DEB CAVANAUGH - Blog

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Gardens Galore

5/18/2018

Bleeding hearts to the left and
double daffodils below

This will be a short post today. I just finished writing a Family Blog post that could double as a regular blog post. It's my honey's birthday today, and I want to spend the rest of the day with him. But before we go out, we'll finish putting our vegetable garden in. We've already eaten some of our greens and asparagus. I've been also giving into my passion of flower gardens. I've put in a new garden behind the outdoor stage seating and have started a new garden in a new lawn section. My daughter sent me a photo of a great garden idea that I'm implementing now. I'll post a photo when it's grown in. So, today we'll put in the squash, peppers and beans - and of course, more flowers. Every year I say that I'm not going to buy more flowers, then I break my pledge. Eventually, I may run out of room, but I doubt it. I already have three new spots scoped out.
In the past, I haven't had a chance to run out of room because I moved so often. I'm hoping this has been my final move. It's my dream home. It's the perfect house and has woods and gardens, peace and quiet. We have wonderful neighbors and a great community around us. It's a getaway and a sanctuary that asks to be shared with friends and family. I don't think I've ever felt happier with my life than I do now. I've been saying that I feel lucky, but people have been helping me realize that it isn't luck. It's been hard work and lots of hardships that brought me to this wonderful place.

Being a Singer

5/11/2018

My parents often told me that I sang before I spoke. Apparently, I sang all of my words for quite a while. This is not surprising at all, if you know my upbringing. My dad came from a musical family. One of his uncles played in vaudeville, and I am lucky enough to own his tenor banjo. Another of his uncles played piano and organ in silent movie houses. My grandmother had a baby grand piano in her house and played mostly classical music on it. My brother, cousins and I loved playing underneath that piano. I especially loved it when someone was playing. Then, I was surrounded by its beautiful sound. There was always singing happening at my grandparents' house and also in ours. I don't remember ever not hearing music around the house. My dad was always singing, songs from his childhood, family favorites and more contemporary songs. By the time I was three, I was singing rounds and harmonies and soon moved to singing descants, which are counter melodies. Even my mother sang to me, out of key and making up her own melodies and lyrics, but I didn't mind. I loved it when she sang me lullabies at night.
In addition to my own family, my mother's best friend's family were also musical. They were from Scotland and sang Scottish ballads, classical and church music. They often babysat for me when I was young. "Aunt Meg" would stand me on their dining room table and have me sing to her. And, they taught me their favorite songs, which I sang with a Scottish brogue. It seemed as though everywhere I went I was surrounded by song. It was so much a part of my early life, it quickly became an integral part of my essence.
Singing got me through my hellish high school and early adulthood experiences. It was my shelter from all storms. It got me through the abuse in my family. When I sat at the piano and sang, everyone left me alone. My mom used to say that she could tell what kind of a day I'd had at school by listening to the music I played when I got home. And she could tell when it was okay to engage me by the way the music changed as I played. Music has always saved me.
I got my first paying gig when I was 16. I had been studying classical voice and was soon getting paid to do weddings and church gigs. When I met my husband in 1974, after having been gigging for quite a few years, he asked me not to sing with him because "it threw him off." I hadn't yet learned how to turn off the classical tone. His sister soon set him straight, and we became a duo. He was a great guitar player and knew a lot of songs. He also had a great stage presence, which I was lacking at that time. We had a variety of band members over the years on both the east and west coasts. We wrote songs together and sang beautiful harmonies together. But, the relationship was difficult and we eventually split up, after 20 years of marriage.
When I knew I was moving out, I stood out on my back porch and said out loud, to no one in particular, "I need a guitar. I'm getting $200 on Monday and need it to come with a case. Oh, a tuner would be nice, too." This was a Friday afternoon. I knew that if I was going to continue to perform, I would need to learn to play an instrument. I had toyed around on guitar in high school and played classical piano, but now I needed to be able to back up my main instrument - my voice. That Monday evening, our neighbor came over carrying his cousin's guitar that was for sale. He thought that since we were musicians, we might know someone who was interested. It was $200 and came with a case and a tuner. As soon as I moved out, I booked a gig and called on my friends to help out. I played some songs alone and some with friends and got through the whole night.
I've never considered myself an instrumentalist, though now I play guitar, mandolin, banjo, piano and mountain dulcimer. I'm a singer who plays a few other instruments. I've always been a singer and can't imagine not singing. I have songs for every subject and used to drive my kids crazy by singing at the mention of something completely random that reminded me of a song. I'm sure I will do that until the end of my life. When my mother had a massive stroke, and my brother and I were directed to keep her as calm and still as possible while they administered a certain medicine for over an hour, my first instinct was to start singing to her, and it worked. When she had no way to communicate because of aphasia and could no longer recognize letters or even know what they were, leaving out the possibility of pointing to letters as a means of communication, I sang all of my conversations to her. It was like being in an opera. I'd learned about this form of music therapy that rewires the brain to access language from the music side, and to a small degree, it worked. Unfortunately, the damage to her brain was so extensive, there was not a lot that could be done.
When I am sad or stressed, angry or worried, I turn to singing. Listening to music or playing an instrument doesn't have the same effect on me that singing does. Singing is in me, it is part of my core, and I don't know what I would do without it. I sang at my children's births, and I hope, when the time comes I will be singing myself into my own death. At the very least, I hope someone will sing to me or with me at the end.

