This is no joke! Don’t forget! The second convening of the Riverside Ukulele Freedom Front will take place on April Fool’s Day from 1 PM to 3 PM in the Gallery (i.e. basement) of Back to the Grind, located at 3575 University Avenue in Riverside, California.
Proposed Hidden Agenda:
12:49--1:00 Arrival of Dignitaries on Red Carpet
1:00--1:01 Tuning and facial exercises
1:01--1:03 Opening beffudlement
1:03--1:05 Return to decorum
1:05--2:59 Make beautiful music together
2:59--3:00 Closing Pie Fight
Bring your ukes, your music stands, a thirst for froo-froo caffeinated beverages, AND a song that you have been working on and/or a song that you would like to add to the RULF Hymnal.
In honor of the holiday, a silly hat would also be appropriate.
See you there!
Sunday, March 18, 2007
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
Pictures of the Riverside Ukulele Liberation Front Maiden Voyage
Well, links to pictures, any way. Try this link. Sue left before we took the group photo.
Sunday, March 04, 2007
Rio de Nada Ukulele Liberation Front Maiden Voyage
The anticipation of this whole thing consumed me as the ,moment of truth arrived, but the RULF had its first Ukulele Circle today in the dank basement (or "gallery") of Back to the Grind, a local coffee house. We thought at first this venue might be too depressing, but it turned out just fine.
We had a dozen attendees, nine uke players, 3 significant others who came to listen. Ukers present included Billy C, UF, E Barr of UCR, Blowhard Canary, his doppelganger Liam, Do, Susie H, Chuckster from R-So-So, and myself. Among the listeners: Vivage, E Barr's wife Karen and Liam the Doppelganger's mother.
The playlist: Blow the Man Down, Boil that Cabbage Down, Camptown Races, The Crawdad Hole, Quinn the Eskimo, The Midnight Special, and several others I have forgotten. I selected mostly easy songs because I wasn't sure what level of players we would have. Each attendee played a song or two he or she had been working on. They all performed well. Chuckster gets the nod of the day for playing a song by Devo called "Mongoloid."
Among the colorful details: Once in awhile someone would come down to the gallery for their own purposes, give us a look, grimace, and walk up back the stairs; a speed freak came and listened and I think he liked us but it was hard to tell because nothing he said was coherent.
Totally bitchen afternoon, as far as I'm concerned.
We had a dozen attendees, nine uke players, 3 significant others who came to listen. Ukers present included Billy C, UF, E Barr of UCR, Blowhard Canary, his doppelganger Liam, Do, Susie H, Chuckster from R-So-So, and myself. Among the listeners: Vivage, E Barr's wife Karen and Liam the Doppelganger's mother.
The playlist: Blow the Man Down, Boil that Cabbage Down, Camptown Races, The Crawdad Hole, Quinn the Eskimo, The Midnight Special, and several others I have forgotten. I selected mostly easy songs because I wasn't sure what level of players we would have. Each attendee played a song or two he or she had been working on. They all performed well. Chuckster gets the nod of the day for playing a song by Devo called "Mongoloid."
Among the colorful details: Once in awhile someone would come down to the gallery for their own purposes, give us a look, grimace, and walk up back the stairs; a speed freak came and listened and I think he liked us but it was hard to tell because nothing he said was coherent.
Totally bitchen afternoon, as far as I'm concerned.
Thursday, March 01, 2007
Rio Nada Ukulele Liberation Front
This Sunday, Billy C and I are hosting Rio Nada's first ukulele circle. At least that I know of. I've sent out e-mails to parties I thought would be interested and he forwarded each of them to parties he thought would be interested. There are eight to ten people we know of who could show.
My plan is to run off some simple songs that we can all play together. I've asked everyone to bing a three-ring binder in which to put the songs. We're going to number them and call it our "Hymnal." Each week, ukesters will be free to bring new songs to add to it.
At this meeting, we willcollect e-mail addresses and names and the like and get it set up.
This week, I talked to UF at school and he said that word might have gotten around to even more people than I was aware of. So, it could be a bigger group than I had anticipated.
Anyway, I'm excited about this.
My plan is to run off some simple songs that we can all play together. I've asked everyone to bing a three-ring binder in which to put the songs. We're going to number them and call it our "Hymnal." Each week, ukesters will be free to bring new songs to add to it.
At this meeting, we willcollect e-mail addresses and names and the like and get it set up.
This week, I talked to UF at school and he said that word might have gotten around to even more people than I was aware of. So, it could be a bigger group than I had anticipated.
Anyway, I'm excited about this.
I Turn 53
I celebrated my 53rd birthday Tuesday. Got a phone call from Billy C and Princess C singing(?) to me. The rain and the traffic almost made me late.
Two girls in my first period gave me a Disney Princess gift bag full of inappropriate gifts: a pair of pink socks, a pair of used non-perscription glasses with greasy lenses, a scrubbing stone for her, and a card of this old guy mooning the camera but he's so old you can't tell where his ass crack is. They got a kick out of it.
Another class sang me happy birthday and two girls baked me a cake. They also gave me a hand-made card signed by all of my students. One of the girls decorated. She drew a stick-figure me playing my uke. On another page, she pasted my head on Superman's body. Funny.
My 7th period 9th grade class gave me the gift of not being too squirrelly, God bless 'em.
Two girls in my first period gave me a Disney Princess gift bag full of inappropriate gifts: a pair of pink socks, a pair of used non-perscription glasses with greasy lenses, a scrubbing stone for her, and a card of this old guy mooning the camera but he's so old you can't tell where his ass crack is. They got a kick out of it.
Another class sang me happy birthday and two girls baked me a cake. They also gave me a hand-made card signed by all of my students. One of the girls decorated. She drew a stick-figure me playing my uke. On another page, she pasted my head on Superman's body. Funny.
My 7th period 9th grade class gave me the gift of not being too squirrelly, God bless 'em.
