Chicago Bluegrass?

Posted on November 13, 2010 by favoritephilosopher

It’s been a few weeks since I returned from Illinois and am remiss in not writing about a fabulous experience I had while I was there.  It was actually a two-fold, double-whammy, one-two-punch fabulous experience.

It really started when I entered the DPT program last year.  A fellow classmate and I really hit it off online.  Judy and I shared lots of laughs in emails that were separate from the discussion boards.  Some of our classmates were – ahem – a little uptight.  I miss that interaction with Judy now that I’ve withdrawn to explore other pastures and promised her that if she sends me some copies of the – ahem – uptight discussion comments made by my former classmates I will make her laugh like I always did when I was still in the program.

Even though I left the program Judy and I wanted to meet each other so this time we made a point of it.  She and her husband Marc invited me to their home in Evanston and I was treated to a delightful meal of grilled salmon and pea pods with bok choy and rice and apple pie from Indiana.  Simple but elegant.  We are both a little surprised by what we have experienced as a “known you all my life” feeling.  When I arrived at the door we hugged like long lost sisters and the conversation “picked up” as if from another lifetime.  It could have something to do with our mutual love of boxers (dogs, not fighters)  and Enzo was typical that evening as he walked around with a toy in his mouth hoping someone would notice that he wanted, in true boxer fashion, to play play play play play.

We parted that night but not without an invitation to join them again the next evening at the Old Town School of Folk Music for a reunion concert of The Special Consensus, a bluegrass band.  Special doesn’t begin to describe it.  This was a 35th reunion and there is only one member of the band – Greg Cahill, the banjo player – who has been the common denominator for the past 35 years.  Judy’s husband, Marc, was in the first incarnation of the band and still plays stand up bass in bluegrass bands – quite frankly I have to nail him down to exactly how many bands he has played in.  An internet search has him playing here and there and everywhere. 

Off we went Saturday night and the lobby was electric in a bluegrassy kind of way.  It was obvious old friends were greeting each other and I had been invited to an intimate gathering of people who had a long history.  The music started at 8 p.m. and except for a short intermission, we didn’t leave the facility until 12:30 a.m. on Sunday.   Thirty five years of people who had played together came up on stage one after another.  There were only a few people missing from this reunion and people had travelled from far away to attend. Greg Cahill (no spring chicken at this point, but still just as cute as can be) was up on stage the whole time, accepting roast-like comments from the pickers who had wandered through his life and this band.  The stories of the tours were hilarious and heart warming.  We’re not talking limousines here, we’re talking apparently beat up wagons and busses packed to the gills with stuff and instruments.  I wish I could have heard some of the stories that were not fit for public consumption.  The only lady in the group was responsible for getting air conditioning in the bus she rode on tour.  As one audience member piped up: “It takes a woman…!”

The music was surreal.  The chemistry between each incarnation of pickers as they played – mandolin, guitar, banjo, bass – was just great fun to watch.  Slowly it became apparent as the musicians came and went,  that each incarnation was a little younger, until the last three, when it appeared we were watching middle schoolers make the music.  It was one of those experiences that had me hopeful for the future – for young people to be carrying on this very American music with such talent and passion cancels out some of the more newsworthy but less palatable youth we might see on the front page of the newspaper.  It’s like seeing high schoolers put on a production of “Guys and Dolls” – it’s good stuff.  It shouldn’t be forgotten.

The final number of the evening brought everyone on stage, everyone taking a turn at a quick solo, probably thirty people on stage all workin’ the same song, overwhelming joy bursting through the walls of the Old Town School.   There is an elation about bluegrass, a simple acknowledgement of human emotion – especially disappointment that is rarely allowed to tumble down into depression, but mostly end with hope for the future, a future with a new love, a future with no regrets, a future of more good times ahead, more music, more life to live.  That type of music, that way of seeing the world, should live on as we strive to carry on our humanity in a technological world.

Long ago I let bluegrass slip out of my life.   When I was in Pittsburgh ten years ago I let it in for a little while, but it seemed an incongruous soundtrack for California livin’ and it slipped away yet again.   I’m letting it back in for good, now.   Pittsburgh’s WYEP is on my computer home tabs so I can go to Appalachia whenever I please.  There are festivals out here, one in particular based in a campground up north a bit, and from what I hear it is difficult to get any sleep – a picker has to pick when a picker has to pick, you know. I think I’m ready for that.  When I left the concert, I left only wanting more, and Judy was astonished that I listened to the CD I purchased on my way home that night (well, it was after 1 a.m.and I had 45 minutes ahead of me – it seemed like a good way to stay awake.) 

