Longest January EVER.

 Greetings, Friends. I know it's been a little while. Things been happening. Mostly the normal goings-on and vagaries of everyday existence, except for a few.

My older brother, Terry, died last February after years of suffering ill health. He'd get worse, then get better, then worse and better, then a little bit worse, and so on, until he just couldn't do it anymore. I don't think any of us were surprised - on the contrary, the biggest surprise was that he stuck it out as long as he did (I think he was fueled by a hefty dose of stubbornness) - but of course, that doesn't really soften the loss much. Even when you expect a death, it still leaves an empty spot. This is the way,

Grieving a loss is difficult in our modern world, where the globe still spins, and maybe you get three days of bereavement leave from your job if you're lucky. Three days? Who decided that was a sufficient standard? How are you supposed to grieve and take care of business in three measly days? It took weeks to clean out Terry's apartment, with my aunt, uncle, cousins, and several of his friends to help. He was 70 years old with varied interests and had a lot of stuff he'd collected over the years, so there was a lot to go through. And apparently it all belonged to me, seeing as I was the last surviving next of kin. Anyhow, I kept the mementos I wanted - books, CDs, a treasure trove of old family photos, several pens (we shared a love of fine writing instruments), and our dad's Colt pistol. Other items were distributed among family and friends.

It was in the early fall I finally felt the veil of grief lifting, which was good since we had a full music schedule for Halloween and Christmas. It sucks when you have to Perform When Depressed, because the super-masking you have to do is exhausting, so I was happy to be feeling some relief. The holidays were lovely and laid-back, and we ate a lot of good food. Then January happened.

After being off work for a week over Christmas, I went back on January 2, and BAM, it was mayhem right out of the gate. Now, I knew that was likely to be the case, so I wasn't particularly surprised, but this turned out to be a much higher grade of mayhem than I expected. I worked after 4:30 (normal quitting time) on several nights, and was exhausted after that - and I work from home. (Lands, if I was still commuting an hour each way, I would have been a much hotter mess.) This went on for a couple of weeks, so there were quite a few soup & sandwich suppers, plus takeout, because I just didn't have the energy to cook. And just when the work madness was winding down, we got hit with a major ice storm, the likes of which Tennessee hasn't seen since 1994. (I remember that one, too.)

It started out innocently enough, with a lovely fluffy snow on Saturday morning. We stocked up on supplies since we knew there might be ice, and we may not be able to get out of our neighborhood for a few days, but we've lived through that before and it was no big deal. Once the streets cleared, we'd be all good. Right?

WRONG.

Everything was perfectly normal when we went to bed on Saturday, January 24. But on Sunday, January 25, our power went out, and now, today on Saturday, January 31, we still have no power. Even in the Great Ice Storm of 94, we were only out 3 days. Shouldn't civilization have advanced enough in 32 years that a week-long power outage would be a thing of the past? 

Well, apparently not. 

The large pine tree at the foot of our driveway had dropped several branches due to the ice, including one hefty branch blocking the way out. So Mr Caudell and I bundled up, hunted up the chansaw, and went to work. We managed to get the driveway cleared, arthritis notwithstanding, which left us with a gargantuan pile of pine tree debris in the yard. (Pine needles make good mulch, so at least there's that.) While we were clearing the driveway, Mr Caudell looked over at a mighty tree in the next-door neighbor's yard, and commented that it looked like it was leaning, and hey, the top of it is laying over that power line. We didn't think anything else of it until a couple of hours later, we heard a loud crash. The tree had uprooted itself, blocking the street, and taking out the power line, which happened to include the actual line to our house. Swell. (Our power mast doesn't appear to have been damaged, but I guess we'll find out, if the Nashville Electric Service crew ever makes its way here.) 

I called Hub Nashville and reported the tree, but it was someone in the neighborhood who eventually cleared it enough so people could get through. We weren't going to touch it because POWER LINE, but hey, thanks for taking that risk. (An actual tree removal crew did finally come by yesterday and finish the job.)

Seeing as how we have gas heat and a gas cooktop, we weren't too concerned, because we could stay warm, cook, heat up water, etc. Our refrigerator is just outside the kitchen in the unheated attached garage, so our food has stayed cold. (We did lose the ice cream, but all the meat is still frozen.) We're relatively experienced campers so this wasn't a completely unfamiliar situation; although, I hadn't needed to wash my hair in the sink in years, so that was a comical adventure, but I figured it out. And then I thought about my grandmother.

Mamaw, as we called her, didn't have a house with indoor plumbing until around 1983 or so, when she had to move "into town" because my grandfather required round-the clock-care by this point. But when I was a child, and went to stay with Mamaw, we had an outhouse, a chamber pot, and a washbowl. Now here I was 50something years later, having to heat up water on the stove to wash my hair. (At least this time I do have a flush toilet.) She lived like that for years and was content. And she was always clean and put-together, and her hair was always done. Heck, even after she moved into a house with indoor plumbing, she insisted on keeping her old wringer-washer, until the aunts & uncles convinced her it wasn't safe to carry laundry down the basement stairs (it really wasn't), and they got her a modern electric washer & dryer. But you can see where the stubbornness comes from. 

And then . . . I thought about my brother. If he were still here, we'd be swapping ice storm stories and remembering what it was like to visit Mamaw with no indoor plumbing. Maybe somewhere beyond the veil, the two of them are sitting at her old yellow diner table with the yellow vinyl chairs, having a cup of coffee and talking about the time Mamaw's newly canned peaches exploded in the storage closet under the stairs. 

In the meantime, I'll just sit here with my knitting and wait for the power to come back on. Is January over yet?

Peace out and God bless ---

KFC

Contemplations on Hair.

It's probably no surprise to anyone that women tend to have a love/hate relationship with their hair. We try to make it do things it's not intended to do and style it in ways that defy nature. We cut and color it on a whim, or to soothe an emotional upset. I've done all these things, and I'm going to blame it on my mother, because it all started with her.

