Books and other Soul Food, Emotional Health, Goals and Dreams, Health and Long Life

I Love My Life

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I love my life. I love my Victorian apartment. I love living within two blocks of hiking trails.

One of my most frequently re-watched romcoms is Sabrina. – the one starring Harrison Ford – but it is not Harrison Ford that attracts me to this particular movie.  A favorite scene is Sabrina talking to her father – a grown man – a man the age I am now, older and wiser. He is, by occupation, a chauffeur for a wealthy and successful family. He lives in the studio apartment over the garage. I can identify with that. I have lived in studio apartments. I have lived in a studio apartment over a garage. I have a daughter of marriageable age – as does he. I find the idea of a studio apartment over the garage romantic enough that I wrote one into a novel – The Cemetery Wives. Anyway, in an apartment over the garage, well-appointed but cluttered with books, the mature man and his daughter are conversing. His daughter is a grown woman just returned from a year abroad. 

She reminisces that one of the things she loves about her dad is that he decided to become a chauffeur so he would have time to read. He has loved his life all those years; made a living, become financially secure, while just waiting in the car for the Larabees. Waiting and reading – doing what he most loved – all the while improving his mind and his bank account

The weather was perfect as I walked home from Jean-Pierre – the French, French Bakery at noon. The slit in the side of my little black tank dress let in a cooling breeze, my silver-trimmed sandals were perfect for the weather and for walking. I was coming home from an activity I most love; sitting at a grand piano and playing for 3 or 4 hours, evoking musical memories for all the guests dining on crepes and French pastries, and in the process making my daily bread. “I love my life,” I said to myself, “What a wonderful world! I love living in the mountains. I love being in Colorado. I love the great out of doors. I love life in Durango. I love that I get to make music every blessed day!” I am reminded of something I heard Paul Harvey say many years ago, “Find something you love to do and do it so well you make a living at it.”

Emotional Health, Goals and Dreams, Health and Long Life, Spiritual Well Being

Fun is a luxury

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He stood, stooped and bent, and leaning on a walking stick. A whimsical smile played around the corners of his mouth and a plaid fedora sat jauntily on his head. He chuckled, watching his grandson load six paddleboards atop the roof of a Ford Expedition. He shuffled a few feet toward them as daughter and grandson hefted a kayak to the top of her Rav4. “What a lot of work,” he commented, “for a little bit of fun.”

Had it been fun? Yes! 90 minutes on a sundrenched lake in the waning days of summer. Bliss. Beauty. Invigoration. Was it work? Undeniably, yes. She had driven two and a half hours from Durango and past Telluride just to spend a couple hours with her grown son, her aging father, her four grandkids, her daughter-in-law and the DIL’s parents – a standard, but all too infrequent meet-up in the gorgeous mountains of Colorado. Was it worth it? Isn’t fun always worth it? A day spent on the water is soul nourishing. Yet a spontaneous meet-up is very rare amidst responsibilities and work commitments. 

Fun seems so expensive in the day-to-day rush. Fun costs time. Fun costs effort.

If we are not careful, somewhere around the age of 25 we lose our grip on fun. We are too exhausted to go the extra mile for recreation, and we feel duty bound to do the unfun tasks first. Unless of course we have doctor’s orders to run every morning – or hike – or go for a swim – or sit in the sun! Then we can take our recreation like a pill, mark it off the list like a chore and not feel guilty about recreating.,  

She remembers fun when she was young and tagging along with her parents. They were youth sponsors in the local church. Having barely grown into adulthood themselves, they remembered how to plan fun activities. Youth get togethers, being church sanctioned, were obviously for the glory of God so copious amounts of time were spent lavishly decorating spook houses, bobbing for apples or taking a moonlit hayride. Likewise, church picnics could rightly be considered obligations. No amount of effort was too great to shlep the ice chest of cold fried chicken and potato salad to the group picnic site or to set up the volleyball net or horseshoe pit. But her understanding, her unspoken training, her unconsciously formed opinion was that personal recreation is selfish, self-centered, and therefore ungodly.

