?`s and ANNEswers

Ten minutes to write. Less time to read.

Eric

Posted on April 4, 2007

I’m home in my own Michigan world; but fond memories of last weekend’s visit to Fargo, ND, persist. One night, Kevin and I saw Eric Clapton live at the Fargodome, a venue better suited to basketball games but still adequate for the aging guitarist whose nickname is “Slowhand.”

I’ve been a Clapton fan for ages, particularly since Earl introduced me to his acoustic album titled “Unplugged” from the nineteen nineties. My son was less enthusiastic about Eric, but he didn’t resist attending the concert. In the end, he had as good a time as I.

It wasn’t only about seeing Eric Clapton in the quiet era of his career; it was just as much about my son and I attending another concert together. Over the years, we’ve gone to several. Kevin, with the mind of a steel trap, remembers them all. So we reminisced about some of the musical artists we’ve seen together, and that was as special as Eric’s music.

The very first was Bruce Springsteen at Alpine Valley, WI, almost a quarter-century ago. After that there was Billy Bragg and Michel Shocked, two names you hardly hear anymore. There were also the appearances of Kevin’s own band where I showed up to provide moral support and beer. He still plays in a band, The New Instructions, when he’s not teaching creative writing or comparative literature at Minnesota State University. This is because his love of the sung word transcends his love of the written word.

Eric was great, although he let his back-up band take center stage more often than he would have twenty years ago. His voice isn’t as strong, but his fingers were just as nimble. And when he sang “Wonderful Tonight,” which is really about a woman the singer loves, I couldn’t help but think that the title described my night on the town with my older son.

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Sarello’s Revisited

Posted on March 31, 2007

Kevin and I eat at Sarello’s every time I visit Fargo. It’s a four star restaurant in a two star town. Two star trying to grow into something more stellar. I can’t remember the number of times we’ve been to Sarello’s, but they have been enough that the owner, Tony, welcomes me with true open arms and wants to make sure I’m well served. I always am.

As for Kevin, he visits Sarello’s three, maybe four, times a week. He’s treated like family rather than the occasional guest. He and Tony speak Italian together; he gets the best table, a larger than usual serving of wine, the option of substituting mashed potatoes for coconut jasmine rice. At meal’s end, Tony comes round to share a shot of Sambucca with Kevin and me. It’s on the house.

I’ve eaten in hundreds of restaurants, some good and some not-so-good. But I’ve never developed the relationship with a restaurant than Kevin has with Sarello’s.. I think that’s part of the charm of my annual visit. It’s like visiting relatives one sees only at family reunions. Relatives you’d like to know better but, because of time or distance, you don’t have proximity working with you. Yet, I have Kevin working on it for my annual visit.

In its own right, the salmon was great tonight too. It was cooked to perfection, not too rare but not too dry. Accompanied by mashed potatoes that were the melt-in-your-mouth variety. Steve the waiter served our dishes graciously, as he did the salad and rolls before them. And the coffee after. It was the best of service, guaranteed to garnish an A+ tip.

I acquiesced to the bill with no complaint. We gathered our coats and hats and found the restrooms. As we left the restaurant — me, for another year; Kevin, for a few days — I felt the sense of deep friendship between my son and Sarello’s owner was the best nourishment of all.

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Feeling Grey in Fargo

Posted on March 30, 2007

I’m sitting in my son Kevin’s living room in Fargo, North Dakota, waiting for the sun to come out, even though it’s hopeless. The sun doesn’t come out in Fargo very often this time of year. Rather, the days stretch gloomy and endless, each one running into the other, separated only by shades of grey to black. You need a clock to know what time it really is

I visit Kevin every spring, usually in March, although sometimes in April. Each trip I’ve noticed how grey it is, and it makes me believe you must be hardy to live here. Winters are legendary for their coldness; Kevin once called to tell me it was 34 below, and he wasn’t discussing the wind chill factor. Fargo is the only place I’ve ever been that has little heating plugs attached to the parking meters.

But winter is only half of it. You still have to endure the slow emergence of spring. It’s as if the whole town were slowly coming out of a frost-induced coma. Where I live you wake up one morning and spring is clearly in the air; you can smell it, you can see it. It’s the difference of a day, rather than weeks. Fargo is the opposite.

I know spring eventually arrives there, but probably not until Memorial Day, long after my early spring visits. I visited Fargo once in summer, and I must admit it was glorious. The sun actually shone and I didn’t see a single resident wearing a parka.

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The Tease

Posted on March 26, 2007

Today is the first day this year I’ve been outside without a coat or a jacket or a sweatshirt. It’s almost eighty degrees, both outside and in the house.

I took advantage of the weather to wash my car and walk around my yard looking for any early blooming flowers. Sure enough, I found the yellow daffodils that always emerge first. It was a small patch of color, but very welcome. The tulips are coming along nicely too, although they won’t bloom for another month.

Three men in a boat were fishing outside our back door on the St. Joe River, while Earl watched longingly from inside. They caught a fish, so Earl ran out to photograph it and them. I don’t know if he promised the men a copy of the photo.