My hair was never good enough, for whatever reason. I had home perms from the time I was 5 until I was 19 and said No More. (Now, some of you of a Certain Age may remember that back in the 70s, the Toni company had a special brand of gentle perms for kids, so my mom certainly wasn't the only one trying to give her child a head full of curls.) The problem was - and still is - my hair just doesn't hold curls for very long, perm or no perm. But Mother wanted curls, so that's what I did, because that's what I thought I was supposed to do. 

For awhile in my early 20s, I wore a pixie cut. It was easy, except going to the salon every 6 weeks for a trim wasn't really in my budget. I don't scrimp on hair care - I give myself the gift of going to a nice salon - but the upkeep got a little expensive. Plus, I discovered living history, which was going to require some creative hairstyling to be anything close to historically accurate, so I started growing out my hair.

To my great surprise, I discovered that my growing un-permed hair actually had a natural wave to it - not a lot, but it was definitely there. I thought it seemed unkempt, though, so I usually blew it out straight. And I grew it out almost to my waist. This was the first time in my life I'd ever had long hair. 

I grew it out long enough to donate some to Locks of Love. Then I wore an asymmetrical bob for awhile, grew it out again, trimmed it back, etc., etc., dyed it red for a number of years, experimented with vintage wet sets, various updos, decorative hair pieces, and so on. (I should point out that I do love styling hair, and have since I was a kid with the stylable Barbie head.) 

No matter what I did, I always had that little voice telling me it wasn't good enough. It was sloppy, it was frizzy, it was goofy - whatever. Then the pandammit happened, and I didn't feel the need to do all that styling all the time anymore. I also quit coloring my hair, mostly because it was getting too gray to bother.

Lately I've been trying to make friends with my unstyled, slightly wavy graying hair. I see plenty of other people with hair like mine, and I think they look fantastic. One of my best friends has gorgeous long wavy hair, and I've never once thought she looked sloppy or unkempt - so why do I tell *myself* that? Seems kinda unfair, really, not to extend myself the same courtesy that I do others.

I'm 55 years old now and the fact is, I don't have to care anymore. If I want to wear long witchy slightly-wavy unstyled hair, that's my prerogative; if it scares people off, I probably didn't want them around anyway. Oh, I'm still going to vintage-style it when I feel like it, but it's going to be because I want to, and not because anyone else expects it of me. 

Is it time for you to stop carrying the weight of other people's expectations? I hereby give you permission to put it all down.

Till next time -----

KFC

Be Who You Are.

 Welp. How y'all doin? I realize that's probably a silly question, given the state of the world and all. It's not like many of us are out whooping it up and raising Cain. Mister and I had the COVID a few weeks ago, after escaping it for over two years, but we're good now. Nobody went to the hospital and nobody died, so I'm taking that as a win. Yes, we have *all* the vaccinations.

Anyhow, one thing we started doing during the Pandammit was just watching random YouTube videos, mostly about cooking, music, gardening, and dogs, and maybe whatever else looked interesting. The other night, he happened upon a pre-pandoomic video from Ireland's Got Talent, so we watched it just for giggles. (Honestly, I hate those shows, but that's another topic for another day.)

The singer was an Irish Traveller, and she said she mostly sang traditional Irish songs, but for some inexplicable reason, she sang the standard "Stand By Me" instead. It was okay. Her voice was good enough but the song didn't fit her somehow, like it was a too-small pair of shoes or the wrong shade of lipstick. It was uncomfortable to watch. Mister and I both agreed the song didn't suit her voice.

When she finished, one of the judges asked why she hadn't chosen an Irish song if that's what she was used to singing. "Well, I was going to, but . . ." 

"What would you have sung?" he asked her.

"Probably something by Finbar Furey, but . . ."

"Which Finbar Furey song would you have chosen?"

"Probably Sweet Sixteen," she said.

"Well, sing it for us," the judge said.

She hesitated for a moment, and began the song. Y'ALL. It was the difference between night and day. Her voice rang out clear and strong and steady. She had a confidence she didn't have with the first song. It was, to use an old expression, like buttah.

Now, I tell you all that to tell you this, which is: be the person who suits you. I know most of us over a certain age were taught to do this, do that, do whatever it takes to fit into someone else's box. I'm about to turn 55 and I'm still undoing that mess. But in just five minutes, this singer illustrated it so perfectly. She doubted her true voice instead of leading with it, and the judge was perceptive enough to realize that.

Never doubt your true voice. Be who you are, and support others to do the same. 

Lands. We do live in "interesting times" these days, don't we? Plagues, wars, political divisiveness . . . But all that aside, what I really want to talk about is Sophia Loren's armpits.

I belong to several vintage groups on the FacePunch. People post photos & articles about vintage style, cars, food, whatever. Usually it's really cool to see what everyone shares, but there's one thing that's absolutely guaranteed to get people upset 100% of the time, and that is . . . Sophia Loren with armpit hair.

Back in the mid-20th century, European women shaving armpits regularly wasn't a thing yet. And really, in the grand scheme of time, women shaving is a relatively new concept, brought about by razor companies wanting to sell more razors in the early 1900s. Yep. What we accept now as a normal and expected grooming practice was a marketing ploy. (Yay, capitalism.)

Anyhow . . . there are mid-century photos of Sophia Loren, a marvelously beautiful woman, with armpit hair, and anytime one of these photos gets posted on the Interwebs, people inexplicably lose their shit, as if *hair* on a *mammal* is some awful, terrible thing. It's "gross," "nasty," "unattractive" --- you name it --- but nobody can seem to explain why they think it's gross, nasty, or unattractive beyond "women are supposed to shave."

Can y'all just take a moment and ruminate on the ridiculousness of that statement? 

