With a wink and a nod to the late William Wittliff, screenwriter of The Perfect Storm.
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DianeB
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Blog Entries posted by DianeB
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The lights go down. You hear your cue, pick up your instrument. Walk to your seat. Applause. You nod to the audience, sit down, look around. They’re smiling, they expect something good. A switch flips on — you do, too. You smile back, settle in the chair, adjust your chart, check the E string. Strum a G chord. Pan across the audience. You pick out someone to sing to. Now you’re feeling it. Introduce the song. Pause, breathe, then hit it. Ya know what? You’re a bonny-fide guitar player! Is there any thing better in the world?
With a wink and a nod to the late William Wittliff, screenwriter of The Perfect Storm.
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If you have followed my dispatches over these past dozen years, maybe I'm amazed, as Sir Paul once sang. I have no insights to offer, only my story. For this year's installment of self reflection, permit me to share a lesson I've learned. It's really the only one that matters, because it's the one that's kept me going.
By now it's impossible to conceal that writing has been part of my life from my early years. My first grade teacher asked each of us to bring in something to read to the class. Something awakened in me. I pushed the stand bearing my sister's Royal typewriter to the end of the bed, hung my feet over the edge, and started tapping. I would not be caught dead reading from a comic book in front of my classmates, so I transcribed several panels from my copy of Walt Disney's "Man In Space". The comic was essentially the storyboards for the episode from the celebrated series on space exploration. I had not yet figured out the Shift key, and sis was out with her pals, but it would do. This is likely how a group of six year olds first learned, in all lower case, about isaac newton's laws of motion and space medicine. And how I quickly acquired a rap sheet at St. Andrew's Day School.
First teaching experience at age six, first test tubes at seven, first exposure to guitar — my classmate Leslie's — at nine, and at sixteen I was submitting my idea of fiction from the selfsame Royal to Seventeen, Scholastic, Redbook, and Ingenue (may the latter rest in peace). I still have the rejection slips. "Congratulations," my English teacher reassured me, "You've been rejected at the professional level. Just keep writing."
College life as a chemistry major left little time for extra humanities. But I shoehorned in a course on the short story. Here was an oasis from the endless stream of lab reports: Crane, Cather, Anderson, Steinbeck, Welty, O'Connor. It was John Updike who killed my fledgling side gig in fiction, specifically with "The Doctor's Wife," which he published when he was 29. I was 20. I recognized a bitter truth: I would never write a story like that.
In my disappointment, I did not notice what the endless stream of lab reports was doing for me. Soon I would write and publish my own research. It can be found around the world in the Journal of Organic Chemistry. No rejection slips this time. Over the years, other bylines would follow, because I just kept writing.
That is my thesis today. I will never write like John Updike or play guitar like Bonnie Raitt. Instead, I must stand in admiration. We understand how hazardous the word "never" can be, but it often simply represents reality. Take heart, brothers and sisters, reality is our ally. It points us toward our destinies. Magic awaits.
Herewith the cold, hard reality about writing — and guitar playing, if you transpose — from someone who knows.
What follows is everything I know about how to write good fiction.... I love this job. I want you to love it, too. But if you don't want to work your ass off, you have no business trying to write well — settle back into competency and be grateful that you have even that much to fall back on.
There is a muse, but he's not going to come fluttering down into your writing room and scatter creative fairy-dust all over your typewriter or computer station. He lives in the ground. He's a basement guy. You have to descend to his level, and once you get down there you have to furnish an apartment for him to live in. You have to do all of the grunt work, in other words, while the muse sits and smoke cigars and admires his bowling trophies and pretends to ignore you.
Do you think this is fair? I think it's fair. He may not be much to look at, that muse-guy, and he may not be much of a conversationalist (what I get out of mine is mostly surly grunts, unless he's on duty), but he's got the inspiration. It's right that you should do all the work and burn all the midnight oil, because the guy with the cigar and the little wings has got a bag of magic. There's stuff in there that can change your life.
Believe me, I know.
— Stephen King, On Writing (c) 2000
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Teacher, teach thyself.
It’s ten years to the day I opened the Learn and Master box and the possibilities spilled out. I’ve made it about half way through the course. Let’s look at my ten-year report card. For lack of a better rubric, I’ll steal from Tom Heany’s book First Learn to Practice, and use his “Seven Good Habits”.
1. Be Comfortable: A+. The spare bedroom steadily transformed from a straight chair with a music stand in 2012 into my dream practice space in 2019. It invites me, it comforts me, it schools me.
2. Be Honest: A. The recordings don’t lie, and now I can trust my ear rather well in real time. I feel the misfingerings, sense the rhythmic hiccups, and hear the buzzes: just the right amount of self-awareness without tipping into self-recrimination.