Volcanos

5/6/2018

I am riveted by the major volcanic event happening right now on the island of Hawaii and am amazed by how little we are hearing about it. It's particularly poignant to me since I was living in Portland, Oregon in 1980 when Mt. St. Helens erupted. It seems that many people don't realize just how unpredictable and devasting a volcanic eruption can be. I remember watching the news and reading the papers as the north side of the mountain developed a bulge that grew larger each day. Unfortunately, there were major logging operations happening on that side, and the red zone was made much smaller than it should have been with business interests telling everyone that the mountain was sure to erupt on the other side.
In the last week of April, a 1.5-mile-diameter (2.4 km) section of St. Helens' north face was bulging outward. The false theory given by the logging companies was that the bulge would collapse in on itself causing the other side to blow out. Meanwhile, the geologists and those of us with no scientific knowledge about eruptions were sure that the bulge was the weakest point and the impending landslide would cause the mountain to blow out that way. It turned out, the geologists were right. There was a massive landslide, the largest in recorded history, that caused the mountain to finally erupt, killing 57 people with only 3 of them in the red zone.
I understand that no one could have predicted the force with which the mountain blew, but there is no excuse for marking the danger zone so carelessly. If the eruption had happened on a weekday, hundreds of loggers would have perished. The mountain had shown signs of the impending explosion starting in March with smallish earthquakes throughout March and April, building in intensity. Several small craters opened up near the top, and it finally erupted on May 18th. That was plenty of time to take the proper precautions. The governor of Washington had papers on her desk that would have extended the red zone, had she signed them in time, saving most of those lost lives, but she was occupied elsewhere. The mountain’s eruption released 24 megatons of thermal energy, 7 by the blast and the rest through the release of heat. The wave of hot mud and debris surpassed 90 miles per hour with some people barely outrunning it in their cars and others never making it out at all.

That first cloud of ash traveled east, coating mid-western states in a blanket of ash. Later smaller eruptions came our way, as the mountain worked to rebuild her dome. When the news alerted us to an eruption, we would go across the street where we had a view of the mountain and look to see which way the wind was blowing the ash. If it was coming our way, we’d rush out to the store for supplies. The ash was made up of silica, a fine sand-like substance that was similar to ground glass, and we didn’t want to be out in that. After it was all on the ground, we were instructed to wet it down with a hose and shovel it into plastic bags for removal. Breathing it could cause black lung disease. When we did have to go out, we all had filters that we wore over our noses and mouths. There were no sizes small enough to fit my son, who was only a year at the time, so I made one using an insert from a child sized mask and making my own container for it. I was often horrified to see young children outside playing in their yards wearing no protection with ash billowing up around them despite the warnings.

