For Jeremiah, in Memory

The Christmas season is a time when families gather together, and those who are no longer with us are painfully missed. As most of you know, we have just returned from welcoming our first Grandson into the world.

Jeremiah True Harrell was born November 17th with a bright spirit, but too little blood to sustain life. Heroic measures failed, and he passed from his earthly father's arms into his Heavenly Father's arms after just ninety minutes of life.

His parents, Jeremy and Elisha, have asked me to thank you for all your prayers, and I hope you will continue with that. They also request that anyone so inclined will donate blood in Jeremiah's memory. You may save another little one's life.

I sing this song in his honor, and in memory of all those whom we miss during this holiday season and beyond.

We Give Up — Temporarily

John recorded me singing at church yesterday. It was a memorial for Jeremiah True, and we can see it in the video camera. There's a little problem, though. We can't get it to transfer to the computer. He pushed a wrong button which switched the camera to a different mode. All the video clips which were currently in the camera became invisible on the camera's monitor screen, but are visible when you try to download on the camera. (I'll admit, though, that when you push the download button, all you get is a beep.)

The recording of me singing for Jeremiah is clearly visible and playable on the camera's monitor. However, when you attach it to the computer to download, it disappears. No amount of fussing and button pushing will make it appear for download. We've read the manual. We've tried the Mac and the PC. John sat up trying "just one more thing" until two a.m., even though we're leaving for California this morning and he's pulling a trailer. He's that kind of man. He was the one making the recording, so he blames himself.

I know it's my fault. I thought the camera was so easy I didn't think he needed to practice. Push one button, point and shoot. But there are a lot of buttons, and he doesn't hold the camera the same way I do, so "the one by your right thumb" isn't a very clear instruction. We should have practiced. What he did was turn on the long playing feature, which apparently stores the clip somewhere else or some way else. It also, unfortunately, makes the clip a very low resolution.

My feeling is that we should just wait until we're in California and have the beautiful little church we used to attend available and go down there to St. Matthews and set the camera up and let me play it again. He can record it again. It will be the same song, with the same feelings—how could I ever sing it and not feel what I do for Jeremiah?

Still, I think we'll end up at one of those photo transfer places where they might be able to help us. John thinks that's the way to go, and he's so very often right. Meanwhile, if you're waiting for this... sorry. I haven't been thinking too clearly lately.

The Mosh Pit Is Back—And Other Idol Complaints

Every year I think the producers of American Idol are going to start actually reading the blogs and posts online and get rid of the mosh pit. Don't know what a mosh pit is? It's the annoying group of people standing at the edge of the stage waving their arms in front of the camera. They have no sense of rhythm, and do nothing productive. Their sole purpose seems to be irritating viewers. Well, they're absolutely successful at that.

At least this year we're not hearing the annual phrase, "This is the best group of singers we've ever had on American Idol." They seem to say it each year, and I've often wondered how it makes past contestants feel. Yeah, you won, but you wouldn't have this year. Or you made it last year, but wouldn't even have been on the show this year. Thanks a lot.

I have to ask. What is up with the host? Ryan Seacrest has gotten so pushy and rude, especially to Simon. That's not his place. There's an air of egotism that clings to him, and I can't see beyond it. He's rather like a rash—not quite painful, but you just can't seem to get rid of it. He's one of the reasons I'm so glad I have a DVR with a fast forward button. I let the program get a half hour ahead of me and fast forward through most of his blathering. I've just really gotten to resent his attitude and his air time.

Go ahead and tell me to stop watching the show. Simon and I will quit together. In case you're wondering, though... this year I'll continue to watch as long as Crystal Bowersox continues to be so unexpected. I don't like her hair. I'm not crazy about the way she dresses, either. But when she sings, it makes me feel good.

BYU International Folk Dance Ensemble Comes to Town

My friend Sherrie sent me an email to let me know the BYU International Folk Dance team was coming to several cities in Colorado. I emailed back quickly to let her know we had already ordered tickets. It went over my head that her niece, Erin, whom I had met several times, and really enjoyed, was part of the Mountain Strings band accompanying them.