3. Be Optimistic: C–. Ouch. This one has been slipping for the past few years. Some errors seem intractable. My social and musical circle has significantly diminished, and justifiably or not, I have a growing sense that time is not on my side. Without the gatherings and retreats, this grade would be worse.
4. Be Persistent. A–. I can be implacable. In practicing, that’s an asset.
5. Be Consistent. A. My iPad has the receipts: 6,239 hours of time on task; averaging 1 hour, 54 minutes per day for precisely ten years. On the rare days I didn’t practice or study — about 15 a year — I was usually either sick, traveling, or tending to the family. There were only a handful when I just needed a break.
6. Go Slow. B–. I need to tap the brakes more often. Small. Simple. Short. Slow. Easier said than done.
7. Make Music. B+. I still attend my monthly acoustic jam; I’ve been to 84 since 2013. For two years, I had the neighborhood band; we played five gigs. And I’ve performed a song at each of the gatherings, so, opportunities taken. There’s still a lot of room to grow in my musicality.
What have I learned? Much, I suppose, and yet not nearly enough. I can get as exasperated today as I did in 2012. Back then, it was over “Aura Lee”. Now, my nemesis is “Josie”. Our horizon always recedes as we approach it. Once in a while, it’s good to turn around to look back at one’s wake.
We could add an eighth Good Habit to Tom’s list, the one that makes all the others possible: Be Grateful. Making music — yes, even with fumbled chords and riffs — is a choice. Not everyone who would like to hold an instrument has the chance. I’m grateful for the modest things I can do, and especially for all my music friends who have kept me on the endless path and brought me joy. Some of you will read this.
In a quiet moment, I recently confessed to my teacher of the past decade, “I always seem to be one fret away from total despair. But you never let me get there.”
He nodded reassuringly. “It’s a journey.”
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His house was hidden from the street. I drove past and into the apartment complex where my GPS seemed to be pointing me. My young guitar tutor of six years moved here in East Asheville last year. When I started fingerstyle lessons with him, he was a college sophomore. Jonathan was already a gifted musician and teacher, and our age difference led our conversations into delightful side trips about the sixties and seventies.
He graduated and remained in Delaware for a few years to sort out his goals. Meanwhile he coaxed me through the basics of classical guitar. We were nearing the finish line of Pachibel’s Canon when the pandemic struck. During those alarming early weeks, he made my grocery runs. He needed income; I needed to avoid crowds.
Eventually he decided to move to Asheville. He loaded his Ford Focus with all his worldly possessions and came to say goodbye. When I met him at the door, he had a gig bag on his shoulder. He handed it to me.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“I want you to have it. It’s my first guitar”
I opened the bag. Inside was a Squier Strat, plastered with stickers, a popped string dangling free. “Jon, you shouldn’t. You should keep this to embarrass your kids one day.”
“There’s no room in the car with my other three.” I could only shake my head, as a plan took shape.
The apartment complex was clearly a detour, so I stopped and called him. He came out to the street and led me to his driveway. “How was your guitar camp?” he asked.
“Amazing, as usual. I’m saturated with guitar. Ready for lunch?”
“Sure, I know a good place.”
“Oh, before I forget, I have something for you.” I reached in the car. “It’s the latest from Joe Robinson.” I gave him the CD.
“Oh, wow, thanks.”
He showed me around the house he shares with a roommate, as I flashed back to my first apartment and setting out on my own. I recalled the excitement of my mid-twenties and the anxieties of what might lie ahead. We drove into town for sandwiches al fresco at a cafe. He had to be at work that afternoon, so there was no time to play guitar. Back at the house we said goodbye.
“Oh, yeah, I almost forgot. There’s one more thing.” I reached in the back seat, took out the gig bag and gave it to him. “I think this is yours. Have a look.” His eyes widened. “I took it to my guy, Chuck. He replaced the broken tuner. The jack was bad, so he did that too. I tried it. Sounds like new. He cleaned off the old glue. But we thought we should leave the stickers. All the better to show your kids.”
His expression told me that he couldn’t quite imagine the scene, but I could. This progression was meant to resolve.
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Carrier Wave
When all is still
I hear your voice
No words no cry
A brilliant chill
If this be death
It disappoints
No fear no pain
A quiet breath
I ask again
Who pleads so clear
For my reply
A cold refrain
No spirit calls
In words of man
These sounds are wrought
Where music falls
What grace this brings
Flows through my hands
While echoes fade
As silence sings
— D. B.
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Let’s take a break, Otis. I’m getting older.
Yeah? What else makes you so special?
Ha, ha, ha. No, I'm just feeling it lately.
Huh. What happened? Did a mirror catch you?
There’s that, too. Like Bonnie said, "Those lines are pretty hard to take when they're staring back at you."