Listen. I prefer to shave, but that's *my* choice and I have no expectation that all other women are going to do as I do. I also don't care. But why do we keep doing this to ourselves? It's the Twenty-First Century, for Pete's sake. Why are we still pressuring women to conform to arbitrary beauty standards? Now, y'all may think that's ironic coming from me, a person who LOVES her makeup, but while I do enjoy cosmetics, I also fully support women who don't want to wear makeup. 

And I support women who don't want to shave. What someone else does with their armpits ain't my bidness.

Until next time --- keep calm and carry on.

Buckle up, y'all. I'm fixin to talk about Naomi Osaka.

In case you haven't checked the news in a day or two, the tennis champ pulled out of the French Open, citing depression and anxiety issues, specifically around being required to address the press. While a good deal of public opinion is on her side, she's also been demeaned, vilified, and ridiculed for making this decision, mostly because too many people still don't take depression and anxiety seriously as a health issue.

Friends, it is most definitely a health issue.

Listen. I spent all of my teenage years and early adulthood in a cycle of depression. I knew I didn't feel good but I didn't know why, and I thought "this is just the way things are," so I pushed myself through it, over and over and over again. I didn't ask for help because I didn't know I needed help. I mean, I would have a bad spell, and then I'd get better, so it must not be that serious, right? But every time I went back into the hole, it was deeper than before. 

I was 34 years old before I dug a hole I couldn't get out of anymore. Think about that for a minute. Thirty. Four. Years. Old. I pushed myself through this on again/off again cycle from adolescence until well into adulthood before I finally asked for help. And y'all, I didn't have to do that. 

You might well ask why I didn't get help before. I've already said I didn't think I needed it, so I never mentioned it to anyone. And here's the funny (and very cruel) thing about depression - you often don't know how sick you really were until you come out on the other side. I thought crying in the bathroom every day at work, and crying in the car every day on the way home, was an effective coping mechanism. (News flash: it wasn't.)

I went to counseling. I got medication. I felt way better - but even then, I still had another breakdown. You can think you're ready to take things on, so you take on more than you're really ready for, and you crash again. 

It looks to me like Naomi is trying to prevent that crash. What many people are decrying as the actions of a "spoiled diva" who "doesn't want to do her job" is a young woman protecting her health. If she were a man, I imagine the reactions would be more like "oh, isn't he so brave for taking care of himself." And let's not forget that WOC often have their health concerns dismissed like they don't matter.

Look. Naomi Osaka doesn't owe us anything. She doesn't owe the world a performance, and she doesn't owe the press an appearance, regardless of what sport officials say. "But that's part of her job!" Really? Why? Why is it necessary to require athletes to talk to the press? It has ZERO to do with athletics. ZE.RO. Some people just want to play their game and go rest. Let them do it. If others want to talk to the press, fine. But don't *make* them.

Moreover, she doesn't owe us an explanation of why she did what she did, but she opened herself up, and that's an incredibly brave thing to do. We should be living in a more enlightened age, but the stigma around depression and anxiety is relentless and continues in spite of the best efforts of many organizations to educate the public about mental health.

I wish I had said "enough" when I was 23, instead of continuing to roll that boulder uphill for another 11 years. I still push the boulder, but now I have the presence of mind to know when to rest, and when to ask for help. 

If you or someone you know needs help with depression or anxiety, please call Mental Health America at 800-969-6642, or visit their website at https://www.mhanational.org/. Don't push the boulder uphill when you don't have to.

 A long, long, time ago, I told Mister that if my hair got too gray to fuss with dyeing it, it was just gonna go gray, and that was that, and hey, doesn't Emmylou Harris look stunning with those silver locks? Well, that time has finally arrived. I really liked having red hair all those years, but I've given up the dye box. 

I found my first gray hair 3 weeks after my 29th birthday. I'm 53 now and working on a couple of really good white streaks. There's still a little strawberry blonde near the ends, but it's mostly a salty-peppery-dark-ash-blonde at this point. And I'm okay with that. 

I'm not really afraid of aging. Sure, the physical changes and the random aches and pains can be annoying, but this is the natural order of things. If we live long enough, we age. There's nothing wrong with it, and there's no shame in it. So why do we keep insisting that Eternal Youth is some sort of holy grail? I spent my entire youth in a state of untreated depression, and in retrospect, it wasn't so great.

Now, don't get me wrong. If you want to look 25 forever, that's your prerogative, and as a Mary Kay lady, I'd be happy to help you with that. But by the same token, it's also your prerogative to *not* look 25 forever. I'm 53 and content to look my age - eye wrinkles, belly fat, and all. Well, I mean, I would like to reduce the belly fat for health reasons, since I have a family history of diabetes, but I'm not kidding myself that I will ever be a size 4 again. That ship sailed about 10 years ago. I'm still plenty strong and flexible for a roundish middle-aged lady, though, so don't misunderestimate me. (Yes, I know that's not a real word, but I like to bandy it about once in awhile, along with "strategery." Just a little something I picked up from the Bush years.)

Anyhow, what I'm saying is, don't feel pressured to look young forever. Take time to revel in the glory of being older and (hopefully) wiser. And don't forget to tell those kids to get off your lawn.

 Welp. Probably a silly question, but how y'all doin?

I haven't blogged since 2016. Shit happened, and it kept on happening. That particular year was already a dumpster fire - several of my personal friends died, as well as a few beloved famous people (including my favorite fiddler of all time, Dave Swarbrick), and let's not forget the political circus that seemed to permeate every aspect of the universe. To top it all off, I was turning 49, and having a lot of anxiety about 50. 

I did eventually turn 50, and I was convinced my life was pretty much over. I mean, women over 50 don't generally have a lot of prime career opportunities, and I had already been passed over for a job IN MY OWN OFFICE in favor of someone literally half my age, so you can see why my outlook wasn't stellar. Plus, there was The Menopause, the weight gain, and the gray hair. Good times, indeed.