The thing is, if I hadn’t checked the weather forecast for the rest of the week I would have thought spring had really sprung. It’s been over seven weeks since Punxsutawney Phil didn’t see his shadow, and that’s supposed to mean an early spring. Given that the official start of the season was last week, I’m becoming skeptical about the groundhog’s ability to predict its arrival.


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Music

Posted on March 23, 2007

You can’t take anything for granted in music; that’s what I’ve really learned after five years of piano lessons.

Case in point: I started working on a new piece today, a simple piece that takes only one page in my lesson book. It’s in the key of C too, so it doesn’t get more simple than that.

I looked at the notes and began to put my fingers on the corresponding keys. I ran through the entire piece once and thought it wasn’t very musical. But then one little detail caught my eye; the piece was musical, the pianist wasn’t. I had overlooked that both hands were playing in the treble clef, so I had the right hand in the proper position but the left hand was an octave too low. No wonder it sounded disconnected.

My piano teacher and I often laugh at how I overlook some detail like that in almost every piece. I call it the “Where’s Waldo” factor after a children’s book that is stuffed with illustrations and the reader must find Waldo, a chap with a red and white cap on his head, in every crowded picture. Sometimes it’s a note I misinterpret; other times it’s an entire chord. I’ve also been know to create my own tempo, rather than adhering to the composer’s preference, not because I’m creative but because I didn’t notice what the tempo should be in the first place.

My piano teacher thinks this idiosyncrasy is due to the fact that, as far as learning music is concerned, I’m only in the fourth or fifth grade. I wasn’t musical as a child and I didn’t have a lot of support for trying to become so. Which means that my current age is irrelevant, except that at my current age it doesn’t come easily. I’m motivated, however, so I’ll continue to plink along, forgetting that half-note here or ignoring that chord there and having a grand old time.

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I’ve Been Out

Posted on March 22, 2007

We’re one day into Official Spring, and I’m struck with how isolated I’ve been all winter. I’ve hardly read a newspaper or listened to a broadcast. I know we’re still in Iraq, that some Democrats and Republicans are already running for the presidency, and that American Idol is back. But that’s about it.

It wasn’t a conscious decision, but around the holidays I’d had enough. Enough scenes from Baghdad, enough statistics about dying soldiers, enough of the world’s woes. So I tuned out. I went to Tahiti and left my computer at home, which meant I also wasn’t able to check regularly on the status of things via the Internet.

I read two books while in Tahiti and have read three more since I came home. I’ve played piano more. I’ve returned to blogging, and I’m thinking of revamping my website.
Maybe I would have done these things anyway, but I’m not so sure. They take time; and, by withdrawing from the daily news, I found extra time. I can’t prove it, but I suspect not much really changed in my absence.

Now I need to come out of hiding. I know this because I’ve recently been in conversations with others who reference things like crippling snow storms on the East Coast, Iran’s recalcitrance, and Alberto Gonzales. They don’t expect my eyes to glaze.

I’m not sure how I’ll go about reconnecting with the current scene without also reconnecting with the same sense of frustration that originally caused me to drop out. The challenge is to get to the facts of a matter and bypass all the opinion, empty oratory, and prattling that is found these days in print, radio, and television. It’s a daunting task.

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Tax Time

Posted on March 20, 2007

It’s that time of year when I chastise myself for keeping incomplete records, because it’s also that time of year when I need to give my accountant complete records. Because of my laxity, I’m spending the week catching up on ledgering and preparing for my meeting with our accountant on Friday. It’s pretty ugly.

I don’t know if ours is a complicated situation or if I’m just not up to the task. Both Earl and I are self-employed, so there is Schedule C to contend with. We both have owned property, so there are rental schedules to fill in. We itemize our personal deductions and we receive interest throughout the year. More schedules here.

As I think about it, I see ours is not the EZ return. It’s more like a maze. I honestly try to keep good records throughout the year, but I always come up short when faced with the meeting with our accountant.

Years ago, I took an H&R Block Tax Course and worked a season as one of the company’s many tax consultants. It was a heady responsibility, making sure either clients or the government received a just due. Thankfully, I became pregnant (not through any fault of H&R), and I didn’t have to return the next season. But I should have taken note, because Earl’s and my tax returns today are as complicated as the ones I did those many years ago. I just didn’t have as vested an interest.

I think it’s Steve Forbes who advocates a flat tax, one where you pay a percentage of your income and deductions have nothing to do with it. I’m inclined to agree with him, especially this time of year.

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The Ultimate

Posted on March 17, 2007

What better way to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day than to attend the sixty-second annual ULTIMATE Sport and RV Show? Well, there probably are better ways; but this is how Earl and I spent the day.

It was clear and crisp when we pulled out of our driveway at 8 AM this morning to drive the eighty some-odd miles to DeVos Place, the exhibition center in Grand Rapids, Michigan, where the Ultimate was being held. We had reason.

Last August we went fishing at Wollaston Lake Lodge in upper Saskatchewan, Canada. It’s a wonderful place which, in Columbus’s day, would have been considered the edge of the universe. We spent five glorious days fishing pristine waters pure enough to drink and five glorious evenings sitting around a fire swapping stories with other fisherpersons and breathing the cold night air. We were so charmed that we signed up to return this summer. Our new friends, the owners of Wollaston Lake Lodge, were exhibiting at the Ultimate, which was the main reason for our interest in the show.