Saturday, February 17, 2007
Piano
We are trying to get Mama C's house empty so we can either rent it or sell it, thus increasing her income for the years ahead, as her need for care increases.
Part of the process has been for her to give each of us items that should stay in the family for one reason or another. My sister got some china. My brother got Papa C's old tool chest--an old wooden chest--not a Sears and Roebuck tool chest filled with Craftsmen tools. Dad was a machinist and these are specialized tools that none of us could ever use. But it's a part of him. The first time I opened it after Papa C died, I was surprised to find three pictures fixed inside: one of Mama C, one of Pamela C, and one of his pal Clarence Matthews.
Clarence is a story unto himself--he has reached legendary status in our family and I would need my Papa C here to embellish the stories with dialog and other details.
But, I digress.
I got the piano. Mama C's upright piano. Right now, it sits in my living room near the sliding glass door, but well out of the way of incoming sun. Atop center sits old clock that, the last time I heard, sounded the time increasingly out of tune with each passing hour. Next to that, I have a framed photo of Mama and Papa dashing out of the church on their wedding day, their faces alight with smiles and youthful energy. To the left of the clock is my Oscar Schmidt uke and the last portrait of Papa C taken by Mama C's cousin Jimmy Rose.
There is another picture I am tempted to dig out and put on it--one of a young Mama C as a teenager sitting at the same piano in her parents home. The same clock is there--as is a bust of Beethoven. This is from her days as a young singer of local notoriety. The piano still looks new, as does she.
The piano I have still has a fine tone. But it looks a little worse for the wear. Along its once-perfect smile of a keyboard, one key sits broken like a missing tooth. The tapestry that once protected the insides from dust is torn (I don't know what this is called, but it is tacked behind the carved face board of the piano and was once made of beautiful fabric. I've googled for images that might show you what this looks like, but can't find any).
I made many of those tears as a small child. I imagine I found and imperfection and began exploring it. In spite of Mama C's pleas to leave it alone, I still explored the tears when I found myself alone with the piano. Why? The same reason I drew on the newly painted walls of my bedroom or ate the paper wrapping from the cupcakes Mama C bought from the Helms Bakery truck.
So, while I don't play the piano, it is a part of my history.
While most of the memories of Mama C accompanying herself on piano blend together into one, two stand out for me. The first comes from my childhood, when Billy C was a tween and I was probably in 5th grade. I think Papa C and Billy C were arguing over something--hair, friends, whatever. 'Midst the din, Mama C inexplicably started playing loudly and singing a song hymn and when she got to the refrain, got up and patting Papa C's chest, sang loudly "Bless this house firm and stout!" Or something like that.
The other was right after Papa C died. She was sitting alone in the living room (I was in the den), playing a song they had heard when they went through Marriage Encounter together.
Part of the process has been for her to give each of us items that should stay in the family for one reason or another. My sister got some china. My brother got Papa C's old tool chest--an old wooden chest--not a Sears and Roebuck tool chest filled with Craftsmen tools. Dad was a machinist and these are specialized tools that none of us could ever use. But it's a part of him. The first time I opened it after Papa C died, I was surprised to find three pictures fixed inside: one of Mama C, one of Pamela C, and one of his pal Clarence Matthews.
Clarence is a story unto himself--he has reached legendary status in our family and I would need my Papa C here to embellish the stories with dialog and other details.
But, I digress.
I got the piano. Mama C's upright piano. Right now, it sits in my living room near the sliding glass door, but well out of the way of incoming sun. Atop center sits old clock that, the last time I heard, sounded the time increasingly out of tune with each passing hour. Next to that, I have a framed photo of Mama and Papa dashing out of the church on their wedding day, their faces alight with smiles and youthful energy. To the left of the clock is my Oscar Schmidt uke and the last portrait of Papa C taken by Mama C's cousin Jimmy Rose.
There is another picture I am tempted to dig out and put on it--one of a young Mama C as a teenager sitting at the same piano in her parents home. The same clock is there--as is a bust of Beethoven. This is from her days as a young singer of local notoriety. The piano still looks new, as does she.
The piano I have still has a fine tone. But it looks a little worse for the wear. Along its once-perfect smile of a keyboard, one key sits broken like a missing tooth. The tapestry that once protected the insides from dust is torn (I don't know what this is called, but it is tacked behind the carved face board of the piano and was once made of beautiful fabric. I've googled for images that might show you what this looks like, but can't find any).
I made many of those tears as a small child. I imagine I found and imperfection and began exploring it. In spite of Mama C's pleas to leave it alone, I still explored the tears when I found myself alone with the piano. Why? The same reason I drew on the newly painted walls of my bedroom or ate the paper wrapping from the cupcakes Mama C bought from the Helms Bakery truck.
So, while I don't play the piano, it is a part of my history.
While most of the memories of Mama C accompanying herself on piano blend together into one, two stand out for me. The first comes from my childhood, when Billy C was a tween and I was probably in 5th grade. I think Papa C and Billy C were arguing over something--hair, friends, whatever. 'Midst the din, Mama C inexplicably started playing loudly and singing a song hymn and when she got to the refrain, got up and patting Papa C's chest, sang loudly "Bless this house firm and stout!" Or something like that.
The other was right after Papa C died. She was sitting alone in the living room (I was in the den), playing a song they had heard when they went through Marriage Encounter together.
Friday, February 09, 2007
More Reflections on Patti Smith's "The Jackson Song"
Vivage had mentioned that she first heard this song when she was prego with Blowhard Canary. That's when I heard it too, while I lived in their house with them. Billy C had a radio show on a local college station. I rarely listened to it on my car radio because the reception was iffy. But I did one time while driving around UCR shortly after the child prodigy's birth and just caught the end of this show, where Billy dedicated this song to his new infink son.