Then there came the decline of my mother's health, then my stepfather's, then my dog's, then my cat's . . . well. I was tired, y'all. I kept going like I always had, probably against my better judgment, seeing as how I don't bounce back quite as high as I once did. And then . . .

Well, and then there was 2019. We had car trouble with both cars *simultaneously* for an extended period of time (thanks Firestone; never giving you my money again), and then our dog, Luna, was diagnosed with immune-mediated hemolytic anemia, or IMHA for short. Basically what happened was that her immune system started attacking her red blood cells. The odds of survival weren't great, but we wanted to at least give her a chance. Thing is, treating IMHA is ruinously expensive, and we maxed out a couple of credit cards and took a hunk out of our savings (already dented because of the aforementioned car trouble). Lucky thing I got a raise at work that year, I suppose.

Anyhow, to speed things along: Luna died the day before Thanksgiving 2019. Holidays sucked. Mother continued to get worse and then decided not to pursue further treatment for what was essentially an untreatable condition anyway. She died in February 2020. Two weeks later, Nashville had a major tornado, and two weeks after that, the whole world shut down. I've been working at home for over a year now, and this past January, had to say goodbye to our elder cat, Buster, who had chronic kidney disease and just gave out. 

I never had to call and make an appointment for euthanasia before. I don't particularly recommend it, but I know it was the right thing to do. But as I'm sure most of you know, the right thing is often extremely difficult. I mean, if it were easy, everyone would do it, right?

So, it's April 2021. We have a new dog, Teddy Blue Roosevelt. He's a young Labrador who doesn't understand how large and clumsy he is. Working at home is great because I can take him outside during lunch for an extended playtime. (Playing with a dog in the middle of the workday is a great mood booster. I highly recommend it.) I've finally made friends with being in my 50s, and I've stopped coloring my hair, so don't anyone look shocked if you happen to see me with this graying mane. I did finally get a trim, so at least I don't look quite as unkempt as I did two weeks ago.

I have watched ALL the TV shows. I watched Schitt's Creek twice and I'm not ruling out a threepeat.

I guess the big question on everyone's mind now is, what's next? Will we return to pre-pandemonium Business as Usual, or will we modify the old ways using the lessons we've learned over the past year? But most importantly: will we get to continue working in our pajamas, with reruns of The Golden Girls in the background? Gawd, I hope so.

Y'all take care, now. 

Can you ever forgive me?

Dear Friends,

It is with a heavy heart and the utmost sadness that I confess to you my transgression. I have disgraced myself beyond all hope (well, most of it, anyway). 

I mean, it seemed like a good idea at the time. Everything seemed like it was all in order. I had a solid plan. And when I went to execute the plan, it all went to hell, because I hadn't been paying close enough attention, and by the time I realized my mistake, it was too late. I was sunk.

Yes, friends. I mixed navy blue with black because I thought the blue was black to begin with. It looked black in the house. And when I stepped into the daylight, I saw that it was indeed blue, but at that point it was too late to go back inside and change clothes. So all day today, I am reminded of my grievous error. Maybe no one will notice.

Can you ever forgive me?

Good night, Mrs. Calabash.

Well, Happy (sort of) New Year.

The old year went out with a bang, with the deaths of legends Lemmy Kilmister and Natalie Cole, and the new year came in with a roar, taking away David Bowie, Alan Rickman, and Glenn Frey. Now, I didn't personally know any of these people, but I was well aware of who they were, and Bowie and Frey in particular were a large part of the soundtrack of my youth. People who were Out There In the World as long as I could remember were suddenly Not There anymore. And even though I didn't know them, I feel that loss.

When I was about 8-9 years old, I had a babysitter named Christy, who was about 15. She turned on 1510 WLAC every Saturday night so we could listen to Wolfman Jack. Those of you who grew up in Nashville in the 70s will remember when WLAC was the AM radio powerhouse of the day, playing a delightful and eclectic mix of rock, pop, and soul, all jammed up in there together. You might hear Marshall Tucker followed by Kiss followed by Earth, Wind, & Fire. And you liked it. You loved it. It was glorious.

That was where I first heard David Bowie, the Eagles, and Bruce Springsteen, among others. (I will tell on myself here and admit that I was practically grown before I realized the Boss had written that Manfred Mann hit with the unintelligible lyrics. I definitely think the original is superior, but I digress.) But all that stuff in the mid to late 70s? That was ROLLER SKATING MUSIC, man. When you're 10-11 years old, all you care about is, does it have a good beat and you can skate to it?

I knew all the words to "Hotel California" and "New Kid in Town," as well as "Lyin' Eyes," and while all the grownup subject matter was lost on me at the time, I sang along every time they came on the radio. I did not have a particularly warm & fuzzy childhood, so music was a balm to my soul. And once I started taking piano lessons, you might have found me playing "Desperado" on that Kimball upright (which now lives at my house).

Fast forward a few years, and you might have seen Mister and me sitting in someone's back yard singing "Take It Easy" at a summer picnic. I want to say "Tequila Sunrise" probably worked its way in a time or two as well.

Yeah, I'm a little sentimental about the Eagles. Sue me. Those were some good songs I associate with good times. Forty years later, those songs have a completely different meaning for me, but I still love them just the same, and I don't reckon that's going to change anytime soon.

My all-time favorite Bowie song? "Changes," hands down. Again, still meaningful to me after so many years, because even at age 48, I still don't know what I was waiting for . . . my time was running wild, a million dead-end streets . . .

So, a toast to Lemmy, Natalie, David, Alan, and Glen, for bringing a little magic to this blue marble, albeit much too briefly, Until next time ---- turn and face the strange ch-ch-changes.

The return of Just Folking Around.

Good day, friends.

It's been awhile since I blogged. Like, over a year now. The big news is, we bought a house. We started looking around August/September of last year, and after a series of disappointments, finally found one we liked that the bank was willing to let us have. And then where was The Moving.