What a great performance. John and I were truly entertained. Now, I love music and dance. My tastes are eclectic, and my iPod has some varied (some would say strange) offerings. I'd wager Sherrie's going to make a comment on that. She loves to poke me about my music. Nobody knows my music, or something like that. Anyway, John loves music as long as it's country, and dance as long as it's somewhere else. I can't believe he agreed to go. Maybe it was the way I worded it? (Wow, John! Guess who's going to be at the Fine Arts Plaza in Fort Collins? I'm going a week from Saturday at 3 o'clock. Do you want to come with me, or should I just go by myself? Order two tickets? Will do!) Call it priorities or pick your battles. I wasn't going to miss this one.

He not only enjoyed it, his foot kept rhythm during the entire performance. He wouldn't let me take the accordion player home, though. (Gee, John... I just wanted to play with him.)

It was so good to see Erin afterwards, too. She's got a smile that lights up a room, and seemed stunned to see us there—rather like when you see your banker in the grocery store and can't figure out where you know her from? She never knew we had left California. To have me hail her from the aisle in Colorado after the show was somewhere between an out of body and an out of mind experience, I guess.

I do wish I had been up on the stage with the musicians, though. That's the only thing that would have improved the show for me. Watch the show a couple of times, then jam with the musicians. I could play the guitar. I could play the accordion. I'm learning banjo (very very slowly) and could sure use a jamming partner there. We could just have a grand old time. Then I'd cook for everyone. I think the whole band could fit in our basement. Let's see. Two fiddles, one bass, banjo/accordion, mandolin (Erin), guitar, and percussion... don't think I missed anyone. And the substitute (me). Yep. We'd all fit.

Can you imagine them getting back to the college and going to the Dean (or whatever) and saying, "So sorry, sir, but we seem to have lost the band in Colorado." It's just too bad that Schmath isn't still with them, playing her bass.

Wake up, John. Can we go to Longmont for their next stop on 7:30 on Tuesday night? Please?

Slideshow Promises and Ringling 5 News

I'll begin with an apology for ignoring my blog for so long. I have no excuse, really. Well, perhaps I do, but none I want to share. I now have my cameras downloaded, though, after the California trip, and I'm working on the first slide show. It should be up by tomorrow, showing at least our trip out to the coast, and possibly more.

Meanwhile, here's some really exciting (at least to me) news. If you know me, you realize that music is a huge part of my life. I've been collecting strange music all my life, thanks to a dad who sang pretty weird stuff along with some really fabulous music.

About eight or ten years ago, and that's a big guess since I have a leaky memory where time is concerned, our pastor went to his wife's hometown in Montana. Her uncle, a rodeo cowboy, had broken his neck, though I'm not sure when it happened. They were at his home visiting when The Ringling 5 came to play. Pastor Stan and his wife Ellen immediately realized that this was my kind of music, much of it with offbeat humor, and proceeded to bring me back one of each of their CDs. I've been a huge fan ever since.

This week I got a real kick when one of them, Don S., signed into my web site's guest book. He's the one who also plays accordion and guitar, according to their web site, which matches the two instruments I play. Someone had told him about the good things I've written about their group in several of my blogs. He also let me know they had a newer album out, Faithful Sinners, that I don't have yet. I'll let you know when it arrives... I'm really excited about that. It's Gospel music!

Okay, I'm a little star struck. They're not only really funny, but their lyrics show a profound ability to look deeply into what matters in life. Just think about Grandpa's Barn, and you'll end up saying Ya, sure, you betcha.

Retreat Preparations

If you're wondering what I've been up to, I've been buried in a mountain of sheet music, getting ready for a retreat I'm going on this Thursday afternoon. I'll be gone until Sunday night, leaving enough leftovers (I hope) for John to fend for himself until I return.

I'll be one of three people doing music at the retreat. Having the weakest voice will be alright, since I don't know the songs yet. I've been trying to learn them, which has kept me pretty busy. I've been going over the sheet music, printing it out and putting it in sleeves in a book to take with me. It's not the most fun way to spend a few days, but the retreat will be worth it.

The retreat is known as "The Walk to Emmaus," and it's a nationally organized type of retreat. I've been going on these walks for many years, and no two are exactly alike, but all have touched me deeply. Sometimes I'm a cook. Sometimes I get lucky enough to be a musician. I've filled a lot of jobs since my first walk, when I didn't have to fill a job, other than participant. I've always felt lucky I was invited to go that first one.

When I take a break from that, I'm 3/4 finished with a baby blanket for my young friend Kelley and her husband Marty, who had baby Max this week. I'm late. The photos of him are beautiful. He looks so sweet. I need to have three of me this week, since I'm also cooking and doing laundry. Bummer.

