My Blogspace on the Internet since 2004
(Creative Non-Fiction, Fiction, Poetry, Metaphysical Musings, Occasional Humor and B.S.) featuring Guest Musicians, Poets, and Other Creators because variety is the spice of life.
© 2004-2016 Ginger Hamilton
Wednesday, July 31, 2013
You've Got to be Kind
"Hello babies. Welcome to Earth. It's hot in the summer and cold in the winter. It's round and wet and crowded. On the outside, babies, you've got a hundred years here. There's only one rule that I know of, babies -- "God damn it, you've got to be kind."
~~Kurt Vonnegut
[Tomorrow: Foggy Mountain Breakdown]
Tuesday, July 30, 2013
Excerpts from "No Joy in Mudville"
Me and my siblings, Christmas 1983 |
Dad's plan was to hurtle down Coonskin Drive [coasting, out of gas], make a ninety-degree right-hand turn onto Greenbrier Street at the foot of the hill, somehow traverse all the way down Greenbrier to Washington Street, and then get gas. In order to overcome the uphill section of Greenbrier before it eventually descended again, he had to gain an incredible rate of speed.
As crazy as his plan was, he almost succeeded.....
Most people died during substantial collisions in those days. Steering columns did not collapse but served as invasive weapons of intrusion. Because there were no safety belts, passengers and drivers alike were often propelled through jagged windshields and decapitated.
Speed was a huge factor and public service films were shown yearly in high school gymnasiums across the nation. Generations of students were traumatized by gruesome images which were not gratuitous but certainly graphic. The bottom line was, whether you lived or died as a result of a crash was largely Allah's will.....
Having had a vasectomy the year before, effectively all of Dad's genetic material eggs rested within one 3,000-pound basket, said basket hurtled down Coonskin Drive. Mom started making unhappy noises and disapproving comments before we were out of the park.
The Crestliner's speedometer hit forty right at the ranger's office; Dad announced this with half an octave too high of a pitch in his voice. The feral glint in Dad's eye was visible in the rear-view mirror. I knew we were in for an adventure.....
On the right-hand side of the road, a World War II tank stood at attention. Its turret seemed to turn slightly and track us as we passed, but it was probably an optical illusion caused by the reflection of the park ranger's flashing red lights.
Still, the cannon did seem to salute those of us who were about to die.
~~Excerpt, "No Joy in Mudville" (Memoirs)
[Tomorrow: You've Got to Be Kind]
Monday, July 29, 2013
Guest Author: Cher'ley Grogg
Ginger's note: Today's column is a guest spot from fellow West Virginia Writers member Cher'ley Grogg. I hope you enjoy reading about her latest novel, "The Secret in Grandma's Trunk." ~~GH
I’m so glad to have this
opportunity to share a little about myself and my children’s novel “The Secret
in Grandma’s Trunk”, which is free to download from Amazon for a limited time. The inspiration for the book came from my
grandsons. I have three grandsons and a granddaughter. My granddaughter loves
to read, but the boys do not, so I decided to write a book they would love to
read. I knew it’d have to have strong kids in it, strong physically and head
strong too. The characters would all
have to be realistic with problems and scuffles among themselves, it would have
to be fast paced and full of adventure.
Plus my grandsons like sports and girls so I needed to put that in there
as well. I couldn’t leave my granddaughter without someone to relate to so I
gave the brothers in the story a female cousin who could keep up with them in
most things and top them in other things. In addition to the children, there
are some strong, funny and interesting adult characters. This book appeals to
people of all ages.
The
main character in “The Secret in Grandma’s Trunk”, Brandon is not quiet. He’s
very outgoing and loud. He’s a leader and his outgoing boisterous personality
works well for him, but not listening also gets him into a lot of trouble.
Jordan his cousin is a female version of Brandon, but Jacob his brother is the
opposite. He’s a quiet listener, a thinker. The 13 year olds get in a passel of
trouble because of not listening, and Jacob quietly follows them.
Here’s the Blurb: A teen's life disrupts when his
Great-Grandmother, a stranger comes to live with him and his family. She upsets
his life so much that he stoops pretty low to get rid of her, including trying
to find a way to get into the oversized trunk she has stored in his garage.
Spunky Grandma keeps the key in a special place.
The kids expect treasure, but discover a terrible secret instead, which
puts Grandma in danger’s way. Will she turn to her grandchildren for help or to
a young ghost?
This is an excerpt from Chapter Fourteen:
Jacob looked astounded. "How in the world
did you pull that off?"
"A girl has to have stuff." She grinned. "You know girl's
stuff."
"No, we don't know,
and we don't want to know. The important thing is you got the card."
Brandon reached for the credit card.
"I want to know," Jacob said.
"Believe me, you don't want to know," Jordan laughed as
she handed the card to Brandon. "Hurry up. I need to get Dad's card back
to him before Mom's out of the shower."