Be glad someone's looking back in the mirror.
And I feel… small.
You're six feet tall. Do I have to listen to this?
Come on. How long have you been my imaginary bass player, Otis?
I don't know. About as long as you've had your imaginary talent.
Oh, that’s good. Spot on. I can’t get my fingers to work. Gives me fits.
Say what?
I mean, I'm not a kid. Time and aptitude aren't on my side anymore.
Anymore? Humph. Let me tell you, sister, they never were.
Hey, when you're young, your life is all in front of you. You have all the time in the world.
Says who? Your friend Leslie? Terrie? Jim? You don't know how much time you've got. Ever. Young or old.
You're not helping.
I’m not? Know what? You should give up.
I know that look in your eyes. Hit me.
All right, sister, since you asked: who on this good green earth are you trying to impress? Give up the ambition, already. Do you want another career out of this? Just stay on the path. Enjoy the flowers.
Ouch. Now I remember why I keep you around.
And just one more thing—
With you, it’s never just one more thing, but go on.
One more thing. Don't ever let me hear you feeling sorry for yourself again, or I'm gone. You've been given a lot, you hear? Friends. Two hands and a good head. Use them.
Okay, okay.
And one more thing—
Slow down, my imaginary secretary can’t keep up.
With your hair down to your shoulders like that, in that striped shirt, you look a little like Pat Metheny.
Sometimes I don't know whether to smack you or kiss you. Do I sound like him?
No way, Renée, not with that Virginia accent.
How ab—
No. No, no, no. Not even when you’re tuning. Don’t blaspheme.
Just asking. Now you're all la-de-da because you skunked me in eight ball.
I can't help it if you can't tell solids from stripes. And who loses to an imaginary opponent, anyway?
So I'm honest. I called a foul on myself. So sue me.
Just sayin’, sister, if you're gonna shoot pool, don't quit your day job.
I'm retired. My day job is listening to you rag on the metronome to stay on the beat.
Look who’s talking.
But I'll hand it to you. You're killing it on "I Saw the Light".
Well, listen to you, Miss Olden Small.
Play for me, get the irony for free.
I don't know why I put up with this. It sure ain't the pay.
Want to run through "Imaginary Lover" again? That always cheers you up.
May as well. I got to refill my drink.
That's my drink, you twit. You're imaginary, remember?
It was just my imagin-a-a-tion, running a-way with meeee...
Otis, you're not much to look at, but you're still a keeper.
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These Days
By DianeB,
My desk doesn't look so different. To one side rests a folder holding the statements for my tax return. Notes and homework for my music theory course are spread across the blotter. On the other side sits my appointment calendar.
But none of this is quite as it should be. The tax returns would normally be done by now. The notes for my course were not taken in the classroom, they were created by our teacher during a Zoom video chat. And the calendar reminds me only to put out the trash. Like almost everyone now, I have nowhere to go.
I sneeze and cough and wipe my nose. This cold is the last thing I brought home with me, probably from bowling, before the pandemic struck. Obviously I have no business going beyond my sidewalk.
Yet I am lucky, so very fortunate when so many are nearing the end of their rope as I write this in mid April. I have food and medicine and a home. I have neighbors to check on me. I have a background in biochemistry to help me make sense of it all.
In January, after I put Christmas away, I read the latest in a string of books I've devoured on practice and self improvement. Anything to keep me from chopping up my guitars in frustration and feeding them to the fireplace. It mentioned the 1955 announcement of the success of the first field trial of the Salk polio vaccine. This piqued my attention because I was born in 1953, and the fear of polio was still palpable during my childhood. What really roused my curiosity was the account of Jonas Salk's speech that day. His failure to acknowledge his coworkers' contributions tainted his reputation for the rest of his life. As a scientist, and as one who remembered polio, I wanted to learn more.
I found the source, the Pulitzer Prize winning Polio: An American Story. I followed up with the HBO movie "Warm Springs", which dramatized Roosevelt's experience. Then I read The Cutter Incident, about the contaminated lots of hastily produced polio vaccine that sickened, paralyzed, and killed hundreds of children and adults later in 1955. In February, I watched "Contagion". I know what a strand of RNA can do. Nothing since has truly surprised me.
I can’t meet my young guitar tutor for our weekly lessons. He needs income, and I need to avoid people, so he made a grocery run for me. I paid him hazardous duty rate and more. For all I know, he might have saved my life.
My music stand holds a stack of songs. I chip away at the exercises and scales. During pauses, I glance up at the photos of the gang from Gatherings past. Most of us aren't spring chickens anymore. My imagination turns feverish. I see myself looking up at a nurse in hazmat gear. They’ve taken my glasses. She – or he – is blurry. I’m terrified of drowning, alone, in my own pleural secretions. The first molecules of propofol reach my brain. The lights go out.