Maybe next time in Chicago a re-visit to the blues clubs where Al and I courted before we were married would be nice, but this time it was all about the Chicago bluegrass and The Special Consensus is: bluegrass rocks!

Posted in Illlinois | Leave a comment

A New Experience for Mary

Posted on November 13, 2010 by favoritephilosopher

Andy’s cat lives here.  Twister is a typical cat – aloof, bitchy, adorable at times.  She is also a mouser.  I have never had a cat here in the boonies, so this is a new experience for me.  She has a place in the front garden that I call her “dining room.”  So far no headless mice or birdless feathers have been deposited at my front door, as I hear cats are wont to do.  That will cause a problem for me if she does that.

We try to keep her indoors at night  because we fear she will get snatched by a raccoon – owl – mountain lion – whatever.  It’s not safe out there, as Ed’s skunk will even attest (she’s too fast for Ed, anyway he just wants to play and doesn’t understand why she hisses and shows her talons…)

The other night I was coming in from choral rehearsal; it was raining the California winter rain – not hard rain, not mist, something vaguely in between.  I noticed her green eyes shining at me from her dining room, but didn’t see the mouse.  I went to pick her up and she picked up the mouse and walked a few feet trying to escape me so she could enjoy her dinner in peace.  However, I wanted her inside so I picked her up.

I could live to be a hundred and never have dreamed that on a rainy night in California I would be picking up a cat who would tenaciously hold a dead mouse in its mouth while I tried to bring it inside to a warm and dry home.  She finally dropped it but she was NOT happy with me – the hissing and reowring and flailing talons made me realize I had broken some kind of code of nature – don’t deny the predator its dead prey. 

She got over it, but for at least an hour she glared at me as only cats can: brutally icy.  That memory is only eclipsed by the vision of me holding the cat away from my body as she fought me with the dead mouse in her face.  I don’t know what I was thinking.  Oh that’s right, I was thinking “I’ll take her inside so she’ll stay warm and dry and not become prey herself.”  Silly me.

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Music Magic

Posted on November 9, 2010 by favoritephilosopher

Twice within the past month I have been showered with magic musical dust.  The first time was when I was in Illinois, and that will be the subject of my next blog.  This morning I write about last night’s experience while it is fresh in my mind.

At the end of last week, maybe Wednesday or Thursday, I heard a spot on the radio advising me to buy a ticket to see Marc Cohn at the San Francisco Palace of Fine Arts.  Marc Cohn is most famous for his hit tune “Walking in Memphis” and he won a Grammy Award that year, 1992, for best artist of the year.  Every song on his self titled first recording was a winner.  That CD was stolen out of my car and after last night I’m headed to iTunes to replace it.  The Palace of Fine Arts is a beautiful facility that was built for the 1915 Pan-Pacific Exposition and like the Columbian Exposition in Chicago it was built of wood and plaster.  It was later reconstructed with more durable materials and now it houses an intimate theater as well as The Exploratorium, a hands on science museum which was the dream of Dr. Frank Oppenheimer and which opened in 1969.  The theater is small and there is not a bad seat in the house.  When I heard that spot on the radio and realized a favorite artist would be at my favorite venue, I got out my iPhone and bought two tickets, not worried about who would want to go to the city on a Monday night.

Terri went with me.  Terri has just begun cancer treatment and although she is tired right now, I told her I’d drive and we’d listen to the balladeer and I would deposit her back in Lafayette, no strings attached.  We were both excited to be going but had no idea how magical it would be.  Marc Cohn’s lovely concert was among the best I’ve ever seen – ever.  It was as if we were sitting in his living room.  He didn’t just “address” the crowd – he conversed with us.  By the end of the evening you felt not only as if he was someone you could have over for dinner, but that you could also ask him to please lullaby your babies to sleep – and he would oblige.  His smoky voice and soulful lyrics took us to another place – the whole evening had a dreamlike quality.  When he sang “Healing Hands” as I sat next to my dear friend, I felt like I was listening to a medicine man who was raining healing music over Terri. 