I think now that it might need a female voice singing the lead (Princess?) with the boys' lush harmony wafting in the background. There's a line about seeing a hero's wing and thinking of daddy followed by a line about a nestled wing and thinking of mommy that just sounds better coming from a female.
I supposed you could juggle that part around somehow, if you had to. Plus, there are plenty of songs out there written and sung by men where the persona is a woman.
I think now that it might need a female voice singing the lead (Princess?) with the boys' lush harmony wafting in the background. There's a line about seeing a hero's wing and thinking of daddy followed by a line about a nestled wing and thinking of mommy that just sounds better coming from a female.
I supposed you could juggle that part around somehow, if you had to. Plus, there are plenty of songs out there written and sung by men where the persona is a woman.
Thursday, February 08, 2007
Now to Change the Subject
How do you like my Google upgraded blog?
UF recently advised me not to be so dependent on tabs and songbooks, but to just listen to my heart and let the chords of new songs find their way there or some complicated sappy metaphysical crap like that.
But, hey, I think it works. I've got two new tunes that I am figuring out based on his advice.
Do had suggested a song, "Tiki Torches at Twilight" by David Lindley and, when I tried to get it on Chordie.com, I couldn't find it. So I just bought it on I tunes (both the David Lindley version and the Petty Booka version) and just listened. Then, I began to sing along and figure where it was in my vocal range and, relative to that, I think I got most of the chords figured out.
Then, I got a hankerin' to learn a Patti Smith tune, "The Jackson Song." But Chordie was also pretty chintzy with Patti Smith tunes. I found this odd, because awhile back I'm sure I found a load of Patti Smith tunes on some guitar tab site and now I found chordie was packing light, as was every other tab site I could find. Dunno. Funny thing: One of the Patti Smith tunes was actually the Patti Smyth tune "Good-bye to You." I thought the Chordie guys were hipper than that.
Anyway, I did the same thing with that song--more easily, because I am more familiar with Patti Smith's work and know kind of where her vocal range is and what chord progressions she uses a lot. So I am a little pleased with myself tonight.
Anyway, I want to learn "Tiki Torches." I think "The Jackson Song" would be a good Canary song with Billy C on the lead because he's a father and with Blowhard and me coming in with some fine harmonies (and Princess as well?).
Those of you who are thinking what the F**K! Patti Smith? Harmonies? Listen to this song. It's on the Dream of Life album.
UF recently advised me not to be so dependent on tabs and songbooks, but to just listen to my heart and let the chords of new songs find their way there or some complicated sappy metaphysical crap like that.
But, hey, I think it works. I've got two new tunes that I am figuring out based on his advice.
Do had suggested a song, "Tiki Torches at Twilight" by David Lindley and, when I tried to get it on Chordie.com, I couldn't find it. So I just bought it on I tunes (both the David Lindley version and the Petty Booka version) and just listened. Then, I began to sing along and figure where it was in my vocal range and, relative to that, I think I got most of the chords figured out.
Then, I got a hankerin' to learn a Patti Smith tune, "The Jackson Song." But Chordie was also pretty chintzy with Patti Smith tunes. I found this odd, because awhile back I'm sure I found a load of Patti Smith tunes on some guitar tab site and now I found chordie was packing light, as was every other tab site I could find. Dunno. Funny thing: One of the Patti Smith tunes was actually the Patti Smyth tune "Good-bye to You." I thought the Chordie guys were hipper than that.
Anyway, I did the same thing with that song--more easily, because I am more familiar with Patti Smith's work and know kind of where her vocal range is and what chord progressions she uses a lot. So I am a little pleased with myself tonight.
Anyway, I want to learn "Tiki Torches." I think "The Jackson Song" would be a good Canary song with Billy C on the lead because he's a father and with Blowhard and me coming in with some fine harmonies (and Princess as well?).
Those of you who are thinking what the F**K! Patti Smith? Harmonies? Listen to this song. It's on the Dream of Life album.
Sunday, February 04, 2007
A Mighty Wind
I've told most people this story, but those of you who don't live around here shouldn't be cheated.
My friend PJ's mother died just before Christmas. They held off on the memorial service until shortly after the holidays.
Like my friend Do, PJ's family does not adhere to tradition when it comes to celebrating a life. Where Do and her family take a musical approach, PJ and his family prefer a lot of speaking. A harpist provided music and PJ's vegan friend Dick provided guitar and raspy singing, but testimonials ruled the day.
Cut to the chase: As PJ closed the memorial, he asked that we all stand for a moment of silence in honor of his mother--that we pray, meditate, or just think of our favorite memory of his mother. Just as the crowd fell silent, someone released a hushed but potent fart--loud enough for only a few of us to hear. I looked up and met the startled gazes of four or five others--all of whom immediately averted their eyes back into meditation mode. I felt the urge to giggle, but suppressed it.
PJ ended the moment by saying "Now we hope you hold your memories of Mom gently in your heart."
Again, as if paid to do this on cue, the phantom farter released again.
This time, I kept my head bowed and I chuckled quietly. I couldn't help it.
My friend PJ's mother died just before Christmas. They held off on the memorial service until shortly after the holidays.
Like my friend Do, PJ's family does not adhere to tradition when it comes to celebrating a life. Where Do and her family take a musical approach, PJ and his family prefer a lot of speaking. A harpist provided music and PJ's vegan friend Dick provided guitar and raspy singing, but testimonials ruled the day.
Cut to the chase: As PJ closed the memorial, he asked that we all stand for a moment of silence in honor of his mother--that we pray, meditate, or just think of our favorite memory of his mother. Just as the crowd fell silent, someone released a hushed but potent fart--loud enough for only a few of us to hear. I looked up and met the startled gazes of four or five others--all of whom immediately averted their eyes back into meditation mode. I felt the urge to giggle, but suppressed it.
PJ ended the moment by saying "Now we hope you hold your memories of Mom gently in your heart."
Again, as if paid to do this on cue, the phantom farter released again.
