Cali Rose | Cali Rose

5 Dec 2016

ANOTHER GOODBYE

It's "Selfie Time" with Cali and Bill — It’s “Selfie Time” with Cali and Bill

His name was Bill and he was one of my teachers. My mentors. I had three of them. They arrived in my life, one by one. Just in time. Just when I needed them most. Adults, they were. Flawed of course. But each one invited me into their world with an open heart. And now they are all gone.

I think they were happy to have me around too. Because I practiced. Bill was my guitar teacher. He gave me homework and I did it. Like his arrangement for “One Note Samba.” Yeah, one note my ass. I woodshedded that thing until I was seeing visions of Antonio Carlos Jobim in my scrambled eggs. Hundreds and hundreds of times I played it. Never perfect or completely in the pocket. But he cheered me on until I could do it “pretty good.” And pretty good was a quantum leap for me.

Back in the day, Bill brought his big guitar to his nightclub gigs. He must have played “Misty” and “The Lady is A Tramp” thousands of times. Down-down-down with his right hand while the fingers on his left stretched across the fretboard like a dancing starfish, forming lush, sumptuous chords. Late at night he’d tune his radio to the local jazz station and analyze bass lines, what the sax is doing, piano, drum, guitar… He taught me to listen too although I will never hear what he could hear. The man was brilliant.

But he told me he didn’t really learn music until he got off the road and began teaching. When you have to explain something you have been doing intuitively your whole life, well it’s like a bucket of cold water in your face. He knew WHAT to do but now he had to learn how to put it into words.

Bill became a most excellent teacher. He taught me how to listen but he also taught me how to see. The man had an uncommon connection with mother earth. There he is, standing at the door, just standing, looking like the soles of his feet are plugged in to some unseen force. Grounded, like a mountain.

sangabs — A beautiful day in the San Gabriel Mountains

And oh he loved the mountains. And trees. And “puffer” clouds in a big blue sky.

Once Bill takes me on a hike in the San Gabriel’s, the rugged mountains near Los Angeles. We trudge across a grassy meadow when he suddenly stops and points at my boot. “Look at that flower! ” His ebullience is like a little kid on Christmas morning opening the most beautiful package under the tree. The flower looks like a weed to me. A plain little white thing that I am about to walk by or worse, crush with my big size 9.

“Look at it. Look at it.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll look at it.” I bend over and really look. You know what, the little flower is exquisite. But how would I have known? I have to climb out of my “city slicker” high chair and get my face in the dirt. But he knows.

And he isn’t done, that Bill. He leads me to the top of the mountain where he opens his arms, like eagle wings, and bellows “WONKA, TONKA. BIG MEDICINE.” You can hear his resonate voice echoing to the next ridge and I’m thinking my guitar teacher is nuts. I’m also thinking he has stamina like a Budweiser Clydesdale has stamina. This man who is the same age as my mother. What I need right now is oxygen, a couple Snicker Bars and a bottle of Gatorade. Not him, he’s too busy being “at one” with the earth and the sky.

Maybe that’s how Bill celebrated 90 years and a few more. It helps that he married a good woman, Pat, and they lived a sweet life in Carson City, Nevada. Close to the Sierra’s. And close to the casinos. He loved to play the ponies and take a little nip of happy juice. If there is a heaven, I hope there’s a racetrack. And a bar.

Bill Wyckoff & Rosie — Here’s Bill playing my “Rosie” and getting friendly with four strings

I gave up guitar to play the ukulele because I don’t have the kind of brain that can do both. But my guitar chops inform the way I play the uke, from strumming to fingerpicking to pulling melodies out of those four strings. Bill was very gracious when I decided to go all aloha. Towards the end, he had to abandon the guitar too, when his hands and fingers just couldn’t do it anymore. A sad coda indeed. But he still had mother earth. And Pat. And his family and friends who love him.