He did several encores. During his introduction of a Dylan cover he told a story of meeting Bob Dylan, when Marc was on tour opening for Bonnie Raitt.  Apparently they did some gigs together and one evening Bonnie took Marc to Bob’s dressing room for an introduction.  At this point someone in the audience tossed out that it was Bonnie’s birthday to which Marc replied “Oh yeah? I’ll have to give her a call.”  The story went on how in the dressing room Dylan had a book of his complete lyrics sitting on the table, and when Marc asked him about it, he replied that he had written so many songs and they were so wordy that sometimes he needed to refer to it to jog his memory.  Later that evening Bonnie handed Marc the book, inscribed by Dylan.  He volunteered that if there were a fire in his home, he would grab his wife and children – and that book.  And then he said this:

“So tonight I thought I’d do a Dylan song for you, and it would only be appropriate to have the birthday girl come out and sing it with me…” at which point the crowd went wild as Bonnie Raitt walked onto the stage.  I truly was nearly in tears.  It was one of those San Francisco music moments you read about in the paper the next day – and I was there to witness it.  When their duet was over, a cake with a lit candle was brought out on stage, handed to Bonnie, and the entire crowd at the Palace of Fine Arts, me included, sang Happy Birthday to Bonnie Raitt.

That’s the kind of guy Marc Cohn is.  After the show we streamed out into the lobby, Marc would be signing CDs so people were milling around, but I noticed something I never had seen after a concert.  The place was practically silent.  If people were talking, it was in muted tones, almost whispered, as if in church.   

It was music magic.

Posted in General Musings | 4 Comments

Falling Back

Posted on November 6, 2010 by favoritephilosopher

As I was riding in the shuttle from Milwaukee airport to Mundelein last month, I smelled smoke.  It didn’t occur to me until halfway home that what I was smelling was burning leaves.  It is illegal now to burn leaves now, in many places, but apparently not everywhere.  Having always been a bit sad about the passing of the burning-leaves-in-autumn tradition that I grew up with, I suddenly realized what a detrimental practice it really was/is.  The familiar smell of smoke ended my fantasy once and for all.  The smell of smoke in my adult life,  in California,  means only one thing – forest fires or grass fires – and it is difficult to breathe on those days when it is nearby or the wind is blowing in the right direction from the foothills.  Also while I was home, Mom and I looked at some slides and there were a few slides of the annual homecoming bonfire at Carmel High School.  I was sad to see that tradition end as well, but understand and as a good citizen of the earth I know it had to go.

Like many things in my childhood that my sons missed, I had lamented that they would never know the fun of raking leaves and piling them into the smoldering fire, watching as they caused the flames to rise, the smell of burning leaves a wonderful earthy farewell to summer.  

Today, back in California, I was feverishly raking leaves before the first rain arrives tomorrow and trying to fit them all into the green recycling bin, wishing I had something with which to compact them.  It was then I remembered a fall tradition in our family and which my sons will always remember and be able to carry on with their own children.  That tradition is the “stomping down the leaves” tradition.  In order to fit as many leaves as possible into the recycling bin,  the boys would take turns being lifted up and deposited into the bin by Al, feet first, in order to squish the leaves down, making room for more.  I can still see the smiles on their faces as they did this important task – what could be more fun that “legally” being in a garbage can, up to your waist in leaves?  It makes me smile to think that they will do the same with their little ones some day, taking over the role of “Dad” and carrying on a new tradition, for a new world. 

I wish I could say that will be the last time this year I’ll be out cleaning up leaves, but there are way too many stubborn oak leaves hanging on.  Hopefully the storm coming in will send them to their inevitable demise, onto the ground and into the recyle bin.  The rest of the fall garden chores are finished though. The hammock is put away, the garden swing is covered with plastic, the bulbs and sweet pea seeds are planted. 

Bring on the winter rains and a stack of unread books!

Posted in Raking the Playroom | Leave a comment

Alice in Wonderland

Posted on November 3, 2010 by favoritephilosopher

I use the word “I” about a hundred and fifty times in this essay, and I apologize for that right now . 