This time, I kept my head bowed and I chuckled quietly. I couldn't help it.
Monday, January 29, 2007
Jim's Farewell
Saturday, Donita and family honored Jim's memory with a party celebrating his life. Yeah, that's the way to do it. No church. No ceremony. No formality. Just opportunities for everyone to honor Jim in their way. Jim and Donita come from musical families, so there was lots of music.
Jim's bro and cousin ran things, along with Donita of course.
They encouraged people to tell Jim stories. Those of us who played instruments performed. Jim loved progressive rock, so I played "I've Seen All Good People/Your Move" by Yes on my uke (minus the "I've Seen All Good People" part. The afternoon was chilly and I had a hard time getting my fingers to move, but I got through it. Soon after, the Canaries joined me on stage and we did our Dylan repertoire, with Blowhard Canary on vocal and Billy C and I on ukes and harmonies. The youngster's voice is really becoming more confident. I think he will shape up to be a fine singer. I think he can hit lower low notes than his father.
Many other people sang and played including both sides of the family: with both TV's Kyle and the Jimmy Jammers (Jim's band with Do, daughter, and Daughter's boyfriend), Casual Sunday (Jim's band with Bro and Do), and various other musicians and singers Jim has performed with.
Jim's keyboard was missed in every sense of the word. But he would be so proud of his family. He was a guy for whom music was life.
Do and a friend sang this sea shanty that Jim used to play with them. It was beautiful and and brought tears to everyone's eyes. Wish I could remember the title. I know it was written in the early 20th century in the traditional way.
A lot of people I had known once as teenagers were there, looking to me more like their own parents.
People mingled. Some found their own corners to sit and mourn.
Jim, you were a much-loved man.
Jim's bro and cousin ran things, along with Donita of course.
They encouraged people to tell Jim stories. Those of us who played instruments performed. Jim loved progressive rock, so I played "I've Seen All Good People/Your Move" by Yes on my uke (minus the "I've Seen All Good People" part. The afternoon was chilly and I had a hard time getting my fingers to move, but I got through it. Soon after, the Canaries joined me on stage and we did our Dylan repertoire, with Blowhard Canary on vocal and Billy C and I on ukes and harmonies. The youngster's voice is really becoming more confident. I think he will shape up to be a fine singer. I think he can hit lower low notes than his father.
Many other people sang and played including both sides of the family: with both TV's Kyle and the Jimmy Jammers (Jim's band with Do, daughter, and Daughter's boyfriend), Casual Sunday (Jim's band with Bro and Do), and various other musicians and singers Jim has performed with.
Jim's keyboard was missed in every sense of the word. But he would be so proud of his family. He was a guy for whom music was life.
Do and a friend sang this sea shanty that Jim used to play with them. It was beautiful and and brought tears to everyone's eyes. Wish I could remember the title. I know it was written in the early 20th century in the traditional way.
A lot of people I had known once as teenagers were there, looking to me more like their own parents.
People mingled. Some found their own corners to sit and mourn.
Jim, you were a much-loved man.
Sunday, January 21, 2007
To Honor Jim
I browsed my blog last night, looking for comments from Jim. One of his last comments was a request that I post the recipe for my semi-healthy chocolate chip cookie recipe. So, Jim, this is for you.
1/2 cup unsalted butter
3/4 cups lightly-packed brown sugar
2 to three egg whites, beaten stiff
1 teaspoon vanilla
1/2 cup nonfat milk
2 cups whole wheat flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 cup or more (preferably more) chocolate chips
3/4 cups chopped peanuts
1 cup sunflower seeds
Preheat oven to 375 degrees. In a large bowl, cream together butter and sugar. Add egg whites, vanilla, milk and beat until fluffy. Stir together flour and baking soda. Add wet ingredients. Stir in chocolate chips, peanuts, and seeds. Drop by teaspoonfuls onto a greased baking sheet and bake until browned, 10 to 15 minutes.
Tips:
I'm not sure why, but these cookies often have little green flecks in them after baking. I think this is from the flour. But I haven't died from eating these yet, so it's not anything poisonous.
To maximize sweetness, use salt-free ingredients whenever possible.
Instead of brown sugar, try date sugar. You can find this in most health food stores. It makes the cookies sweeter and is better for you if you are diabetic.
Instead of wheat flour, try brown rice or amarinth flour.
I call these semi-healthy because the combination of nuts, seeds, and flower makes a complete protein. Also, I recently read where dark chocolate has some sort of health benefits.
Also, I don't always go to the trouble of beating the egg whites until stiff, but the cookies still come out fine.
These cookies are not as sweet as regular chocolate chip cookies. They have a unique, mild flavor. Anyone who has ever tried them, regardless of their eating habits, has loved them. In fact, when I take them to potlucks and put them with the desserts, theirs is the first plate to empty.
1/2 cup unsalted butter
3/4 cups lightly-packed brown sugar
2 to three egg whites, beaten stiff
1 teaspoon vanilla
1/2 cup nonfat milk
2 cups whole wheat flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 cup or more (preferably more) chocolate chips
3/4 cups chopped peanuts
1 cup sunflower seeds
Preheat oven to 375 degrees. In a large bowl, cream together butter and sugar. Add egg whites, vanilla, milk and beat until fluffy. Stir together flour and baking soda. Add wet ingredients. Stir in chocolate chips, peanuts, and seeds. Drop by teaspoonfuls onto a greased baking sheet and bake until browned, 10 to 15 minutes.
Tips:
I'm not sure why, but these cookies often have little green flecks in them after baking. I think this is from the flour. But I haven't died from eating these yet, so it's not anything poisonous.
To maximize sweetness, use salt-free ingredients whenever possible.
Instead of brown sugar, try date sugar. You can find this in most health food stores. It makes the cookies sweeter and is better for you if you are diabetic.
Instead of wheat flour, try brown rice or amarinth flour.