We found their booth, renewed acquaintances, and reveled in anticipation of our return visit this August. Then we went up and down the aisles of the Ultimate to see what else was on display.

By nature, I am not particularly an outdoors person, unless you consider weeding a sport. I don’t hike, hunt, or cook food over an open fire. My idea of roughing it is Holiday Inn Express. So whenever I go to these shows or visit stores that cater to the real outdoorsperson, I’m always aware of a world outside my own. It’s full of boats and motors, a gazillion different fishing lures, offers of bear hunting expeditions, men hawking cookware, and miserable food. I’m not necessarily proud to report I succumbed to the last two things. I can’t wait for my mega-hundred-dollar skillet to arrive; however, the hot dog I had is history.

This particular exposition also had an unusual display of taxidermied animals; and, while I’m uncomfortable killing animals for sport, I must admit these mounts were exquisite. There was also an explanation of the art of taxidermy and the various categories that its devotees fall into. I was impressed.

We roamed the exhibition hall for about four hours, which is pretty good for Earl. He can do the entire Art Institute in Chicago in forty-five minutes. After that, we went down the street to eat at a local bar that had come recommended. Unfortunately, the recommendation will not be passed on. We overlooked green beer — remember this is St. Patrick’s Day — for a real Irish treat: Guinness. And we ordered burgers to accompany it. We didn’t order the loud female guest who sat behind Earl and laughed loudly enough and regularly enough to be heard in the next state. Maybe it was holiday cheer that spurred her on; I only know we ate in record time.

Guinness in the early afternoon meant I took a nap on the way home, while Earl found his way back to St. Joseph. For the record, I dreamt of my new skillet and hoped it would turn me into a better cook. However, I still don’t plan to cook over an open fire

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677 Days to Go

Posted on March 16, 2007

For Christmas, I received “The Out of Office Countdown 2007 Calendar.” It’s not only a calendar but also a compendium of unintentionally witty statements our president has made during his years in office. It will keep me laughing until George W. Bush leaves the White House in 2009. No doubt, you probably have surmised that I didn’t vote for “W” either time and that I will be glad when his term of office is ended.

But let me take a broader view. Regardless of whether one voted for Bush or not, whether one likes his policies or not, it must be admitted that his next career could certainly be on Comedy Central. I offer the following remarks as proof.

In 2000, Bush made this poignant statement: “Rarely is the question asked: Is our children learning?”

In 2002, when his Texas gubernatorial portrait was displayed — presumably in Texas — he thanked the audience for “taking the time out of your day to come and witness my hanging.” Huh?

In 2005, he said — presumably with a straight face — “Who could have possibly envisioned an erection — an election — in Iraq at this point in history?”

These are only three samplings of a myriad of misstatements in the countdown calendar, but you get the idea. Bush is the master of the misspoken word. And, even if I had voted for him, as a writer I would be embarrassed by his lack of attention in things speech related. I hope he can get through the next 677 days with fewer mistakes, but I’m not encouraged.

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Country Music Workout

Posted on March 12, 2007

Country music artists have a lock on hilarious lyrics sung with straight faces. Collectively, they also hold the record for the greatest number of songs about unrequited love that involve a church and a wedding.

I was reminded of these accomplishments this morning as I jogged on a treadmill at the South Shore Health and Racquet Club. My iPod was turned way up to drown out the woman on the treadmill next to mine who was chatting loudly on her cell phone.

So I listened to Billy Ray Cyrus cry, “I’m so miserable without you it’s almost like you were here.” I also heard him ask, “Where am I gonna live when I get home?” Cyrus’s songs more often than not are about how he didn’t treat his lady well and she’s taken sweet revenge. You’d think he’d learn.

As for songs revolving around a church and a wedding, three of them came up on my hit list this morning. The aforementioned Cyrus sang, “It could have been me standing next to you,” as he reviews how he never told his girlfriend how he really felt. Now that she’s married someone else, he’s remorseful. Again, there’s a learning curve here, Billy.

Garth Brooks and Lyle Lovett take the wedding song to darker regions. Brooks sings that he won’t have to wonder anymore, and I assume it’s because the love of his life has married someone else as he sat in his pick-up truck across the street from the church. But the song ends with the suggestion that Brooks won’t have to wonder any more because he’s jumped off a bridge. It’s pretty dark.

Lovett’s ode is darker. He enters the church with a .45 pistol as his loved one is marrying someone else. Someone gets killed here, but I’m unsure whether it’s the happy couple or Lovett himself. Called L.A. County, it’s the bleakest of wedding songs.

I’ve always felt country artists should be given credit for their ingenuity, even if you don’t like the genre. They sing about washing machines and renegade dogs and dime stores. They make your toes tap, which is why I frequently listen to country music when I’m working out. The four/four beat of most songs helps establish a rhythm, whether it’s on a treadmill or doing sets with weights. I can’t imagine any woman wanting to work out and chat on a cell phone instead.

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