I know, I've also got blogs to write on our European trip still. I promised. I just didn't say when, though, did I? And just think how good the photos will look when they finally do appear here. And I'll be able to put a little video along with the photos, too. It just won't be this week.

LBS

I tell people I've been diagnosed with LBS. It sounds important. A technical term, and an acronym, it nevertheless pretty much controls my life, but I still admit it to my friends. It stands for Leaky Brain Syndrome. I just don't always retain things the way I used to.

If you're still young, and you're laughing at this, just make a mental note of the expression. Some day you might need it—to describe your own mental failings. I know, it'll never happen to you, right? (I think I hear my sons snickering in the background somewhere.) 

I was playing guitar today and couldn't even remember the words to a song I wrote. I only wrote one song, so how hard could it be? Now, that's embarrassing. Um, I think it went like ... well, I guess I forgot the words. They were pretty funny, too, if I remember right. So after a wonderful visit with Chris today, I ended my evening by emailing her an mp3 of me singing the song I couldn't quite remember when we were together today. I guess I need to relearn it. 

LBS. It's hard to get rid of it once you've contracted it. Stuff just leaks out.

Dixieland Comes to Loveland

One of the pastors of our church hails from New Orleans, although not recently. She certainly has no accent. This Sunday she invited The Stover Street Stompers, a Ft. Collins Dixieland band, to play all the music at two of the services at our  church in Loveland, Colorado. Although John and I generally attend the Saturday evening service, we couldn't resist hearing this group play Dixieland gospel music, so we shoveled the snow off the car and headed down the hill into town for the 8:30 a.m. service.

The band was wonderful. Eight men and one woman took over one side of the altar. The lady was beyond proficient, playing honkey tonk piano. The men played drums, banjo, two slide trombones, saxophone, clarinet, trumpet, and tuba. If they ever missed a note, I didn't hear it. What amazed me was seeing the little silver haired ladies and gentlemen, all dressed up in their Sunday best, clapping their hands and stomping their feet. Some of them were really getting into it, singing louder than I've ever heard them sing before today.

Actually, I would have thought they wouldn't like "Just a Closer Walk With Thee" sung so fast, or with such an interesting rhythm. I knew I would, but I was really impressed that the older people did. I'm not sure why. Preconceived notions are so often wrong. At the end, when everyone marched out to (what else?) When The Saints Go Marching In, many of the most elderly were actually dancing down the aisles. I felt so upbeat, my great mood lasted all day. I think we should do this monthly—at least.

A Daydream: Four of Me

Since there are never enough hours in the day to follow all my passions, I thought back to those days when our three sons played baseball at the same time on three different fields. I had quipped to my Mom that I was either going to have an out of mind or an out of body experience. I thought that, since I couldn't figure out the logistics to the out of body deal, the out of mind would have to do. So far, it's worked for me.

As the years go by, I've never quite given up the notion that if there were more of me, I could do several things at once. I've gotten to the point where my daydream is to have four of me. You've probably met most of us.

Kathleen the Writer: I'll probably forget to eat unless someone comes in and stares at me for a long time. I'll get up in the middle of the night with an idea for that chapter I'm working on. If I disappear in the middle of the afternoon, I'm probably taking a nap. If I'm not there, check the decks. I'm probably on one of them with a stack of printouts and a red pen. If I'm thinking about the best way to edit something, being out with the pines and the deer help me clear my mind.

The Musician: Just stand still and listen. I'm probably all by myself with the guitar or accordion somewhere. Check the basement or or the back deck. I could be out by the fire pit. If I'm learning new music, I'm probably near the computer. What am I playing? It could be anything, but probably something you've never heard before. 

The Crafter:  Most of the time there's a gift in progress, but lately I've started making a sweater for myself. It's a short-sleeved knit I just started. We'll see how much time I actually give to that. Usually it's baby gifts, crochet as often as knit, and sometimes it's bead work or leather tooling instead of yarn, but that's not often.

The Cook-Hostess: Isn't it fun to just make time to spend in the kitchen, fixing things for family and friends to enjoy? It's especially great when guests are coming to visit and you can let them know how special they are.

Good things to bake and wonderful recipes to prepare keep calling me, but there's only one of me, and I'm already busy being the Writer, Musician and Crafter. Yes, there's only one of me. I can dream of being four people, but so far I haven't worked it out. We share one body, wearing each other out. We work in rotating shifts, share the same computer, and try to get each other to finish her project quickly and please not to start another...

