Full-time deep thinker for life, part-time (i.e. 60+ hrs / week) engager in things necessary to live. Blogger, writer for the sheer enjoyment of sharing the experiences and vibrations of life.
Hard to imagine this happened, but it did – and not too long ago. Early 2000’s (probably around 2003 … the Bicentennial celebration of Zion Lutheran church in Hollidaysburg, Pa.). This was during the time when all four of us (Donna, Bev – aka “mom” -, Gail, and I) were on staff as keyboard specialists. If you are wondering who was my mom, you aren’t looking close enough.
Churches are in need of organists. The very church in which this picture was taken is currently looking for a full-time organist. I am busy with other endeavors, but holding down the fort Saturday night. Donna and Gail are doing what they can on a very limited basis. Mom, unfortunately for all of us, passed away. We have a very active praise band led by a talented group of musicians and a young man fills in at the organ when he can on Sundays. I think this is happening in a lot of churches, although, I have no concrete evidence supporting such a claim.
How fortunate Zion was to have all four of us. If you know me at all, this is written in the most humblest of ways. The differences in our playing styles and gifts were evident. Mom and I had the great fortune of a maternal “organ” gene passed down from her mom, Janet, who played professionally in Chicago before the depression forced her back to Pittsburgh, into marriage, and a steel-mill/steady job life with a husband and family. She managed to play regularly in churches around the city. In her retirement, when she relocated to Hollidaysburg, she played at the Methodist church on Walnut Street and at Zion on occasion.
Gail is born and bred Zion. She has gifted Zion with her skills as long as I can remember … plus she’s older than I. Insert slight chuckle here. Donna? Well, I don’t know much about her, sadly. She’s always been willing to jump in and play – quite well if I might say so.
So, that’s the summary to date. I love this picture of us. If the date I mentioned above is correct, the three of us alive today are sixteen years older. Yuk. THAT I don’t like. Within those years, I’ve lost mom, dislocated one and then sliced open the other thumb thirteen years later, started a goofy/fun hotdawg business, and really found out some strange things about myself. So, so many strange things over the 4×4 years that have passed. Don’t ask.
If only I could tug on my mom’s ear one more time. She’d understand, I’m sure.
I’m a little G.I. not forgotten. In a window display, year after year, thinking I was forgotten … until today.
Nothing has changed, year after year. I sit in my Jet Propelled Supersonic Speed GR 5-4065 facing a blank, colorless wall across a row of trumpets and horns. Nobody winds me up anymore. Nobody. Can’t remember a time when a human hand touched, let alone played, with me. I keep a smile on my face, though.
My time was 1944 – an era stuck between the Great Depression and the boom of the 50’s. For me to survive seventy-five years is quite the miracle considering most of my contemporaries hit the junk pile, or simply rusted out into nothingness. Baseball card pals, Big Little book friends, Erector set siblings, Tiddlywink toddlers …. all gone. I miss them. Here I sit, still, silent. Thinking of them. Year after year.
My last owner, who owns this shop, hasn’t been around in a forever span. I don’t know why. I know he still cares about me and all my friends in this window, so I silently ask, “why?”…and there is never an answer. I can only assume a reason I don’t understand. That has to be good enough. It has to be. Year after year.
I can only sense experiences. Thinking in stillness. I would love to have someone, anyone, move me ever so slightly to see one snow fall, or watch the leaves change. To understand how rain slowly runs down the face of the glass, look out as the parades go by, catch a glimpse of a sunrise and sunset, or spot that one classic car I remember fondly …. would be magnificence in the most holiest of forms. It is not to be. I am this now, now. It is my year after year.
I am Jet Propelled. I am Supersonic Speed. Yet, I am stuck. Ironic. I have a specific identity, yet thousands pass, day by day, without notice of my predicament. I silently speak, yet no one hears. Everyone is in a hurry. It is not their fault, however. My time was seventy-five years ago. My identity is not recognized as much as it would have been back then and my usefulness has long since passed. Even my recognition as an antique/collectible is waning as those who remember me as the mighty G.I. Joe are slowly passing into eternal rest. Year after year.