Here’s a newsflash: some people garden for fun. It is true! Also true that some garden to survive and it becomes acknowledged, hard work. But garden hobbyists, they work long hours, bending, stooping, hauling and they exude enjoyment.

Some people fish. For fun! Not for food. They rise before dawn and move silently to the river. They stroke and cast and stroke and cast and sometimes they catch. And then they release. For fun. Just for fun. They are home in time for breakfast – before the sun blazes over the one remaining mountain. 

Her perspective throughout early adulthood was that fun was expensive; a luxury, forbidden fruit, pleasure to be quaffed only when every other self-sacrifice had been performed to generate income. Now she knows that fun itself may take a copious amount of effort. She must be content to embrace that work, those duties, and then luxuriate in the fun – reap the benefits of rejuvenation!

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A Beautiful Neighborhood

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Something changed in the neighborhood this year. Like most changes, it takes a while to discern if the change is for the better. We got a new landlord. Don’t read me wrong, we liked our old managers and most of us experienced a bit of trepidation at the change. The lease ran out for our noisiest neighbor and thus provided the Peace my roommate had been praying for. Our second noisiest neighbor got a different boyfriend and settled down. Things got a bit sloppier for a few months with regard to yard care, but it was winter and no one really noticed. Interior problems like hot water heaters and furnaces were addressed promptly. Along about April, we received notice that our rents would go up. Although this was unwelcome news, it was not unexpected. Housing, both purchased and leased, has sky-rocketed in our town. Then came the spring and that stirring desire to get things reborn. My neighbor to the east has been clamoring to garden for the past two years to no avail. Our old managers, while kind, were fearful of individualization run amuck and kept everything uniform. Groundcover. Exotic shrubs. Rules about no personalized porches. The two hanging basket hooks on my porch watched the passing world with empty eyes. Useless. Meanwhile, my roommate laid plans to hatch a homestead complete with sustaining garden. She dreamt of owning 10 acres in New Mexico, yet she languished in town in an 1880s row house. 

As spring came on, shortly after we received notice of rents increase coming in summer, we also received an additional written communication. Tenants were granted permission for potted plants on porches. Hanging baskets were encouraged. A monetary allowance was provided each unit that wanted to participate. A community garden space for the courtyard was in the works. Renters who had been languishing in aimless inertia sprang into action pulling dusty lawn and garden implements from storage and attacking the sprawling ground cover, engaging in horticultural art. Getting their hands dirty.

A swell of pride in ownership pervaded the quarter block. Neighbors met to chat and plan and contemplate this thing which was coming to pass. And as always, passersby stopped to ask after any available units, to beg the contact information for the owners. This process reminds each of us how lucky we are to have an historical dwelling, on the downtown grid, in such a beautiful neighborhood – even with the rent increase. 

Never underestimate the power of flowers – the pride of ownership – the freedom to indulge in beauty and industry. My roommate is putting down roots. June is busting out all over. It is a beautiful neighborhood.

Character, Emotional Health, Goals and Dreams, Health and Long Life, Uncategorized

Forever 67

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She rarely drags her heels in dread at birthdays. What can you do to stop them? Nothing. The years will march on. So why not party? Eat the cake, blow out the candles and not rue the passing of the earth one more rotation around the sun. But this year? She doesn’t want to turn another year older. She knows these truly are the best years of her life. Sixty-seven has been the best year ever and therefore she wants to stay 67 forever. Finally, she has tasted it all. She has enjoyed the accomplishments she longed for, basked in snippets of affirmation, engaged in friendship, made the decision to enter in to self-confidence, greeted most days with gratitude.

Does she now have it all? Is the bucket list complete? Is it time to fold herself up and return to her maker? She doesn’t think so. 

She wants to stay 67 forever because she has finally tasted what life can and should be and she wants more of it. She wants to know the rest of the story. She wants to continue the momentum. She wants to keep saying to younger people, “It gets better! Hang in there! The 60s are a great decade! You have so much to look forward to!”

Still, she would like to linger in this year just a little bit longer, enjoy a second helping of this year’s goodness, perhaps order dessert, savor another cup of tea, a few more hugs and the promise of kisses, another sigh of satisfaction at a job finally, finally well done.