Ringling 5 Lyrics

Less than three weeks ago, I signed up for a thirty-day free trial to some software that tells me some interesting things about my blog. Where are visitors coming from? How do they find me? Do they come back? All of this is immensely interesting to me. I'm not quite sure why.

I've been delighted to note that four people in less than three weeks have found my blog by searching for the lyrics to one of my favorite songs, the Ringling 5's wonderful song, "If Jesus Had Been a Norwegian." I mentioned it on one of my blogs, but never wrote down the lyrics. Let me explain that the Ringling 5 is a group of seven guys from Montana. I know, they might be math challenged, but they're very funny. They also have some wonderful songs that are not funny at all, like "Grandpa's Barn." I did quote the lyrics for that in an earlier blog entry. It's worth a read, a think. They're very talented. My wonderful pastor from our pre-retirement life gifted us with copies of all their CDs, and they're wonderful additions to my insane music collection.

So for those of you who continue looking for those lyrics, I'm typing them out here. And those of you who have never heard of the Ringling 5, I suggest you might read the lyrics and check out their website. You can, of course, buy their music there. Meanwhile, here's that song, so you can quit searching...

If Jesus Had Been A Norwegian

If Jesus had been a Norwegian, 

Things would be so different today.

Instead of Matthew, Mark and Luke and John,

We'd have Sven and Lars and Oleg.

Walking on the water 

Would be no special trick,

'Cause all over Norway, 

The ice is awful thick.

If Jesus was a Norsky, 

We'd all eat lutefisk.

We'd have lefse for Communion, 

And there'd be no Methodists.

If you wanted to say Amen, 

We're not gonna let ya.

At the end of every prayer we'd shout,

"Ya, sure, you betcha!"

There'd be no December birthday.

You'd be frozen where you lie.

If Jesus was born in Norway, 

Christmas would be in July.

Feeding all the multitude 

Would be an easy task.

With one big bucket of lutefisk, 

"Please no more," they'd ask.

But Jesus was no Norsky.

It could not be done.

Jews are much more serious.

'Wegians too much fun.

But the deciding factor 

When God searched around,

He scanned all of Norway, 

Three wise men were not found.

Ya, sure, you betcha!

.-.-.-.-.-.-.

If your curiosity is killing you, lefse is a Norwegian flat bread, and I understand flat refers to taste as well as shape. Lutefisk, is defined as cod soaked in plutonium (yum), and dates back to the Viking era. I guess that's why there are so many fast food restaurants in the world.

Now, if I start having people look for other songs, like "I'll be Mellow When I'm Dead," I might consider putting up lyrics occasionally. My daddy sang some songs I've never heard anywhere else. Every time I sing one, people look at me really strangely, but they do laugh. Too bad I can't put up a song as easily as lyrics, but there you have it.

Autumn Gold Festival

What a wonderful week we had. First Ellen and Johnny, my sister and brother-in-law, came for a fly-through visit on their way to the wine festival with our brother Pat on the other side of the Rockies. The trip was all too short, but wonderful nonetheless. We celebrated Ellen's birthday at the local steakhouse, then spent a day roaming around, driving through Rocky Mountain National Park, having a picnic at Benson statue park in Loveland, and seeing the local sites. I made my not yet famous Bison Chili for dinner. Crock pots are such a wonderful invention. I considered hiding their suitcases, but knew it wouldn't be fair. I didn't really want to be fair.

They no sooner left than we got the sheets changed and welcomed our friends Dick and Carol from Denver. Together we spent two days at the Autumn Gold festival at Estes Park, gateway to the Rocky Mountain National Park. The festival is better known as "Beer, Brats and Bands," and we partook of the latter two. Free admission gives you two days of music. It's a beautiful spot for concerts in the park, and the festival welcomes in the autumn colors, although the leaves are just now beginning to turn. We'll go back in a couple of weeks and take photos when the aspens are in their glory.

At the end of two days, my fingers were itching for my own instrument, but I was so too tired to play by the time we returned Sunday night. Bed was too tempting to ignore, and I'm not sure I'm recovered yet. The old saying is that variety is the spice of life, but it's not true. It's friends who add the spice. This week was spiced perfectly.