I shiver. I stand up, put the guitar down, and walk to the kitchen and fix a snack. I munch a while, flip through a magazine, and go back to my guitar. I play my heart out.
These days are all we have.
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An hour along, my monthly acoustic jam had lost its vibe. Two guys were playing their guitars so timidly I could scarcely hear them. The other was a talented newcomer, but curiously nervous and hyper. No one else knew his songs, so as he played them, the rest of us gradually dropped out, leaving him and the bass player to finish his tunes.
We meet in a tiny art gallery that occasionally draws a visitor or two while we play. I was heaving a sigh when two young women entered, pushed in their wheelchairs by their attendants. May we listen, they asked. Of course, we said, as we welcomed them. The attendants parked their charges next to me and pulled up seats.
The women in the wheelchairs were severely disabled. I smiled at them as my heart ached. They couldn't smile back, but I sensed that they understood their surroundings. One extended her arm, reaching for the bass player, trying to touch the source of the music. I turned my chair to face them.
It was my turn to pass out a song. As usual, I was overstocked with ballads. I need something upbeat -- okay, this will do, I thought: Bad, Bad Leroy Brown. Let's start a fight, I cheerfully announced, and kicked it off. I nodded to my jam mates and played for the new arrivals.
What they heard or felt, I had no way of knowing, but the song got through. I could tell; don't ask me how. They lingered for another couple of songs, then their escorts said goodbye and wheeled them out.
I fumbled with the music on my stand. For a few brief minutes, these young women, mute and immobile, lit up the room. Or so it seemed, from my chair.
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Now the mountain ahead reveals its full, awesome height. Seven years -- 4,151 hours of hiking, as it were -- have put scarcely any distance between me and base camp. I have yet to even set foot on the Khumbu icefall. No, I'm not climbing with oxygen bottles, crampons, and a ladder on my back. I'm practicing guitar. I need not fear -- like anyone who literally approaches Sagarmatha -- being crushed by a block of ice the size of a ten story office building.
My guitar mountain is motor skills and music theory, not marble and limestone. Ice won't crush me. But expectations, comparisons, or discouragement just might, as the past year has reminded me. And with this year came a new and disturbing awareness of my age -- so gradually, but oh, so insidiously making its presence felt, as if the grade is steepening.
It might take me another seven years to finish the course. Maybe seventeen. Maybe I will never summit my guitar mountain. Yet I'm still climbing, through the disappointments, the mild embarrassments, the setbacks. I rest. I recalibrate.
Perhaps my energy and focus aren't quite what they used to be. But I can remind myself that I'm now equipped with three real supports that I didn't have when I originally set out.
There’s knowing that I've met every challenge presented so far. Maybe it took five times longer than I expected, but I got there. What’s more, small miracles keep appearing. Help has always materialized when I needed it, sometimes in surprising forms. Best of all, I now find myself surrounded by fellow climbers, beginners and experts, who constantly remind me of the joy to be found on our musical path. They are my sherpas. We have each other's backs.
I will never see the Himalaya from Sagarmatha’s summit at 29,000 feet. The mountain gods bestow that privilege upon only a handful of worthy mortals. But I have seen the Himalaya while perched a modest 5,000 feet in the Kathmandu valley: from the magnificent tip of sacred Machapuchare in the west over to the great goddess of the heavens herself. Even from the lowlands, it was breathtaking — a soul-stirring vista worth every step of the trip.
So I climb.
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It was just another errand on a sunny autumn afternoon as I strode up the sidewalk to the Rite Aid. He was perched on a folding stool at the front door, a high-mileage Fender acoustic in hand, strumming a ballad in A minor.
I stopped next to him, nodded, and listened: mid sixties, a stubbly, graying beard, bright brown eyes beneath a knit cap. His battered, open case displayed a collage of picks, old string packs, an elastic capo, some singles and change, and a handwritten sign appealing for donations to our local children’s hospital.
He paused and smiled at me. “Nice,” I said, as I propped my foot on the curb. ”How long have you been playing?”
“Since I was a kid,” he began. “I’m retired now. Audio engineer. But I still do some work.” He took out his phone and showed me a picture of his mixing board. Rows and rows of faders stretched across the panel.
“Whoa,” I said, “that’s one serious system.” As we talked tech, he grew more animated. The conversation swung from speaker horns to Dylan to William and Mary to front of house. “Let me show you where I was a few days ago.” I pulled out my phone and found the group picture from the fingerstyle retreat. His face lit up as if a spotlight hit it.
“Wow! And that’s you! Where was this?”
“Outside Nashville. It’s a little workshop put on by a friend who teaches and does session work there. It’s like a family reunion.”
“That is so-o-o cool.” He handed my phone back. “Hey, what’s your name?”