Oh, Lord, the moving. I hope I never have to do it again. You never know how much crap you have until you have to throw it away and/or move it, and in spite of sending 4 truckloads with the junk man, and several others to the recycling center, we still had 20+ years of stuff left. And when I say that we moved it uphill in the mud, I am not making that up. Thank God for rubber boots.

Now we're looking forward to celebrating our first Christmas in our very own house. We bought outdoor lights for the first time ever, and it just occurred to me, I haven't the faintest idea how to put up outdoor lights, even though I've watched Christmas Vacation forty-eleven times. I'm pretty sure nails aren't supposed to be involved, but what about duct tape? Chewing gum? Paper clips? I guess we'll figure it out. I did get my wreath up already, and it perfectly frames my skull-head door knocker. (Stop pretending you're surprised that I have a skull-head door knocker.)

The 20+ years of stuff is safely ensconced in a giant garage, which we hope to turn into a workshop/winery/brewery once we go through all the stuff - which, admittedly, could take awhile, but we're not planning on going anywhere again anytime soon. (There may be a big-ass yard sale in our future.) There's still painting and whatnot to be done, but I guess we've pretty much got all the time in the world for that.

In the meantime, I'm going to get all decorated for Christmas, and enjoy my little house. You're welcome to stop by anytime there's a light on. I may be in my pajamas, but knock anyway.

Till next time ----- have a joyous holiday season and a spectacular 2016.

Walking the Black Dog.

I've been wanting to write about this for awhile but stalled out. (Y'all writers know what I mean.) Now with the news of Robin Williams's apparent suicide at the forefront, I think it's important to talk about.

I have chronic depression. I've fought with it as long as I can remember. I finally got help when I was 35, after suffering at least all my adult life. It was just my normal. I'd feel like crap for awhile, and it would go away. Then it would come back and go away again. This went on for years until one day, it didn't go away anymore.

These days, I am mostly good, but having a chronic condition, I live in the shadow of knowing it could pop up at any time, and it does. Thanks to some great counselors, an understanding husband, sympathetic friends, and better living through chemistry, I know what to do to take care of myself, and I just power on through the best I can. Some days, though, the maintenance can be a real bitch. It gets tiring. I start feeling guilty because I want to retreat. I don't want to be "on," but I feel like I'm cheating people if I don't deliver the smiling, laughing, snarking Kim they all expect.

And that's just from an everyday person's point of view. I can't imagine the pressure of being a world-class comedian and actor in the public eye. People always want you to be funny. They want you to be "on." In the entertainment business, if you're not "on," you're not getting paid. Heaven forbid you have a bad day and decline to stop for a photo or an autograph.

The thing about depression is, it LIES. It tells you you're stupid and you'll never amount to anything. It tells you you're an impostor. It tells you you don't have any friends, that people are only being nice to you because they feel sorry for you. It tells you the world would be a better place without you mucking up everyone else's existence. On a good day, it's pretty easy to ignore the lies. On a bad day . . . well, shutting up those lies can be exhausting, and maybe you start to believe them, just a little bit.

Personally, I have never seriously wanted to take my own life. For one thing, it's way too much like work; for another, I know how I've felt when friends committed suicide, and I don't want to be responsible for making anyone feel that way, ever. (I'm still royally pissed off at a friend who killed himself years ago. If there is another side, and I see him, he and I are going to have some serious words.) But I understand all too well where those feelings come from. No, it isn't logical, but neither is depression, because - remember? - it LIES.

About one in five people will experience a mental illness at some point. If you, or someone you know, might be depressed, please get help. Do not pass GO, do not collect $200, just call somebody. Mental Health America is a nationwide resource network that can put you in touch with the services you need. If you're considering suicide, please call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline. There are people out there who will help you. You don't have to suffer.

Till next time, hug someone you love.

Playing a piece of history.

Everybody who plays the little curvy box with four strings will, without fail, have someone open a conversation with "I've got my granddaddy's old fiddle . . ." The only thing that elicits a mental eyeroll faster is something from the pantheon of worn-out machine gun jokes. Usually what follows is something like "it's a Stradivarius" or "can you tell me how old it is?" So I was skeptical when the gentleman said to me, "I've got my grandfather's fiddle. It was built in 1918. Would you mind playing it? It's probably a little out of tune."

He told me his grandfather worked out of Rochester, NY, and did quite a bit of work for the New York Philharmonic, including maintaining a Stradivarius for one particular violinist. I peeked inside at the tag, which read "Bert Goodwin - Rochester, NY - 1918."

"So would you play it some? I don't really play and just want to hear what it sounds like." Well, all right, I don't see why not. Reckon I'll give it a try.

The violin had been restored and restrung, and yes, it was plenty out of tune, but once I got it leveled out, it stayed in tune pretty well. It had a lovely ringing tone with a nice full bottom end. (Stop snickering. You know what I mean.) The action was quite a bit lower than mine, and the bridge was curved a little differently, so I had to dodder around a little to get the feel of it. After a few minutes, it felt like an old friend. When it started to rain, I put it back in its case, even though we were under cover. I wasn't going to subject anyone's family heirloom to unnecessary elements. I sincerely thanked the gentleman for allowing me to play his antique. I mean, you don't get a chance like that every day.

Naturally, when I got home, I had to look up Bert Goodwin on the Google. I was surprised and delighted to find that his violins had sold at major auction houses, including Christie's. I wasn't able to find out much about Goodwin himself, aside from this little snippet. But hey, y'all, I held a piece of American violin history in my own hands. There aren't too many bigger thrills than that.

I doubt Mr. Goodwin ever imagined that one of his instruments would be played outdoors 96 years later at a re-creation of a 19th century baseball game. I hope he doesn't mind. Most of all, I hope I did him justice.

Till next time ---- relish those unexpected opportunities.

Why I love traditional music.