You also couldn’t drive when the ash was falling. It was a thick mud falling out of the sky like rain or snow. If you turned on your windshield wipers, the fine glass would scrape your windshield, but if you did nothing, you couldn’t see. It also clogged your air filter in minutes causing your car to stall. Meanwhile, on the downtown streets, there were people carrying signs warning us all to repent because it was the end of the world. I’m sorry that I never thought to take photos of our bizarre costumes and the doomsdayers or thought to save any of the ash. Now, I only have my memories. As a mother, it was very stressful trying to ensure my children’s safety and health. I have lots of volcano stories: a story about the homeless men giving me all of their spare change when I was stranded downtown as the ash started falling so that I could take shelter with my children in a café until it was over; and one about the Grateful Dead concert that ended abruptly because the mountain had erupted at the moment The Dead played “Fire On the Mountain” and, with the ash heading our way, they needed to get out of town fast. We sheltered wall to wall Deadheads in our home that night, playing music and partying until dawn.
So now I watch the news about the Hawaiian volcano with interest and trepidation. Their magma is flowing in the streets and spewing columns of molten lava up in the air. Yesterday, I read that a new crack had opened up with lava very near the shelter set up for displaced families, and I wonder why they are still that close by. I saw a video of one man holding his hand over a crack commenting on how much heat he could feel coming out of it. And I thought to myself, “Why is he standing there putting his hand where there could be a column of lava coming out at any time?” Then I realize that I may never understand people.

More Albums

4/26/2018

I took last week off, partly because I was so busy, but mostly because spring has arrived, turning my thoughts to my yard and gardens. I just couldn't tear my self away and come indoors to write. So, I hope you'll bear with me while I adjust to the nicer weather and figure out how to continue this writing while being called outside.
I started telling you about the albums that have influenced me and why. I started with Tarkio Road by Brewer and Shipley. The next one is Revolver by The Beatles. This album came out in 1966. I was 13 years-old and totally in love with The Beatles, though I was not a screaming fan like so many others. Of course, Paul was the heart throb, and he certainly was nice to look at. John was definitely a songwriting hero, but George was the one I had a crush on. I was a card-carrying member of the Beatles Fan Club and wore a velour olive green Beatles hat. I wore that hat everywhere and argued with my girlfriends about who was the better Beatle. I had a "Help" soundtrack songbook for piano and learned all of the songs from that movie. And, I had seen the movie over and over again at our neighborhood theater, where I could pay $1 and see the same movie all day long.
When Revolver came out, I was already starting to question my parents' values. Taxman and Eleanor Rigby had a profound effect on me. And, the music had suddenly changed. It was with this album that they introduced the use of studio effects to color the music. It opened my eyes in more ways than one. I loved everyone of their albums and loved hearing them grow as musicians. As a young teen, I already had a very eclectic taste in music, due to my father's influence, but The Beatles were teaching me that even within a specific genre of music, I could continue to evolve. There have been other musicians who were successful in that way too, such as Joni Mitchell, but The Beatles were the first for me. Diversity has continued to be a very important part of my music and my songwriting.
In the Facebook game, I was limited to 10 albums. It was so hard to pick. I'm not going to go into great detail for every one , but the rest of them are "Innervisions" - Stevie Wonder, "Overnight Sensation" - Frank Zappa, "Aoxomoxa" - Grateful Dead, "Low Spark of High-Heeled Boys" - Traffic, "Give it Up" - Bonnie Raitt, "4-Way Street" - Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young, "Tapestry" - Carole King and "Billie Holiday Sings" - Billie Holiday. Some of the ones that didn't make the list are Rumours by Fleetwood Mac, American Beauty by The Grateful Dead, Dreamboat Annie by Heart, Between the Lines by Janis Ian, Never Letting Go by Phoebe Snow, the self titled Rickie Lee Jones. The list could go on and on. I haven't even touched on the folk albums, Motown or the jazz and blues albums. It was almost impossible to choose only 10. And, tomorrow I might pick completely different ones. I've always said that I don't do favorites very well. It's ever-changing.