Spice of Life

When I think back on my life, it's a series of songs. One comes on the radio. If it's I Want to Hold Your Hand by The Beatles, I immediately think of chicken salad sandwiches, big crisp apples and icy cold chocolate milk on the quad at my high school. Lush green grass underneath us, we'd sit and talk, listening to music piped out from big speakers. 

The Beach Boys, Simon and Garfunkel, Everly Brothers, Doors. It was quite a mix back in the sixties. It's funny. They play those same songs all over the nation now, but they call them oldies. I guess that's what I am. One of the oldies. After school I'd go home and get out the accordion and practice until my sister wanted to tear my hair out. Hers was too pretty to tear out. 

Music was important. Dad would come home and play his guitar, and the best times of all  were listening to him play. I sure wish we'd had a tape recorder, so I could hear him play again. Even a scratchy tape would sound like heaven to me today. Les Paul, Chet Atkins. He sure knew how to copy their styles. Too bad I didn't decide to pick up a guitar while he could have helped me learn.

One of those dumb questions I'm always asking people is if they'd rather be deaf or blind. Obviously, nobody wants either, but if you had to take one or the other, what would it be? Could you choose if necessary? Sunsets are great, but you'd never forget them. I'd miss looking out over my yard, seeing the deer and rabbits. But not to hear music? Not to know the voices of my grandchildren, or the song of wind in the trees? 

I know. I'd lose a powerful gift with my eyesight gone. Couldn't drive. Probably couldn't crochet anymore. Couldn't paint. Have a hard time reading. Typing might be a problem for a while. But to live without music? Nope.

Another Reason to Be a Fan

I was babysitting when I first heard Flowers On The Wall. It came on the radio after the children were all tucked in bed, and I laughed out loud. I was earning a big thirty-five cents an hour back then. The money's long gone, but the music is still with me. 

For over forty years, they've kept me singing. I haven't counted their albums, but I have twenty of them just on my iPod. Some are gospel, some country, many just plain fun. If you haven't heard Small Small World, or Put It On The Card, you have no idea.

Now you might not be a country music fan. There was a time when I wasn't either, except for the Statler Brothers and a select few others. To my husband, if it's not country, it's not music. I guess I wasn't such a music snob after all. My point here, and you probably hoped I would be making one, is that you should try to imagine needing to contact your favorite music superstar.

"Please, Mr. Singer Songwriter. I just wrote a novel... I took one of your songs, sir, and used one verse and the chorus in the book. Well, I didn't exactly use it the way you wrote it, but close enough that people are going to know it's yours. Well, I changed some of your lyrics to suit the purposes of the book. Is that okay with you? Sir?"

No matter how you word it, that's not an easy favor to ask. I was advised to just write the book and submit it for publication. 

"Let the lawyers handle all that crap. Your job is to write. You could just screw things up, and then you'll never get permission. Lawyers know how to handle these things."

That didn't sound like a game I wanted to play. 

How I did it doesn't really matter to you, but I made first contact ten days ago. Today the man emailed me, expressing concern about having anyone tamper with one of his songs. I couldn't blame him. He asked me some great questions, which I answered. I even sent him the part of the chapter that introduces the song, and the song with the changes I had made. 

I was prepared to rewrite the chapter, testing the limits of my talent to compose a new song myself. I knew I would grieve about it. No song I wrote would ever approach the simple perfection of his. 

I returned to the computer to make a start, just in case. His return email shocked me to tears. In a simple statement of few words, he thanked me for clearly answering his questions, and granted permission for me to use his song, as changed, in my book. He sent along the name of the publishing company holding the copyright to give to my publisher for final approval.

Another reason to be a fan. As if I needed another reason. 

Adding Music to the Blog

I really thought adding music to my blog was a great idea. I did my due diligence. I checked into it and then found out I had to use songs from 'their' list. Okay. How bad could their list be?

I don't really like to compromise. Maybe that didn't come out right. Between people, compromise is a great thing, but when you're trying to be creative, compromise is not a good thing. It's like compromising on your conscience. I decided to go in reverse. I made a list of fifty songs that I'd be delighted to have people hear when they tuned in to my blog. They were not mainstream songs, I'll admit, but were all songs that would give a person a glimpse into the quirky world of Kathleen's mind. 

With list in hand, I went to see how many of my songs were available on their list. Zero. 

