This works well, to my mind. I like hearing from people via this site. It reassures me that someone’s reading. Other than some of my family.

Today, on my page, I posted an upcoming event at the Carleton. Rankin, Church and Crowe will be performing there on October 19th. While posting it, I remembered the event invitation I sent before my show at the Carleton on March 14th. I think I had about 30 responses from folks who checked the “will be attending” box. A few “maybe attending”.  the night came, and I was very happy with the capacity turnout. But, in thinking about it later, I realized not one “will be attending” or “maybe attending” person attended.  Odd. Just sayin’.

I see where Rose Cousins is playing The Company House on September 3rd and 4th. Go see her…she’s good. Very good. Here’s the scoop on the venue:

The Company House
2202 Gottingen Street
Halifax, NS B3K 3B4

Phone: (902) 404-3050

Vicky

Yesterday – and today, too – I washed and waxed the floors. I remember my mother doing this. I remember her answering the telephone and saying to a friend who, presumably, was asking what she did that day. “Oh, not too much,” she would say. “I washed and waxed the floors”.  How long can it take, I used to ask myself, to wash and wax the floors?

When I grew up, cleaning floors went like this: you sweep them, run a mop over them, squeeze on them some floor shining stuff from a plastic bottle, let them dry. You occasionally get down on your hands and knees to scrub a stubborn spot. You then go and check your email or have a little espresso with left-over Christmas cake.

But now I own a Viking ‘77 floor polisher. Remembering my mother’s floors which gleamed like glass, I decided to wash and wax my floors in an attempt to achieve the same result. And I did. It took about four hours, taking to account the drying times between mopping, waxing and polishing. And buffing, the icing on the hardwood.

Recently, during an evening of wine sampling and chit chat with my middle sister, we discussed floor polishing. She, too, has a polisher. Her’s is a 50s greyish pink, and mine is a muted green, just like Mum’s.

She nabbed it on Big Garbage Eve. She doesn’t really have the scavenging gene, but Big Garbage Eve is when the truck will take anything from washing machines to mascot costumes, including the oversized head. One can see some wild sights curbside. Ever the style maven, the pink caught her eye. One man’s trash is another gal’s floor polisher.

My sister, now very social and easy to be with, was timid as a child. She had what we thought were amusing fears: Santa Claus, our next-door neighbour Cliff, an unwillingness to spend an overnighter with my grandparents. In writing this, I realize it sounds dark and weird, but she has assured me there was nothing at play but her little-girl imagination.

She also had an imaginary friend, Christine. My sister has described her to me, but the description is so detailed that it would take too long to type it here. I can say only that Christine was African Canadian – or African American, for I don’t know from which country Christine came.  I’m not sure my sister ever asked her.  I once asked her how real Christine seemed to her. She paused, leaned in toward me, lowered her voice and said “it was as real as you are sitting here in front of me”. It gave me pause, and a shudder, I’ll admit.

But on that night of sampling and chit chat, I learned something new about my sister vis a vis a floor polisher. My mother kept hers stored in a small alcove-ish space at the top of our stairs. Turns out, that in addition to Christine, the floor polisher was also a part of my sister’s social circle. It was her “tall, skinny friend”.  I don’t know the tall, skinny friend’s name. Perhaps it was Viking ‘77  - Vicky for short, I’m figuring. According to my sister, she and Christine would sit on the top stair visiting their tall, skinny friend.

Now – smart, practical, funny – I wonder what she thinks when she polishes her floor. I’m pretty sure she gives a wry little laugh and gets on with the job.

But me. I can’t help look at my muted green polisher  - just like my mother’s – and think: are you Vicky, if that in fact is you name?

It gives me pause, and a shudder, I’ll admit.

I scrub on my hands and knees because I don’t think one can really clean a floor with a mop, unless one is not wearing their glasses. Without glasses, the kitchen floor looks pure and holy, like the only weight it has borne is dappled sunlight at 4:00 in the afternoon. Like no cat has ever walked on it let along coughed up a mole-sized hair ball. Like the fridge, stove and dishwasher are holding their breath lest they sully its bright broadness with a crumb or a drop of water.

Some things are better without glasses. Sleeping – better without glasses. Early morning glances in the mirror – better without glasses.