Facebook Game

4/13/2018

Like most people, I have a love/hate relationship with Facebook. I hate the lack of security, but I agreed to that. If I'm going to be on the internet, a high-speed highway for information, I'd better understand what I'm getting into, and I do love the ease of reaching a wide audience. I hate when it sucks too much of my time, but I get to choose what I spend my time on and, because it's so addictive, I've had to learn to manage my time better. That's been a huge gift. I love being in contact with a lot of my community, however, I hate the distance Facebook fosters, too. When I say distance, I'm talking about the reduced effort on all of our parts to maintain our connections. We've gotten lazy. We don't bother to pick up the phone and call a friend to make plans or see how they've been. We get regular updates. We can create events on Facebook with no need to extend a personal invitation to friends or family. It's a disturbing reality to me. The only voices I hear anymore are the people I encounter in a day. Although I do get phone calls from my kids, grand-kids and an old friend who lives a long distance away. We message each other and even have a new written slang complete with emojis. :-)
Now that I've gotten that off my chest, I also love some of the games. Not the quizzes, though they are definitely interesting, but the games that people start. Some of them are not that appealing, but once in a while, one will grab me. Currently, I'm posting 10 albums, one a day and tagging someone each day to play along. I know, I know. It's a waste of time. But, is it? It's gotten me thinking about music that I don't always think about. The game rules say there is no need to explain. I find myself wanting to say something about why I picked each one, what was their significance? Do I cover any of the songs on the albums? Do I want to? Did they help me through a rough patch? Do I still listen to them? I'm on day 7 of this game and find myself wanting to just keep posting without tagging anyone. It's been really inspirational and fun. So, I'm going to share them with you here as a blog series. Feel free to comment and tell me what albums you would choose.

Day 1: Tarkio Road - Brewer & Shipley

I was given this album by my dad before it was released. He was the editor-in-chief for our local newspaper and often brought home music, books or other things sent for review. He was a staunch Conservative Republican and huge supporter of Richard Nixon. One of his prized possessions was a photo of him shaking hands with then president Nixon. Imagine my surprise when I started listening to this album. My mom and dad, disdainful of the rock & roll of the day, probably never listened to the lyrics in "One Toke Over the Line" or maybe weren't as familiar with the term "toke" as I was. They certainly didn't listen to the lyrics in "Oh, Mommy." They would ahve been appalled!

Oh mommy
I ain't no commie
I'm just doing what I can to live the good all American...Way
It says right there in the constitution
It's really A ok to have a revolution
When the leaders that you choose
Really don't fit the shoes

Oh mister
I ain't no sister
I believe in the bill of rights come on don't you start a fight...Please
I like to wear my hair long
How can there be anything wrong
When you already 'cused me twice
Of looking like Jesus Christ Hallelujah

I'm only gettin' tired of playing Punch and Judy
I'm really half a mind to go and do my duty
Like Mr. Patrick Henry said
I got to be free or dead

Mr. Nixon
I ain't a fixin'
To speak Spanish on a plane or polish off the liberty...Bell
I just want to sit here on the shelf
And watch you finish off the place by yourself
Please let me do what I wanna
I'll just lay around the house and smoke Marijuana oohoo

It says right there in the constitution
It's really A ok to have a revolution
When the leader that you made
Just don't make the grade
Oh mommy
I ain't no commie
But I hate to bust your bubble cause there's gonna be some trouble...Soon

That song said it all to me. I was already climbing over onto the left side of the fence, and this song and others nailed it. I felt like I getting away with something important ... a covert musical operation within my ultra-conservative home. I wore this album out and bought one or two more over the course of my life. Then, my dad gave me another copy when I got an 8-track player component for my stereo. He's probably turning over in his grave now. Thanks, Dad.