I call these semi-healthy because the combination of nuts, seeds, and flower makes a complete protein. Also, I recently read where dark chocolate has some sort of health benefits.
Also, I don't always go to the trouble of beating the egg whites until stiff, but the cookies still come out fine.
These cookies are not as sweet as regular chocolate chip cookies. They have a unique, mild flavor. Anyone who has ever tried them, regardless of their eating habits, has loved them. In fact, when I take them to potlucks and put them with the desserts, theirs is the first plate to empty.
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
Jim
Donita's Blog isn't up to date as of this posting, but you can go there to get the details of what happened. Her husband, Jim, had a bad stroke Sunday night and it looks like he won't make it.
This is one of those times where you search for the words that make sense. The wise realize that there are no words.
Donita called me with the update, after a more positive call on Monday.
Jim is one of those people who has this sweet nature and you just wouldn't want anything for him but a long, happy life. He is one of those rare individuals who is possessed by his music. When he plays his keyboard, he becomes the music and he seems to be able to fill in on anything you throw at him. He and Donita are two people who together are a vortex of creative passion.
I love them both and, as is my nature, I hold on to hope, but it looks very bad right now.
Just love your life people. Love your life. Each day is a gift.
This is one of those times where you search for the words that make sense. The wise realize that there are no words.
Donita called me with the update, after a more positive call on Monday.
Jim is one of those people who has this sweet nature and you just wouldn't want anything for him but a long, happy life. He is one of those rare individuals who is possessed by his music. When he plays his keyboard, he becomes the music and he seems to be able to fill in on anything you throw at him. He and Donita are two people who together are a vortex of creative passion.
I love them both and, as is my nature, I hold on to hope, but it looks very bad right now.
Just love your life people. Love your life. Each day is a gift.
Tuesday, December 26, 2006
Christmas
Merry Christmas. Technically, it's the day after Christmas. My brother's family gave me a collection of poems of Rumi. I like his poetry quite a bit. Or should I say the translations of his poetry that I have read.
The title of the book is A Year with Rumi. Since Rumi has been dead for a few centuries now, you can't take the title literally. The book is arranged with one poem per day.
The poem for December 25th:
The Population of the World
Christ is the population of the world,
and every object as well. There is no room
for hypocrisy. Why use bitter soup for healing,
when sweet water is everywhere?
Discuss.
The title of the book is A Year with Rumi. Since Rumi has been dead for a few centuries now, you can't take the title literally. The book is arranged with one poem per day.
The poem for December 25th:
The Population of the World
Christ is the population of the world,
and every object as well. There is no room
for hypocrisy. Why use bitter soup for healing,
when sweet water is everywhere?
Discuss.
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Tamales and Pepperkaker
One of the fringe benefits of being a teacher is around the holidays, when some students do little things to let you know they appreciate you. One of the fringe benefits of teaching at a school with a large Hispanic population is that sometimes they show you their appreciation through authentic cuisine.
One time, at my night class, I mentioned the word "tamale" for some reason. The following class meeting, a nice woman in the back row brought me two tamales from her own kitchen. The night after that, the nice lady next to her brought me four. Soon, I was getting tamales of every flavor on a regular basis. Since I don't make tamales, I was in heaven for the rest of the semester.
One thing I discovered about tamales is that they take a long time to make and are a family affair. And, as with all traditions, making tamales provides a link that goes back many generations and is a primal act of love. Giving people food is one of the most intimate things you can do. So is preparing a dish that takes this much time. Nothin' says lovin' like tamales.
Likewise, in my family tradition, nothin' says lovin' like pepperkaker.
My Aunt Margaret made pepperkaker every Christmas for her three brothers and five brothers-in-law. We cousins all looked forward to this because these were some fine cookies. You could find them in stores if you looked hard and their were other home recipes. But nobody made them like Margaret. Her pepperkaker were potato-chip thin with just enough spicy bite.
Her sisters claimed that, whenever she shared the recipe with anyone, she always left out one ingredient so that no one would ever make them exactly like hers.
As each of her nephews turned eighteen, she made pepperkaker for them also. But we had a big family and, as she got older, the portions got smaller. I never had the luxury of my own coffee can full of pepperkaker, but I relished the pepperkaker I did get. I haven't had a pepperkaker in years--not one of Margaret's anyway--but I can still smell the ginger aroma as my dad first opened the lid of his coffee can and I can still taste the ginger and hear the snap as I bit into one.
I used to make these quasi-healthy chocolate chip cookies that I would pass around every Christmas. They aren't sugary sweet like most others. I adapted this recipe from one I found in Diet for a Small Planet. They have a balance of vegetable protein and complex carbohydrates. When I found out I was diabetic, I adapted the recipe by using date sugar instead of brown sugar and using salt-free butter.
I haven't made them in awhile, but I'm thinking I might revive this tradition.
One time, at my night class, I mentioned the word "tamale" for some reason. The following class meeting, a nice woman in the back row brought me two tamales from her own kitchen. The night after that, the nice lady next to her brought me four. Soon, I was getting tamales of every flavor on a regular basis. Since I don't make tamales, I was in heaven for the rest of the semester.
One thing I discovered about tamales is that they take a long time to make and are a family affair. And, as with all traditions, making tamales provides a link that goes back many generations and is a primal act of love. Giving people food is one of the most intimate things you can do. So is preparing a dish that takes this much time. Nothin' says lovin' like tamales.
Likewise, in my family tradition, nothin' says lovin' like pepperkaker.
My Aunt Margaret made pepperkaker every Christmas for her three brothers and five brothers-in-law. We cousins all looked forward to this because these were some fine cookies. You could find them in stores if you looked hard and their were other home recipes. But nobody made them like Margaret. Her pepperkaker were potato-chip thin with just enough spicy bite.
Her sisters claimed that, whenever she shared the recipe with anyone, she always left out one ingredient so that no one would ever make them exactly like hers.