About 20 years ago I bought a dollhouse kit and spent two years making it.  I worked on it at a dollhouse store that included a workspace where I rented a table.  There were others there as well and it was a great place for me to get away from it all and get some alone time while I was raising the boys.  My table looked out over the water in Benicia, California, and I was soothed by the many moods of the water and setting sun, driving rain on the water, or the advancing fog.  I remember at the time finding out that there was a whole world that I didn’t know existed – the world of miniatures.  I felt like Alice down the rabbit hole. I could make my own miniature fruit, furniture, floors, toilet paper rolls, you name it.  I could buy (well, no I couldn’t) miniature crystal chandeliers worth $1000.00.  If it exists in the world it can be made or someone else has made it.  I could recreate the desk I’m typing at right now, down to the smallest detail.   The dollhouse is gone now but I plan to make roomboxes to hold the furniture I collected over the years.   It’s been calling to me and compete with all the other stuff that calls me – ultimately I’m like a little girl who just wants to play all day.

I mention it because I am finding out the same thing about the world of writing.  This little blog is solely for the purpose of disciplining myself to write about something, anything, every day.  Obviously I took a little time off when I was in Illinois, and it is difficult to get back into it, which proves that I need to do it.  Mostly I noticed a dearth of subject matter rolling around my noggin since returning and I am afraid that I am going to cover ground I’ve already covered.  I want to get all this stuff printed out in case some cyber disaster causes everything I’ve written to be deleted and hopefully I will remember what I’ve written so you don’t have to read it a second time.  Oh man, I hate to even think of that, really, and I will get to the printing soon. 

I have subscribed to a magazine entitled Poets and Writers and boy oh boy, what a fascinating magazine it is – a whole new world I didn’t know existed.  I still have no goals, and want to keep it that way – I just want to play.  To get too serious just seems like it would take all the fun and joy out of it.  I have my day job, I’m going to try to write and administrate more in that setting and in the professional association as a volunteer, and I want to learn more about the craft of writing.  I want to take a course here, a course there, and just slowly learn more and more and maybe delight other humans along the way with my writing.  That will be enough. 

The magazine I speak of is pretty cool, though.  In the back there are classifieds – did you know there is a magazine that is put out by a medical center back East that solicits articles by people about health care?  Tempting.  In the front there are articles about writing and writers that are so much fun to read as I discover my feelings about writing, both good and bad, are hopelessly universal and normal.  What I like most of all, is that unlike walking into a bookstore and thinking “My God, there are so many books, who needs one more?  Why would anyone want to write?” I end up thinking “What the hell, might as well write, everyone else seems to be having fun doing it.” 

My friend Terri got me started watching Elizabeth Gilbert (Eat, Pray, Love)  on TED and although  I haven’t finished watching it, she started out by saying something to the effect that there is a common idea that successful artists have to be crazy, depressed, eccentric or one bad night away from cutting off an ear and sending it to a lover. Then she asked, in earnest,  if the audience  was really ok with that!  I suspect the rest of the speech puts that notion to rest, and the more I get into the world of writing the more I see that although certainly some great writers are whackos or socially aberrant, it may not be a requirement for the run of the mill writer to be a tortured soul.  This is good news indeed!  Perhaps my smile, which I’ve heard over the years is one of my finest features, can inform my writing in ways that will make my times of depression cower in fear.  Now that would be something to write about!

Posted in Middle Aged and Onward | Leave a comment

Why Bother Voting?

Posted on November 2, 2010 by favoritephilosopher

We have all asked that question. Today is election day once again, and for the last two weeks we have watched and listened to campaign ads that lie, lie, lie on both sides of the aisle. I heard a blurb today on the radio that some fact check organization found that most ads have a “kernel” of truth but are, by and large, lies or factoids taken out of context or contorted until they can only be said to allude to some possible truth.

Some people just don’t bother to vote, are disgusted with it all, and I don’t blame them. I struggle with that almost every election, as if by voting I am conspiratorial with the scumbags who are supposedly running this country in our best interests. My friends and family know I carry this ambivalence with me most of the time. Amazed that folks on the right or the left can be so sure that their side is 100% good and true and the other side is 100% evil and false, I refuse to get involved in political discussions and voting is an extension of my lack of desire to participate in such a polarized discussion. Voting for one or the other politician is always a decision I make once I’m in the privacy of the voting booth, and it is often based on nothing more than the mood I’m in. That sounds so awful, but it is no worse than those who vote based on the emotional reaction they have to falsehoods spewed out of the TV. It is a little different with the propositions in California – they affect us directly and it is easier for me to state where I stand on the issues after weighing the pros and cons of the actual propositions. There’s at least half a chance for making the right choice, although the ramifications are never really known until after they become law.