Grief and Resentments

4/7/2018

I'm writing my blog posts later than usual because of a trip to Maine to visit with family over Easter and also because of unexpected delays. I've had quite a week and it's made me very reflective. On Thursday, my usual writing day, I drove 6 hours to come home and spent a good bit of that drive reminiscing, regretting and feeling very angry. It was a good cathartic thing to do, and I'm going to share some of my thoughts with you.
I have three children, all with the same man. They are now 42, 39 and 27. Their father died when our youngest was 16. It was a very quick, though not unexpected, and very gruesome lung cancer death. We were not together at the time, though he was still one of my best friends, one of my oldest friends, and we still loved each other very much. When he died, I lost the details of many shared memories. He was always the archivist but kept it all in his head. I also lost much of the music we had performed and written together since he never wrote things down, and I didn't play instruments at the time. His death shook all of us to our very core. I had never stopped loving him but couldn't live with him any longer. We were destroying each other.
Over the years, we worked together managing many dramas together, even after we had split up. It was always comforting knowing that he was there. Since his death, there have been many more dramas, some worse than either of us could have ever imagined. I've stood strong, dealing with them to the best of my ability, always wishing he was here with me throughout it all and missing him terribly. We have two sons, who have seen their share of troubles. If their dad was here, he would react very differently than me. He would have a way of talking to them that they would actually hear and respect. Not that they don't respect me, but I do it differently, not always elegantly, and I'm a woman. I don't understand how to be a man, and sometimes, that's what's needed.
Now there is turmoil again, and I feel angry. I'm angry that he left me to deal with this by myself. It wasn't meant to be this way. We made these children together and were supposed to raise them together. It is more than one person can handle. Equally, I feel broken-hearted that my children haven't had him when they've needed him the most. I've had other men in my life, but they are not their fathers. They didn't see them come into the world and know them for their entire lifetimes. They didn't have that inescapable bond that comes from welcoming your child into the world. Even adoptive parents welcome their child and experience a special bonding that comes from the anticipation and joy of finally holding their child in their arms.
When my youngest son was going through an unbelievably difficult time, many friends encouraged me to walk away. His father would not have done that. He would have understood that I could never walk away and leave him with nobody. He would never have turned his back on him. Those friends were well-meaning but many of them are childless. They couldn't possibly understand. Also, not one of my friends had ever experienced this particular trauma. Once in a while, I would encounter a stranger who had a similar experience and would encourage me to go with my gut feelings and not abandon my son. Unbeknownst to them, they saved me. I felt sad and missed his dad terribly during that time. My son recovered, and we've been working on mending our relationship, little by little, because it really is that important.
Now here I am again, but this time, I feel enraged that he neglected his health to the point that there was no recovery possible. He knew that both of his parents had cancer, yet he continued to smoke - and not just a little. He came to one of my parties once gasping for breath, walking a short distance, catching his breath then going a little further and stopping again until he reached the smoking area. He joked about the fact that he lived on coffee and cigarettes and that it would kill him someday. I didn't think it was funny, and it turned out to be all too true. He was 51 years old when he died, exactly a month to the day after having gotten his diagnosis. There was not enough time for our children to ask him questions, no time for him to arrange things, and he left me with a mess to deal with. At the time, I just rolled up my sleeves, helped him die with dignity and grace, reminding that I loved him and settled his affairs after he was gone. I did my best to help my grieving children and stuffed my own grief until a better time to let it out. And I did grieve, but now I'm furious, and
... "there's nothing left to do but smile, smile, smile."

On our wedding day, April 5th, 1975, Santa Cruz, California.

What is Your Superpower?