Traditional music has pretty much been my life for the last 20 years or so. It's as much a surprise to me as anyone, since I had grand plans to be a rock star (hahahaha). And while I still love plenty of contemporary music, it's these old songs & tunes from before electronics that really have my heart.

Traditional music is honest. It's usually built around one voice or one instrument to tell the story or convey the melody. It's naked. It's not hiding anything. It's the product of several generations sharing music and passing it down so it won't drown mercilessly in a sea of autotuned, overproduced drivel.

When you get a group of musicians together, it's spontaneous. Anything can happen, and it often does. I've seen it. I've been part of it. And let me tell you, there is absolutely nothing in the world I would trade for that experience. All the full orchestration and five-part harmony in the world can't capture what happens at a pub session or around a campfire or in someone's living room. It doesn't need elaborate stage sets or fussy costumes. It doesn't need pyrotechnics. It doesn't need anything but people who love to play, and people who love to listen.

A friend once described traditional music as an unbroken thread reaching back to the musicians of the past. I hope to keep spinning that thread until I can't spin anymore, and I hope that along the way, I might inspire someone else to take up spinning as well. I believe in the importance of keeping the music of our ancestors alive, because you can't know where you're going unless you know where you've been. 

Till next time --- honor your traditions.

The drudgery of convenience.

This morning on Facebook, I found myself in a discussion on a neighborhood page. "What new business would you most like to see in our neighborhood?" one member asked. The answers were numerous, with Trader Joe's, Panera, and Starbucks being among the most popular.

Starbucks? Really? I said, "Y'all do realize there are at least two Starbucks in the next neighborhood over, right?" Well, yes, of course, but they're just not "convenient." Seriously? There are people in this country who don't have heat or running water and you can't be arsed to go five miles down the road for a gourmet coffee? When did we start believing that we were entitled to convenience?

Now, believe me when I say I'm just as big on convenience as the next person. I like to conduct my business with a minimum of hassle, as most people do. I hate traffic and I hate crowds. But if I absolutely positively have to get something done, I will find a way to do it, even if it's bloody inconvenient. Them's the breaks, kid. Convenience is a luxury most of us have some access to, at least to some degree, although convenience levels may vary. But that's what it is - a luxury.

Once upon a time, back in the dark ages, before inventions like The Automobile, people were pretty much restricted to the services available in their respective locales. Taking a trip across town with a horse & buggy might take you all day. Not convenient for most applications, but let's say you needed to see the doctor. You'd find the time to make that trip, because it was important. Then Henry Ford came along with his contraption, and people had access to services beyond a five-mile radius.

And now? Now we can go anydamnwhere we want in a minimum amount of time, and somehow, we expect everydamnthing to be in our backyards for the sake of convenience. We in the developed world are accustomed to having goods & services nearby, and now it's just a foregone conclusion that every neighborhood will have at least two major grocery stores, five or six fast-food joints, a couple of sit-down restaurants, and yes, one or two Starbucks.

We're spoiled. We really are. But life is not "convenient." Commuting to work is not "convenient," but I do it, because I like to eat, and I like to buy a pair of cute shoes once in awhile. Practicing the fiddle and going to lessons isn't "convenient" either, but I do that because I love music and I'm devoted to learning everything I can.

My point is, if you really need or want something, you'll forgo the inconvenience of getting it. If you really want it, quit kvetching about it and just go get it. You can figure out a way if it's that important to you. Convenience is not a guarantee. Don't give up on your dreams because they're not "convenient." The good stuff rarely is.

Till next time --- what's worth the inconvenience to you?

Failure.

One of my friends posted this excellent comic on Facebook. It's about making friends with failure. Make sure you read till the very end.

http://doodlealley.com/2012/10/10/be-friends-with-failure/

I'm pretty sure I've talked about this before, but I think it's something that bears repeating, especially since I have so many artistic & musical friends. And apparently, we are all really hard on ourselves when it comes to our craft, whatever that may be: rarely happy with our efforts and always pushing harder. As you can imagine, this often leads to incredible frustration and discouragement, but somehow, we keep going.

This strip reminded me of the time a few years ago when Mister and I went to a medieval calligraphy exhibit at the local art museum. (Yes, we have a real live art museum in Nashville, and it's a pretty darn good one.) As I marveled at the manuscripts, I thought about how these long-ago artists had to mix their own paints and make their own inks, as well as make their own brushes and cut their own quills. They didn't have the luxury of going down to the art supply store for a few nibs and a couple bottles of ink. Nope. All those things had to be manufactured by hand. The more I thought about it, the more awed I became.

And then I thought, I totally suck at calligraphy. I'm such a slacker. Why do I even bother?

The same goes for music. I've been fortunate to be able to hang out and play with some stellar musicians, and even be taught by a few. I listen to music all the time, and when I'm not listening, there's still a soundtrack going on in my head. I can wake up in the middle of the night and oh hey, there it is. I practice pretty much every single day. It does pay off (did you hear that, kids? practice actually works!). And yet, I still get this knot in my stomach every time I go down to the pub for session night, because, well, I suck. I don't know ALL THE TUNES yet, and I'm still working on mastering the finer points that still slightly elude me. Just because I can pull if off at home by myself doesn't mean I'll pull it off at full tempo with a group of people.

But you know what? Everytime I sit down to play, there's something that eludes me just a little less than the time before. Every once in awhile, a miracle will occur, and I will nail something I've been working on - after I've already failed eleventy million times. Failing at something means I'm trying, and the more I try, the less I fail. Such a simple concept, and yet, so difficult to grasp.

Till next time ---- go forth and fail.

It's not always what you think.

Humor me. I feel like doing a little experiment here. Let me tell you about some people I know.

Person #1 lives in a farmhouse on 5 acres. She owns 3 cars and wears a big sparkly diamond ring. She nearly always has a neat manicure/pedicure and might be seen wearing Prada sandals in the summer. Now. Think about this description and see if you can picture this person in your mind. What about the house? The cars? The salon where she gets her nails done?