Here are just a few of the reason why I vote, though: Idi Amin, Adolf Hitler, Sadaam Hussein, Pol Pot, Kim Jung Il, Fidel Castro. And those are just at the top of my head. Didn’t like W? Guess what – he’s GONE. Don’t think Obama’s doing a great job? Guess what – you can resurrect Hillary or make your case for your favorite Republican. Here in California is it easy to be cynical – Gray Davis, replaced by Ah-nold, who will be replaced by Meg or Jerry? You gotta be kidding me! But one of the these days, because we keep voting, because we keep protesting, because we keep listening, because we keep arguing with each other, but finally because we have faith in the system, we may vote for a woman or man who can change the state or the country or the world with their leadership. Most of us and our leaders are schmucks, but once in a great while, greatness ascends. If you’re one of the lucky ones who saw it coming, and voted for that person, you can hold your head high knowing YOU made a difference. If you didn’t, you can still hold your head high knowing you were part of the process, by your previous involvement and committment to our system of casting ballots, in guiding us to the point where such a person could be elected.

Today, for some, it is too late – they are so disgusted by the ugliness we experience during this pre-election wasteland they are letting it pass them by, and I understand this. I used to be the same way. Now I cannot let these election days pass by without going out there and doing the best I can. Every election period I tell myself I am going to turn off the TV and head to the voting records and speeches and study the actions of the candidates in detail and at the primary sources, instead of letting their paid lackeys tell me about them. Then suddenly it is election day and I am left to my own devices. I figure it all balances out the way it should, and that in the end the elections may only be a referendum on what the majority is thinking about where we want to go. That is ever changing, ever evolving, as our little country moves forward into time, its ideal of liberty and justice for all dragging its sorry ass to the voting booth one election at a time.

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Spittin’ Image

Posted on November 1, 2010 by favoritephilosopher

When I was in Illinois, baseball season was over. I couldn’t find information on the playoffs for the first week I was there and when I finally found out the SF Giants were headed to the World Series, I couldn’t find out who they would be playing. Someone in Chicago gently explained to me that as far as Chicago is concerned, “baseball season is over.” Oh. Got it.

I arrived home to find Giants fever in full swing (I couldn’t resist that pun, sorry. I know that wouldn’t cut it in the real world of writing…). Last night Al and I cuddled up on the couch with Ed the Dog (according to Al, he’s “not allowed” on the couch – Ed, not Al – which both Ed and I ignore. You never had a doggie cuddle up so close to his mom after an absence. If only he could rub me behind my ears for two hours like I did for him!) But I digress.

When did it become popular for ALL baseball players to spit at the rate of 5-6 spits per minute? I don’t remember this from previous baseball watching that I’ve done in years past. Every time the camera panned in on a player, he spit; sometimes two players at once having some kind of actual spitting contest – you spit, then I spit, then you spit again and we’ll see who can be the first to gross out Mary watching at home. It got to the point where I had to mention it to Al. Is this a new fad? He said the Red Sox used to do it alot and it would really irritate his Mother. I can just hear Ag railing in disgust, “…always with that spittin’.” Last night it was just over the top noticeable and gross, gross, gross. We didn’t even have the HD going, thank God, and I wondered what it would be like when the 3D TV that seems to be looming in our future comes to our living rooms. Globs of spit flying out at us and landing at our feet? I don’t think I can stand it. I also wonder what are they chewing? Please tell me it’s big wads of gum and not throat disintegrating chew tobacco.

This winning Giants team (hopefully tonight will be the night to open champagne!) is so young – 20+ years old – it is a joy to watch them play – the sureness of youth in their eyes, no arrogance or jadedness, just high fives and confidence that is often replaced by cynicism and bravado as the years pile onto the shoulders of professional sports players. This is a team of nobodies who came together to surprise the world. I hope they win on so many levels.

Go Giants!

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Seedlings turn overnight…

Posted on October 22, 2010 by favoritephilosopher

Sunrise. Sunset. Those words begin the chorus of the song with the same title from Fiddler on the Roof. During the seventies that song was sung at every wedding, guaranteed to bring grown men to their knees and reaching for their handkerchiefs.

