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.
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.
the quiet and rest of holidays
“I will go lie down,” she said, “for just a few moments in that hammock strung between two ponderosa pines.” No matter where you are, there is work to do. She could be downloading photos from her phone to her laptop at the table in the little mini camping cabin. There is no internet at the One -Acre Wood, but she could be formatting a manuscript. “No need,” she said. “It is a holiday. I will lie down in the hammock and do nothing and watch for stars. I will stay until the first star comes out.” She purchased the hammock several years ago from a clearance bin. Five dollars, how could she resist? It was red. Red like the Outback she enjoyed camping in at the time. She hasn’t had the Subaru for three years and three months. She has only used the hammock for two seasons – after the wilderness ranger taught her how to tie a secure hitch knot and she no longer feared “down will come baby, hammock and all.” So she hoisted herself up, straddled the hammock, drew in her feet, covered herself with a light blanket and gazed at the dusky sky. The stars were delayed in coming out because there was a moon overhead. Straight up she looked. One hundred feet through the branches, maybe 200 feet. It was an old, old forest. She basked in the moonlight. By and by she thought she saw a twinkle slightly off to the left, somewhat obscured by boughs. Was it a star? A plane? A planet? It did not move perceptibly. Not a plane. But that buzzing near her ear? That was definitely the first mosquito of the season. May 29th – not even June yet and here were the mosquitoes at 8,000 ft. Dusk deepened and even with the competition of the moon she could faintly see star clusters in the deep heavens. Millions of stars. Also mosquitos two, three and four. She rolled out of the hammock and into the back of her Rav4 and her trusty sleeping bag – the one she bought herself for a birthday three years ago.
In a Music Town: The Side-Hustle
It is more truth than myth, the idea that struggling musicians, actors, and opera aspirants work in a deli while waiting for a big break. It is vintage legend and it is just as true today in any music city as it was 100 years ago. New York, New Orleans, L.A. Durango. Yes, Durango. I heard the tourists talking as I sat at the piano at Jean-Pierre French Bakery during the recent Blue-Grass Meltdown. They were talking about the prolific amount of musical talent in such a small town – especially the pianists. Very true. The Strater Hotel anchors the other end of the same block as Jean-Pierre and boasts two restaurants and one saloon. The Diamond Belle Saloon is historic and famous and houses a grand old upright piano. During the season – May through October – there is a continuous line-up of ragtime pianists playing every night of the week. The most famous is Adam Swanson – four-time World Champion Old-Time piano player. Another piano man appearing regularly at the Diamond Belle is Daryl Kuntz. He and his brother have been in the movies. Daryl also plays piano one morning a week at Jean-Pierre. I cover Saturday and Sunday mornings.
For my side-hustle, I administer the private lessons schedule at Stillwater Music.
So I get to meet them, 25 or 30 of these aspiring and practicing professional musicians, as they carry out another traditional side-hustle of musicians – private lesson teacher.
She is a musical theater major, an opera singer headed to graduate school, and she gives voice lessons three days a week to students of all ages, five-year-old Disney princesses to 65-year-old choral singers. She also cleans houses to supplement her living – and walks dogs – and works evenings in a liquor store.
He is a coffee barista who manages one of the many, many hip coffee shops in Durango. He also is an accomplished fingerstyle guitarist who plays, bass, mandolin, and uke. Other musicians refer to him with the nickname Prophet of Jazz. He has not always been in Durango, but he always comes back.
He is a much revered, most veteran of piano teachers; so laid back he could be a bass player. He has toured with his guitar, finished his piano degree as a young adult and married man, and sometimes takes time off to attend his son’s soccer games. His son also plays cello. His daughter; piano. He used to take time off to tour with Chevel Shepherd on keys and guitar. I am not sure whether being a sought after gigging musician and recording studio staple is his side hustle or weather teaching 32 students a week is his side hustle. But either way, he is making a full-time living in music.