A year or so ago, while on stage with Cindy and Raylene and in a state of dreamy repose (forgetting, momentarily why I was there) I noticed neither of them were wearing glasses. It came to me in a shocking instant that they were wearing contact lenses! It was a hard moment. They were clear, bright, beautiful. There was nothing between them and the audience. Well, except for the microphone, several cords, little  pedals, monitors, the lip of the stage and approximately 15 feet.

There I sat, stunned with the self awareness that I was wearing glasses on stage. Glasses. Sweaty , smudged, back and forth slipping up and down glasses. It occurred to me that I had wasted a lot of make-up that night – and many nights before – because  no one could actually see me. It was in that invisible state that I decided I would get contact lenses. I, too, would be clear, bright and beautiful. There would no longer be anything between me and my audience. Except for: see above.

My helpful optometrist fitted me out with handfuls of little gel packs, some labeled R, some L.  In each, there was a lens. After repeated scoops of a pudgy finger in a little gel pack, I retrieved a tiny sliver of something that seemed like a cross between teardrop and a tiny blob of egg white. I balanced it on my right index finger, used my middle finger to pull down my lower lid and popped the little thing on to my right eyeball. Like wise the left eyeball. Miraculously, immediately, I could see quite a distance. I left the office thrilled with a new reality.

When I entered the car, I realized that I could not read the instrumentation panel. I was able to drive home despite the blur, still chuffed with my new status-  a person unburdened by glasses.

I denied the little nuisances that forced me to go out and buy drugstore reading glasses so that I could read, work at the computer and recognize whether I had an orange or a yellow pepper on my plate. I thought it was kind of fun that I had to get new non-prescription sunglasses because my prescription sunglasses were useless – dangerous even – when I wore the lenses.

It all went to hell the first time I played guitar. Lo and not behold, I could not see the frets. I needed my drugstore readers to see where my fingers were landing, thereby defeating the original purpose for getting the lenses in the first place.

I now own: prescription glasses, prescription readers, prescription sunglasses, non-prescription readers, non-prescription sunglasses and a little box full of R and L contact lenses.

So I wear my glasses on stage and take them off when perspiration causes them to slide down my…er…rather insignificant…nose. Sometimes I see, sometimes I don’t.

But for a day or so after I scrub the floor, I never wear them. Better without glasses.

http://www.theglobeandmail.com/globe-drive/car-life/road-sage/the-parking-lot-where-idiocy-is-king/article1664418/

See ya. But not in the parking lot.

I seldom listen to commercial radio, but now I can’t avoid it. There’s something outside the window that sounds like Harry Chapin’s “Cat’s In The Cradle”, but it’s a techno-pop arrangement. The singer sounds like he has an electric razor tucked in his cheek. I feel my blood pressure rise with the relentless bass line. I never liked that song, but now I hate it. If, in fact, it is that song. It just may be a techno-pop side write.

Then comes the sparkly-spark-spark, perky-perk-perk announcer –  the “on air personality”. It sounds like she’s just caught the bouquet at a wedding. She takes calls from people who call in to win contests. They sound like they’ve won the 16 million dollar lottery jackpot, when actually they’ve just won tickets to a chicken wing eating contest where they will get a free T-shirt. It sounds very exciting on the radio, though.

But, at one point I heard a jingle. An actual jingle, like the one’s we used to hear on the radio years ago. You know – “it’s so easy when you use Lestoil!” or “Cameo….refreshingly different!” I was hit with a wave of nostalgia. Images of teenage girls in mini-skirts walking in pairs, each with a small transistor radio – in a leather case – pressed to their respective ears. This was 1965, I’m guessing. Almost every young teenage girl had one.

I had one, but did not walk around with it pressed to my ear. I don’t think my mother allowed it. Instead, I took it to bed and plugged in the flimsy wire earphone. There was only one – a single “ear bud”. It’s looked like a tiny ivory coloured cross between an acorn and a pear. It had a small hole at the end from which the hit parade…well…paraded.

As did the jingles. Car dealerships, restaurants, furniture. Heating and plumbing companies, electricians, barber shops. Drive-ins (both food places and movies). Seems like any local merchant with the cash could go into a radio station and order up a jingle. Local musicians came in to write, to play and to sing.

Now, that ’s my idea of an ideal gig. Y0u get to write, play and sing, but it’s not necessary to wear make-up and  dress clothes.

