I'll paraphrase Willie: Fortunately, we're not in control. And his hope for life: If it happened once, it could happen again.

Nobody really knows. All we know for sure is this: We are alive in this moment. And that does matter.

The Tao of Willie (Willie Nelson's Way)

I will most likely mention Texas often, because living there had a tremendous influence on me, my mother was a native Texan, and I just plain love that big old crazy state. Still, I won't go back to live there unless it's to Fort Davis, because most of the state is also hotter and more humid than, well, hell. I've come to prefer living in high and dry country. And Austin is just too big now for me.

But when I moved there — and for a couple decades after — Austin was heaven, with a music scene ruled mostly by Willie. Among many other good things, Willie's a laid-back philosopher...and he's written a book, with a comedian/actor/writer named Turk Pipkin. The book is great reading, and I took a few nuggets from it to write a lyric...one that probably only Kris Kristofferson could pull off singing but won't, because he writes his own, far superior stuff.

So, another exercise in lyric exploration.

The Tao of Willie (Willie Nelson's Way)

Don't think negative thoughts;

Breathe and then let things go.

We're not in control.

If you live in the moment and live true to you

You'll go with the flow.

That's the Tao of Willie.

Don't know the Tao? Well, it knows you.

Love and laugh and just be.

Normal is a myth.

You are whatever you choose to believe,

And happiness is real.

That's the Tao of Willie.

BRIDGE

That's the Tao of Willie.

It may seem weird or a little bit silly,

But you know a man who's smoked that much pot

Ain't gonna tell you something's true if it's not.

So crown thy good with brotherhood;

Follow the Golden Rule.

Trust and tell the truth.

Nature will certainly win in the end,

'Til then, burn biofuel

That's the Tao of Willie.

You should buy the book right away...so you understand this lyric, heh heh...and because it's a great read with a wonderful perspective and good advice for all of us. The title is the same: The Tao of Willie.

(You can't copyright titles, so I'm not infringing!)