In the next chapter the kids
went to play soccer. Grandma went with them. Here’s an excerpt from Chapter 15:
Lilly turned to Grandma. "It doesn't matter
what she thinks, she's not on our team. I don't know why the coach favors
Jordan. Maybe he feels sorry for her. She's so big and clunky."
Grandma's eyes flashed, and her little fist doubled up. Brandon
hoped she wouldn't spit. He put his hand on Grandma's shoulder. "Let's
go."
"I'll
go, but I want her to know that Jordan sure is big. She has a big heart,
and a big personality, and she's twice the lady that girl is. She would never
put someone else down to try to make herself look better."
"I don't need to put her down to make
myself look better. I always look good."
Grandma turned her head and spit.
“The Secret in Grandma’s Trunk” is free from Amazon; I hope you will enjoy
it.
Join me on my Facebook Fan Page:
Cher'ley's Books are listed below
and on sale at Amazon and local bookstores.
"
And please
join me on my Facebook Fanpage, that's
managed by one of my most faithful fans: Cindy Ferrell
[Tomorrow: Excerpts from my memoir, "No Joy in Mudville"]
Sunday, July 28, 2013
70 Years Ago
This is, to me, the loveliest and saddest landscape in the world. It is the same as that on the preceding page, but I have drawn it again to impress it on your memory. It is here that the little prince appeared on Earth, and disappeared.
Look at it carefully so that you will be sure to recognize it in case you travel some day to the African desert. And, if you should come upon this spot, please do not hurry on. Wait for a time, exactly under the star. Then, if a little man appears who laughs, who has golden hair and who refuses to answer questions, you will know who he is. If this should happen, please comfort me. Send me word that he has come back.
~~from "The Little Prince" by Antoine de Saint-Exupery, 1943
"The Little Prince" is one of my favorite books, and it was published seventy years ago. If you haven't read it, I urge you to purchase a copy and read it. It will stick with you for the rest of your life. ~~GH
[Tomorrow: Guest Author Cher'ley Grogg]
Saturday, July 27, 2013
Dead Mule Kickstarter
I think I've endorsed fundraisers/charities exactly twice since I began blogging in 2004 -- this one included. ~~GH
The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature has a Kickstarter program going on. Their goal is to publish something amazing. They've been around since 1996, so they know what they're doing. I heartily endorse this project. ~~GH
One of Dead Mule's [many] quirky qualities: They require each writer to create a "Southern Legitimacy Statement" and include it with their submission. Below is the one included with my first publication in Dead Mule:
Ginger's Southern Legitimacy Statement from July 2005:
Click here to learn more about the fundraising project, and how you can help.
[Tomorrow: 70 Years Ago]
The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature has a Kickstarter program going on. Their goal is to publish something amazing. They've been around since 1996, so they know what they're doing. I heartily endorse this project. ~~GH
One of Dead Mule's [many] quirky qualities: They require each writer to create a "Southern Legitimacy Statement" and include it with their submission. Below is the one included with my first publication in Dead Mule:
Ginger's Southern Legitimacy Statement from July 2005:
Momma grew up an only child in a houseful of adult relatives down on their luck. All four rooms of her home contained beds or cots. Her parakeet said, “Gotta pee, Eloise?” I currently house an adult relative down on her luck. Every New Year’s, we hoped we’d get some of the silver coins buried in the greasy corned beef and cabbage dish. I’ve parbroiled squirrel. I love frog’s legs. I got drunk on rum balls when I was eight. Nine. Ten. Then Momma started hiding the rum balls. Ham — the other red meat.
Click here to learn more about the fundraising project, and how you can help.
[Tomorrow: 70 Years Ago]
Friday, July 26, 2013
Thursday, July 25, 2013
Wednesday, July 24, 2013
A Mother’s Prayer for Her Child
A Mother’s Prayer for Her Child By Tina Fey
“First, Lord: No tattoos. May neither Chinese symbol for truth nor Winnie-the-Pooh holding the FSU logo stain her tender haunches.
May she be Beautiful but not Damaged, for it’s the Damage that draws the creepy soccer coach’s eye, not the Beauty.
When the Crystal Meth is offered, may she remember the parents who cut her grapes in half And stick with Beer.
Guide her, protect her when crossing the street, stepping onto boats, swimming in the ocean, swimming in pools, walking near pools, standing on the subway platform, crossing 86th Street, stepping off of boats, using mall restrooms, getting on and off escalators, driving on country roads while arguing, leaning on large windows, walking in parking lots, riding Ferris wheels, roller-coasters, log flumes, or anything called “Hell Drop,” “Tower of Torture,” or “The Death Spiral Rock ‘N Zero G Roll featuring Aerosmith,” and standing on any kind of balcony ever, anywhere, at any age.