Alright, so I really didn't expect to see Egged Bus Rag on their list. Unfortunately there aren't enough Marcel Dadi fans in the world. That didn't mitigate my disappointment, though. and I'd like to have included three songs from the Ringling 5, Sheep Dog Rap, Grandpa's Barn, and If Jesus Had Been Norwegian. People need these songs. Not according to their list they don't.

Alright, then, let's get more mainstream. Whatever happened to Weird Al? He's mainstream, isn't he? I'm not the only person in the world who plays the accordion. How about Good Enough for Now, or I'll Be Mellow When I'm Dead? I even had The Check's in the Mail on my list. No such luck. 

But I was really crushed when I didn't find Anticipation Blues among their songs. That one most certainly should have been there! Poor old Tennessee Ernie Ford wrote that song in honor of every nervous expectant father in the world, and they deserve to hear it often. Besides, it's very funny, and I laugh every time I hear it. I deserve to have it on my blog site. 

No, I guess I don't. It's not on the list.

Music History Class

I was just sharing a funny story with a friend who mentioned in her blog that she was getting a new organ. It was a really good deal, since the organ's stops were broken. Well, that threw me right back to my music history class at Mount St. Mary's college back in the sixties. Yes, I said the  sixties. 

I'm not sure how they decided who was going to teach what at that school. I'm not saying the nun was tone deaf of anything, but she wasn't exactly a music aficionado. In her defense, most of the students in the classroom were only filling seats anyway. I was one of the few who really wanted to know the subject matter. To me it was more than just a convenient elective. 

I actually read the textbook cover to cover. I think that stunned Sister whatever her name was. I came away from that class with an A, and two really great stories. Let's start with the organ. Yes, you knew I had to return to my friend's blog about buying an organ, didn't you?

One day in class, with a perfectly straight face, the nun was lecturing and while most of the students slept or looked out of the windows at the beautiful campus, I took notes. I'll admit I wasn't this diligent in every class. At one point she said, and this is very close to a direct quote, "Johann Sebastian Bach's organ had no stops. He and his second wife had thirteen children."

I was the only one who laughed. She glared at me.

The second time I had a good laugh in that room, even though I had to laugh all by myself, was while the the good nun was grading essays or something at the front of the room. We had all been given a chapter or section to read in the text book, and she kept herself busy while we were doing that. When I came to what I was positive was a typographical error, I thought it was so funny, I burst out laughing. The class, suddenly coming awake, all stared at me. The teacher again looked at me in consternation.

What was so funny, she wanted to know. I explained that I had just found "the" misprint. She informed me that she had been using that text book for two semesters, and that if there were any misprints or typographical errors in the text, she would certainly have spotted them before now. She then requested that I stand up and read to the class what I considered to be in error.

I wish I had a camera with me that day to capture the nun's red face when I stood at my desk and read what that text said about Bach in the next paragraph:

"Because Bach did not have an organ in his home, he practiced on a spinster in his attic." She told me to sit down. I understand those texts were replaced at the end of that term.

Old Barns

I got my first darkroom in 1969. My camera was a 35mm Canon FT. None of that matters, except that the photos I took were precious to me. I began my photography in Okinawa, and it was like an addiction. I began to notice that there were certain things I couldn't resist photographing. No matter how many shots I had, whenever I saw a barn or an outhouse, I needed that picture. Some of my outhouse photos are probably already on this site. I'll make sure another time. For now, I'd like to concentrate on the barn.

I've never known why those old barns so captured my imagination. I vaguely remember visiting a great aunt and uncle in Wisconsin on a farm when I was very little. She made doughnuts for us. He had cheeks that looked like apples. I remember they had a barn, but don't remember what it looked like, other than big. It certainly wasn't falling down, as far as I remember. After years of capturing old barns on film, I heard a song. Can a song explain something that your heart has known for years?

I'd like to introduce you to a group called The Ringling 5. It's a band from up in Montana, and they haven't put out an album yet that I don't have. My old Pastor (thank you, Master Stan) introduced me to their music, and I'll be forever grateful.

The Ringling 5 is composed of about seven math challenged but extremely talented musicians. Most of their music is very funny, but I want to just copy down the lyrics of one that's not. It's called Grandpa's Barn. Their website is http://www.ringling5.com. The guitar picking on this album is sort of the style I use myself when I play, so it makes me feel really comfortable when I listen to it. The words rock my soul.


Grandpa's Barn
by The Ringling 5

As Grandpa sat beside the barn,
Ninety years of living lined his face.
He said, "Lord, the sights I've seen, and
Lord, the dreams I've dreamed!
They're all wrapped up in this old place."