As each of her nephews turned eighteen, she made pepperkaker for them also. But we had a big family and, as she got older, the portions got smaller. I never had the luxury of my own coffee can full of pepperkaker, but I relished the pepperkaker I did get. I haven't had a pepperkaker in years--not one of Margaret's anyway--but I can still smell the ginger aroma as my dad first opened the lid of his coffee can and I can still taste the ginger and hear the snap as I bit into one.
I used to make these quasi-healthy chocolate chip cookies that I would pass around every Christmas. They aren't sugary sweet like most others. I adapted this recipe from one I found in Diet for a Small Planet. They have a balance of vegetable protein and complex carbohydrates. When I found out I was diabetic, I adapted the recipe by using date sugar instead of brown sugar and using salt-free butter.
I haven't made them in awhile, but I'm thinking I might revive this tradition.
Thursday, November 30, 2006
Open Mike
We missed the last three open mikes. I felt I had to go this last one. All three Canaries performed separately.
As we entered, Blowhard was greeted like a rock star. He played "It's All Over Now Baby Blue." Billy C
played Frank Zappa's "What's the Ugliest Part of Your Body?" after the first tune.
Each act now gets only 5 minutes, so I only sang Curtis Eller's
"Buster Keaton." People liked the song. I actually pluck instead of strum on this one.
There is an invitational open mike in December. Some folk grumbled about not being invited--and I agree that there is something un-open about an invitational open mike. We got an invite, so what the hey?
I'm not sure when we're going to get to rehearse.
On a sad note: While my first day back after Thanksgiving break was a good one, it ended on a very sad note. My colleague informed me at the end of the day that he had learned that a former student of ours had lost her mother and father in a collision with a drunk driver. She and her sister (also a former student of mine) were riding in the car.
What can you say?
As we entered, Blowhard was greeted like a rock star. He played "It's All Over Now Baby Blue." Billy C
played Frank Zappa's "What's the Ugliest Part of Your Body?" after the first tune.
Each act now gets only 5 minutes, so I only sang Curtis Eller's
"Buster Keaton." People liked the song. I actually pluck instead of strum on this one.
There is an invitational open mike in December. Some folk grumbled about not being invited--and I agree that there is something un-open about an invitational open mike. We got an invite, so what the hey?
I'm not sure when we're going to get to rehearse.
On a sad note: While my first day back after Thanksgiving break was a good one, it ended on a very sad note. My colleague informed me at the end of the day that he had learned that a former student of ours had lost her mother and father in a collision with a drunk driver. She and her sister (also a former student of mine) were riding in the car.
What can you say?
Saturday, November 25, 2006
Thanksgiving
I've gone around and read all of my friends' blogs and most of them talk about their Thanksgivings and it made me think. Sure, Thanksgiving is about spending time with loved ones--but try a Thanksgiving without food. In most cases, every attendee must bring food. And it's not enough just to bring a dish, you've got to bring one of your PREMIERE dishes.
They have got to be colorful. They have got to be tasty. They must beckon you to come back for more. And there always has to be too much for one night so you can have leftovers.
Speaking of leftovers, my Sil makes this breakfast hash the morning after where she just dumps almost everything into a skittle and heats it up and it tastes yummy.
Then, after you have gorged yourself, sometime during the long weekend, you have to tell everyone what you ate. You have got to describe the dishes--how they looked, what went into them, how they tasted.
Then, we exchange recipes and/or discuss our own variations.
It's as if stuffing our bellies is not enough, we have to stuff our imaginations as well.
I'm not knocking any of this. It's just interesting to me. If I knew anything about how to do it, I'd start up a site called MyFeast.com, where friends could invite friends to be their friends just for the sole purpose of sharing Turkey Day menus.
They have got to be colorful. They have got to be tasty. They must beckon you to come back for more. And there always has to be too much for one night so you can have leftovers.
Speaking of leftovers, my Sil makes this breakfast hash the morning after where she just dumps almost everything into a skittle and heats it up and it tastes yummy.
Then, after you have gorged yourself, sometime during the long weekend, you have to tell everyone what you ate. You have got to describe the dishes--how they looked, what went into them, how they tasted.
Then, we exchange recipes and/or discuss our own variations.
It's as if stuffing our bellies is not enough, we have to stuff our imaginations as well.
I'm not knocking any of this. It's just interesting to me. If I knew anything about how to do it, I'd start up a site called MyFeast.com, where friends could invite friends to be their friends just for the sole purpose of sharing Turkey Day menus.
A Poem from the Taos Summer Writers' Conference
Sabbath
Wednesday night.
You go in, pay your dollar,
take a fishing pole,
and enter the sanctuary
lined with neon sculptures—
each depicting a scene from the scriptures.
Searchlights dance around the stage
where showgirls with swan legs strut, their sequins afire.
Parishioners sit in booths
and order diet cokes and communion wafers
from waitresses in short skirts.
The stage floor opens
and the minister ascends
tied to a post—
the sin of the week
nailed above his head.
He asks the congregation to rise.
Each member clutches a fishing pole
and casts his or her line at the minister
while the pipe organ blasts “Just as I Am.”
Most people miss
but those who hook the minister’s flesh
give it a good yank
and are forgiven the sin of the week.
This goes on for ten minutes or so.
Some say this is hard on the minister—
that we should hire a homeless guy to stand in for him.
But most think that we shouldn’t mess with tradition.
Wednesday night.
You go in, pay your dollar,
take a fishing pole,
and enter the sanctuary
lined with neon sculptures—
each depicting a scene from the scriptures.
Searchlights dance around the stage
where showgirls with swan legs strut, their sequins afire.
Parishioners sit in booths
and order diet cokes and communion wafers
from waitresses in short skirts.
The stage floor opens
and the minister ascends
tied to a post—
the sin of the week
nailed above his head.
He asks the congregation to rise.
Each member clutches a fishing pole
and casts his or her line at the minister
while the pipe organ blasts “Just as I Am.”