Lead her away from Acting but not all the way to Finance. Something where she can make her own hours but still feel intellectually fulfilled and get outside sometimes And not have to wear high heels. What would that be, Lord? Architecture? Midwifery? Golf course design? I’m asking You, because if I knew, I’d be doing it, Youdammit.
May she play the Drums to the fiery rhythm of her Own Heart with the sinewy strength of her Own Arms, so she need Not Lie With Drummers.
Grant her a Rough Patch from twelve to seventeen.Let her draw horses and be interested in Barbies for much too long, For childhood is short – a Tiger Flower blooming Magenta for one day – And adulthood is long and dry-humping in cars will wait.
O Lord, break the Internet forever, that she may be spared the misspelled invective of her peers And the online marketing campaign for Rape Hostel V: Girls Just Wanna Get Stabbed.
And when she one day turns on me and calls me a Bitch in front of Hollister, Give me the strength, Lord, to yank her directly into a cab in front of her friends, For I will not have that Shit. I will not have it.
And should she choose to be a Mother one day, be my eyes, Lord, that I may see her, lying on a blanket on the floor at 4:50 A.M., all-at-once exhausted, bored, and in love with the little creature whose poop is leaking up its back. “My mother did this for me once,” she will realize as she cleans feces off her baby’s neck. “My mother did this for me.” And the delayed gratitude will wash over her as it does each generation and she will make a Mental Note to call me. And she will forget. But I’ll know, because I peeped it with Your God eyes.
Amen.”
-Tina Fey
[Tomorrow: Born With Wings]
Tuesday, July 23, 2013
For Carol and MLH
A friend of mine has lost her companion of fifteen years. This spoke to me, and although it is far too soon, I wish her the comfort that will eventually be found in treasuring those mem'ries which remain. ~~GH
What though the radiance which was once so bright
Be now for ever taken from my sight,
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind...
~~William Wordsworth, "Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood"
[Tomorrow: A Mother’s Prayer for Her Child]
What though the radiance which was once so bright
Be now for ever taken from my sight,
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind...
~~William Wordsworth, "Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood"
[Tomorrow: A Mother’s Prayer for Her Child]
Monday, July 22, 2013
Singing in the Life-Boats
Life is a shipwreck, but we must not forget to sing in the life-boats.
~~Voltaire
This past year has been challenging. I haven't always sung, but I did hum most of the time. ~~GH
[Tomorrow: For Carol and MLH]
Sunday, July 21, 2013
Clan Gathering July 2013
One week ago was my ex-husband's clan gathering. Here's what I had to say about it. ~~GH
It's funny; my entire
what-I-think-of-as-family is in Kentucky at a huge Caudill Clan Gathering, a
special event held once every twenty years perhaps. I was not yet a Caudill the
last time they gathered, and I am no longer a Caudill this time.
My children are there. My in-laws, my ex, his new Mrs. -- they're all there. I imagine mountain Caudills and hollow Caudills, cove Caudills and flatland Caudills -- all those stubborn proud Scots-Irish people gathered in one roving band of several hundred souls.
There are musical instruments, and singing. There will be clogging. Meats cook over open fires -- it is the way of the people. Perhaps there are pigs roasting over pits. Savory juices will sizzle when they drip onto crackling logs, and thick gray wood smoke will drift on the warm summer breeze until it dissipates in the distance. A girl will sniff her long hair and carry the scent of charred oak home with her back to Kentucky.
My children are there. My in-laws, my ex, his new Mrs. -- they're all there. I imagine mountain Caudills and hollow Caudills, cove Caudills and flatland Caudills -- all those stubborn proud Scots-Irish people gathered in one roving band of several hundred souls.
There are musical instruments, and singing. There will be clogging. Meats cook over open fires -- it is the way of the people. Perhaps there are pigs roasting over pits. Savory juices will sizzle when they drip onto crackling logs, and thick gray wood smoke will drift on the warm summer breeze until it dissipates in the distance. A girl will sniff her long hair and carry the scent of charred oak home with her back to Kentucky.
There are yellow gallons of creamy potato salads, tubs of shiny macaroni
salads, coppery trays of tangy baked beans. Deviled eggs will polka dot table
tops. There will be berry cobblers, and pools of water will form beneath
slick-with-condensation, chilled watermelons. There will be flies buzzing,
millions of flies, so happy to be there, drunk from the rich scents and endless
eats. Brownies and cookies will materialize then disappear, within moments.
There will be contented smiles on consumers’ as well as bakers’ faces.
There will be babies crying, no doubt, and grandparents clucking over how much each little one looks like Great Aunt Someone or Grandpa Somebody. There will be hoary-headed women, and bald men. There will be crew cuts and ponytails. There will be hats. Rough textured straw hats and smooth Panama hats, woven fiddler’s caps, Greek fisherman hats, and baseball caps, Fedoras, and a Stetson or two. There will be bandanas. There will be unruly beards, trimmed goatees, handle bar mustaches. There will be five o’clock shadow at noon.