Music and Theatre, Uncategorized

In a Music Town

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Sunday was a good day. Do you know what makes it a good day? Music. Music makes it a good day. I had to work. But for the first three and a half hours I had the privilege of working from the piano. Yes. It IS a pretty sweet gig as the banjo player pointed out. We had a nice discussion, the banjo player and I, about the love of getting to work in music rather than the drudgery of having to go to work. Any job, even music, can grow tarnished until one remembers the absolute joy of earning a living doing what you love to do.

That Sunday was a record day for me at the piano – not just in compliments (it is hard not to get better when you play more than 10 hours a week), but a record day in the bread in the jar factor as well. I live and work in a music town and when music events are in town the vibe is superb.

Bluegrass Meltdown brings world class headliners to the stage. They lodge in town. They have to eat somewhere. I play at an historic French bakery. Extra travelers are in town. They come here for the music. They lodge in Durango hotels. They, too, put bread in my jar.

Sometime after 11:00 am a young man clad in plaid and blue jeans with a fashionably absent back pocket entered the restaurant. The host apologized profusely that the kitchen was down. “I just want to chill a bit,” responded the newcomer. He seated himself at a bistro table – the one with a direct view of the piano. He snapped a couple photos, maybe a video, sipped coffee, savored a croissant, and conducted business from his cell phone. At 12:06 I began to pack up – to close the piano. He hurried over to compliment on the sustained energy of my delivery and the depth of repertoire. I said he had too much youth on him to enjoy my repertoire. He responded that everyone knows the classics. He said his name was Chris. I introduced myself as Cherry. He said I should drop by the Wild Horse Saloon late that afternoon where he was playing. He turned to leave and I swung my gig bag to my shoulder.

“He’s famous,” said the woman sitting at the nearest table. She whipped out her handheld data. “Yes. Right there,” she said, showing me the screen. “Banjo player with Chain Station.”

And did I go to the Wild Horse Saloon? I slipped in much later for the last song, without a wristband and under the watchful eye and nod of the gatekeeper. Later. After the private lesson student recital at 2:00 pm.

Because you know what makes it a good day? Music. Music makes it a good day.

Character, Emotional Health, Family

Respect the Ex

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I grew up in a conservative American household with two parents joined for life and two children – one female and one male – just perfect. So far, so good. My mother sewed my dresses, patched my brother’s blue jeans, braided my hair every day and told me what a pretty little thing I was. On Sunday mornings (and Sunday nights and Wednesday nights) we changed to our good clothes and went to church. When I was washed and combed and dressed appropriately my mother told me I looked nice. Frequently, I overheard my father tell my mother he loved her. But there were other things I overheard. I overheard my mother calling herself ugly as she stood in front of the mirror. I overheard her berate herself for looking fat, having a double chin, having short eyelashes (she was the type of conservative who does not wear makeup). She continued to affirm me and tell me I was pretty. Everywhere I went people told me how much I looked like my mother. Who was I to believe? The mother who said I was pretty? Or the mother whom I looked like who said she herself was ugly?

My grown-up life has not been perfect. I have been the wife of two husbands and am now single, solitary. I have made some mistakes over the years. Heaven knows I can see the glaring errors of my exes. But those men are the father – the other parent – of my children. Half of the genetic makeup of each of my children comes from someone other than me. Did I want to raise three children to adulthood the entire time pointing out the fault of their other parent? In that way, would they not learn to hate half of themselves? How much more conducive to character building if I pointed out the strengths and positives of the ex and encouraged the child to cultivate those positives?

My children are grown now, and all successful – each in his or her own way. And still the world around me unravels. Relationships of the younger generation fall apart. Couples who have been together for a decade or so decide to split, leaving the children they share to be shuffled from one domestic environment to another on a weekly basis. Wounded and hurting exes vie for the upper hand. 

I have observed at a safe distance while unyielding and self-righteous individuals, in completely asinine fashion, intentionally undermine the influence of the other parent and sow seeds of rebellion and hate.