“Seedlings turn overnight to sunflowers.” Today I had breakfast with a sunflower. Missy is the daughter of the first people I met in California. Thais and I were young newlyweds, working at SF General together. Before long we were having babies, buying houses, having more babies.

Missy was their first child, and she led the way – teaching us how to be parents and teaching the kids how to be kids. Missy was not a shy toddler – we’d hear her whispering to Joe and we’d hear him giggling and before we knew it they were involved in some kind of toddler mischief. Missy may have been the older and wiser gal, but Joe was happy to follow her lead! We had many good times travelling and camping together before the busy life of school aged children limited our time together.

Fast forward to 2010. Missy became a nurse, fell in love with a young man from Rockford, Illinois, and now this California born and bred woman is going to live here in Illinois. They will be married next summer (I am honored to be able to sing at the wedding.) I am, of course, delighted by the idea of her living here and have decreed what I think about everyone’s warnings to her about the winter: “Pshaw!”

It just seemed surreal today to meet in Crystal Lake, Illinois, a quaint little Illinois lake town in the middle of farm country, halfway between Rockford and my hometown. Who could have predicted that outcome so many years ago when I first held that little baby girl? She has all kinds of ideas for her mother and me: that we rent a cottage for three months a year after she has children. At the very least that we coordinate our travels together – we can take the Chicago area by storm. I cannot wait to get home to California to have lunch with Thais and start planning!

I also want to tell her this: her seedling grew up into a most beautiful sunflower – lovely to look at, sensitive, caring, funny and best of all – she’s an Illinois girl now!

Posted in Middle Aged and Onward | Leave a comment

Appalachian San Francisco

Posted on October 21, 2010 by favoritephilosopher

The first time I saw Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, circa 1976, I was driving to or driving from New York. We stopped in to see Dino, a schoolmate from Marquette. I was immediately enamored with this charming little city. I had expected something so very different.

I knew my grade school geography. Pittsburgh was synonymous with steel mills and dirty air. We arrived at Dino’s apartment somewhere in the city (three times there and I’m still lost most of the time) and I recall being surprised by the pretty architecture in the neighborhood and even more confused by the hilly sidewalks we had to climb here and there. I guess when I thought “industry” I thought it would be like Hammond and Gary, Indiana – flat, endless low buildings and smog. I still am not sure where the old steel mills can be found.

As I write this I recall it was Christmastime – Dino had his Christmas cards posted up around doorways and we listened to Art Garfunkel without Paul Simon. Dino showed us around a bit – we didn’t have much time – and I got a look at a city that reminded me of San Francisco. At the time of course I had only been to SF once and did not ever expect to make it my home. Some people leave their hearts in San Francisco – I left mine in that little Appalachian metropolis, but it would be a good twenty five years before I would return.

The second time was just after 9/11. I had missed the previous summer’s Marquette reunion due to a miscommunication between Al and me. He thought I didn’t want to go, I thought he didn’t want to go, so neither of us went. Turns out, we both had wanted to go. Such is communication in young marriages. That would never happen after 29 years. When Dino regaled me with the tales of the reunion, I had an overwhelming desire to see my old friend and lovely little Pittsburgh, so off I went. The reservations were made before 9/11 but I was not afraid to fly. I had the attitude that there was probably no safer time to fly than right after planes went back up in the air.

By then Dino had purchased a home on Reynolds street, in a little neighborhood, oh damn I’ve already forgotten the name – I’m hopeless. Squirrel Hill? No, I just looked it up, Point Breeze, of course. Dino’s place is a block away from Frick Park and the tiny but world class Frick Museum. (I looked up Henry Frick and he was a steel magnate who was a real SOB and often called the “most hated man in America,” but who left a legacy to the city of Pittsburgh of 600 acres of parkland and as mentioned, world class European artwork, furniture and tapestries. Guess he felt guilty.)

When I visited in 2001 the apartment was living space on one side and another open side that could be used for commercial use – a cafe/gathering spot is Dino’s dream – and a little courtyard and backyard. Dino lived there with his Dad who has since passed away. My visit then was as it was this time – with many friendly and interesting folks ambling in and out of the house, great food and conversation, ever present Appalachian flavored music floating from the radio. Driving through the neighborhoods and surrounding countryside, each turn prettier than the last in the October sunlight.