I think our lives right now, right here, are the sum total of all our experiences and reflecting pools for the people we encounter along the way. I bring Bill to all my gigs. And my classes. He’s there reminding me to listen when the breezes sing through the Eucalyptus trees outside our bedroom window. He’s there when I see something extraordinary in the palette of my everyday life. Thank you Bill.

Pat, Cali & Bill Wyckoff — With Bill & Pat in Carson City, 2013

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I received a torrent of emails in response to my last blog “Not Your Normal Trip to Trader Joe’s.” Thank you for the support and for sharing your stories. I think this subject hits home for a lot of us but we don’t always talk about it. Well I’m talking about it because I don’t want to suffer or see the people I care about suffer and knowledge is power. Narcissistic Personality Disorder is devastating. In my experience, I have little hope that someone with NPD will get better. Maybe they have a good day, or week, but inevitably they return to their old ways. There are techniques you can use to diffuse and distract. Or you may have to disengage and estrange yourself so you can live your own life. Read up on this stuff. It may help.

21 Nov 2016

NOT YOUR NORMAL TRIP TO TRADER JOE’S

Let me tell you a story. About my mother. This happens not so long ago when she is in her eighties. Still living alone. When every little thing sets her off. Like gravity, houseplants, soap, me.

Her pantry is near empty so off we go to Trader Joe’s. I hope the lunch rush is over and we can get in and out quickly. Yes she needs food. And I need St. John’s Wort because I can tell she is itching for a fight. I grew up knowing her wild moods come on like a sudden thunderstorm in summer. I get good at taking HER temperature. I get good at sensing when it’s time for me to hide in the bathroom or play the piano or sit in the dirt under a tree.

I should have turned the car around and gone home but she would have thrown a tantrum. Screaming is bad enough, but in my late model Saturn, with the windows rolled up, it’s an echo chamber and there’s nowhere to run. She sets off a stink bomb and it feels like I’m inhaling the toxic molecules of her pissed-off world. Let’s just say that being around her is exhausting.

So I opt for the open aisles of Trader Joe’s. Sometimes they play old school Sinatra over the sound system. I could use some “Fly Me to the Moon” as mom pushes her cart through the sliding glass doors into a swarm of shoppers–zigging, zagging, grabbing stuff however and wherever they can. Is this the day before Thanksgiving or something? It’s like everybody–and their mother–is shopping at TJ’s today.

I get a cart too, trying to put a little metal between me and her. I have a bad feeling about this… I don’t like crowds. But somehow I’ve learned to get all quiet inside and stay in that place until I feel safe. My mother, on the other hand, goes ballistic. I always thought the best birthday present I could give her–ever–was a day at the nearest paintball arena.

Suddenly it happens. A man pushes his cart into my mother’s lane. Right there by the bags of shredded cheddar. She glowers at him but then her face turns ugly and twitchy. All she needs is green paint and the pointy black hat from The Wizard of Oz to make this wicked witch vision complete.

I am standing some ten feet away, next to the Fuji apples, as I watch the scene quickly unravel. No one knows I am with her or she is with me. I am all at once an impassioned observer watching what happens when mental illness goes public.

She screams. She bellows. I think she accuses him of something just short of murder. I can’t remember the exact words. But I watch the other shoppers move backwards, leaving a large semi-circle of angry space occupied by one crazed woman and “the guy with the cart.”

What I am watching is what I have felt for years. She spits venom and I move away. I see the shoppers doing the same thing. It’s a strange kind of relief. Relief that others are affected in the same way. Enough to get their asses into a safe zone. I’m on lockdown too, like my feet are frozen in cement. Just me and the Fuji’s.

Then the man speaks. He gets in my mother’s face. He faces down her bullying and tells her to “watch your manners.” He may have apologized or mentioned how busy the store is. I blank out. But this I do know… She shuts up. Like she just swallowed a tube sock. How did he do THAT?

Having set things straight, the guy turns his cart around and disappears into the throng of shoppers who, almost in slow motion, tentatively step back into the empty space. The cheese section soon returns to normal. Well, nervous normal.