She will ride in the Iron Horse Bicycle Classic tomorrow – all the way to Silverton – on a bicycle – racing the train. She only graduated college a year or so ago – with a double major. She has 30 piano students and is dedicated to giving them her best. As a side hustle she accompanies for the local middle school and works mornings at the golf-course. She will leave for graduate school in the fall, but she will keep as many of her students as possible online, because even in graduate school, you’ve got to have a side-hustle.
Math of Mortality and Loss – the statistics
We gathered for our 50 -year high school reunion last fall. There were 399 in our graduating class and that was a rather large class for our school, but then again, we are baby-boomers. Being born in 1953 and 1954 means we were part of a huge boom in population and smack dab in the middle of the pig in the python, so to speak. It also means we – the many baby-boomers – are now (supposedly) in retirement (ask me later how that’s working for me). Yes, the baby-boomers move inexorably toward old age and the class of ’72 is preparing to march on into their 70s. We’ve lost a few along the way; some to premature old age, many to dreaded diseases, some to accident, others to self-inflicted fatality. Fifty-nine were gone, but not forgotten, by the time we met to celebrate 50 years of adulting. Fifty years, 59 losses. Hmmm, at that rate the math indicates we lose an average of 1.18 classmates each year. It would be easy to extrapolate we’ve got a few hundred more years – unless one of those losses was a best friend – which it was. But that slow pace has changed markedly in 2023. One classmate per month. If this trend continues, we will lose twelve classmates in this year. When one loses a classmate every month it accelerates one’s concept of mortality and expediency. What are the things I want to do before I die? What remains on the bucket list? How long do I have? Well, if the trend continues at 12 per year, we have 28.33 years remaining before the last person from the class of 1972 dies at the ripe old age of 96. I’d be willing to prognosticate that one or two of our classmates may live to see a 100th birthday. And for those who live long (may they prosper), they will witness the passing of hundreds of classmates, close friends, acquaintances, and family. Loss after loss, grief upon grief. The reality is current life expectancy in the United States is 78 years. Seventy-eight for the average of us. Prepare yourself friends; mind, soul and body; we are approaching warp speed. May the good memories sustain and encourage you even as you are bereft of close friends. May you live – and live well – until the day you die.
Micro dosing vacation
She likes the word micro-dose. Not a fan of anything excessive. Small amounts always for her. Also, her motto is; be grateful for what you have. Enjoy it! Anyway, that’s how the woman in the following narrative feels.
I don’t know about you, but it takes her awhile to ease into vacation – to return to what she does with free time besides the polar opposites of doing absolutely nothing and sinking into ennui; or going crazy because there is nothing to do and she is a little busy body, a workaholic, a worry achiever. There are other circumstances to consider. It seems her stated or private goal for this break was to get plenty of sunshine, stock up on endorphins, and she found herself snowed in for 48 hours in a black and white landscape. It could happen. Yes, it happened to her on Spring Break.
She longed to take long hikes in the sunshine, relaxing soaks in a hot springs, shopping escapades in a resort town, writing adventures in a coffee shop. She knew a couple once who planned a vacation in Cozumel and arrived to find the weather rainy. They simply got back on the plane and rerouted to Mazatlán. She has never had the bank account necessary to rally in such a situation.
So anyway, after 48 hours of black and white she rose, found the outdoor pool vacant and commenced 100 finning strokes on her back with snowflakes regularly kissing her face. She soaked in a vapor cave, ate oatmeal in her room, edited a manuscript, packed the car and headed down the road. She stopped at the Dennis Weaver Memorial Park that always clears her head, centers her attention, provides inspiration and gives her an optional musical outlet on the eaglet chime bars. She locked the car, slipped into her backpack purse, hoisted her umbrella and took a brisk walk in the rain. She walked right on into town and commenced a little shopping trip at the Second Chance Thrift Store where she always finds elegant castoffs. A familiar voice called her by name and she turned to hug a former colleague now anything but retired in Ridgeway. They enjoyed a mini chat-a little laugh of mutual understanding. Together they stowed her purchases safely in her own environmentally friendly lightweight stuffable shopping bag made from recycled plastic. She retraced her steps up the trail, through the Nature walk, across the abandoned and repurposed railroad bridge to where her car was parked. Once inside the car she enjoyed a favorite repast-guac and chips- and contemplated her most recent activities.