Enough of that. The painter departed with his paint and his radio, and I am left with “Cameo….refreshingly different” looping in my head.  If you are old enough to remember this jingle , I apologize for putting it in yours.

House looks great, by the way.

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.

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

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.

I seemed to have lost my past post. Probably trying to make these photos fit on the page in a sensible way. I have to forget that now, and let them fall where they may. They include: a western sky: me either trying to hide my neck in my sweater or grab a quick nap; still life with fat cat and chips; Cindy napping; Christina Lake; a stop for an interview and me noticing and pointing to the huge canine tracks on the roadside; Clarence and Raylene waiting for me to stop pointing. Most pictures by Cindy and her iPhone. The cat is mine, though.

It’s a singular joy to arrive home to a sparkling house, fresh floweres, a nice Pino Noir, a tasty little snack and fresh sheets on one’s own bed. Even better is to rise, have familiar coffee, find two New York Times crosswords (saved from the Saturday papers), and then discover that the basement landing had been cleared of all bottles and cans that awaited recycling. Best, to go to the basement to notice it’s been tidied, cleaned and organized. How good and satisfying, and for all this I’m grateful.

To me, this was a happy tour. Going into it, none of us knew how it might be  -  how we would travel together, how the work would be divided and completed, if we would get along. Turns out we travelled well together, we did our respective jobs with no question or fuss, we got along splendidly. There were many, many laughs and even some great meals, considering all the traveling we did through remote areas. Sometimes good coffee was beyond easy access, but it made arrival at a Starbucks-like establishment an great occasion.

My compatriots, Raylene, Cindy and Clarence, were easy travel companions and colleagues. The shows went pretty well, every one in its own way. With one or two exceptions, accommodations were comfortable. One place was a bit dodgy, but the welcome was warm.

One place was not so dodgy but the welcome was cool,  and the coffee – supplied by the roaster one block away – cost $3.30 per cup. As Clarence and I were leaving our breakfast table, Cindy had come to the dining room to grab a coffee to take to her room. We chatted a bit, and she decided might as well take two coffees, thereby saving a trip downstairs. Cups in hand, she politely asked how much she owed. The response was “$6.30″ “Pardon me?” said Cindy, and the young woman re-calculated. “Oh, I’m sorry – I made a mistake” she said. “It’s $6.60″.  It seemed that every “Could I…? Would it be possible…? Are there any…? Could you please…?”  was met with a half-smile and a sorry little “No” accompanied by a pathetic head-tilt that seemed to suggest an tacit understanding of the disappointment the requester would experience. However, the promise of hand-milled soap was kept and there was a Saltine-sized wafer of it in each room. I would have traded it for a private bathroom, I can assure you. The lasting upside, though, was the re-telling of the story which was revived regularly. We would often answer requests with a sorry little “No” and tilt our heads in sympathy.

However, one good thing about that particular brief stay is that my dear friends, Stephen and Lorne, showed up unexpectedly and arranged a nice little after-show snack and beverage. How they did it, I’m not sure. I expect money passed hands. I’m absolutely certain no violence occurred.

There were many other running jokes and routines, but they fall into the “had to be there” category. Will I include them here? Well, I must say “No” and tilt my head in sympathy.

The weather was unseasonably warm and fine. The clear days allowed us to see the breathtaking beauty of Southern Alberta, and BC. The foothills of the Rockies are soul lifting, and especially beautiful this time of year, with a skiff of snow and golden grass poking through it. I think it was Geronimo who said that horses made the land more beautiful and he was right. Whenever horses were visible from the van, a little stir of excitement lifted the whole experience a bit, as if there had been a sudden burst of extra beauty erupting for our additional pleasure. The Foothills, the Rockies, the Cascades, the Arbutus and Redwoods of the coast, the plane-flat fields leading to North Saskatchewan – they made the long drives pleasurable.

The folks at all the venues were beyond welcoming. Food, hot and cold drinks – some providing hot meals. No complaints. And the audiences were responsive and enthusiastic.

I would be hard pressed to recall a better group experience, although traveling with John Reischman ranks high not only for his musicianship, but also his uncanny ability to sniff out great food and lead us to it.

We parted last night and returned to our respective homes. All happy to be back, I suspect. I know I’m happy to be here, but will look forward with joyful anticipation to the time when we can do it again.

Hope no one tilts their head, smiles a little and says “No”.