I am mortified and I also know I have to leave my hiding place to retrieve my mother. She may be mute right now but that won’t last for long. I have to get her out of there and quick.
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There are any number of personality disorders and my mother is a poster child. I am not talking about your average (albeit obnoxious) me-me-me stuff. No. This is what pathological narcissism looks like in full bloom at Trader Joe’s.
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We trudge to the car in silence but once her seatbelt goes click, my mother unloads. “That nasty man. That nasty, awful, mean, terrible man…I want to kill him…” This is her mantra ALL the way home.

“But mom, you started it. You yelled at him first. It was busy and people were bumping into each other all over the place.” One more time I forget you cannot reason with a pathological narcissist because they are ALWAYS RIGHT. Try explaining the internal combustion engine to a frog, why don’t you. It just goes ree-deep, ree-deep, ree-deep and you end up having a conversation with yourself.

Ironically I know my mother is enjoying every minute of this. It’s great theater and my mom is a born actress and ANY spotlight will do, even the cheese section at Trader Joe’s. Her gregarious, ribald personality has fooled a lot of people. For a long time. Ever the drama-queen, a day without taking aim at somebody or something is like a day without food. Her critics be dammed. “I will destroy them.” She’s smiling as she says this. A smile with a little twist of arsenic.
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In this election year I confess that my “mother buttons” are pushed and flashing red. I have heard the words pivot and temperament bandied about. As in “will he pivot?” As in “does he have the temperament to be president?” I smell my mother’s vibe.
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With mom there is no PIVOT. When she develops dementia we tell her the new medication she is taking is a vitamin. It’s really Zoloft and within 48 hours this psychotropic drug has modulated her moods–to such an extent that her new caregivers say she is delightful. My pugilistic mother is delightful… But she is drugged and losing her mind. If you want to call that a pivot…be my guest.

As for TEMPERAMENT… Ever since I was little, my fervent hope is that one day my mother will wake up and “get it.” That all her stuff will melt away with the morning sun. I love my mother and I just want her to be nice. To be normal. I want to sit down over hot chocolate and ginger snaps and have a conversation with her. Like when she talks and I listen and then I talk and she listens. Such a little thing that most people take for granted.

To the end my mother does not have the capacity to look in the mirror. At herself. To see her part in her own suffering and the suffering she causes others. She’s too busy blaming everyone else. She cannot bear criticism or dissent. You cross her, or just disagree with her and she will hold you in contempt. Until you give in. Suck up. Or die. If someone else is getting the attention she thinks she deserves, she blows a gasket. Compassion? Empathy? They come with too-many strings attached. When her friends do not glorify and adore her she casts them aside. She refuses to see a therapist. She refuses to take medication. “Why should I? I’m not the one with the problem. YOU are…” she snorts. When it’s always someone else’s fault there is no “getting it.” There is no adult in the room.

My mother got old but she never grew up. And then she died.

In my experience, as a daughter, this is the temperament of a pathological narcissist. I feel like Cassandra, from Greek mythology, sounding the alarm that few will hear. The only people who truly understand are the ones who have walked this path. Who have tried to love, or just get along with someone like my mother.
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This is a sad story indeed–for my mother and everyone who cared about her. But mom is not the villain here. She was robbed. At every turn she was robbed by this awful mental illness and it sabotaged her relationships, her smarts, her ability to make sound decisions, her dreams, her capacity to love and be loved in return.
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But life goes on. I do my shopping run at Trader Joe’s early in the morning and relish the stillness in the air. But sometimes I look at the Fuji apples and remember. Sometimes I reach for a small block of Baby Swiss…and remember.

When I was a little kid, music saved me. It saves me today. In these uncertain times I fear we are in for a VERY bumpy ride. A ride I know well. You may want to get a ukulele.
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If you are interested in learning more about Narcissistic Personality Disorder (NPD) there is a plethora of information online. You can start with Wikipedia. CLICK HERE.