There will be babies crying, no doubt, and grandparents clucking over how much each little one looks like Great Aunt Someone or Grandpa Somebody. There will be hoary-headed women, and bald men. There will be crew cuts and ponytails. There will be hats. Rough textured straw hats and smooth Panama hats, woven fiddler’s caps, Greek fisherman hats, and baseball caps, Fedoras, and a Stetson or two. There will be bandanas. There will be unruly beards, trimmed goatees, handle bar mustaches. There will be five o’clock shadow at noon.
There will be lanky boys and muscular youths, wisps of girls, and thick
girls, women with fat bottoms or no bottoms, and men with skinny hips. There will
be new boyfriends and girlfriends who stand around awkwardly or else cling too
tightly, and old ones who blend into the crowd. There will be newlyweds, and
oldlyweds. There will be kisses stolen, given, offered, turned down. There will
be bottoms patted, swatted. There will be hugs.
There will be cell phone cameras, disposable green Fuji cardboard clad
cameras, heavy SLR cameras hung around necks by long broad straps. Everywhere
you go, there will be memories preserved.
There will be green-and-white webbed lawn chairs, and camp chairs. There will be flip flops and bare feet. There will be heavy leather boots, and tennis shoes. There will be children running, darting in and out like dragonflies through an obstacle course of humankind. There will be cheap cologne and expensive perfume. There will be fresh sweat and there will be body odor. There will be at least one set of smelly feet. Dogs will run rampant through the woods or obediently heel. Tongues will loll from the heat, and children will mollygrub patient canines that will look imploringly to their masters for relief.
There will be green-and-white webbed lawn chairs, and camp chairs. There will be flip flops and bare feet. There will be heavy leather boots, and tennis shoes. There will be children running, darting in and out like dragonflies through an obstacle course of humankind. There will be cheap cologne and expensive perfume. There will be fresh sweat and there will be body odor. There will be at least one set of smelly feet. Dogs will run rampant through the woods or obediently heel. Tongues will loll from the heat, and children will mollygrub patient canines that will look imploringly to their masters for relief.
In the woods away from the crowd, Mason jars of clear liquor will be passed
around, and pipes smoked. There will be joints rolled and herb shared. There
will be joshing and jokes told. There will be lies. There will be denials. Tobacco
will be spit and dipped and smoked. There will be tattoos and war stories
shared. There will be tales about the ones that got away – and the ones who
didn’t. There will be off-color stories, but not too many. There will be
bragging and fishing contests. Winners will crow and losers will good-naturedly
admit defeat – for now.
There will be gossip shared, family stories told. There will be promises
of secret recipes passed along, “but not today.” There will be home remedies
revealed, and questions asked. There will be wagging tongues and clucking
tongues. There will be joy and tears. Pregnancies will be admitted to as well
as infidelities. There will be consolations, and advice. There will be
revelations. There will be understandings. There will be wisdom gained.
Friendships will be discovered, created, renewed, and a few no doubt broken. Politics and religion will be broached. There will be debates, discussions, arguments, and I imagine a few fights. There will be posturing, positioning for power, old grudges remembered, old grudges forgiven.
There will be love.
There may not be cell reception, since nobody has answered my texts. But when the weekend is done and the picnic tables cleared, dishes packed safely back inside boxes and nestled in trunks, when the chairs and tablecloths are folded and tucked into truck beds, when the embraces are over and the goodbyes are said -- when the far-flung relatives have kicked up the dust on the roads and made it safely back home -- there will be stories to tell for years to come.
That is what I look forward to most of all. That is what I will miss.
Friendships will be discovered, created, renewed, and a few no doubt broken. Politics and religion will be broached. There will be debates, discussions, arguments, and I imagine a few fights. There will be posturing, positioning for power, old grudges remembered, old grudges forgiven.
There will be love.
There may not be cell reception, since nobody has answered my texts. But when the weekend is done and the picnic tables cleared, dishes packed safely back inside boxes and nestled in trunks, when the chairs and tablecloths are folded and tucked into truck beds, when the embraces are over and the goodbyes are said -- when the far-flung relatives have kicked up the dust on the roads and made it safely back home -- there will be stories to tell for years to come.
That is what I look forward to most of all. That is what I will miss.
[Tomorrow: Singing in the Life-Boats]
Saturday, July 20, 2013
Still on the Job
Day 749: Still faithfully restraining that unruly back foot. It's a thankless job, but someone has to do it.
[Tomorrow: Clan Gathering July 2013]
Friday, July 19, 2013
Alienated
It doesn't get much better than this -- one of my favorite (if not my favorite) poets [Rumi] combined with one of my favorite musicians [Richard Thompson]. Wow. Staggering combination.
I am a bird of God’s garden
and I do not belong to this dusty world
For a day or two they have put me here
in this cage of my own body
I did not come here of my own
I will not return of my own
to my own country..
and I do not belong to this dusty world
For a day or two they have put me here
in this cage of my own body
I did not come here of my own
I will not return of my own
to my own country..