“I’m Diane.” I took his hand. “And you’re—“
“Mike. It’s so nice to meet you, Diane. This is great.” He held out his guitar. “Would you like to play something?”
A customer stopped and dropped a bill in his case. I shrugged. “Why not?” I said. “You like the Eagles?”
“Sure,” he said, as we traded places. I took his guitar. The strings felt rough from overwork, but it was in tune. I glanced at the headstock and felt a 50-year flashback to my first guitar, another Fender. More customers passed by, coming and going. I serenaded them with “Most of Us Are Sad”. Mike smiled appreciatively. Lost in the song, I forgot where I was until the end. “Thanks, Mike, but l better get my prescription before I forget why I came here. Be right back.”
A few minutes later, I returned. He was still strumming, but his expression had turned sober. I was pondering what to say when a middle aged woman carrying a large tote approached him from the parking lot. “You’ll have to go now,” she said solemnly. Shift manager? I wondered.
“All right,” he said. He stood up and turned to me. “Hey, Diane, you’ve made my day. Really. I’m lost for words.”
“Well, then, Mike, we’re even. Keep on playing.”
“And you, too.” He took the sign and money out of the case, gently rested the Fender inside, and closed it. I unlocked my car and glanced back as he gathered his belongings.
Two kindred spirits, I thought, crossing paths one afternoon, on a random sidewalk.
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At the Library
By DianeB,
“So, what do you think, Di?”
It was more challenge than invitation. Yet again, Dave was gently coaxing me to play an open mic with him. After two years, my resistance was gone. Ten minutes at the library? Why not?
“You win. Let’s do it,” I said.
Dave is a veteran of open mics. We met a few years ago at our monthly acoustic jam. Warm, self-effacing, and possessing an exquisitely light touch on his Martin, he prefers to play standing — even for two hours. I’m as envious of his stamina as his improvisation. He loves the blues, I love my ballads, but our tastes are similar. It was a jam a little while ago, as we all paused between songs, when he softly said those three little words that melt every woman’s heart: “You’re getting better.”
That did it. I gave in. He signed us up. I didn’t have rose petals to sprinkle around the living room floor, so instead I put down an amp and a microphone for rehearsing. We went to work. What songs? Who sings? Any solos? Who introduces whom?
We tried Margo Prices’s “Hurtin’ on the Bottle”. After about the seventh run-through, I stepped back from the mic and shook my head. “Dave, this is a fun song to play, and I can almost sing it, but it’s a drinking song. It’s not me. And we’re going to be at a library with moms and kids. Let’s pass on it.”
“Really? You think so?”
“Yes. Let’s do something else. What if after we’re done, the library sets up the room for an AA meeting?”
He laughed. “You’ve got a point. Any other ideas?”
“Yeah, here’s one I’ve wanted to try. ‘Your Wildest Dreams’ by the Moody Blues. We’d need a synthesizer for that eighties vibe, but two guitars can carry it.”
“All right. Got a chart?”
“Here you go. Now, there’s a hiccup after the second verse right here….”
. . .
I arrived early and lugged my gear to a back entrance. The meeting room held forty chairs, tiny cafe-style tables with candles, two mics, and a baby grand piano. A staffer, Pat, busied herself setting up refreshments, as our sound guy, Tom, unraveled extension cords. I introduced myself and helped Tom test the mics.
I plugged my acoustic into my Fishman Loudbox. Power on, but nothing came out. I fiddled with the knobs, still nothing. I was about to unplug when I remembered the volume control on the pickup in the sound hole. Whooom! Okay, there it is. I should do this more often.
People trickled in. Dave arrived. The room was cold and every string on my guitar had pulled sharp. We retuned and mingled. Pat positioned a floor lamp at the back wall, dimmed the overhead lights, and we were bathed in a cozy glow. The leadoff musician was a no-show, so Pat introduced Dave, and he introduced me.
We were greeted by some thirty faces of all ages, relaxed and polite. I heard myself welcoming everyone like I owned the place. Dave smiled. Ready? he asked. Let’s play, I said, and we counted ourselves into “The Best of My Love”. And all too soon, we came down on the final G of “Your Wildest Dreams”. We reclaimed our seats as Pat introduced the next performer.
I felt my skin tingling. It’s becoming familiar. The velvet-voiced singer at the microphone added another layer of goosebumps to those from the endorphins and the air conditioning. Dave gave me his what-do-you-think-Di look. I just grinned and nodded.
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Who is next, Thalia?
After Andrew, Barbara, Greg, Gregg with two gammas, Darin, Dave, and — Diane is next.
Is she asleep?
She should be, it’s midnight below. Oh, no, you see? She’s with her guitar. Let us descend, dear Euterpe. This way. Ohhh, how delightful, this place is all for music. Did you see the inscriptions on the door? I think she knows of us.