2 Nov 2016

Woodshedding, Exotic Dancers & Ukuleles

I took a well-needed break from the wall-to-wall drama swirling in my life these days with a road trip to the high desert of Southern California and the Antelope Valley Ukulele Festival.

calis_class-4 — Ukulele For Beginners. Photo by Craig Brandau

This is such a sweet gathering of folks who love the ukulele and it’s a blast teaching the workshop for beginners. Then I get to hang out in “the green room” with its wall-to-wall mirrors, munchies, bathroom and jovial conviviality up the kazoo. Fred Thompson and I commiserate over chips and dip. He is a wonderful ukulele player but more than that, this eighty-plus year old can sure spin a tale.

cali-and-fred — Cali and Fred. Photo by Craig Brandau

He regales me with his show biz stories starting with one “Tempest Storm,” the uh…exotic dancer…who once wowed audiences in the showrooms of Las Vegas. It’s another time, another era.

Apparently Fred and Tempest are appearing on the same bill and the performers hang out backstage waiting their turn. He tells me that, between sets, Tempest grabs onto a pole and…um…does her “breast exercises.” Fred describes how she’s flexes one boob and then the other. Over and over again. Working those pecs. And God knows what else.

Woodshedding in Webb's garage, Sheffield, MA — Woodshedding in Webb’s garage, Sheffield, MA

She’s woodshedding, by golly. I tell my students that in order to learn a new technique, a new song, a new something, you have to do it over and over. Like chopping wood. I never quite thought of woodshedding in terms of “exotic dancing” but of course it’s true. You gotta keep your instrument—and it’s parts—tuned up. After that, maintenance is everything, right?

The following Thursday I tell The CC Strummers about Fred and ask them if they’ve ever heard of Tempest Storm. Most of them nod and laugh. But it’s “Mr. B” who grabs my attention because the most beautiful smile is washing across his face, like sunshine. I think maybe he’s having “a moment” and ask him about it. He tells the class that he saw Tempest Storm perform way back in the 1960’s and she did…like…the most amazing things while she held onto the curtain. He goes into more detail but I shall leave that to your imagination. Let’s just say I am now glazing over.

Recently Richard, another one of our CC Strummers, told me that he found a “Cali Rose” on the Internet and she is a pole dancer.

Are you kidding…?

Of course I do a Google search as soon as I get home and there she is! Miss Exotic Dancer, Maryland 2014. That’s impressive. Then I find another “Cali Rose” and wouldn’t you know it, she’s a pole dancer too and a fashionista. In Australia. Are we seeing a pattern?

I think about pole dancing sometimes. Really I do. Every time I drive by this scene on my way to the 405 Freeway, right here in my homeland, Culver City. It’s the Secret Pole Dance Studio. Yeah, BIG secret. You can bet the customers at Winchell’s and HoneyBaked know about it… As for me, my frequent “drive-bys” are as close as I’m going to get to swinging on a pole.

But back to the Internet. I think there is no mistaking a fully clothed, middle-aged ukulele player for one of those blond bombshell Cali Roses.

“But can they play the ukulele?” you may ask. And I’d say, “um…does it matter?”

15 Oct 2016

UNDER THE RADAR

I’ve been swooping under the radar since my mother passed away July 4th but I wanted to check in with you.

First of all, thank you for sharing your kind words and stories about my last blog — Going Out With A Bang. I try to respond to every one of your emails but suddenly the tasks before me are looming large and I can feel the giant vacuum cleaner of time doing what it does best. Suck. Please know that I have read all of your messages with a grateful heart.