A Bird In God’s Garden – Rumi / Archuletta
[Tomorrow: Still on the Job]
Thursday, July 18, 2013
Bird in a House
I want to sing my own song that's all
cried the bird and flew into a wall
there must be some way out he cried
and his desperation echoed down the hall
Just another bird in a house
dying to get out
just another bird in a house
dying to get out
I want to join my own kind that's all
cried the bird and flew into a wall
there must be some way out he cried
and his desperation echoed down the hall
just another bird in a house
dying to get out
just another bird in a house
dying to get out
I'm gonna smash my way out that's all
cried the bird and smashed from wall to wall
there must be some way out he cried
and his desperation echoed down the hall
just another bird in a house
dying to get out
just another bird in a house
dying to get out
I know I feel this way at times -- longing to connect with another bird, my own kind. I feel like such a stranger in a strange land. We all do. This is what makes that connection so ecstatic, so intense, so precious.
Here's to finding your bird of a feather. May you forever flock together. ~~GH
[Tomorrow: Alienated]
Wednesday, July 17, 2013
Your Very Own Dolphin
Just mindless entertainment.
A dolphin, just for you, at your beck and call. Click here.
[Tomorrow: Bird in a House]
A dolphin, just for you, at your beck and call. Click here.
[Tomorrow: Bird in a House]
Tuesday, July 16, 2013
Karma
I read that George Zimmerman will be looking over his shoulder for the rest of his life.
It is a bit ironic that the very situation Zimmerman created has led to him living in the same state of fear in perpetuity as a result of his own action.
I can almost -- almost -- accept that as justice. ~~GH
[Tomorrow: Your Very Own Dolphin]
Monday, July 15, 2013
Our Desire
Funny how our perspectives change. We start out wanting a perfect person, perfect physical form, pleasing features, thick hair -- it's all about appearances and physical desire. Then we move to financial security and status for awhile.
Eventually, when it's all said and done, what matters is consideration, compassion. What we really want is someone to hold us, a good back or foot rub, someone to share a meal and talk with, to hear the outpouring of our hearts, to acknowledge our humanity, to accept us.
When it comes down to it, what we really want is a mommy, with a side of sex. ~~GH
[Tomorrow: Karma]
Sunday, July 14, 2013
Bonus Post: Heartsick
Re verdict in the George Zimmerman trial: I know there are
good people, so so many good people. But it just breaks my
heart to know the stupid stupid people have so much influence.
~~GH
good people, so so many good people. But it just breaks my
heart to know the stupid stupid people have so much influence.
~~GH
Saturday, July 13, 2013
Twelfth Night with Richard Thompson, in Kent
In mediaeval and Tudor
England, the Twelfth Night marked the end of a winter festival. The Lord of
Misrule symbolizes the world turning upside-down. On Twelfth Night, the King and
all royalty became peasants, and vice versa. (from Wikipedia).
Richard Thompson’s Electric Trio left the stage after their
second encore and the house lights came up. The audience buzzed and milled
around, preparing to go forth into the world, newly charged with energy and
full of excitement from a rollicking show.
All around my date and I, people
chattered about what a fantastic show it was, how Richard just gets better and
better every year, how versatile and talented he is, what great performers the
bassist and drummer were, what a fun experience they provided. The consensus
was that RT provides value far and beyond most other entertainers, and how
lucky we all were for having witnessed this show tonight.
The two ushers my date Vern and I spoke with had no information
on where we were to go for the VIP meet-and-greet with Richard Thompson. We remained
seated and let the crowd thin. Hopefully, the room temperature would decrease
and, with luck, someone who knew where we needed to go would spot our prominent
VIP passes and guide us to the Promised Land where we would be transformed from
commoners to Very Important People.
Eventually, we fretted that the meet-and-greet may have
begun without us, so we walked to the back of the theater. Consulting once more
with ushers revealed no new information and as despair began to set in, a
jovial man approached. He wore shorts and athletic shoes, a tropical shirt, and
sported a ball cap from beneath which a shimmery ponytail saucily protruded. His face split into a genuine smile, and with
quiet authority he instructed us to walk with him toward the stage.
Our guide turned out to be Simon Tassano, Richard’s “tour mother and front-of-house audio engineer,” as Thompson’s
official site, BeesWeb, labels him. I
had the sense he is RT’s right-hand man. Efficient, professional, congenial, with
great attention to detail, it is perfectly understandable how their working
relationship has spanned thirty years so far.
Simon directed that portable steps be brought to the edge of
the stage, and helped me ascend. He pointed out the cords taped (and untaped,
if there were any but I noticed none) to the stage floor so I wouldn’t trip. If
there’s anything I admire, it’s a man who anticipates and avoids problems, and
Simon Tassano demonstrated his skill at staving off unpleasantness. I felt
wholly at ease in his hands.