You can have a little mini vacation, you can sample all the activities you want to enjoy, all in one day. Hike, shop, socialize, write, bask out of doors — I’m going to call it microdosing vacation.
In a Music House: the parent talk
I laugh when I think about it now. She is thirty-four and single but wants to be married with a family. I am double her age and single and have been married and divorced twice. Never-the-less, we are both single, both female, and both roommates out of societal and financial necessity as we wait for the charming prince or, alternately, an apartment to come available in Rivendell.
So it happens that sometimes she brings men home. She meets them at various places – in the wilderness, at WFR training, at church, at the gym. She brings them home for dinner or for a shower between wilderness trips, or in a group of rangers for pizza and party, or to floor surf in sleeping bags somewhere along the journey. And she brings them home to meet me – the sixty-eight-year-old roommate – also her mother.
I’ve heard of those parents – those dads and moms – who have “the talk,” with young men arriving for a first date with their daughters. There is no need for me to be intrusive or meddlesome. I trust her as my roommate. And I have confidence in the wisdom of a 34-year-old daughter. I know her to have a heart motivated by love and a brain guided by wisdom.
But we live in a music house – always have whether with other roommates or as family. She has played in bands and lived with bands. I have played with bands and raised young musicians. Music and musical instruments are fabric and fiber of our lives and figure prominently in design and function of our living arrangements.
There were the two thirty-year-olds she hosted spontaneously after WFR training who were delighted to catch me playing guitar and turned out to be musicians. We enjoyed a fine jam session. There was the handsome and desirable lawyer who stopped by on an errand, saw the two pianos and promptly confessed his lack of musical investment. One item and one alone in the negative column, but huge in a music house. There are the two guys from the gym who haul in their guitars for regular band practice. There is a handful of best friends collected from church and gym who show up on days off and work on original tunes in the garage. She lives here musically. I go away from the house to work as a music administrator four days a week and on Saturday and Sunday mornings I gig as a pianist.
Last week she met someone new online. They corresponded via text. They chatted face to face by phone, mutually liked what they saw, made a hiking and dinner date. Between the hike and meal they showed up at the apartment to freshen up and change clothes. His attention was immediately captured by the musical instruments. I welcomed him to pick up and play anything he liked while she changed. He chose the acoustic guitar. It was a nice, knowledgeable riff. I moved to the keyboard, correctly guessed the key and supported his ramblings. She came from the other room, pulled up the cajon, seated herself and laid the rhythm. He began to sing. His was a pleasant voice. It was an original song. Well now, that’s a huge checkmark in the plus column.
You can text. You can talk. You can exchange bios and opinions online. You can take a hike to support your claims of affection for Nature and your wilderness prowess. You can boast about being a music lover. But beware when you visit a music house and Mom hands you a guitar. The truth about your musical background will surface immediately.
Your payroll information has arrived
Your payroll information has arrived. I love those words. Instantly, I am humbled. Once again, I am provided for. True, by the work of my own hands, my efforts. This is not a handout or a free gift. I have been paid. Paid for my expertise, my organization, my ability to persevere. True, I have put forth the effort, given my best work ethic, earned these dollars. But I have been acknowledged – acknowledged with a paycheck. Why does this continue to amaze me? Because I know that feeling, that tired, burned out, wrung-out feeling of giving my all; throwing myself into a project and reaping too little reward for too big a piece of my life. I have experienced much in six decades. I have been self-employed and been the self-sacrificing partner of the self-employed. I have been a business owner and have also been a paid employee in times when every earned cent was spoken for before it transferred to my account. Survival for the next 30 days was precarious, outcome unknown. Your payroll information has arrived. The financial math is done. A plan is laid. The money will be parceled out. Some to share. Some to save. Some to spend. Bills will be paid. Your payroll information has arrived. Your needs are provided for. Be at peace now for 30 days.