I built this barn in 1901,
The first year that I moved onto this place,
With trees from down the draw,
I worked that hammer and saw,
'Til the sweat poured off my face.

His life is reflected in the boards of this old barn.
They're weathered and they're splintered,
But they haven't lost their charm.
It stands in quiet solitude through good times and bad.
It holds all the dreams he ever had.

"The first time that I kissed your Grandma
The harvest moon was shining through the door.
Her eyes sparkled and they shined.
I've seen 'em a million times.
God, if I could see them just once more!"

Grandkids played up in the hayloft.
The neighbors came and danced across the floor.
The horses in the stall,
The harness on the wall,
A batch of kittens sunning 'round the door.

His life is reflected in the boards of this old barn.
They're weathered and they're splintered,
But they haven't lost their charm.
It stands in quiet solitude through good times and bad.
It holds all the dreams he ever had.

Time can tear a building to the ground.
Roads can take a young man far away.
It seems like when you're gone
It hasn't been that long
But Grandpa passed away in '68.

When you're traveling down a rutted road,
And some old barn shows up in your mirror,
Take a moment—look around,
Even though it's falling down.
Someone's dreams were kept in there.

Their life is reflected in the boards of that old barn
They're knotted and they're splintered
But they haven't lost their charm.
It stands in quiet solitude through good times and bad.
It holds all the dreams they ever had.
It'll hold all the dreams you'll ever have.

My Mom's Silly Songs

I wish I could remember all of the verses to all the silly songs my mom used to sing to us kids. There's one in particular that I've been trying to remember the words to, though, and I cannot even find a mention of it on the internet. So I ask you all, if you've ever heard of this song, to please send me any other verses that you know. I only remember one, and Mom doesn't remember any others either. She says this is all she remembers from her mom singing it to her.

If you see any ladies who want any babies

Just send them right over to me.

Today is the day we give babies away

With a pound and a half of tea.

That's it. That's all we remember. You see why it's an incredibly important song, which deserves to have all its parts remembered for posterity. There should be a book for foolishness passed on by each Mama and Daddy. It's never the sensible things we remember. After all, I'm the child who said that when I grew up I was going to raise dragons. I think that was a year or two after I told someone I was going to be a mother, a nun, and a ballet dancer. 

Sunrise from the Cruise Ship

Always a night owl, as the boys got older and I began to work full time, I was lucky to have a job where management believed in flex time. I could start my hours very early and be home around the time the boys returned from school. This gave me the advantage of still being the kind of mother I needed to be. I always felt that the only part of motherhood that was optional was the fun stuff. It was also the only part I was sure they'd remember. I didn't think that in years to come they'd stand as adults in front of their bathroom mirrors saying, "Wow. I remember when my mom taught me to brush my teeth, and here I am doing it all these years later." They'd remember that I was at their baseball and basketball games, though, or that I brought my guitar or accordion to their classrooms for music. Besides, the fun stuff was more fun.

Working full time gave me a new group of friends, though, and it taught me the joy of being up early in the morning, something I had never in my entire life learned to do. I'd be on the road by five, but I'd be home by about three o'clock. Getting up early is a habit that persists to this day. I'll never regret it, even when I'm still awake and reading at midnight. I'll admit that I now add in an afternoon nap when I want to.

Not too many months after I had started working, about twenty of the women at the company put together a trip to the Mexican Riviera aboard one of the cruise ships traveling out of San Diego. It was really affordable, and with my family's blessing I signed up to go along. The cabins were tiny, deep below the water line, with little bunks; never having been on a cruise ship before, I didn't realize that there were better rooms available. This is why our passage was so reasonable, I now know, but the trip couldn't have been more wonderful for me. The food was great, and the women all got along extremely well. (Shocked about that, are you?)

By now, however, my body clock refused to let me sleep in. Even though we had been up on deck laughing and watching the ship's lights on the water until quite late, by four thirty in the morning, I was wide awake. Rather than squirm around and run the risk of disturbing my roommate, I quietly slipped from my bunk and dressed. Grabbing my key, I snuck from the room.