Gaze upon her face, Thalia. These mortals can be so expressive. What is this music she makes?
It is called “All Over the World”. It pleases her, as you can see.
And that pleases me, as well. How long have you watched over her?
Six of their mortal years. To them, many heartbeats.
Is she faithful?
Yes, my sister, and she respects her tutors.
Has she weaknesses?
She is a mortal. She has many failings, and is prone to sorrow. As she sleeps, I sing to her of compassion. I know not if she hears.
She will hear. She will grow in this. Sorrow, you say. Have you sent anyone?
Yes, the ones on our list. They take joy in one another. Behold the guitar gifted to her.
You have done well, sweet Thalia. This is as it should be. Then we are done here. Before we go, we shall bless this place. And who is next?
Alpha, beta, gamma, delta — Doug, Dwayne. But shall we first attend to Paul? Arise, daughters of Zeus, to our — pbllllt! — to our duty.
You are amused?
Forgive me, sister. But did you see her stockings?
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Rrrrr-i-i-i-i-pppp!
I peeled the label off my plastic box of lead sheets that read “Band”. Seven months and no word from our leader. Time to admit it: I wasn’t in a band anymore. After four years of almost weekly practices and rehearsals, and five gigs, my neighborhood band had dispersed. Our neighborhood social committee decided that although they enjoyed the band, the music was distracting from — to put it bluntly — the gossiping. Four of the guys returned to their continuing education rock group, of which I was not a member. Sigh. It was good while it lasted.
Rrrrr-i-i-i-i-pppp!
Off came the label from the box that read “Jam”. After six years and sixty meetings with my local acoustic jam, I decided, it too had run its course. The group leader had been exhibiting some troubling signs the past couple of years. Lately he could not, or would not, play in time. He just wasn’t fully present.
He complained about a person who never brought music to share, and instead played to show off — no one could play along. But when this guy showed up, the leader said nothing. A few weeks ago I sat silently twirling my pick between my fingers as this diva performed his Elvis set for me and a first timer yet again, and I heard myself thinking, “That’s enough.”
One box remained, labeled “Lessons”. That would stay. I twisted up the other labels and tossed them in the trash. I expected a wave of letdown. And I felt something, all right — but it was energy — a fresh resolve. I felt good. I surveyed my practice room: the guitars, the books, the music, the framed photos. So familiar, so friendly, and still so right. Now what?
“Good for you, kid,” they answered. “You’ve learned how to let go. Now you’re the captain of your own ship. So go back to work, and keep your eyes and ears open. The universe isn’t finished with you yet.”
The first sign appeared at the bowling alley. As always, I started the night at the grill for my iced tea and cookies. I handed the cashier my money. This time she gave me a conspiratorial smile and shook her head. “Keep it,” she said, “you’re good.” Really? I asked. She waved me off.
The next signal arrived in the mailbox. The National Archives had located my late father’s record of service in the Civilian Conservation Corps. It identified his camp, a detail no one in the family could recall. From that, I discovered that a book had been written about his camp. I ordered a copy. In the center spread was a group photo of his company, May, 1934, just before his discharge. My finger ran across the faces. And there, a month shy of his 21st birthday, in a surplus army uniform shirt and tie — is it? It must be. I sprang to the living room for the picture of him and mom in 1938, just after they were married, to compare. Yes, that’s my dad. No one in the family knew this picture existed.
Soon after that, an e-mail from Neil: Would I consider serving as a moderator for the discussion board?
Days later, I attended a concert by fingerstyle virtuoso Shaun Hopper. The usher led me to a center seat in the second row. I introduced myself to the couple next to me. Shaun and his sax player Chris took off. It was bliss. A few times I led the small, reticent audience into applause for a solo, or to coax them into clapping along to Stevie Wonder’s “Superstition”. They’re knocking themselves out up there for you, girl, I thought. Let them know you’re pulling for them.
As intermission ended, the husband sitting next to me returned from the lobby and handed me a copy of Shaun’s CD. “Would you like this? For a donation, they gave me two.”
“Seriously? It’s still on my Amazon Wish List,” I said, incredulous. “Thank you.” After the show, Shaun autographed it. “Thanks for coming back to Wilmington, Shaun,” I said as I shook his hand. “Say, do you know Christie Lenée?”
“Sure do,” he said, smiling, “and what a great singer!”
I walked out to my car in the cool spring night and started home down the long avenue that is Wilmington’s King Street.
All the lights were green.
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“Miss? Hello, miss? Are you all right? Can you hear me?”
I tapped on the driver’s side window. She was slumped over the wheel, parked in a space with the engine running outside our apartments. I recognized her as a downstairs neighbor, but we had never spoken. Rain pelted me and I felt a twinge of fear.
