Going back to my week in Sherbrooke teaching at the Road to Stanfest: it was a tonic. Made so by the calibre of talent this year as well as my fellow instructors – Dave Carroll, Clary Croft and J.P. Cormier. Princes and gentlemen, all.  The participants ranged in age from 20 to 70, the styles from folk to Brazilian, the ability….well, there was a range there, too.

The first question I ask is: what are songs for? The responses invariably go like this: to send a message (my thought on that one: don’t send messages in songs), to express a feeling, to tell a story. All true. In addition, of course, is the most basic. A song is to sing. But, singing does not make a song. It’s not just a matter of the human voice making musical sound. It also means using words that sing, letters that sing, phrases that sing. And taking those sounds and words, putting them together in a way that sings true, heart and mind.

Well, enough of that. Nothing more annoying than a lecture from an unreliable source. What do I know?

Look at these guitars: http://www.warrenmurfitt.com Made by Warren Murfitt….a solid addition to the ranks of remarkable guitar makers. Suffering the burden of guitaritis, I hope to have one of these soon. My brother (arguably sicker than I) has one. It’s very, very nice. And beautiful.

Speaking of beauty, it’s a good day to be out. Outdoors, I mean. So, over and out.

Second:

The blogs are sporadic, I know. But look outside. Grass. Flowers. Intermittent sun. Blogging or being outside. Which would you choose?

Neighbours have appeared beyond the fence wearing dirty clothes, the inexplicably popular Crocs, broad-brimmed hats or ball caps or devil-may-care bandanas. They’re  eager to share chunks of Hosta and tips about when to fertilize and when not to prune. Grocery store parking lots have given over a quarter of their real estate to hastily erected, and entirely temporary, gardening centres. My brother calls from the west coast and idly muses as to whether this will be the year when he finally succeeds in growing a Clematis. Even my own backyard looks promising (alas, I’m usually the one who causes that promise to be broken – not without a few tears of guilt and remorse).

Other signs of the seasonal shift:

The winter toys that dotted the front yard of my neighbour – tiny shovels, little sleds, home-made slides that would allow a child to enjoy the exhilaration of sliding for approximately an eighth of a second, etc – have all been swept away and replaced by tiny rakes, little bikes with training wheels, a clownishly large red plastic baseball bat, etc. I find these toys cheery, no matter what the season.

When people walk by the house they look thinner to me. This is because of the magical spring jacket which, in contrast to the winter coat, looks sleek, like it might almost allow one to fly. Paradoxically, and somewhat regrettably, inside the house – when the jacket is removed – it loses its magic because winter pounds do show, don’t they?

One tries on last years clothes. This has the capacity to delight or depress, but that depends on whether one likes or dislikes shopping for new clothes in a larger size.

One thinks about exercise.

One’s toenails look strange.

The house seems dirtier and less tidy than ever. The reason for this? The house actually is dirty and untidy but one is outdoors so often and for so long that it’s a new shock every time one returns home. And because one is outdoors so much, there simply isn’t time to clean and tidy.

The grass becomes a little too confident. Cocky, even. It acts as if it could mow itself.

And this, too, could be seasonal, but I have doubt:

While writing, one shifts from “one” to “I” regularly without knowing how remain consistent, and/or too lazy to go back and rewrite. One embarrasses myself, or I embarrass one’s self.

All to say that the year is rolling in the right direction. The branches of Shad Blow hang with tissuey white blossoms. Males finches are yellow again. Two turtles have appeared in my pond, and thousands of tadpoles are losing their tails and dragging themselves into adolescence.  Summer will come. And fall and winter. Another year. My wish for this one is that it is not much unlike the last, and that continuing life is all we know and want.

If you’re a Bishop fan, check out this great blog. Next year is the centenary of her birth, and Nova Scotia will host a variety of events to mark it.

It’s always amazing to me that when I’m doing a show with friends, my picture ends up being a scan of an older album. Why do I bother posting my high-res shots for download?

Here’s some info re: my upcoming show with Cindy Church and Gwen Swick. Gwennie’s the best songwriter I know. Can’t wait to do be on stage with her. If you live close to Kitchener, come on in.

http://centre-square.com/eblast_songwriters.html

I was away for three weeks, and upon return I developed a cold. That is, I came down with “The Cold” as we say here in Nova Scotia. Here, there is only one cold that has been split and re-split into thousand of shards and we share them, passing them amongst each other ad infinitum. I think The Cold I have now is the same one I had in 1962 and kept me from having to go to several piano lessons which I had been taking under the tutelage of Sister Thomas Marie and her happy gang of  whacking…er…knitting needles.