Today was special, however. Some random guy stopped for a few minutes to say, “Hi”. He said he passes by frequently and looks in because his family used to visit the music store a lot (where I am on display). He’s sad, too. Sad to see a favorite store – with good memories – fall into disrepair over the years. I know, between the two of us, we are thinking the same thing: sometime soon, this store will need to be demolished. The damage from years of neglect is too severe for repairs to make any significant difference. Funny, at that time my view will finally change … and I don’t think it will be a happy ending. Year after year will finally come to an end for me.
Still, today was special for me. I’m a little G.I. not forgotten … at least for today. I have an identity that was recognized. My ego was Supersonic and my happiness Jet Propelled because some random guy took a few minutes to stop, look me in my side-eye through the glass, and talk to me. For anyone walking by, this may have seemed a bit odd. For the two of us, however, it brought back to life the memories of one and wound up the rusty heart of another.
For that, I am grateful….and will be. Year after year.
With apologies to all the meow lovers reading this, I don’t really like cats or kittens. It’s not an allergy issue. I didn’t have an early traumatic event with Morris or Garfield in my youth. Larger breeds such as tigers and lions at the zoo I find quite majestic … but that’s about it. No drastic hatred – just a malaise. The little fur balls test the limits of human-pet interaction like none other … in my most humble – but accurate – opinion. “LOL”. Shall I say, for the record, I’m an all-in “dog guy” just to clear things up. Or, was that apparent?
I remember we had a cat in my early years. Wasn’t my choice. Then again, nothing before age eighteen ever is. Had to be before I was twelve and still in elementary school due to the house we lived in and the car we had at the time. Huge, late 1970’s Ford cloth top roof (you’ll need to pardon my lack of details on the car), gas burning automobile. “Silky” managed to ride the cloth top from our house to a stop light three miles away without our knowledge of such. Must have been quite a ride for her. Watching her jump off the roof, scamper away across the sidewalk, through the neighboring yard, then disappear into nowhere was traumatic for others in my family … probably not for me. I can’t remember much other than those few details. There you have it. My childhood cat story. No tears. Meh.
I would not hurt a cat. I would provide a shelter or food for a cat (temporarily) if necessary. I love people who love cats. I respects friends who respect cats. Cat Stevens sings “Morning Has Broken” better than anyone else on the planet. “The Cat in the Hat” is a freaking awesome book. The quote, “what greater gift than the love of a cat?” by Charles Dickens remains my least favorite of all time, and Eartha Kitt was, well…the hottest Catwoman evaah!! ..which gets us quickly down the road to leather cat o’nine tails … whiiiiiich… oh, well…never mind.
I’m back. Short, but necessary, pause to eat lunch. Delicious mushroom-swiss burger, btw.
Cats, kittens, felines, tabbys (tabbies, tabby’s), Toms, Tomcats, Persians, Shorthairs, Sphynxans, Siamesians, Himalayans, Heralayan, Theyalayans, Themalayans, … or any other breedians….not my thingian. Established.
Enter exhibit “A” as seen above. Can I freely admit I took the picture for a few reasons? Giza-ish in stature for one. Perfectly positioned as if to guard the great tomb of the Pharaoh Khafra; Although, to compare myself to a great Pharaoh would be a slight stretch (he wouldn’t have had access to a cell phone in order to take that picture … that’s the only difference).
Second, the stare. Typical cat. Eeer, kitten. Here I am. Enjoying an afternoon off at a local hangout, minding my manners, playing a …. game … relaxing .. by myself .. trying my best to make a financial contribution to our local economy. I look up. “It” looked down. We had a moment initially. Mine might have been gas from the breakfast I had only a few hours prior, though. Now, I said, “it” – not to be disrespectful to the newspaper-colored quadra-legged creature. Just don’t know the sex and didn’t care to find out. Or ask. Yeah, ask the cat. Like THAT would have helped.