Our Pied Piper parade consisted of, in order, Simon, me,
Vern, and the two brothers who rounded out the lucky quartet headed to meet Mr.
Thompson.
Within seconds, the five of us entered a tiny green room,
stage left. Two black love seats flanked the walls, and a low coffee table filled
most of the space between.
The food had obviously suffered as much as we had from
the oppressive heat inside the theater – wilted cheese slices, limp lettuce
leaves and luke-warm shaved meat sprawled on trays surrounded by two types of
mustard, crudité, and some sliced fruit. If you refer back to how flushed my face is in the photo above, you understand that I was unable to eat due to how sick I was from the heat.
Richard entered the room silently, but the energy level
exponentiated with his presence. I am keenly attuned to physical electricity,
and RT’s exudes a wonderfully comforting, powerful quality. The energy exchange
dynamic fascinated me. Where Thompson’s energy field seemed to soothe and
perhaps even appease the three men, lowering the tone a bit, something in his
aura connected differently with me.
Think of how you feel right before a thunderstorm, when the
air is crackly with electricity. The temperature suddenly dips, the wind picks
up, the heavens seem to scurry to get every cloud in place so the show can
begin. That is how I felt when Richard entered our tiny room and made eye
contact with me. I don’t know if it would have felt different had there been
another female in the room, or not. I feel fortunate to have had this unique
experience.
Richard is slender and athletic in build. I love the way he
navigates his own space. He is lithe and smooth, sure of himself, aware of his
surroundings, relaxed, balanced. He wore his trademark Balmoral bonnet with a
red badge edged in a silver sunburst. His shoulders are broad, hips narrow; his limbs are long. He has large strong hands.
He wore a black collared shirt, a black scarf splashed with clouds of color
which was loosely wrapped and draped around his neck, and black denims. On his
left wrist was a heavy wristwatch. He still has plenty of color in his beard,
the color tapers into salt and pepper but he is far from being categorized as a
silver fox.
The six of us literally filled the room to standing-only
capacity. I sat – or rather, plopped down on the love seat facing the doorway.
The springs had long since given up the ghost and my knees almost met my chest,
I sank so far down. Vern initially sat beside me, but it was uncomfortable (and
hot – the love seat forced us to cram against each other, hip to hip and
shoulder to shoulder), he soon stood up and remained standing.
Richard immediately asked if he could bring us some cold
water. What a lovely experience, being served a refreshing beverage by such a
genuine rare talent and musical genius! It is said that the true leader serves.
Richard Thompson demonstrated his true leadership by his humble concern for our
comfort. In a split instant, we became players in a Twelfth Night production
where the King serves his people, and his people assume the throne.
He seemed relaxed and poised. I’m sure I babbled on – I am
not one to cork up what’s on my mind, particularly in a time-compromised
situation. The two brothers complimented RT and inquired how he keeps his voice
in condition. He bantered about Pavarotti and some other vocal virtuosos and
how they performed demanding schedules and always delivered.
Richard Thompson and I are about as different as two human
beings can be -- he raised in London, me in Appalachia; he male, me female; he
a musical genius and world traveler, my musical abilities extend to operating
YouTube videos (poorly) and my exotic travels extend only as far as seeing
zebra-painted donkeys on the streets of Tijuana just over the
California-Mexican border – but in reality, we share some common ground.
In an interview he once gave, he stated “As a songwriter, I
think what you are aiming for is slightly to discomfort the audience, to get
just below the normal consciousness at the things that are not quite talked
about – to the feelings that the audience doesn’t know it has yet.” The
biography blurb on my blog says “I write about what most people refuse to even
think about. I touch the bottom line of the spirit. I peel back the curtain and
gaze at what hides behind it. I am the child from the Emperor’s New Clothes. I
believe we fill in each other’s gaps and thus regain wholeness.”
We were both raised Presbyterian, knew it wasn’t a good fit
for either of us, and settled on a personal philosophy that is heavily nuanced
with Sufi mysticism. I won’t presume to define Mr. Thompson’s belief system,
nor will I trouble you with trying to explain my own. Both of us have
Scots-Irish fathers. Both of us love Celtic music.
I just wish I had had the presence of mind to bring up any one
of those topics while we shared the same air! As it was, I am ashamed to admit
the heat was so extreme, I enjoyed the sensation of cold water running down my
esophagus nearly as much as I appreciated being in Richard Thompson’s company. But
in a sense, it was physical relief delivered personally by the man himself, so
there was that additional pleasure.
After fielding most and adroitly parrying one or two of my
questions, I felt a camaraderie with Mr. Thompson that I shall enjoy
reminiscing about for the rest of my life. He is, as are so many of my Scots clansmen, a man who speaks volumes in
what he leaves unsaid.