I believe that even talking about “The Cold” has power enough to lower immune systems and lay one open to The Cold taking up residence. Even on the telephone. Please don’t call me to say: She’s got The Cold…I had The Cold last week…have you had The Cold…did you manage to avoid The Cold, etc. Please! Remember that the telephone is a tricky, mysterious transmitter! Bear in mind that I could well be germophonic, or worse viralinguistal.

I’m certain that during my vacation I had brilliant ideas and many original, creative thoughts. Regrettably, I’ve forgotten all. Memory, always a fickle rascal, now seems to view me with blantant disregard. I often suffer the silent treatment. The Cold robs me of the strength to argue.

Back in a day or two with thoughts on travel. ‘Til then, stay well. Don’t answer the phone.

Dance for joy. Weep for my poor wallet.

Overheard in a cafe: the scarf in France is what the baseball hat is in the U.S.

The day came. The day went.  All my attention to my superstitious routines seemed to have worked. After changing my strings on Saturday, every scrap of string debris was gathered and discarded. My greatest superstition is that all the leftovers from a string change must go at the same time.  That is, if I find a string end, or a used string or a wrapper on the floor after I have made the trip to the garbage can, a sudden anxiety strikes me. It takes some time to let this go, if, in fact, it ever does go.

My other superstition involves eyeliner, but is is too complicated to relate here and/or too silly.

The day came. The day went. Soundcheck – setting up the sound system to best amplify the sound in the room and for the folks on stage –  was a breeze. Usually it takes more time, mostly because my waffling and still not really knowing what I’m listening for. I use language like: Ummm…it sounds muddy.  Or: it sounds bright. Muddy and bright are the only terms I have at my disposal. Well, not so. I do know: too loud and not loud enough. I rely on those around me to assure me that things sound ok, that nothing more can be done, that I should stop talking anytime now.

As an aside, there was an instance recently in which a sound man lost his way with the sound equipment and it resulted in A Big Snit. Not from our side of the microphones, I’m obliged to add. A Big Snit is not desirable at a soundcheck. We took the high road, even after he screamed “This is ridiculous. I’m starting all over”. Of course, that meant we were starting all over, too. Also undesirable.

Back to the Carleton (to which, if you’re anywhere near Halifax, you must go). Without burdening you with the details of each song and every interaction, I can say it went well. I believe this was because of the generous audience (the wine, perhaps? the Guinness?) and the great sound. My accompanist, Jamie Robinson, smoothed things out, too.

Just wanted to report: no Big Snits; no lost strings; no eyeliner slip-ups. With the exception of the slight shoe/chair rung mishap, the day came and the day went. And it was a good day.

These are some of the heated disputes that occurred on our recent trip – and I’m not saying it was me who had these disputes.

1. How on earth do I program my destination? Why are you so mysterious, and what are *POIs?
2. Stay where I stick you, Serena. Stay, I say. Stay.
3. Oh, shut up, Serena. Your voice is irritating, dispassionate and you have trouble with your “r”s. Anyway, I know where I’m going and do not need you.
4. You’re going the long way, Serena. The map is showing a different route which I’ll bet the farm is faster.
5. You’re going the wrong way, Serena. I’ve been here before and I have no memory of this particular strip mall.
6. That’s it. You’re going in the glove compartment. After all, I have  someone in the  navigator’s seat who reads very well when she puts on reading glasses which seem always to be tucked away in the bottom of her purse.
7. Well, and I say this begrudgingly, you may be allowed to return temporarily. The glasses cannot be found (to be fair, this particular heated dispute is with the party in the navigator’s seat).
8. You may be in a small snit, Serena, but please allow yourself to be stuck on the windshield again. Please I say. Please
9. Don’t make me stop this van to reprogram you for Rossland, BC and not Rossland, AB.
10. It is your fault that I have to stop this van to reprogram you for Rossland, BC and not Rossland, AB.
11. I don’t have time to mess around with your high-handed directions. Now I’ll have to turn this rig around.
12. I don’t have time for my high-handed directions. Now, I’ll have to turn this rig around. It’s your fault.

I say this to everyone else in the van: I’m sorry for the anxious outburst that caused me to scream a four letter word and demand we do a U turn on an unfamiliar road. I blame Serena. I’m sorry that the little talks I had with myself every night to come to some reconciliation with Serena did not bear fruit. I’m sorry I missed the turn off to Sherwood Park. I’m sorry you had to witness all this.

Were I Serena, I might be a tad thin skinned about the heaped abuse she bore during that last trip. But I am…well, me.

Not the appropriately named Serena.

*Points of interest. Unlike this blog.