So what have I been doing? Cleaning out my parent’s house. It feels like I got strapped onto a time machine/dump truck. Back, back through the decades of stuff and at the same time, fitfully HERE, directing the hard-working teams from
1-800-Got-Junk?

jacksonpollack — Jackson Pollack making visible what those memories feel like…

But somehow, through all of this, I showed up for my life and kept working. Actually my gigs and classes saved my butt. What a relief to get out of the house for a while. But music got me through when I was IN the house too. As I poured through the mountains of boxes, files, pot-bellied Hefty Bags, I kept my playlist of instrumentals running on my phone. Sweet gooey stuff that took me to the lush Redwood forests of Humboldt County where I went to college. Flew me across the Pacific to Hanalei Bay on Kaua’i, the one place where I can really feel my body again. Or sometimes a tune just helped me be present with the inevitable emotions and memories that roar onto the canvas like a Jackson Pollack. I kept my phone in my back pocket so the soothing tones traveled with me from room to room, upstairs, downstairs.

I’ve always been a believer in the healing power of music. But these past months sealed the deal. And to be able to MAKE music is a real miracle and we all are the beneficiaries.

I am honored that the folks at The Antelope Valley Ukulele Festival have invited me back this year to teach the Beginners Class and appear in the afternoon concert. Michael Lemos, who founded and produces this festival (along with his devoted cadre of volunteers) also understands the power of music and community. The proceeds from this event go towards the Antelope Valley Ukes For Schools Program.

avukefest I hope you can join Jason Arimoto and the Aloha Time Machine, Daniel Ward & Heidi Swedberg, Fred Thompson, Jim Duncan, Ka Pa Hula O Kawailehua and me at this very special festival. It’s Saturday, October 22, 2016 from 11:00 A.M to 6:00 P.M. Fabulous teachers and performers all.

avpicture

I will be starting my two ukulele classes Saturday October 29 at Boulevard Music in Culver City, CA:

Four-Week OnGoing Ukulele Workshop & Jam (11:00 to noon)

AND

Five-Week Ukulele For Beginners Class (12:30 to 1:30 P.M.)

See the flyers below…

I think one of the reasons that the ukulele continues to grow in popularity is because it’s not only for spectators. The ukulele invites YOU to join the party and make music. Because you can.

So give yourself a second wind today and strum a little. You’ll be doing this world a world of good. Under the radar and in the full light of day.

ongoing-flyer-oct-2016

beginners-class-flyer-falll-2016

27 Jul 2016

GOING OUT WITH A BANG

It was snapping, crackling and popping around here July 4th. Despite the pleas of law enforcement, “so-called” adults (okay…idiots) were setting off fireworks, the illegal kind, in backyards and on street corners. Not to mention the big official fireworks shows nearby in Culver City and Marina del Rey. A cacophony of sounds set the air on fire. I heard blasts like gunshots, whoops, hollers and dogs. Howling, howling. I felt like howling too. “Make it stop…make it stop.” On July 4th I want to hide in bed and pull the covers over my head. And that’s where I was when the call came that my mother just passed away.

Earlier that day, the sunny board & care home where she spent her last months hosted a grand July 4th barbecue. Families, friends, neighbors converged in the backyard to chitter-chatter and fill our plates with grilled goodies. I sat with my mom and cajoled her to eat as I happily inhaled yet another hot dog and scoop of homemade potato salad. She just poked at her food then put her fork down. But chocolate is another matter. It’s always been the food of last resort. I emptied a handful of baby Hershey bars on the table, carefully unwrapped the foil and placed a little slice of brown heaven in her hand. She took a tiny chipmunk bite and put it down. Hmmm.

This is the only picture I have from that afternoon. My mother and I are seated to the right. The man in blue is standing beside us.

And she would not look at me either. “Mom, I’m over here. Let me see your beautiful face.” She’d glance quickly my way and even more quickly the other way again. I found this odd enough to mention to my husband. For the last two weeks it seemed she was dropping deeper into the land of dementia and unlatching from this mortal coil. It’s only now that I’m beginning to put two and two together.

