Grandma’s postcards

When I sat next to my grandmother by her chair there was a big basket where she kept her letters and many, many postcards.  She loved exchanging letters and she had friends that always kept in touch when they traveled.   She had a friend that I remember calling “Miss Moffet” who wrote often and sent the most exciting picture postcards from foreign lands like Africa and Italy and California.  Grandma and I would talk about all the adventures she must be having and we  would discuss all the ways to describe the scenes in my head.

So, maybe that is why I like words.  I enjoy breaking down their meaning and rearranging them to be useful to me.  I have difficulty with conversation.  I do not speak well.  After talking with a close friend recently I reflected on something he said.  We were talking about days ahead, things we both would like to do.  We were discussing the process of decision-making.


The conversation was something like this.  “You look at things differently.  You come from a place where you are all about the journey in this life,  not always about where you are going.  He asks, “Do you even know where you want to go?”


Thinking on this, I looked up the definitions of the word journey.  The literal is different from what the thesaurus presents, of course.  And then, in the last hour I have been looking up the word in different languages, just to add to the mix.

I do know this. I have fallen in love again.  With music.  Long ago I followed different bands and listened to  acoustic sets but once involved with my family I went out less.  I spent more time watching Sesame Street.  And attending Little League games.

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Jeremy Walz and Joe Lowry at last year’s benefit to honor Pat Tiernan.

Now, writing  about the music I hear at open mics and different gigs at different venues,  I am looking for words.   When I see a show, I am coming up with even more words.  I read reviews, I read biographies. As I fumble along with this, I take pictures.  It is a much different process than for my past writing newspaper stories.  Or being the family photographer at a family reunion where everyone poses.  I go and I practice and practice to catch expressions, and to attain clarity during that drum roll or guitar lick.  Sometimes, I am very lucky.  Sometimes, I have watched that musician so much, I am waiting for that moment that I know may be coming that I want to capture, and I see it.

Admittedly, at times, no words are needed.


So, I understand my journey a little.  And I agree with my friend.  I am not always sure where I am going, or even some days I don’t even know what I want at all in all honesty. There will always be changes in this life.  I am going to stay on this path awhile, though.  It brings me great joy.  And I believe, meant to be shared.

A passing

I have often read about great writers who started out writing obituaries for the local press.    This is a bit of a satire, with truth thrown in, and the survivor of it all walking away, learning something new.


A private burial was held today @ the gentlewoman’s farm after the remains of her four  infamous chix were found this morning.  No photos were taken of the crime scene, but a large hole was found under the fence and also under the actual chicken house.  A short tune was strummed on a borrowed 12-string and one supportive feline attended.

Later, the owner delved into her library and re-read about some of the extra safeguards needed to keep fowl safe here in these corner woods.

(1) The fence surrounding needs to be trenched in deeply.   It also needs to be ragged and taller on top.  Right now, many animals are able to just climb over.

(2)When the owner moved the indoor chicken hutch yesterday, she realized it was not in a flat space.  She had added a piece of wood to fill the space, but it was easily moved.

(3)It was noted that the only way the chix could be completely safe would be to shut them into the nesting area.  Since the chix had been in their home, she had not seen the need to do that.

(4)Most importantly, remember the simple laws of Nature.  Another animal fed, and no doubt fed its young.  They do not care that the farmer will miss her chix.


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Dancing. July, 2014

It was noted that the chix had gotten out that day, and had played in the sun and were rounded up and the hole was reinforced.  It seemed, to the farmer, they had enjoyed some of this life at the gentlewoman’s farm.

To look for

This evening I submitted my thoughts about the new release from the Arthur Holmes  Blues Band to the cool editors at Nippertown.  When I review a  CD I listen to it many, many times.  If another has been written on the CD I want to approach, I make sure I set it aside as to simply  not color my view and read it later.   Slowly, I am ‘getting’ some of the music  terminology.

Simply, I  explain what I can hear just as when I take a photograph to capture an expression when a musician is playing.

Maybe you will be curious and you will like it.  And perhaps you will share it.  Perhaps you will give the band some feedback.

While doing a review, I must listen and focus.  It is a delightful exercise.

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Arthur Holmes Blues Band newest release, ‘I’m Waiting’