As I reached for the door handle, she stirred, woozy. She had fallen asleep. That was how Terrie and I met, years ago. I didn’t know it at the time, but she was ill and slowly getting worse. As the weeks and months passed, we would see each other occasionally, smile and make small talk.
She was only a little younger than I, a wisp of a woman, and her frailty concerned me. During the cold months, she would seem to disappear, only to emerge in warmer weather to sunbathe on a lounge chair. Eventually I learned that she was too weak to hold a job, and lived alone with only an indifferent sister somewhere in town for family.
She invited me over to watch TV in her ground floor apartment. It seemed too much to ask her to hike up to the third floor where I lived. We laughed over schlocky sitcoms and sighed at romantic old movies. Once I took my guitar with me to strum a little for her. The situation came into focus: doctors, hospitals, bills, cancer. Terrie was a trooper, but it was clear that the prognosis was grim.
One night I found myself alone at an Applebee’s preparing to order a nice dinner. I thought of Terrie and the bleak cavern of Ensure that was her refrigerator. I asked the waiter to duplicate my order for a steak dinner, dessert and all, and box it to go.
Terrie answered my knock on her door in her pajamas. “For you,” I said, extending the bags. “For just one night, eat what you want.” She was overjoyed. I left her in disbelief and tears.
A few months later, I moved out of the apartments. I had scarcely unpacked the boxes in my new home when the phone rang. It was Terrie’s sister. “She left a note asking me to call you,” she said, and hung up, leaving me in disbelief and tears.
The memories linger. Now I hold in my hands a new Cordoba. Her name will be Terrie, for a friend who suffered so alone for so long. Peace be with you, sweetheart. Your namesake looks and sounds beautiful, and makes me smile, like you.
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Third and final stop on Uncommon Ground's 2018 "We Play for Food" tour: a neighborhood pig roast yesterday in an upscale corner of Landenberg, PA. Warm sunshine bathed the lakeside recreation area where we were to play for our saxophonist's neighbors.
Our band, unfortunately, felt like an afterthought. We were scheduled for midafternoon, but as we began, only a handful of guests had arrived. We played our first set outdoors to a white sea of empty tables and chairs broken only by the few early arrivals in the shade at the rear. To my right volunteers prepared the food service. Behind us rose two tall moonbounce pits for the kids.
Rick, our keyboardist, called out, "Keep going. We'll skip the break. 'Tulsa Time'." We had to be finished by 5:00, so, onward. As people drifted in toward the end of the last set, I could at last make eye contact with someone. We soldiered on while children in face paint skittered back and forth in front of us. We gave them all six minutes of 'Year of the Cat', with the solos. Finally, before the last song, I introduced the band members and said thanks for having us.
Silence. Not a clap. Anywhere. Not even for Pete, our sax player, one of their own. Just gabbing. I looked around at my band mates. "Okay, 'Heat Wave', then let's eat."
We poured in on for three more minutes, then killed the amps. 21 songs. My legs were weak, my hands were cramping, and I was soaked in sweat. The DJ started up. As I coiled up cables a young woman approached me. "I was so happy to see a woman musician! That's cool. It's a good thing for the girls to see! They will think they can do it, too!"
I smiled and thanked her, thinking, "She just called you a musician, kid. Perk up."
We lined up for the barbecue and took our plates to a table in the back. Now the place was crawling: at least 200 grown ups and kids. A retired couple joined us. The guys' conversation turned to garage doors. I was silently replaying my mistakes when a man appeared at my side and announced, "You guys are terrific! That was great!" Then the woman across from me leaned forward and added, "And you have a great singing voice."
"Thank you," I said, my eyes wide with surprise.
It's an old story with musicians, I've heard: you never know who's listening. Or when.
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Halfway through my cheeseburger, I realized, that’s enough: you’re about to go on. My fellow neighborhood Memorial Day picnickers were starting on their desserts and coffee in the community clubhouse as Rick leaned in my ear. “Take your time,” he said, “we’ll be downstairs checking.” I nodded. “Be there in a minute,” I said.
I had a couple of bites of fruit salad and stopped by the ladies’ room to brush my teeth, check my hair, and fire up a panic attack. I was alone. I stared at myself in the mirror and heard someone — was that my voice?
All right, sweetie, it’s show time, so listen up. You’re still thinking you’re not good enough. Stop it. You’ve outgrown that. You’ve done the work. Your band is ready. No, you’re not a 25-year old Linda Ronstadt. You’re not Glenn Frey. But nobody is. And nobody expects you to be. Just be you. Now go play your music.
The face in the mirror was calm. She reassured me. I brushed my hair, set my headband, and marched downstairs.