Okay. Person #2 dyes her hair. She likes whiskey and has been known to watch NASCAR. She owns a .22 Winchester her daddy gave her. Her parents come from the country. She's not shy about using colorful language among friends. Got an image in your mind for her? Let's proceed.

Person #3 has two college degrees. She is deadly serious about music, history, and literature and will talk forever about one or all three to anyone who will listen. She likes to do research for fun. She wears glasses. What do you think of her?

Person #4 often goes out in public with no makeup. She recycles paper, plastic, & metal household goods. She likes to cook and prefers to use healthy natural foods. Sometimes she whips up vegan meals. She takes care not to buy products tested on animals. She has an herb garden. She does a variety of handcrafts and makes some of her own clothes. Do you have an idea about her?

Person #5 also dyes her hair. She often wears black or gray and takes delight in adorning herself with anything that has a skull on it. She takes a particular interest in songs about dead people and sometimes paints crazy designs on her fingernails. How about this one?

Do you have an image in your mind for each of these examples? How does #1 differ from, say, #5? What about #2?

What would you say if I told you they were all the same person? Yep. Me.

Yes, I live in an old house on 5 acres - it's rented. I own 3 cars, all of which are on their last legs. Two of them run (usually) and the third is there for an emergency backup. The newest one is a 1997 model. The sparkly diamond ring? Inherited. The Prada sandals? Given to me gently used by a friend. The salon where I get my nails done is my own living room, unless I decide to go visit my friend Jill for something special.

The point of this exercise is that you can't know everything about a person from one description, just like you can't know everything about that stranger at the grocery paying for her food with an EBT card. Don't assume things are what they appear to be, because chances are, they're not. You. Don't. Know.

Till next time - take off the Judgy McJudgerson glasses.

Oh, the inhumanity.

The story of Puppy Doe has been on my mind all week, and is probably contributing to my overall crankiness. September is always our busiest month with events, and I'm overtired and a little bit prickly. But the story of Puppy Doe is one that would turn even a great day to shit.

In case you've missed it on the Interwebs, a young pitbull mix female was found dumped in a park in Boston at the end of August. The person who found her thought she'd been hit by a car and took her to the vet. If only it had been that simple.

After a thorough checkup, the vet determined that the dog had not only been repeatedly beaten and burned, she had also had her legs pulled in a medieval-style "draw." And this didn't just happen once - the vet's investigation showed a consistent history of severe torture and abuse. The dog only weighed 18 pounds when she should have weighed closer to 40. Because her injuries were so severe, she had to be euthanized, but not before she had the chance to have a real meal and be petted on and fussed over by people who cared.

Now, to give a little backstory, a woman claiming to be the dog's original owner came forward and said she had to give up her pet thanks to breed restrictions in her area, even though the dog never presented a danger to anyone. She rehomed the dog via Craigslist and got periodic updates from the new owner until sometime in July. When contacted, the new owner said she had given the dog away. (These details are still coming out, so who knows if they're 100% accurate or not.)

Y'all, I cannot for the life of me wrap my head around this. Not even one iota. Just like I can't wrap my head around people who beat and torture children and elderly folk. I don't get it. To say that it makes me sad is a grave understatement; to say it fills me with abject sorrow is closer, but it's still something more than that. I don't know that there's even a word for it in English.

What I do know is that law enforcement needs to take cases like these with all the seriousness they can muster, because there is a clear link between crimes against animals and crimes against humans. So far, the Boston police seem to be taking it seriously, understanding that the perpetrator is likely to continue this abuse on other animals or people. (Y'all remember a guy named Jeffrey Dahmer, right?) The person who perpetrated this abuse did it on purpose. ON PURPOSE. Repeatedly. Deliberately. Methodically. What kind of a sick excuse for a human being do you have to be to do this sort of thing?

I don't know. I just don't know. We can insist that the abusers be punished, but the more pressing question is, how do we prevent these things from happening in the first place? What makes a person think it's okay to torture a living being?

I can't comprehend.

Till next time - hug your pets. And your people.

The futility of preserving the ephemeral.

You know how we knowledge geeks are. When we're learning about something, we have to compile every little scrip & scrap pertaining to our passion, no matter how insignificant it may seem to anyone else. This includes a multitude of random sticky notes, scrawlings on old gas receipts, scribblings on cocktail napkins, and especially for us musicians, sound recordings of all kinds. We hoard these things like they're rare gold (my preciousssss!), and in a sense, I suppose they are.

In addition to my sticky notes and old receipts, I have music everywhere: Kindle, iPod, two recorders/mp3 players, various thumb drives, and other computer files. I got myself the iPod Shuffle as a graduation present when I finished grad school a few years ago, and it was GREAT! Between what I got from iTunes and what I uploaded from my own CDs, I had a pretty big library. Then one day I opened up iTunes and . .  EMPTY. Nothing there. Zero. Zilch. Zip. Gone. I also had to reset the device because it was glitching, so the iPod was empty too. SWELL. I had to rebuild the library from scratch. Now the computer won't recognize the iPod, but that's a whole nother story, as we say in the South.

When I started going to Irish session night at the pub a few months ago, a friend suggested I record everything in case there was something I wanted to learn later. I dug out my first little voice recorder, which still works great after 8 years, but it doesn't hold a lot. I discovered that for what I paid for it back then, I could get a recorder/mp3 player with 4 gigs of storage. Shut up and take my money!

Well. I had a great recording of the most recent session, including some mind-blowing uillean piping. I mean, really ultra-spectacular. I sat there doing the Simple Dog Head Tilt, and when I looked over at the flute player, he had this look of disbelief and amazement on his face. I can't even describe it to you. It was that amazing. And I had it all on my digital recorder. . . that is, until I accidentally erased it yesterday.