I was also present for the neighborhood bonfire, held in the schoolyard right across the street from Dino’s place. I left Pittsburgh even more convinced that it is one of the prettiest and most underrated cities in the country. Friendly people, down home values that bend a little liberal but are also vaguely conservative. Sounds like me, all right!

It would be another nine years before I would return, just overdue for a visit to a city that nourishes my soul. We had a busy agenda this time – to begin planning the next Marquette reunion of our friends for the year 2011. We had a wonderful time connecting with old friends and making them promise to save the date. We are on a mission to find a few of our core group who have managed to remain hidden, to convince them that life is short, that some friendships are enduring, and that we miss them.

Since the last time, Dino had become an ordained Interfaith Minister and I had the pleasure of witnessing him perform a wedding on a Pennsylvania farm. A huge renovated barn was the centerpiece of the country estate, the ceremony itself was held under a gazebo by a pond, which reflected the autumn colors and still green rolling hills that couched the pond and sported dirt and gravel lanes. The bride was spotted far off in a horse drawn carriage that carried her down the lane and delivered her to the gazebo. Everyone was astounded as her father assisted her off the carriage, and a flock of noisy geese AND ducks flew directly overhead. I admit I was watching for bird dropping disaster but they simply flew overhead. A good omen for this couple, for sure!

The next day found us getting some exercise along the Allegheny Riverfront in Pittsburgh. Within spitting distance a Steelers game was in progress and along the waterfront people had moored their boats, unloaded grills and tables and TVs. The roar of Steeler’s touchdowns on the warm October day could be heard left and right. The rest of the city was across the river, and beyond that the neighborhoods and hills that define the charm of Pittsburgh.

Along the way Dino pointed out the old Heinz factory, now gentrified lofts and apartments. Later I would see the same re-use of the Nabisco bakery. Just outside of the Steeler’s home stadium is a sculpture of Mister Rogers. It is a rather ghastly likeness and it takes a few walks around to see any resemblance at all, but it’s the thought that counts. We conversed with a couple of young ladies from upstate New York who were in for a wedding as well, and we all agreed that Pittsburgh is a city surprising in its appeal.

Another evening ensued of food and wine and various and sundry characters who feel at home at Dino’s house. The commercial side of the apartment is used for a resale shop, what used to be the living area is now kind of a no man’s land, and on the other side of that is an apartment I didn’t know existed where Dino lives now. The whole weekend the resale shop was having a “courtyard sale” in the side yard, so there was much hustle and bustle of people wandering in and out. I only found one item I couldn’t live without – a shawl festooned with two glorious beaded peacocks.

The first night I was there after the shop was closed down for the night, Dino wanted me to peek in and see all the stuff, but I wouldn’t – there were only a few night lights on and with all the old stuff in there I just point blank told him I was scared because there were ghosts in there. He assured me there were indeed ghosts in the house and I had to try to forget that when I tried to sleep that night. Outside ghosts are one thing. Inside ghosts are a completely different story!

A few days later he complained that although it was beneficial for him to rent out that space to Angie, all the stuff bugged him. I explained to him that it wasn’t “stuff.” It was all things that people had touched, had used, contained history. Each hat and scarf had been worn, each cup had been cradled in someone’s hands, each book had been opened and read, each ring had been worn. He now understood why I was afraid to go in – there were ghosts in there indeed! Angie was happy that I had taught Dino that lesson, and he was pleased that he truly understood now the appeal of all that junk!

The weekend was full of people and conversations that filled my soul. I missed the bonfire this year by one week, but did make it up to Mount Washington, where I had a bird’s eye view of the little hamlet of Pittsburgh, the Allegheny and Monongahela Rivers joining to form the Ohio just below me.

The next day it was time to leave again. I will try not to wait nine years to return, and think I should go during the summer some time. We made a little foray to the area of University of Pittsburgh and the Carnegie library, architecture of Pittsburgh’s heyday on every street. Next time I will spend more time really investigating the rich history of this area.

I left with less sadness this time, knowing that Pittburgh nestled that little piece of my heart in it’s ancient hills after the last two visits, and I trust it will again keep it safe until next time!

Posted in General Musings | Leave a comment

Ghosts

Posted on October 13, 2010 by favoritephilosopher

One of the last times my sister and I walked through our old neighborhood, a subdivision with large lots around a lake in northern Illinois, she remarked that there were “ghosts” everywhere. I knew exactly what she meant. Almost every house we walked past brought to mind a name, a face, a memory.