A great deal of his communication is accomplished with body language: a subtle
eyelid positioning, a purposeful leveling of his gaze, an eyebrow shift. He was
great fun to spend time with, and how rapidly those precious few moments spent.
Before we knew it, it was time for photos. I have a good
many candids which are not especially flattering (this is a knack I possess. I
capture moments that are meaningful to me but not necessarily images the subjects
wish shared. So I keep them for myself. Far be it that I embarrass someone who
shared his humanity with me).
Simon took photos of each of us with Richard.
My only regret is I didn’t think to ask for a photo of Vern and I, and Richard,
together. That would have been a wonderful keepsake to add to our artifact collection from the evening.
The cherry on the Dream Richard Thompson Evening Sundae was
hand-lettered lyric sheets, inscribed to each of us personally by RT. The
lyrics are from “Snow Goose,” a song personally meaningful to me, and whose
lyrics influenced the opening scene in my newest novel.
When my turn came, he met my gaze with his mischievous baby
blues and asked who to make it out to.
I was prepared for this question.
“’To the one I love,’” I mugged.
Richard canted his head and looked at Simon. Simon tilted
his head and looked back at Richard. They both grinned hugely. They laughed,
nodded, and silently acknowledged the coup I’d counted.
He bowed his head. I beamed. He took an exaggerated deep
breath. “What *name* do I make this out to, then,” he asked.
I smiled. “Ginger,” I answered.
Thompson crowed. “I *knew* it would be a feisty name!”
He wrote "To Ginger, Love, Richard Thompson" and handed it to me with a flourish.
Simon rolled up my lyric sheet and carefully wrapped a rubber
band around it so it wouldn’t crease. My keepsake was safe and sound.
Well cared for, feted and served by the King and his court, our
own special Twelfth Night came to a close and Vern and I became peasants once
more -- peasants who will never forget our special evening with Richard
Thompson. ~~Ginger Hamilton
Postscript: Here is the man who made it all possible, Mr. Vern Morrison. I just want to offer kudos for putting together the best first date -- possibly the best date, period -- ever! Although a goodly part of this fell into Vern's lap, he planned the entire weekend with consideration and forethought and the utmost concern for my comfort and enjoyment. He is a mensch of a human being, and a grand companion. Thank you, Vern, for making my foray into the dating world such a terrific experience. *Curtsy* ~~Ginger
Click here to go to my column about the Richard Thompson concert itself.
Click here to go to my column about the Richard Thompson concert itself.
Friday, July 12, 2013
Flower Philosophy
There are folks who are willing to sew seeds and wait for buds to bloom, and
those who pluck flowers and clutch them to their noses. One set waits the
longest, but reaps the most. The other group captures the intensity but not the
essence.
There is joy in both. Sometimes I fall in one set; sometimes the other.~~GH
[Tomorrow: Meeting Richard Thompson]
Thursday, July 11, 2013
Richard Thompson Electric Trio Concert
Richard Thompson flashed his impish Scottish smile and
leaned across the buffet to hand me an icy bottled water. There was no air
movement in the tiny green room of the Kent Stage Theater but the atmosphere
was electric. Through no rhyme or reason I was aware of, my date and I were selected
to “meet and greet” Richard after the concert.
The concert started half an hour behind schedule due to an
issue printing tickets at the front desk. The man I just met and was on a first
date with, Vern, had purchased our seats far ahead of time and we were
mysteriously upgraded to the second row, center, on the aisle. Our chairs were
less than eight feet from the stage’s edge. We chattered about how great the
seats were, how great Richard Thompson was, and how much fun the evening was
turning out to be.
The heat was stifling. It eventually approached the upper
nineties. The air was dead motionless. If I closed my eyes, I imagined being
smothered in an oven. I stopped closing my eyes. Sipping from a cup of ice water
I got from the refreshment counter provided a semblance of relief.
There was no warm-up band. Stage Manager Bobby Eichorn came out, plugged a cord into Richard’s red Stratocaster which rested upright on a stand mid-stage, and he walked off stage right. A tall hairless black man clad in a
white shirt and black tie and slacks, wearing nice shoes, strode briskly onto
stage from stage left, and climbed onto the drum stand.
At the same time, a lanky what I think of as a “tall drink
of water” cowboy-built fellow with glasses and riotously curly hair, wearing a
white shirt and black slacks -- and I don’t know, he may have been wearing
boots – took what seemed to be two long strides, and picked up his bass.
Before I realized it, Richard floated onto stage. He
literally did not seem to make contact with the boards.
The crowd applauded. He looked up and smiled. “What an
endearing man,” I thought. He was as genuine and unaffected onstage as he was
in the interviews I’ve watched. I was so happy to be there in his presence, to
have the opportunity to witness such a consummate performer, a genius masterful
guitarist and songwriter, not a dozen feet away. I leaned over and bumped
against Vern. This was exciting stuff, and I was so happy he’d invited me
along.