Most people miss
but those who hook the minister’s flesh
give it a good yank
and are forgiven the sin of the week.
This goes on for ten minutes or so.
Some say this is hard on the minister—
that we should hire a homeless guy to stand in for him.
But most think that we shouldn’t mess with tradition.
Thursday, November 23, 2006
Useful Info about Opossums
The two most interesting things I found out about possums:
1. "Playing possum" isn't a choice, it's a reflex triggered by extreme fear. Also, pretty much every one of their defense mechanisms involves disgusting bodily functions.
2. They can get rabies, but rarely do because their body temperature is too low to make the rabies virus comfy enough to thrive.
1. "Playing possum" isn't a choice, it's a reflex triggered by extreme fear. Also, pretty much every one of their defense mechanisms involves disgusting bodily functions.
2. They can get rabies, but rarely do because their body temperature is too low to make the rabies virus comfy enough to thrive.
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
Would You Care for Some Salt with Your Sodium?
Billy C and I are both trying to watch our blood pressure and, therefore, are trying to watch our salt intake. So I can speak for both of us when I say we approached last night's Thanksgiving Banquet at the Tower (the assisted living facility where she now lives)with trepidation. At the tower, the spice des jour is salt--I guess in part because the "chef" has never heard of lemon grass or saffron.
All of the westside version of Mama C's family was there: Billy C, Vivage, Emily C, Blowhard C, his girlfriend, Princess C, and myself. We repasted on turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, and this stuff the color of mashed sweet potatoes but of baby food consistency--all smothered in gravy. And of course, well-salted.
For Billy C and I, it was kind of a kamikaze banquet. We dined out of loyalty to Mama C, but knew it couldn't be very good for us.
Most of the young people barely touched their food, except for the pie, which also tasted a little salty to me.
As we dined, the music of the Janet Goeske Singers wafted around the room. Janet Goeske used to be a local activist for the aged. They sang a mixture of holiday and show tunes. During a rendition of "The Impossible Dream," the held up posters of scenes from the fighting in Iraq. Fortunately, they weren't too graphic--although there was one that showed to soldiers under fire--one hunkered down behind a sand dune and one who looked like he may have been hit. They followed this song with "Let There Be Peace on Earth, and Let It Begin with Me."
Oh, and Dickey De Loss, another local treasure known as a tap-dancing realtor, tap danced. She doesn't walk very well anymore, so she tapped from her chair.
You gotta admire that, in a way.
I suggested to Billy C that we volunteer the Canaries for the Christmas banquet. We could certainly entertain these folks as well as the Goeske Singers. And it would give Mama C a chance to show us off.
I have started writing our own version of "Impossible Dream":
To impeach the impossible dunce,
To indict his Vice President too...
That's as far as I've gotten.
WE sat very close to the entertainment, but next time, we need to make sure that Mama C sits facing it. She kept looking around to see the show, which made it impossible for her to eat. I also noticed that she had trouble with the turkey. I asked if she wanted it cut. She said yes and I cut it up into bite-sized pieces--with mixed feelings because I'm not always sure whether I should make her do things like this for herself, since any task she performs herself may help her retain motor skills, or just do them for her, because it helps her eat in public without being self-consciousness.
We stayed in the lobby as Blowhard C and his girlfriend took off to a friend's house with one of my ukuleles, Emily C left to go pack for a flight back home to spend her holiday with her parents Pamela and David C and the twins Laura and Boogie C, and Princess C disappeared to Mama C's pad to watch her fave TV show.
The elder C's all stayed in the lobby for awhile and visited for about an hour.
It was about 8:30 when we strolled out to our cars. Billy C, Princess C, and I stopped and chatted briefly, when Princess shouted "Oh my God! Look at that!"
I turned and there, amid the shadows and the rose bushes, crouched the biggest possum I have ever seen. It was as big as a mid-sized dog. It stood there frozen. Billy suggested that I rush it to see if it would play possum.
I do not fear possums, but I respect any animal that looks like it could do harm if it decided to act against type upon my person.
It did run away as I took steps to my car.
All of the westside version of Mama C's family was there: Billy C, Vivage, Emily C, Blowhard C, his girlfriend, Princess C, and myself. We repasted on turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, and this stuff the color of mashed sweet potatoes but of baby food consistency--all smothered in gravy. And of course, well-salted.
For Billy C and I, it was kind of a kamikaze banquet. We dined out of loyalty to Mama C, but knew it couldn't be very good for us.
Most of the young people barely touched their food, except for the pie, which also tasted a little salty to me.
As we dined, the music of the Janet Goeske Singers wafted around the room. Janet Goeske used to be a local activist for the aged. They sang a mixture of holiday and show tunes. During a rendition of "The Impossible Dream," the held up posters of scenes from the fighting in Iraq. Fortunately, they weren't too graphic--although there was one that showed to soldiers under fire--one hunkered down behind a sand dune and one who looked like he may have been hit. They followed this song with "Let There Be Peace on Earth, and Let It Begin with Me."
Oh, and Dickey De Loss, another local treasure known as a tap-dancing realtor, tap danced. She doesn't walk very well anymore, so she tapped from her chair.
You gotta admire that, in a way.
I suggested to Billy C that we volunteer the Canaries for the Christmas banquet. We could certainly entertain these folks as well as the Goeske Singers. And it would give Mama C a chance to show us off.
I have started writing our own version of "Impossible Dream":
To impeach the impossible dunce,
To indict his Vice President too...
That's as far as I've gotten.
WE sat very close to the entertainment, but next time, we need to make sure that Mama C sits facing it. She kept looking around to see the show, which made it impossible for her to eat. I also noticed that she had trouble with the turkey. I asked if she wanted it cut. She said yes and I cut it up into bite-sized pieces--with mixed feelings because I'm not always sure whether I should make her do things like this for herself, since any task she performs herself may help her retain motor skills, or just do them for her, because it helps her eat in public without being self-consciousness.