Anyway, every few seconds I looked up, the damn CorK (my new nickname since I do not know the proper term. Cat + or + Kitten = CorK) continued the stare like I was doing something unsavory. Look, what was sweet and innocent at first was getting annoying. Every. Few. Seconds. CorK did not move – just a stare. Noise from the machine? Nope. Me saying, “What, am I bothering YOU?”. Nope. As silent and still as the Sphinx, this CorK had me in the barren desert of no response. EXCEPT I had one move left…literally!!
Sudden, small jerky body movements must be the answer. Nothing to startle any humans nearby (fortunately none where I was. Actually, nobody around – don’t ask) I started with my eyes. Now this takes a bit of skill because I was still trying to “play” my game at the same time. What makes all of this more remarkable in hindsight is the fact that the CorK probably didn’t two sh**s about any of this. I started with a sudden left-to-right shifting of my eyes. No response. Then eyes and head. Nope. Eyes/Head/Shoulders. Nope. Eyes/Head/Shoulders/Upper Body. Nope. Surely an all-in body tremor WITH a chair tilt and tremor? Nope. Ok. Then. CorK fifty-thousand points, Doug Zero and a sore neck.
So I had to take a picture. And, you guessed it, the CorK didn’t move UNTIL a milli-second AFTER the picture was taken!!!. I kid you not. I swear the damn CorK came over, sat on MY machine JUST TO HAVE THE PICTURE TAKEN!!…
Well, just to prove how mature I am, I’m NOT giving “it” the satisfaction of printing a copy. I’ll just spend my whole afternoon typing away while this CorK goes about tormenting other unsuspecting victims. I hope they don’t have a cell phone because this CorK is very smart and cunning ….
…. and pretty damn cute. Which was the point of this blog in the first place. Still not a cat fan. And, my back hurts. Cats are dumb.
Stick a CorK in the “whine” bottle of my blogging life today. I’m out.
What a neat genre. Coming from a classical background, I never fully appreciated bluegrass. Outside of the usual music gen-ed courses I was forced into, classical music was the “it” in my life. Country, rock, jazz, fusion, blues, etc … same. Wish, now, my past was different. Age has a funny way of changing perspective on a lot of things. Enter “One Grass Two Grass”.
Anthony (the bearded guy in the middle) is the son of a dear friend of mine. He’s a fiddle player and the brother of a former piano student. I’ve known this family a long time. Through tragedy and triumph, they’ve survived to see wonderful futures for all three: mom, daughter, and son.
I am forever linked, musically, to this family. From performing two solo concerts in memory of her first husband to playing the wedding of her daughter years later, I’ve known “mom” quite a while. These are the connections that matter. Connections music make.
Do yourself a favor. Look up “One Grass Two Grass” on Google. They do a lot of touring on the west coast and also have uploaded videos on the internet.
I have a special gift in my office from Anthony and, by extension, OGTG. Something they did not have to do, but did anyway.
Years ago, a family, a piano, a teacher. Today, my new respect for bluegrass, a “more wonderful” family, and a connection to a group not possible without the love of music lasting beyond any expectations.
Thank you, Anthony. Thank you, One Grass Two Grass. Keep smiles on your faces, extended breath in your words, and life in your music.
Fourteen times a week – without fail – this happens … and will continue to do so whether or not I am around to witness it. “9:11” will bleep up on digital clocks around the world. Two full minutes out of every one-thousand, four-hundred forty minutes of every day (roughly .00139%) is spent on this display. Before you get too crazy figuring the odds/probabilities of “9:11” (see an earlier post), every digital number has the same 2x/day… UNLESS you have a “military time” display that keeps time differently… ex. 1:00 pm is 13:00, etc… OR, you don’t give two “bleeps” to the wind about any of this ….. In which case, stop reading, go make yourself a bagel, take the cat for a walk, or play Jenga with a clown – I really don’t care (actually, I do … please keep reading).