The band launched into “Stuck on the Treadmill” and I was
blown away. The drummer Michael Jerome was forceful and adept, instilled seemingly effortless energy into the skins. I
spied a tiny piece of drumstick fly off into space with his second stroke. I
felt as though he caught my eye dozens of times, then reminded myself it is
nearly impossible to see people from the stage. Still, I felt a real connection
with Michael.
Bassist Taras Prodabiuk was quirky and slinky and moved without regard to human body
limitations. Where he wanted his limbs to go, they went. He dipped, he swung,
his head nodded, his arms rolled, his fingers strummed without apparent effort
as if they were separate distinct beings merely riding the ends of his hands. It
was hard to take my eyes off the bass, but I had to.
Richard’s fingers were a blur. Sound reverberated in my
chest. The energy level in the room picked up immediately. I was able to focus;
even the heat didn’t feel as oppressive. I began to clearly see each individual
digit on Thompson’s hand work the strings. I was mesmerized. He has a
confident, comfortable presence. Despite the approximate eight-pound
Stratocaster, he stood ramrod straight without a hint of stiffness. RT is a man
very much at ease with his own physicality.
He made small talk and entertained between each song. He
referred to opening for Bob Dylan, and being honored at the Americana Awards. This
year, Richard is nominated for both Artist of the Year as well as Song of the
Year. Last year, he won the 2012 Americana Music Association Achievement for
Songwriting. He joked that he wasn't even American.
At one point, Richard asked for requests. I know he has
recorded for four decades, and the odds of my favorite “Beeswing” being sung
were slim to none. Still, I called out in my “Mommy” voice, projecting as if I
needed those babies home, and needed them home right now. RT looked directly
where I sat as I called it out. I knew he’d heard me.
The interplay between performers was wonderful. I loved
watching them grin and mug with one another. Men who respect and enjoy each
others’ company tend to slip into a loose dance at certain times. Some call it
flow. It is a special creative atmosphere. Those of us present Sunday night in
Kent were witness to such a dance.
It is impossible to capture, either with a camera or a pen.
You just know it when you see it. It is sexy, and ornery, unaffected and
magical. Taras advanced, Michael juked, neither missing a beat. Richard
observed, amused, and wove his own playfulness in. The interaction, totally
unchoreographed, was loose and so natural as to suggest that, for a little over
two hours, a veil was withdrawn and the audience permitted to observe gods frolicking
in their heavens.
Stage manager Bobby Eichorn slipped onto stage a couple of
times and plugged or adjusted a cord on Richard’s Stratocaster. At one point,
RT made a comment asking audience members to please refrain from coming onstage
and touching his guitar. His humor connected well; every sentence he uttered
elicited titters and appreciative murmurs.
Ironically, I needed Vern to help me out to the lobby as “Never
Give It Up” played. By this point, I was so overcome by the heat that I
struggled to maintain consciousness. Drawing breath into my lungs felt
impossible; I was smothered and nauseous and dizzy. I couldn’t even hold my
head up to watch the show, much less nod or tap my feet or participate in any
way other than the pray to God I didn’t faint and cause a commotion.
In the lobby, I drank more ice water. The management was
great. A very kind volunteer whose name I lacked the presence of mind to learn
kept me supplied with refills and brought napkins as well as a lid for my cup
in case I wanted to take it back inside.
I confess I did grouse at a manager a bit after he offered as explanation for the extreme heat: “This happens when a lot of people come in; their body heat raises the room temperature.” I pointed out that that is a theater, people are going to come in and their body heat is going to raise the temperature; that this was not news.
I confess I did grouse at a manager a bit after he offered as explanation for the extreme heat: “This happens when a lot of people come in; their body heat raises the room temperature.” I pointed out that that is a theater, people are going to come in and their body heat is going to raise the temperature; that this was not news.
But you will forgive me my moment of ungraciousness; I had rented
a vehicle and driven 270 miles to see this concert, and I had been exiled to the
lobby rather than getting to enjoy my wonderful seating and sit with my date because
of the horrific heat.
The band finished their set and I resigned myself to having
experienced what I was going to experience. Then applause filled the theater as
Richard and the guys returned for the first of two encores.
Immediately, he
launched into “Beeswing.”
I decided even if I keeled over on the way down the aisle, I
was going to do my dead level best to get back to my seat. I made it before the
second verse. Refreshed if not totally revived, I was able to nod and smile and
appreciate my favorite song being performed right before me, almost as a
special request, by the man who wrote and sang and played it.
It was wonderful.
Richard played “Snow Goose” (If I recall correctly) after
that, then came back and did a few more songs before wrapping up. Thompson and
his crew pulled off the most rollicking version of “White Room” I’ve ever
heard. Truly, Cream could only hope to nod in appreciation. It was fantastic.
The concert was over, but the fun had just begun. I still
hadn’t met Richard yet.
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