3/29/2018

I've been hearing a lot lately about superpowers. It must be a new thing in schools to boost self-esteem. It's come up multiple times in the past week leading me to write this post. My son mentioned that his son asked him what his superpower was. I heard it mentioned on the radio, and a young boy in one of my music classes asked me what mine was, telling me his own, too. I wasn't sure at first what everyone was talking about until I saw a billboard that read, "My superpower is ... I'm a PEF nurse." I thought, "Oh, okay. I get it now." My superpower is ... I'm a teaching musician. I know I have others, but that's the main one.
Many people don't realize how powerful that actually is. I can make people laugh or cry. I can get them to tap their feet or even move their whole bodies. I can help them find their voice, and I can help turn a terrible day around but most importantly, I can heal myself and have done that over and over again. I've said it before and will say it again, "Music saved my life." You may think I'm being over-dramatic, but I'm not. It really did ... in so many ways.
I grew up alone and afraid. I had no friends and was terrified of everything and everyone. There were some very good reasons for this, but that doesn't matter. What matters is that, when I was a child and played the piano, nothing was wrong, and I was safe. As a teen, when I became self-destructive, music and other musicians brought me around to loving life and looking forward to a long life of sharing that music with others. Music brought me friendships and love. It brought me travel and adventure. No matter what our differences, they all melt away in the presence of music. It saddens me to hear people say, "I can't sing." Or, "I'm too old to start playing an instrument now." If you can talk, you can sing. You may not feel as though you sing well, but it doesn't matter. And, you are never to old to learn an instrument. I once had a piano student who was 85 when she started. Her husband had just died, and she'd always wanted to learn to play. She learned slowly, but I filled her with praise and encouragement, and she learned to play the church music she loved. I started playing guitar when I was 40 and have learned mandolin, banjo and mountain dulcimer since then. I'm not a virtuoso, but I don't need to be, and neither do you. Making music is about having fun and sharing with others, heart-to-heart.
When I give lessons, the first thing I teach is how to play a song immediately. It may be two very simple chords, but they make up a song that you can feel good about. I don't focus on scales and theory until much later. I leave that to the better players. I like to teach the joy of playing. I like people to feel successful right away so that they continue. If they want to be a professional, then I'm not the right teacher, and I'm always very honest about that. But, if they want to have fun and be able to jam with others, I'm a good fit. That's my superpower. I can teach anyone, no matter how incapable they feel. I have limitless patience and can give tons of genuine encouragement.

So ... what is your superpower?

Relationships

3/22/2018

Over the summer, as I got busier and busier, I started reevaluating my relationships. We all know that relationships of any kind take commitment and work to keep them going. And, some relationships are more important to us than others. We have family, close friends and acquaintances. Sometimes, it's easy to be confused about our friendships, putting too much or too little into them without realizing that maybe the other person doesn't feel the same way as we do. When I started looking at that, I noticed that, in most of my friendships, I was putting most or all of the work into them. I wondered what would happen if I stopped doing that, so I stopped. As some of the people I considered close friends fell by the wayside, I was forced to look at what made me feel close to them. In some cases, it was shared experiences. In others, it was shared music. And in others, it was convenience. I realized that, although I still feel close to all of them and love them all, I was fine with not putting so much energy in and getting very little back. What really surprised me was the new relationships that grew because I had more time to put into those. A wise man once said to me, when talking about failed love relationships, "Why would I want to be with someone who doesn't want to be with me?" That is so true. I realize that many of us are so busy, we have very little time for outside friends. Maybe we're caught up in our partnerships or working a lot or fostering new relationships, and that's all fine. I don't have any hard feelings towards those who have gone in another direction. After all, we can always count on change. It's just interesting to watch the evolution of friendships and to remember that if we want to maintain them, we have to do an equal amount of the work.
Then, there are our family relationships. We don't choose our families. Some of us are very lucky and are very close to our families. Others are not so lucky. I was the black sheep of the family and always felt like the odd one out. It didn't help that I married someone that my parents hated. Although, they also didn't give him a chance. They assumed a lot of things about him, most of which were not true. For example, he did not corrupt me. I was already corrupted. And, he did not get me involved in the drug scene but rather saved me from serious addiction. Because of my marriage and the fact that I never conformed to the life they wanted for me, I was left out of many family events, even though we all lived locally. When out-of-town family came to visit, my mother would mention that they were coming at some point in the next month. Then, she would call to tell all about the wonderful visit they all had with everyone but me and my family. It was like a black hole had opened up leaving out the actual visit. One time, I called to find out when we would be celebrating my dad's birthday only to be told that, "we celebrated last night (days earlier than his actual birthday) with just the family." Now that my parents are both gone, it's very hard for me to put the energy into connecting with my siblings. It's not their fault, but too much has happened - too many times of being left out and unconsidered. In our defense, we are all making the effort now, it just doesn't come easy.
So, what is the lesson in all of these musings? I guess it's that we need to decide who's important in our lives and reach out to them regularly. After all, how much time does it take to make a quick phone call, text or email? How hard is it, if we're already planning to go out somewhere, to invite a friend to come along? I recently reminded my adult grandson, who never calls, that I won't be around forever. The older I get, the more I feel my mortality. I get tired much more easily and am looking into retirement to enjoy the time I have left. I'm not afraid of dying and never dwell on it, but I'm aware of how much I regret the time not spent with loved ones who have passed on. After the loss of his mother, my husband reminded the audience at a gig, "Go home and call your mothers." That is very sage advice for all of us. Call your mothers, fathers, siblings, grandparents, aunts and uncles, cousins and friends. And, enjoy them while you can.