Yes. I was trying to upload some no-longer-commercially-available archival recordings and in the process, pushed the wrong tiny button. If that weren't cringe-worthy enough, I outdid myself a little later by erasing ALL my live recordings. Every. Single. One. I thought they were stored in a different file, and I was wrong. Poof. Gone. Not recoverable. The archival recordings are safe, but all my live stuff is off in the ether.

In the 17th century, when memento mori paintings were a thing, musical instruments were often included as symbols of impermanence. Before recorded music came along, all music was live. Let that sink in for a minute. If you're reading this, you've always lived in a world where recorded music was available in some medium: vinyl, cassette, 8-track, whatever. In the grand scheme of history, recorded music is a fairly new invention. Once upon a time, not too awfully long ago, if you wanted music, you had to either make it yourself or go someplace where someone else was making it. Once it was over, it was over. You couldn't go back and listen to it again.

But maybe, just maybe, you could remember how you felt.

I don't know the name of the tune the piper played, and couldn't even tell you how it goes, but I sure as hell remember how I felt. Amazed. Awestruck, even. Grateful and humble that I had the opportunity to be there at that moment with that particular group of people. And those are things you can't capture on a recording, anyway.

Till next time --- capture what's worth saving and don't worry about the rest.

Ashes to ashes.

(WARNING: This is not going to be a happy post. I have not-happy things to talk about. Proceed at your own risk and don't say you weren't warned.)

I found out last week that a former high school classmate died of a stroke not even two weeks after his 45th birthday. He was away in Texas working on a project and had been in the hospital while he was there, but was released and seemed to be doing well. He was looking forward to coming back to Nashville soon.

He's coming back to Nashville, but not in the way he imagined, and certainly not in the way any of his friends or family hoped.

I didn't know him as well as I would have liked. In school, we had mutual friends, but he was just on my periphery. We reconnected through Facebook, as a lot of schoolmates do, and I enjoyed relating to him as an adult instead of the awkward teenagers we once were. He was kind, and funny, and he loved music. He had a great many friends who thought the world of him, and now they mourn.

His best friend went to Texas to retrieve his ashes and bring him home. I've retrieved ashes before. It's a surreal experience to carry someone's earthly remains out in a tiny box. And even though I am generally practical about death - because, let's face it, why fear the inevitable? - I still have a hard time making the connection between the living person and the parcel of ashes. Logically I know that the ashes were once a living, breathing person, but still my heart somehow wants to doubt it.

I imagine someone, someday, will pick up my ashes and think the same thing.

Goodbye, Grant. I hope you're having a righteous jam with Jimi somewhere.

Till next time --- shine your light and love your people. 

Recover the wonder.

Hi, y'all. I was just poking around my blog stats and noticed I hadn't written anything in awhile. Not because I haven't had ideas or time, but if you create at all, you know sometimes things have to speak to you before you get around to them. (Good thing I don't do this for a living or I'd starve.)

Yesterday I went out grocery shopping alone, since Mister was out of town on family business. I was trolling around the Aldi, scouting for hot deals on fancy cheese, and I heard a little girl singing. Loudly. My first reaction was GAAAAAAAHHHH NOISE, but then I realized the kid had a pretty nice voice for a 6 year-old. She was making up an alphabet song and only got as far as alligators and bears, but she kept singing.

While she was waiting for her mom to check out, the girl amused herself playing with empty boxes, arranging and rearranging them into different configurations, singing and chattering the whole time. Then she found a dime, and was pretty much over the moon. It was all a great wonderment for her.

And I thought, at what point do we lose that? When do we stop singing in public like we don't give a damn? When do we quash that childlike sense of wonder? When do we stop giving people random hugs and telling them we love them, just because we can? Not only when, but WHY?

Now, me, I do still sing in public. If there's some good jams on at the Publix, I'll sing while I'm shopping. I've also been known to dance around in the aisles. I mean, why should grocery shopping be a chore? Heck, more than once, Mister and I have sung in harmony to whatever song was playing on the sound system. We just flat out don't care. Ain't no law against actin a fool at the grocery. (The international grocery is especially fun when they play bellydance music.)

I've noticed, though, that when we perform for real, it can be a challenge getting people to participate. They especially don't want to dance, even though that's what a lot of that music is for. The adults will sit there and listen, but it's the kids who dance. Even at events where we have scheduled dances, it's a challenge to get the grown-ups on the bandwagon. Kids? No problem. They're all over it.

People. Y U NO DANCE? What is it you're afraid of? I promise you nobody cares if you look like a gawky ostrich, because they're too worried about themselves. If you feel like dancing, then GET UP AND DO IT. You're probably way better at it than you think you are anyway.

If you spend any time around kids, you know how affectionate they are. They'll just come right up to you and crawl in your lap and say "I love you" and they don't even have to be your own kids. Now, I'm not advocating that adults necessarily crawl into each other's laps (unless you're in a situation where that's appropriate - winkwinknudgenudge), but why do we have to be so reserved about letting someone know we care about them? Moreover, why are some of us scared to accept that someone cares about us?

I have an open heart as big as the universe. It's probably caused me more grief and trouble than my big mouth ever did. But I'm not going to waste it, and I'm not going to stop caring. (I tried that once. I was miserable.) I try to find the wonderments amid the chaos and drudgery of everyday life. And I won't lie - sometimes that's almost impossible. It seems like an extra challenge for the chronically depressed, especially when you think the universe is conspiring to hold you back. But even in the dark times, something amazing and wonderful will poke its little head out of the dirt. The trick is being mindful enough to notice.

So, little girl at the grocery, I hope you will always sing when you feel like it, and create things out of boxes and other seemingly useless items, and get excited when you find a dime. We cranky old adults need those wonderments. Heck, if we marveled more at the little things, or sang more, or danced more, maybe we wouldn't be so cranky.

Till next time - see if you can't recover your sense of wonder.