After the party, the caregivers put her back into her Lazy Boy in the living room, in front of the big flat screen. She was holding her beloved stuffed puppy in her arms as I leaned in to kiss her. “Bye Mom. I love you.” Her reply? “I know.”

A few hours later she died in her sleep. The doctor had given her a clean bill of health only a week before. There was no frantic trip to the emergency room. My husband took me into his big warm arms and then we drove to her home. I stood over her body and studied her face. It was free of anguish. It looks like she died peacefully. We should all be so lucky. A heart attack, a stroke, a something that is quick and done.

The mortuary dude arrived quickly too. Probably July 4th is a big night in the undertaking business. I watched him drive away, with my mother in the back of his van, the red taillights disappearing in the night. Fireworks exploded nearby turning the sky smoky blue.

And just like that my “tormentor” was gone. She was 93 years old.

As you can imagine I am experiencing a cascade of emotions…and a whole lot of nothing. Those of you who are familiar with my story know that my mother had borderline personality disorder. She could be so kind and inexplicably cruel. Unfortunately, my father and I were her primary punching bags. Mom was a registered nurse, a clinical specialist, who went back to school in midlife to get her degree, which is quite an admirable feat. She prized her profession above all else and would interject the list of her accomplishments into any and all conversations. In her world there was little room for anyone else. It was only the last couple of years when dementia stole her memory and Zoloft balanced her moods that we actually had something resembling a loving relationship.

She is so much a part of “my story.” What happens to our story when a main character dies? For me, this is complicated by the specter of mental illness. I could write a book. This woman threatened to kill me. That would be a couple chapters right there.

And yet… One evening many years ago, for a few moments, my mother emerged from her mental prison into lucidity. She was standing by her front door, sobbing. “I’m so afraid I’m going to push you away” she sputtered through her tears. “I can’t help it. I can’t help it. I can’t help it.” She talked about hearing voices.

You know, I had always thought she could help it. I thought I could “fix” her. And then she’d be nice to me. But at that moment my view began to change. Albeit not enough to stop the suffering that would continue for decades—for her and me. I can only hope that today she is free.

Flash forward… I am talking with funeral-director-guy in his office at Pierce Brothers Mortuary, which is conveniently located at the final resting place of so many Hollywood stars. My parents had a pre-paid, no-frills cremation plan on file. I am deeply grateful that they did this. They bought this plan twenty years ago for $695 each. Funeral-director-guy can’t freaking believe it! He shows me what the same plan costs today. Whoa! Dying is expensive, folks… While he is imputing the information into his computer I wander around the graves and headstones. A couple tourists, distraught women, are doing some kind of emotional catharsis in front of Marilyn Monroe’s crypt, otherwise I would have taken a picture. But I do snap a few. My mother loved cemeteries. It’s feels so Zen to me—you know, that laughter in tears and tears in laughter stuff.

My mother could have been a stand-up comedienne. She was hilarious and loved shocking people with her ribald observations about body parts. We had this conversation a few months after my father died when I asked if she had thought about “like…going out on a date? What are you looking for in a man?” She answered so quickly and precisely that it was apparent she’d been mulling this over for a while.

“Yes. He’s got to have three qualifications. First he has to be funny.” What that means is he has to think SHE is funny.

“Second. He has to be smart.” Which means he thinks SHE is smart.

“And what’s the third one mom?” I can hardly wait to hear this one.

“He has to be impotent.”

“Uh…do you mean important?” I ask…

“No. Imp-O-tent.” She stresses the “o” so there is no doubt what she means. Or wants.

There is a moment of silence before I offer some real world advice…

“Mom it’s so hard to find the perfect guy, you know. Would ‘two out of three’ work?”

She ponders this briefly before acquiescing… “well okay, he doesn’t have to be smart…”

Not long after that my mother spiraled ever so slowly out of control and eventually lived like a bag lady in her own home, refusing to let people in, refusing help, refusing to throw anything away. There were no boyfriends.