For some reason, I was amazed that although the hall lights were ablaze, nobody else was around. It took me quite awhile to find a cup of coffee, but once I did, I made my way to a deck rail. We had docked at Santa Catalina Island at some point during the night, and there was silence around me as dawn began to gray the sky. I sipped my coffee and watched the silhouettes of fishing boats and yachts become more visible. The air was crisp and clear, just barely on the cool side, and the light breeze off the ocean felt wonderfully refreshing. I remember that there was only one other person, a crew member, in sight. He was on a lower deck, and was doing something with the anchor.

I'm not great with distances, but I'd estimate about 75 yards away, close enough for me to see clearly in the pre-dawn light, there was a really big yacht. From out of the hatch came a man carrying what appeared to be a bag. It was a bag, but not just any bag. He carried his bag to the bow of his craft, facing the rising sun, and stood there waiting. He was facing the sunrise. I was facing him and Avalon Bay beyond, where the sun's first rays, I had heard, would turn the buildings pink. That was what I had come to see. I never saw it.

My eyes were filled with tears. As the first rays of the sun crested the ocean, the gentleman on the yacht lifted his bagpipe and began to play Amazing Grace. The world stood still. The ship slept. The night owl cried in the sunrise. I had been blessed.

Riders In the Sky

John and I went to Fort Collins last night to the Lincoln Center, the closest performing arts center, where we paid a modest eight dollars each to see a wonderful concert by the cowboy band, Riders In the Sky. I got to meet Ranger Doug and the whole group afterwards. We actually talked for about ten minutes. I was amazed by how nice they all are. 

Their voices are as great on stage as they are on their records. And Ranger Doug can really hit those high notes. I've never heard anyone who can yodel like he can, and some of the kids in the audience probably tied their tonsils in knots trying to imitate him. Those gentlemen had the whole audience laughing at some of their antics, but no one could ever complain about their mastery of their instruments. They put a lot of music out from one guitar, one fiddle, one bass, and one accordion. It was a great concert. I'll be keeping the autographs I got from them right next to the ones I got from The Statler Brothers and Mark O'Connor. 

It really amazes me, how lucky I've been to have seen so many wonderful live events over the years. The only way last night could have been better would have been for Sherrie to have been here to enjoy it with us. I kept thinking about her last night, and knew she'd really have loved the show, so I was going to rush home and blog right away, but then my computer died. 

Did I panic? Of course. I've never had a Mac just die on me. It wouldn't respond to anything. It was just dead. Nothing. I diagnosed it as a dead drive. That had to be it. Luckily, I was all backed up, so wouldn't lose more than an hour, since the new system software does this automatically, and I don't even have to think about it anymore. Still, how could I live without my trusty laptop for a week while it went in for repairs? I called Sherrie and she commiserated. Then I told her about our night out and she was fittingly impressed. 

We said goodnight. I closed up the dead Mac, cleared up my desktop table, noticed the cord on the floor and absently plugged it back into the Mac, then went to bed. At about 3 a.m., I got back up and went into the living room, opened up the Mac again, and everything sprang to life. It wasn't dead. It had been unplugged long enough to drain the battery completely. I had been in the other room when the warning flashed on the screen. I came back in to a dead Mac and thought the worst. As Daddy used to say, "That'll learn you."

The White Stuff

We're up early, watching the white stuff fall from the skies. We've been praying for snow ever since returning from the smoky skies of California. When we returned, the forecast was for snow the next day, but it didn't happen here. We were really disappointed. Then the bad news was that we wouldn't be getting any for at least ten days. 

Just as we were preparing to travel up to Rocky Mountain National Park, 25 miles up the road, to get my photos for this year's Christmas Card, the forecast changed. Now it's coming down slowly, and has been since about one in the morning. We've only had about an inch so far, and the ground is still showing through in places, so I'm not ready to start shooting my masterpiece yet, but I'm hopeful. This storm comes with a confirmation of the one thing I've always known about God. He sure has a sense of humor.

It's supposed to snow until Sunday. The heaviest snowfall is expected from Saturday afternoon through the night. Well, guess what. I've finally been asked to sing in church at this Saturday evening's service. I've been practicing "No Reservation at the Inn," an old Statler Brothers song. In good weather it takes us 20 minutes to get to church. In bad weather? Well, it can be an interesting trip. And when do I want to take the photos? In the evening, when the light is on the front side of the house, just after the sun sets, so the lights show up really nicely against the snow and the house. We'll be gone before then, and darkness will be well and truly complete before we return. Laugh, God. And remind me to be careful of what I pray for, in case I might get it all on the same day.