She played at Jean-Pierre French Bakery for three and a half hours on Saturday morning. On Saturday afternoon she taught piano lessons. At 5:00 PM she hightailed it out of the house and down to Main Street to catch the last few minutes of the retail business day and the first few minutes of dinner out on the town. It is a good thing to do on a Friday or Saturday night; take your laptop or handheld device and do a bit of proof-reading or writing in a quiet corner at a table for one while live musicians play and others around you unwind from the office week. At The Office restaurant and bar at the Strater Hotel, the musician was singing solo accompanied by his ukulele. He sang the standards spanning the last 60 years and once in awhile threw in an original. She recognized his name and his style though she doesn’t know him well. She stepped back to the restroom, poked her head in the doorway of the Diamond Belle to see the ragtime pianist (one of five). Very good, but not one she knows well. When her food order finally came and she had written a chapter, she gave a cursory glance at Instagram before heading out. She clicked to follow up on a Jean-Pierre story thinking she might catch a photo of herself at the piano. Monkberries! Oh. That’s tonight! Monkberries are playing in the garden at the Rochester Hotel. Now the Monkberries are a partnership of two. The songwriter, arranger and guitarist happens to be one of the managers at Jean-Pierre restaurant. He also happens to be one of the guitar private lesson instructors at Stillwater Music. She hastened her departure from The Office, hurried to the garden at The Rochester, enjoyed a song or two before being hailed by an incoming group of six all decked out in evening black. It was half the serving crew from Jean-Pierre. At two minutes until eight, after a Beatles tune, she slipped quietly out the garden gate to make her way in the direction of home. Across the street live music was still in full swing at Lola’s, the food truck lot. Sounds of trumpet, mellow like a cornet. Ah, yes, Jared, the leader of the Durango Wind Ensemble along with a couple colleagues. She paused for a moment and wondered if she should cross the street and identify the two colleagues. She thought of walking to either end of Main Avenue to see if she knew the musicians at Gazpachos or 11th Street Station or Esoterra or the street pianos in-between. But no, Sunday morning comes early and she herself will be back tickling the ivories at Jean-Pierre after a refreshing Saturday Night of Live Music.
Monthly Archives: July 2023
In a Music Town: Making a name for yourself
It had been a full week, musically speaking, four week days of work 1:00 to 7:00 at a music school. A band practice. An open mic night. An extra concert at which I worked the door on my usual Friday night off. So, naturally, when I finished playing the piano at the French restaurant that morning, I was in need of a little refilling of the creative vessel. A little relaxation. After a quick lunch, I pulled myself up to the piano and knocked out a few vintage pop torch songs, singing as I played. I grabbed the guitar and accompanied my voice, I taught a couple piano lessons. I was exhausted and hungry, so I walked myself over to the historic Diamond Belle saloon for dinner knowing it is now ragtime season and I might glean a bit of entertainment and inspiration from a good old upright piano player. It is a six-block walk to the Diamond Belle. In blocks one and two I was buffeted by the remains of a rain/hail shower and I turned my collar to the cold and damp. In block three as I passed the DAC I was greeted by name by a bicyclist whom I know through Stillwater Music. In block four someone called my name from the sidewalk in front of the popular Steamworks restaurant. It was a mother and students from Stillwater. At block six I stopped at the billboard to see if Adam Swanson was playing tonight. Hands down, Adam is my favorite old-tymey piano player. Actually Daryl Kuntz was playing and so I slipped on in, seated myself single and ordered up my usual Straiter burger. Daryl plays one other morning of the week at Jean-Pierre, so I felt I was among friends. He delivered a great (inspirational and informative) ragtime performance for the next 50 minutes. I took notes. I let my ear enjoy and take in all the nuances. I finished a portion of my burger, boxed the remainder for tomorrow’s lunch and declined dessert, whereupon the server said, “You’re all finished then, someone already paid for your meal.” What? But I don’t know anyone here. “No. It was just somebody who wanted to do it!” I don’t even know their name. They probably don’t know mine. But I do know that I love living in a music town – a town full of piano players and history and music students and people who support the arts – whether they know your name or not.