We stayed in the lobby as Blowhard C and his girlfriend took off to a friend's house with one of my ukuleles, Emily C left to go pack for a flight back home to spend her holiday with her parents Pamela and David C and the twins Laura and Boogie C, and Princess C disappeared to Mama C's pad to watch her fave TV show.
The elder C's all stayed in the lobby for awhile and visited for about an hour.
It was about 8:30 when we strolled out to our cars. Billy C, Princess C, and I stopped and chatted briefly, when Princess shouted "Oh my God! Look at that!"
I turned and there, amid the shadows and the rose bushes, crouched the biggest possum I have ever seen. It was as big as a mid-sized dog. It stood there frozen. Billy suggested that I rush it to see if it would play possum.
I do not fear possums, but I respect any animal that looks like it could do harm if it decided to act against type upon my person.
It did run away as I took steps to my car.
Sunday, November 12, 2006
Sated, but not Bloated
My sister flew out from PA to help us get Mama C's house ready for an estate sale and rental. Mom needs the extra income to help pay the rent at the assisted living facility, as well as give her some spending money.
This is the home we grew up in. These days, when I go there, I am overwhelmed by so many of the events of my younger life. Each room holds shelves with boxes full of memories. Open a box and they pour out. Some of them aren't even my memories, but the memories of my grandparents, great grandparents--any distant relative who folded them, packed them away, and moved on to some other moment of life and forgot them. As I open each box, I can only see a hint of the adventure that produced the photo or piece of paper I hold in my hand.
One box I opened had three American flags in it. Each fold had either been unfolded, or just lost their folds with the jostling of sitting in that box and being moved from room to room over the decades. Two of them had 48 stars. I refolded each as best my fading boy scout training could remember. One was so old that it had become frayed at the end that had flapped in the wind a long time ago.
I know that protocol would have a worn flag destroyed, but I new it held some unknown history in its threads. So I folded it as well.
I found one metal box and found my grandfather's "Order of Neptune" certificate, commemorating his crossing of the equator while serving in the Navy during World War I. Also, the certificate that gave my father Power of Attorney over my grandmother's affairs shortly after Grandpa died. She had MS and couldn't do much for herself. I was a third-grader during this time and I remember coming home from school sometimes and greeting my bed-ridden grandmother and one of the women from the neighborhood who would come and sit with her on days where my mother had to work.
Grandma would always smile and tell me how much she loved me and then remind me that my grandpa loved me too. He was an alcoholic. I only remember him making one cruel remark to me when he first moved in with us. I was quite young. I'm sure Grandma only meant to repair the damage.
So, how do you pack up a life?
You call a couple of older ladies, friends of your mother, and tell them they can have anything they want.
These two ladies are old friends of my mother's and came to collect some of her old arts and crafts stuff. It took them about an hour to sort out what they wanted, organize what we should sell, and throw the junk out, all the while visiting with Mom, who had come with us this day. The three of them had a grand time and accomplished more in that hour than any of us ever could in a day.
Roberta from across the street also came over to sort through some of the craftsy items. She's a nurse. She is also the neighbor who came and helped my mother 15 years ago when my dad had his coronary thrombosis. She and Mom sat in the room where Dad had collapsed years ago, looking through water color supplies. There, Roberta found buried under miscellaneous paints and notebooks several of Mom's watercolor paintings. Mom kept remarking that they weren't very good. But Roberta made it a point to show them to us and offered to frame them.
They might not be great art, but they're at least a little sacred.
This is the home we grew up in. These days, when I go there, I am overwhelmed by so many of the events of my younger life. Each room holds shelves with boxes full of memories. Open a box and they pour out. Some of them aren't even my memories, but the memories of my grandparents, great grandparents--any distant relative who folded them, packed them away, and moved on to some other moment of life and forgot them. As I open each box, I can only see a hint of the adventure that produced the photo or piece of paper I hold in my hand.
One box I opened had three American flags in it. Each fold had either been unfolded, or just lost their folds with the jostling of sitting in that box and being moved from room to room over the decades. Two of them had 48 stars. I refolded each as best my fading boy scout training could remember. One was so old that it had become frayed at the end that had flapped in the wind a long time ago.
I know that protocol would have a worn flag destroyed, but I new it held some unknown history in its threads. So I folded it as well.
I found one metal box and found my grandfather's "Order of Neptune" certificate, commemorating his crossing of the equator while serving in the Navy during World War I. Also, the certificate that gave my father Power of Attorney over my grandmother's affairs shortly after Grandpa died. She had MS and couldn't do much for herself. I was a third-grader during this time and I remember coming home from school sometimes and greeting my bed-ridden grandmother and one of the women from the neighborhood who would come and sit with her on days where my mother had to work.
Grandma would always smile and tell me how much she loved me and then remind me that my grandpa loved me too. He was an alcoholic. I only remember him making one cruel remark to me when he first moved in with us. I was quite young. I'm sure Grandma only meant to repair the damage.
So, how do you pack up a life?
You call a couple of older ladies, friends of your mother, and tell them they can have anything they want.
These two ladies are old friends of my mother's and came to collect some of her old arts and crafts stuff. It took them about an hour to sort out what they wanted, organize what we should sell, and throw the junk out, all the while visiting with Mom, who had come with us this day. The three of them had a grand time and accomplished more in that hour than any of us ever could in a day.
Roberta from across the street also came over to sort through some of the craftsy items. She's a nurse. She is also the neighbor who came and helped my mother 15 years ago when my dad had his coronary thrombosis. She and Mom sat in the room where Dad had collapsed years ago, looking through water color supplies. There, Roberta found buried under miscellaneous paints and notebooks several of Mom's watercolor paintings. Mom kept remarking that they weren't very good. But Roberta made it a point to show them to us and offered to frame them.
They might not be great art, but they're at least a little sacred.
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