Thanks for hanging in. Five out of seven times in the morning – on average – I look at my clock in the car and it is showing “9:11”. That’s slightly above 70%. Even in the summer, when my schedule is not as regimented, same. Year around, in the later evening – no matter what I’m doing, any digital clock I’m glancing at … anywhere … yep, “9:11″…. probably four days a week at least (57%). So, for the sake of being simple, this damn number shows up in my life, “randomly” during any given week waaay more than it should,…right? Well, on digital clocks, anyway.
Why can’t it be a happier digit combination like, I don’t know, “12:25” (Christmas)? Why the universal “9-1-1” dial up number for “uh-oh, I got a problem”? What is the numerical universe trying to message me? Apparently, there is a greater chance of alien life than the universe providing an answer to my digital dilemma. The Drake equation is easier for me to understand…
See what I mean? I get the Drake problem. I really do. But, I can’t figure out why, on average, “9:11” shows up in front of my beamers 60% of the time during the week. No other time of the day does. Not 6:46, 7:34, 8:30, … 10:00, blah blah blah… One-thousand, four-hundred thirty-nine other options from which to choose (actually, only half because they duplicate) … and the numerical universe picks NINE-ELEVEN… frickin’ 9-!-!….SMH.
On the up-side, though, if it was pre-determined to torment me with another, I’d have nothing to blog about on this fine Tuesday. Unless, of course, it was from my juvenile upside-down, hand-held pocket calculator days. Then there’d be “77:34” to pay.
Colder than it has been, today is a blah day. “Blah” has reasons for being in my life … Simply because it’s Monday? My lack of quality sleep over the past few weeks is finally taking its toll? Diet continues to be, well, …. under performing. Stress? Hey, welcome to a positive blog!! Thanks for coming.
Every story has a beginning. That was it. Life isn’t easy most of the time. We’ve problems …. right here in River City, my friends. Not big ones, hopefully. Little ones, over time, that add up …. day after day…. until our bucket runs overeth.
Staying uber-busy isn’t the solution. I’ve tried that. Not doing a thing doesn’t work either. So, where’s the relief from the “blahs” in life?
For today, anyway, I found a solution. Soup, a large spoon, twenty minutes, and silence.
In as much as I don’t know the ingredients in the soup I found, I don’t know the reasons why I’m “blah”. Neither matter. One compliments the other. One makes the other digest better.
Life is probably one ingredient at a time. Maybe we try to do too much all at once – exhausting ourselves in the process? One day at a time. One ingredient at a time. That way, our lives can be the most delicious soup we can taste during a bleak, blah Monday when we need it the most.
…a lesson I needed to write, and taste, for myself.
I need something to write about. So, how about this: I was disciplined. Kinda like in school – in front of fourty people – while they all looked at me. I was bad. In poker, there are rules. Rules needing special attention especially when playing in a professional game, out of town, with strangers, within a national tour format, and a professional dealer. I broke a rule and was disciplined. I will keep writing that sentence because I was bad. Line over line on the chalkboard until I learn my lesson. The tournament director pulled me aside and gave me a fifteen minute timeout. Want to know the particulars, don’t you? Let’s eliminate the obvious “non-reasons”: 1. I didn’t kiss the dealer 2. I didn’t swear, nor was I drunk 3. I didn’t take all my clothes off 4. I didn’t hug any other player 5. I did tell one bad joke 6. No inappropriate hand gestures So, as you can see… everything was, well, kinda ok … until this … one … little .. thing. Texas hold-em isn’t too complicated. You get two cards dealt to you, then, through a series of this-that-and-the-other-thing you end up with those two cards (no one else sees) and five face up cards in the middle everyone else in the hand gets to use. Until the hand is over – actually, until it’s required of you to do so – the two cards are shown. In the event no other player is remaining but you, the cards can remain unseen. Got it. Good. Easy rules. Unless you’re me and don’t pay attention to who is left in the hand. I’ll make this as easy as possible: I turned over my two cards too soon. Period. Bad, bad man I was. I broke a rule and was disciplined. Now, this doesn’t seem like it was an big deal, right? Oh, contrair, my dear reader. You think a star sucked into a black hole is a big deal? You think the beginning of bio-genesis, or, nuclear energy changed the world? Einstein? Trump? Kennedy?