She Laughed – and I hope you do too
She passed her 69th birthday with aplomb. Working six hours at a music school. Going home to a grilled hamburger. The next morning she took a brisk walk along the river trail that stretches eight miles beside the Animas River from south of town all the way north through Durango, Animas City, and Oxbow Preserve. As she walked, she thought as is her custom. Almost seventy, she mused. Next year I’ll be seventy. And she laughed and laughed. And then, she laughed again with great joy! She is still mobile! She works 32 hours a week outside the home and the remaining hours of daylight she practices and works from home. Her kayak is on top her vehicle. She put it up there – and she takes it down whenever she can and paddles it about the water.
Yesterday she got in her car and drove the 180 miles to Grand Junction to pick up her 90-year-old dad for a visit. As she exited Durango somewhere near Hermosa (which means beautiful- and it was) the green highway sign boldly proclaimed Silverton 26 miles. And she laughed. Are we there yet? We are not as close as we think. She laughed because there are two mountain passes between now and Silverton, two steep and winding mountain grades with sheer drop-offs and precipitous curves and no room for speed or for error. It will not be a 30-minute trip. But it will be beautiful.
Take your time. Laugh lots. Be beautiful.
Tree Hugging: His name is Gus
His name is Gus and he is appropriately named for the journey he has been on. You see, Gus was a Christmas tree in December of 2022, confined in a pot, possibly root bound, maybe over-watered and not well drained; or perhaps over-heated and parched. We’re not exactly sure. But I am getting ahead of myself here.
In 2010 I helped my cousin tear down a log house that had not only belonged to, but been built by my grandfather. It was built from 1936 to 1938 by hand from windfall logs hauled from the backside of Grand Mesa – the largest flattop mountain in the United States. Had the building happened on site in the mountains where the trees fell, I would call it a cabin. But, the logs were hauled down by wagon to the outskirts of a city in the valley, so we always referred to it as a log house. Uncle Willis did the bulk of the collecting and hauling with Granddad. Uncles Emil and Milton helped build. My dad, being only five or six had not much hand in the work but he did grow up in the log house from the age of six through graduation from high school.
During the years I was growing up we paid Sunday visits to Granddad at the log house. In the summertime, we frequently paid visits to Granddad at the cabin on Grand Mesa – by Eggleston Lake. Granddad took great pride in showing off all the little projects around the mountain cabin. At a young age I knew where the spring was located to go for a bucket of water and also how to clean fish in the driveway of the cabin. Granddad had stripped a lodgepole and constructed a flagpole. Off to the side of the cabin he transplanted other conifers, tended them, watched them grow and- most importantly-gave them names. He named them after his children. “Look how Willis is growing this year!” “Emil is not doing so well, I need to give him more water….” “This little guy is David.”
Have I said recently that I love to hug trees? And pat rocks? Well, I do. I love to see the little pine trees with their new growth shoots. I call them Musha trees because the new shoots remind me so much of the wagging tail of our long time departed malamute. Musha trees. Willis. Emil. I think we have a tree-naming trend going on here.
In November 2022 my roommate (aka my daughter) and I went shopping at a local nursery and for several pretty pennies came home with a lovely three or four foot blue spruce tree in a four gallon bucket. We loved the tree, watered the tree, decorated the tree, undecorated the tree and then subsequently moved it outside when February arrived. Once the snow finally melted at 7,680 feet this year; once the ground had thawed and we could actually get a 4-wheel drive truck into the One-Acre-Wood; we continued with the goal to replant our Christmas Tree out in the forest where he belonged.
Even when bringing the tree home in November we had used the truck with the tailgate hatch open. By April the tree was significantly heavier and more difficult to move despite one side having dried out and died. Andrea called a friend from the gym. The two of them lifted the tree into the truck, positioned it through the hatch and commenced what should have been a mere 16-mile journey. But a bridge was out. Detours were made. Finally, the tree was returned to the ground as originally requested. Andrea’s friend stood back and said, “His name is Gus. Gus from Lonesome Dove, my favorite movie. We’ve had a long and circuitous journey to return him to the ground. His name is Gus.”
By the way, Gus is quite happy in his new habitat. We may even see new life coming from the dead side.