Women in Music

3/15/2018

It's been quite an eventful March here in upstate New York. We currently have over two feet of snow on the ground, and we're continually getting snow showers adding to that accumulation slowly but surely. Now, I hear we're getting another nor'easter next week. Luckily for me, I love snowshoeing and, although it's been hard work keeping up the trails, I've managed to go out everyday this week and will go out later today. The woods are gorgeous in the snow. I'm amazed at how the snow highlights the shapes of the tree limbs, and there are lots of signs of wildlife, including some gruesome hunts by what I think must have been a fisher. The gardens will surely be happy with this lovely blanket covering them, but after our wonderful thaw a couple of weeks ago, I'm ready to uncover them and get to work.
The weather is not the only thing that's been eventful, though. I hosted a very successful Family Jam. The at least 100 adults in attendance and all of their children made for a lively time. The band was great, and I raised enough money to give out more scholarships in 2018. Next year will be the 10th annual Jam, and I hope to put together a memorable event to celebrate 10 years.  In addition to the Family Jam, I did the Songteller Sessions at The Altamont Free Library, which was challenging and fun, and I'm looking forward to W.A.M.M.'s (Women Are Making Music) Open Mic at The Low Beat in Albany.
It hasn't always been easy being a woman in music. I can't even count the number of times I've been discounted at studios, by sound engineers at gigs, by the press, even by band members at band practices. It gets very discouraging. Not all men behave that way, and I've been very lucky to work with mostly the more aware men. But, there are enough of them out there to make life uncomfortable for those of us trying to be in the scene.
  I was a founding member of General Eclectic and often the driving force. My husband, Paul, was outgoing and charismatic while I was shy and retiring. He went out and made the initial connections and often booked the gigs. I did the promo (posters and press releases), made the set lists, arranged the songs, found band members and set up band practices. I also pushed him to help write the songs. Later on, we had help from other members of the band, but in the beginning, it was just the two of us. Music has always been important to me, and I was determined to work at it. He got credit for everything we accomplished because he was so gregarious. When we got a scathing review in one of the local papers, they focused mainly on me, barely mentioning the band. "The aging hippie lead singer looked like a milking cow and sang like a cat in heat."
  In my younger days, I had a much wider vocal range and could hit very high notes with a lot of force. I needed the volume to hit those notes. I always tried to warn the sound engineers so they could adjust the levels on my mic, though I always leaned away from the mics anyway. They always sneered and often laughed it off. At first, I got a kick out of watching them scramble to the board when those notes came, but after a while it just got annoying.
  When General Eclectic ended and Paul and I split up, I jumped into the folk scene with my next partner. I thought it had to be different. I thought rock & rollers were callous and chauvinistic, but folk singers had to be more sensitive, right? It was not really very different, though with the passage of time, things have gotten much better. I remember seeing the promo photo for a folk band featuring a woman whose name was even used as part of the band name. The photo had her in the background while her husband was prominently featured. And, this was the folk scene. Did no one else notice what was wrong? Recently, I had an interaction with three youngish rock & rollers. I've noticed that most of the younger generation is doing much better in this area, but these guys were probably in their 30s or 40s. Out of the three, one was cordial. The others mostly ignored me, even though it was a conversation about music in the area and in general. I've been a working musician for almost 50 years and have worked in blues, jazz, wedding bands, rock & roll, folk and children's music. I've performed and taught, creating specialized workshops and writing songs on demand for specific events. It seems to me that should count for something. I'm really hoping people will come out and support women's music. We've worked long and hard.