I have also observed wounded and hurting exes who have triumphed. Those, who in maturity and wisdom have set aside their petty grievances for the sake of the whole health of their children.

I have seen exes fight and hurl insults on social media. I have also seen exes build each other up, compliment and thank each other, in view of the children – and the whole world – on social media. Just like they did when they were in love.

Do me a favor. Do the whole world a favor. For the sake of the children and their emotional and mental health; don’t insult, teardown, or disrespect the parent of your child! Travel back, into the far reaches of your mind to the good times – or the one good time. Find one solid respectable trait for your ex and dwell on that when you talk to your mutual children. Save the other stuff for the privacy of your counselor’s office or the ear of your trusted friend. You may feel that making yourself the perfect hero in the eyes of your child will give them someone to look up to. Yet, to make the other parent – your ex – into a perfect monster is to infer the child is half bad, half detestable, half ugly. Can you not care enough about the child of two individuals; can you not respect and love your child enough to speak respectfully of the other parent? Children grow smart and wise. They will soon form their own opinion about the actions and behaviors of those who fathered and mothered them. Don’t disrespect the parent of your child.

Family, Music and Theatre

In a Music House part 4: Soundtrack for a road trip

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After all, what is a road trip without music? She was the driver so she got to chose the playlist. It was a multi-generational girls trip for spring break and I was not driving. The playlist was not babyboomer – not from the 70s. The playlist was millennial and included a hearty dose of driving drumbeat intros (so far, so good), but also some raspy sounding screamo. 

I sat in the backseat feverishly editing the manuscript for Precious Journey. My (almost) 15-year-old granddaughter occupied the front passenger seat and my daughter of 33 years was driving. The trip was her idea. The music was her music. Suddenly, the timbre of the male voice grabbed my attention. There was something familiar about the vocal placement, even the enunciation of the lyrics. This was a clean professional recording I had not heard before. I thumped the back of the driver’s seat. “Is this Philip?” I called. “Nope,” she answered, “Project 86.”

We rode on. We heard some millennial classics. We listened to soundtracks.  A solid, hard, rock drumbeat laid an extended intro to a song. “This is my favorite band,” quipped my daughter from the driver’s seat. “You really like the drummer?” I queried. “Nope. Crush on the guitar player. This is the last thing they ever recorded.” It was, without question, a professional studio recording – not a rough take. And now I knew; she was the drummer. Three different band incarnations, same three musicians. They met in high school marching band. The first rock band formed in my basement at a homecoming party. They morphed into hardcore rock, then post hardcore. They lived for a time in the same house in Ft. Collins. They have now gone separate ways.

Fire Extinguisher – the first album my oldest son ever produced, toured, recorded, merchandised, released as a cassette and CD and personally presented me a T-shirt for. SMA – good old Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego from out of the past (think 1997) came wafting into my mind as I listened to the male voice, now more mature, judiciously trained, skilled and versatile. The driver turned to her niece. “That’s your dad,” she said. 

Friends, I am not musically illiterate and I am not going deaf. Yet, I could not tell the difference between the national best sellers and billboard names and my own children. When you have lived in a music house for over 60 years yourself, when you have been exposed to recording studios and stages of every genre, when you have spent a good deal of time on study and practice of vocal production, when you work daily in music, you notice things. My children have arrived. Whether the world ever recognizes them – or not – I do. These are children who grew up in a music house.

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Masks Off!