….well, let me tell YOU!! The pre-exposure of a King and Jack of diamonds IS a big deal requiring the extrication of a bad man from the premises by two squeaky little (very nice) men with official badges at the end of kinda cute little lanyards. I was escorted to the hallway for a ten minute time-out which is (btw) a standard penalty for such an infraction. I broke a rule and was disciplined. Now, even though I did such a thing, I was still eligible to win the chips. My King and Jack were still in the hand, but eventually lost. The penalty applied only to me – not my chips. Somehow THEY got a pass. Not fair. Not fair at all!!🤷🏻♂️ I spent the time in the hallway contemplating my error (not), asking the universe for atonement (not), pleading to the director for forgiveness (not), and sipping a soda texting a good friend (am) until my graceful entrance back into the poker parlor was welcomed. Which it was. Which I exited ten minutes later after getting a bad hand dealt – played well – but bad cards vs great cards. Good news, though … the hand I lost wasn’t pre-exposed. I was a good boy. Shoulda kissed the dealer. At least that would have been a better reason to be kicked out. THAT would have been a better rule to break, huh?
We have goats in my hometown. Never knew they were here until a good friend called the other day. He and I were “talking business” then he said, “Hey, did you know there are goats in the borough?”…
I did not. Now, I do. Thanks, John.
The next question for me is, “What do I do with this information?” …. Goats don’t bother me.
Actually, I think they’re kinda dumb.
I don’t live close enough to care about their ugliness. Practically speaking, I don’t have a kid in the fight; Nor do I live in the borough, so going to council with any complaint of a violation is useless. Besides, the attitudes on the faces of these said goats … well … scare me.
There seems to be a black one, white one, and mixed race variety. Window-sill dude oversees operations, apparently (although that would seem to be a pane). The white goat is the more photogenic of the three while twisty-three is a bit confused as to the happenings around.
Lawn care maintenance is the least of their concern as is apparently the case. There’s a trash can and an electrical box … maybe they can find their way into those for some good ‘ole fun – like – goat “light up night”, or, “Hefty bag toss with goats”… who knows?
It is interesting to see these goats around – especially at a home in the historic district – at a registered bed and breakfast. I am not a whistleblower (like I need to bring up THAT term this week 🤦🏻♂️)…We have beautiful homes in the area. Homes that are well maintained, lawns manicured, and folks who genuinely tend to their properties. Do goats need permits? I don’t know. Does their odor permeate the neighborhood? I don’t know.
Subject for others to consider. For me, I can only write. Goats can’t. Which is why I fear no literary retribution from these three amigos. Actually, they can’t read either. I just realized that as well.
Waaaaaait a minute…. they’re happily doing their “goatish” things and I’m up at 4:30 a.m. writing on my blog about them🤔…..
I thought I was the smarter of the four. Maybe not.
Seldom will I post, Write, discuss, or host The parties of hate - of disdain. For there is no gain In such a discourse Which leads to remorse
I've learned in my life To avoid such a strife. But, just on this day I feel I must say: To: The parties of hate in Washington - on both sides - please grow up.
Yes, you! to whom I refer (And shall not deter) Why the divisive intent? You're waywardly bent... Pro "against one another" Not "brother for brother"
You see only race As a way to keep pace Of the political views (i.e. voting block news) Loud insanity shouts Silent majority doubts
Do you think we are done? THE America as one. You see us as dum-dums. One-and-done bums. I hope not to be See, we're all family.
You speak not for me Electorally, probably. But, not from my heart where honesty starts... Left, Center, or Right Dark skin, medium, or light
I'm not just one who casts an occasional vote. I'm not just a few words in one innocent quote. I'm an American among millions who loves all in our land I'm one who will be fearless to take a brotherly stand. Against all that you do to divide what we became: A country of equality Where we are all the same.