I spent my entire childhood here. When we first moved in, ours was one of the first homes built, and over the years every lot was sold and built upon. Waking up in the morning to the sound of chainsaws meant oak trees were being cleared. We’d fly out of bed to see which of our beloved “forts” would have to be moved because another lot was no longer ours. My disappointment and sorrow was relieved only by the idea of several months of construction sites to play on, and then when the moving van arrived – did they have any kids my age?

So as I walk around the lake, which I always do when I’m here, so many of the homes remind me of people who are either no longer alive or have long gone onto different lives, as have I. Of course starting with the street I grew up on, the memories are many and clear. I have played or babysat or both in almost every house that surrounds my childhood home. That was the house where my best friend lived. That was Mrs. Martin’s house, the lady who would supply us with garden shears and a basket so we could pick flowers for our mothers from her magnificent garden. She was not a mother herself but she obviously had compassion for women who were!

That was the house of the lady with the blacktop horseshoe driveway who was a bit of a recluse but didn’t mind if we rode our bikes on her driveway and if we would would occasionally ring her doorbell “to say hi,” she always was dressed in beatnik black and had a cigarette in her hand and was always nice and would give us candy – and yes, we’d go away! That’s where my brother’s best friend lived, and one time their mutual friend took us to his nearby farm to see the baby lambs – I can still envision the farm boy diving to catch a tiny lamb who didn’t want to be caught so I could pet it. Delightful for such a little girl! Donnie D’s house, he gave me the BIG Valentine in the box when I was in kindergarten. Susie L’s house which had a fire one day – an early memory of Mom driving us past to see what a fire does was chilling and got the point across about playing with fire, at least in actuality if not figuratively.

Walking along down the road the memories become more sparse and I am a bit older – that was the house of the boy I liked, that was the house where my good friend Kathy lived, that was the house where the ‘new girl’ moved in the summer after my freshman year in high school. She had left her true love back on the East coast. He was a drummer and so we listened to Inagaddadavida with the drum solo that you didn’t hear on AM radio – yes, the entire song, which had been recorded on one whole side of an LP – over and over and over and then over again. Da dant da da dant DANT. Her poor mother.

I didn’t walk down the peninsula, but there are ghosts there, too, the kid who was a bit of a trouble maker, the Girl Scout leader’s house where I made a Christmas cross made out of macaroni glued on wood and spray painted gold. Then past the peninsula to the house of my parents’ best friends where we’d barbecue – they had lakefront property with a huge lawn down to the lake. Later in my twenties my mother’s friend was my sounding board when my own mom was in Florida for the winter, I’d sit at her kitchen table in that house and she’d give me advice about life in general, always with something fresh baked and delicious.

I walk on and the teenage years, when I was allowed the freedom to roam, waft into my memory. There’s a boyfriend’s house. That’s when I hung out with the kids from the other side of the lake – even though we went to the same school and lake beach, we may as well have lived on other planets. Then in the teenage years hanging out at the beach was the only place to be, and we all became true friends. I notice the pier at the beach- I remember it as so high above the water when I was learning to swim – it’s really practically at water level! The rafts are still there, even a diving board which is amazing in this day and age when lawsuits rule our lives.

There’s a different boyfriend’s house – were any of them safe from my feminine wiles? He and his best buddy spent a whole summer stealing road signs at night and generally making me laugh a lot during the day. They had to stop when the cops started bringing out a dog. One day the cops stopped at the beach and Rick, who always wore kind of a fishing hat, realized his hat may have identified him and he threw it in the water…it floated. They didnt get caught but the heat was on. The sign stealing stopped.

I am usually alone when I walk these streets. It is mid morning and people are all wherever they are supposed to be. The houses don’t contain the new people, they contain the ghosts of the people who shaped my early life.

People have often said I too easily live in the past. And yet, I believe it is more foolish to live in the future. To dream is okay, and to live in the now is supposedly ideal. Today walking around I got all philosophical and decided that if time is an illusion, a measurement designed by humans to help us mark our days, then really my past IS now. Walking these streets, sensing these ghosts, cherishing each fond memory, is still the now of my life, and I never tire of running into the old friends and sweet memories of my youth here in this place.

Posted in Illlinois | Leave a comment