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On the weekends, she plays piano at a French bakery, but Monday through Thursday she works at a school – not just any school – but a school of music. And because it is a school, staff and students have been wearing masks throughout all the long, dreary months of the pandemic. The school offers private lessons on any instrument you would expect. The school also has bands for all ages. There is a music together group for preschoolers taught by an educator of near grandfatherly age who also does his share of picking, strumming and slapping while leading adult bands of many genres. There is an instructor with a doctorate in music who spends his days with elementary groups and his evenings as the leader of adult bands; beginning, intermediate and advanced; always rehearsing to answer the call to play at the next available gig. In these bands are wanna-be-performers, used-to-be performers, and graying students who work day jobs as doctors, lawyers, executives, or retirees and spend their hobby money on big band instruments, keyboards, and guitars. Students of all ages come through the front door – close to 400 of them – and she greets them and gets to know them and asks about their day and their music. She knows them in their N95 masks and their bandanas and handmade and decorated masks, but mostly she knows them by the schedule they keep – the large spreadsheet that takes up the entire desktop of her 18-inch computer monitor – and doubles when scrolling to the right or left. There is the 93-year-old cracker jack drummer, now blind, still playing with a jazz band.  There are the middle school and high school students who have been with this music school long enough to have established a reputation as smooth vocalists, up and coming keyboardists, shredding guitar players. There are the adults who assemble after hours to be in a band and leave snatches of conversation in their wake  – opinions on music – not usually classical music – more often music and musicians of the 50s and 60s and 70s and 80s – and even the turn of the century – the one 22 years ago.  She also knows them by their voice and personality and attitude – especially attitudes about music and other musicians.

Along about the first of March, the mask mandate ended in Colorado. Schools and communities began relaxing the requirement as COVID case numbers began dropping dramatically. Masks came off at the music school. At precisely 2:00 PM she reached for and released the loop from her left ear and removed the loop from her right. It was immensely liberating. It felt almost awkward for a few hours. Now she is greeting 400 or so strangers every week, people with noses and mouths and teeth and smiles. Some of these strangers are quite handsome, and some are homely. But she is glad, so glad she got to know what they were really like – kind, dashing, petulant, stubborn, accommodating – before she was distracted by appearances. And she is happy, so happy to remove her mask and let those other strangers see that she is truly smiling at them from behind the desk.

VOX Harmonics – high school vocal band

Character, Emotional Health, Goals and Dreams, Health and Long Life, Spiritual Well Being

I Want More

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She is 67 and she is abundantly aware that the best years of her life, the most enjoyable, the most productive, are now. She has all she ever wanted. She is livin’ the life. She makes music. She is immersed in music. She plays music for money. She has traveled and lived in many beautiful places – beyond what she originally imagined. She has walked and hiked in sunshine, blessed with the wind to her back and a breeze on her face, and crafted essays that describe her feelings, and lived to see a book or two in print. She has floated more than one river and seen the ocean. She has passed through fields of flowers in bloom at the peak of the Continental Divide. She has experienced the solitude of alone and independent in the wild.

She has birthed children and watched them grow and loved them and been loved in return.

She is 67. She knows what she wants. All she ever wanted is right now. Yet she does not sit on the couch waiting for the bell to toll. No. She wants more. More travel. More music. More beautiful places. More love. More JOY. For the remaining years of her life. Because the two final things on her bucket list are:

Sail into port grandly

Die in a beautiful place

She wants the last thing to leave her body to be music – along with her soul. Or is music her soul? Or is her soul music? She is not quite sure. But she knows they are inextricably twined. And she wants more. Why? Not because she is greedy. But because the cup of life at its fullest evaporates. One must constantly replenish.

To be clear, she feels a little more like The Cranberries and much better treated than Oliver.

Emotional Health, Goals and Dreams, Health and Long Life, Home and Hearth, Spiritual Well Being

Jigsaw puzzle piece

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What a wonderful morning. The air, though wintery, was alive with portent. Her sleep the night before had been complete, restful, scattered with positive dreams rather than riddled with anxiety. The morning cup of tea was just the right temperature juxtaposed with the frosty air from the open front door. The morning was like a bordered jigsaw puzzle waiting for a choice piece, the piece that had been held to the light, examined from all sides, compared with each preceding piece and each potential piece until, yes! Even from 18 inches away one could tell it was a perfect match. The piece, that one choice piece, was falling into place. Home. She was singing a new song. She had purchased a feeling, a feeling of home and happiness and success for yet another two months. She was alive. She was grateful. She savored this moment, enjoyed it fully, all the while knowing that once you finish a puzzle and breathe that sigh of satisfaction, soon enough there will be another challenge waiting in the wings.

Putting One Foot in Front of the Other, Hiking for Life!