People started taking their seats in front of the band. Before dinner we ran a full sound check, so there was little left to do. I switched on the lamp on my music stand and laid the set list on the floor at the pedalboard. I laughed at myself, thinking, “I’m not going to look at that, but it’s what they do on Austin City Limits. So there.” I pulled my Strat around me, checked the tuner, high-fived my band mates, and perched on my stool.
I watched as my neighbors, thirty or so, took in the sight before them: five amps, a Bose tower PA, an eight member band and a tangle of cables where they normally find yoga mats. I saw some familiar faces and smiled back. Where were the nerves? This is when you always get the shakes, isn’t it? I turned around: Ron on lead guitar, Henry on lead vocals, Joe on alto horn, Chet on drums, Ray on Fender bass, Pete on tenor sax, and Rick on keyboards. My guys. Pros. We’ve got each other’s back. My leg refused to twitch.
We led off with a tribute to the services, a medley of their marches and anthems. Then a few patriotic tunes, and solemnly, “Taps”, from Joe’s horn. A respectful pause.
I switched to my acoustic amid an awkward silence. I pulled up my microphone. “Hey, everyone,” I announced, “what do you say we rock for a while?” “Yeah!” they shouted. “Well, then,” I said, turning to Chet, “Let’s go!” Click - click - click - click —
We kicked in. Ron nailed the lick. I leaned into the mic. Was that my voice?
Well, I’m a-runnin’ down the road, tryin’ to loosen my load...
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Carlos and Me
By DianeB,
For April first, a favorite thread, edited for flow, from the old forum in early 2017:
I was in love with my new PRS. I still am but there is something wrong with it. I have been primarily working pentatonic scales and Steve's Speed and Agility course since I got it. I decided to try to play Europa by Santana and it can't play it!!!! Europa by Santana. Come on. Santana is known for PRS guitars. Any self-respecting PRS guitar should be able to play Europa! What should I do?
-- Matonanjin
Maybe if you could get Santana to play the guitar than it would remember how to play.
-- Uncle Hammy
Sounds just like the problems I am having with my Strat. It won't play a darn thing that is in my brain.
-- Grog
I have a better idea, just send me the PRS, I have 14 guitars but don't have a PRS, it would be most appreciated!
Thanks in advance,
-- Dan Brown
Thanks guys -- you saved me. I was just about to buy a Clapton Custom Shop Strat. Now I am having second thoughts.
-- Dave White
Ron, you could send this guy a note. You’ll probably have to get past some suits, or whatever they’re called in La La Land these days. Good luck.
Mr. C. Santana
c/o Creative Artists Agency
2000 Avenue of the Stars
Los Angeles, CA 90067
-- Diane
Thanks, Diane. I will contact Mr. Santana. I'm sure he'll get right back to me.
-- Matonanjin
Mr. Santana will pass the guitar to his tech who will declare it ready to play. I on the other hand will spend a great deal of time correcting its inability to play in your hands.
-- PatIAm
Pat, I know that. The guitar is on the way to you and I sent you a tracking # by PM. I only said to Diane that I contacted Mr. Santana to make her feel like I appreciated her comment. But Sssshhh! Don't tell her. I don't want her to know.
-- Matonanjin
OK. I understand your wanting to make Diane feel appreciated. She is indeed a wonderful person. We should just continue to talk behind her back in private.
-- Pat
Dear Carlos,
Sorry about the mixup with Ron's PRS. The problem was just the usual, operator error.
Good to see you on Tavis a while back. Anyway, have a safe trip down under this spring. Give my regards to Cindy. See you in Bethlehem in August.
Best,
Di
cc: Ron, and most everyone on the internet
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Lately, I’m uncharacteristically messy. I have the organization gene in every cell. Grocery store surveillance cameras everywhere capture me straightening up produce bins.
Next to the TV and Bose rests a random pile of CDs: Chicago II, Lake Street Dive, Gregory Porter, Blood, Sweat & Tears, Pink Floyd, a Ken Burns “Jazz” DVD.
On my desk I see a scribbled chord block from last night: how is this a C11? Where’s the F? Oh, there it is. At my elbow, Berklee Music Theory Book 1 and my flash cards for keys. Behind me, two different scores and version, oh, 15.6 of a chart for “You’ve Made Me So Very Happy” for the neighborhood band.
In my practice room, the music stand holds tomorrow’s fingerstyle homework for my tutor. On the floor is spilled the aftermath of today’s acoustic jam: charts, paper clips, folded up foot rest and guitar stand. The black cord for recharging my portable lamp traces a crazy path across the beige carpet to the receptacle. The washcloth for wiping the humidifier tank sits crumpled at my heel. I reach in my pocket for a tissue and two picks fall out. And the horn parts to “God Bless' the Child” keep ringing in my head.
God bless this mess.
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