A Feeling of Belonging (May 2016)

3/1/2018

Once again, I'm posting an older memoir piece. Life has been so busy with music events, I've had little time to think about new pieces, and I haven't shared many of the older ones, yet. I started writing short memoirs because friends kept encouraging me to write my life story. I tried a few times, but the task seemed so overwhelming, I never got very far. Sometimes, I didn't even start, being stumped by, "Where, and how, do I start?" Should I start at the beginning, with my birth and early childhood. That felt so boring. Should I start in my early adulthood? That would leave out all the important background info. With these short pieces, I get to start in different places and don't feel overwhelmed by the sheer volume of stories. So, here you go ... hope you enjoy it.

As a child, I was one of those who believed I must have been switched at birth. I never felt as though I belonged with my birth family. In elementary school and in the two neighborhoods we lived in, I always felt out of the loop, struggled to try to fit in and failed miserably. I settled for a friend or two here and there out of sheer loneliness, but I never fully connected with any of them. In Junior High School, I finally found a few real friends. One of them, I’m still connected to, having lunch together once a month. But my parents, not liking these new friends and probably sensing that I was heading in a direction they didn’t like, took me out of public school and enrolled me in an uppity private Catholic school, where I spent the next four years in complete isolation.
College was a disaster, and I lasted for only one semester before getting kicked out. I went home, tail between my legs, and tried even harder to fit in, to no avail. I finally met Paul, another lost soul like myself, and I no longer wondered what was wrong with me. After a year together, we hitchhiked around the country and landed in San Francisco at “Project One,” an artist commune in the warehouse district of the city. For the first time in my life, I felt at home. Here, I was accepted as I was with no predetermined expectations. The only requirements to live there were: You had to be in the arts, which was very loosely defined, and you had to be unanimously voted in at a weekly meeting. I was very nervous and sure I’d be shunned as I had always been in the past. Remember, I had always been the weirdo. Imagine my surprise when we were both accepted.
Project One was an old canning factory/warehouse that had been taken over by hippies, gutted and rented out by the square foot. Once you rented your space, you were free to put up any walls or barriers that you chose. We lived in a smaller commune within the large commune. With a little over 60 residents, the place was filled with visual artists, performance artists, musicians, writers and more. I became involved in radical politics, learned about alternative education, discovered natural and organic foods, had my first experience with nudism and, in general, had my eyes opened very wide. This place was completely foreign to everything I’d ever known, and for the first time in my life, I finally felt like I belonged. There was a beautiful woman who decided to work as a highly paid call girl for one year to raise enough money to go to the art school of her dreams, which she successfully and safely did. There was the crazy collector/dumpster diver who knew I was pregnant before I did and offered to buy my baby. There was the genius engineer who was building an airplane in the basement of the building out of scrounged parts the collector helped him find, and there were the radical politicos involved in helping hide Patty Hearst in plain view of the police station while trying to set up a consolidation convention with the other diverse radical groups that included the Black Panthers and SDS. We were all oddballs, and I may have been the least odd of them all. In those early days, I was a little disturbed that my friends consisted of freaks and outcasts. As time went by though, I started looking at the status quo as the real freaks.
As bizarre as this may sound, I also have to credit LSD with some of my sense of belonging. The first time I dropped acid, I felt an invisible but very strong thread of connection, not only with the other people there, but with the entire cosmic universe. It was so strong and all-encompassing, I cried. This is exactly what I had been missing and had longed for my whole life. I was relieved when, after sleeping off the after effects. I maintained that feeling of deep connection. A lot of people find that same sense of connection through meditation, which is certainly safer.
Over the years, I’ve noticed that I’m most strongly attracted to other outcasts. They are not always artists, but they are all people who, as young people, felt alienated from normal society as I did. They are the ones who knew instinctively that something was very wrong and wondered why no one else seemed to notice. Now I celebrate the fact that my community, my chosen family, is a tribe of misfits. We are interesting, quirky and fun, and thankfully, we have each other.