At the end of my visit, I hand funeral-director-guy her brown velour pantsuit. My mother was not a girlie-girl. She dressed like a Russian soldier. Then I give him the stuffed puppy she adored the last few weeks of her life. She and her polyester pooch and brown velour will go out in a blaze together.

My mom did not want a funeral or memorial. Nothing in the newspaper. This blog is it. She did not believe in heaven. Or hell. Not an afterlife nor reincarnation. One and done. She was the mistress of fireworks, this one. Sometimes it was quite a show and you couldn’t look away. But mostly I wanted to pull the covers over my head and hide. That said, I know that my mother did the best she could with her one precious life.

I called her best friend with the news. They knew each other since they were teenagers in Washington D.C., giggling about the new boy down the street. This woman cried softly on the phone. “Your mother had a good heart, Cali…”

mom_s_birthday_party — It’s love at first sight as my mother meets her stuffed puppy at her Birthday Party last April

In time the stories soften around the edges and eventually fade away, but one thing remains: Our mother carried us in her belly for nine months and brought us into this world. Whether she had the stuff to be a good mother. Or not. How can we ever say thank you, thank you enough, for this astonishing gift? For our big messy life.

Bernice Cali BW — My mother and me…a lifetime ago

I received an avalanche of emails in response to my last blog about my mother. “Police Pursuit.” Stories that are sad, complicated and utterly human. In my blogs I have hesitated writing about my really personal stuff… You have to know that my index finger hovers over the “send” button before I push it down. Should I? Shouldn’t I? But that began to change this year with my mother, the defining relationship in my life. Your responses remind me that our stories connect us, not in our heads, but in our hearts. They give us comfort, like a deep heave-ho.An a-ha moment, perhaps. I’m especially gratified when you leave a message on my blog (WordPress) so others may be gifted with your words. Thank you!

Jet Room and mom — Don’t mess with mama, wearing her soldier glitz

31 May 2016

POLICE PURSUIT

momandpursuit My mother and I are craning our necks towards the big flat screen on the wall of her board and care home. We are watching a police pursuit weaving through the streets and freeways of Los Angeles. I know what is happening. She does not.

These chases occur with stunning regularity. You wonder why the soon-to-be felons don’t think things through more carefully. The helicopters are hovering overhead; the police vans with their red lights flashing are looming large in rear view mirrors. You just don’t get away. Harry Potter’s cloak of invisibility is not going to save you now. The escapees will get nailed and let’s hope they don’t nail anyone else in the process. But we keep watching as the drama unfolds. It’s like passing a car wreck on the highway. “Don’t look, don’t look…” My higher angels implore me not to participate in someone else’s suffering. The angels usually lose…

I’ve just wheeled my mother back into the living room of the big airy house after our sidewalk excursion in this quiet neighborhood. She hugs one of the stuffed dogs I have given her. It’s a sun-shiny day. Memorial Day… And she goes along for the ride without mustering one ounce of drama or angst. This is not the mother I know.

There she is smiling at the jasmine blossoms I snap off a vine and place in her out-stretched hands. She kisses her stuffed dog and looks up at the sky when I point to the little plane. But she’s happy to go back inside again and that’s where we watch the pursuit.

Dementia is an interesting thing. I sing and play ukulele in memory care units for people who respond to a familiar melody or tap along with a steady beat. They smile and laugh sometimes. They scream and paw at themselves. Their stories are gone. Their histories—dropping, dropping precipitously into a heavy mist. But something is left. An essence. And I try to honor that and meet them where they are.

Not so easy with my mother…

As we watch the erratic driver racing down the 105 freeway towards Los Angeles International Airport, Jinna, one of the caregivers, asks me if my mother liked to drive on the freeway. I chortle as memories of my mother unspool in my head like a really bad movie. My mother was a nervous driver, but as a passenger she could have won the Gloria Swanson Award for melodrama. She’d smash her right foot into the “imaginary” brake pedal on the floor. Never mind that she was in the backseat.

images But I could live with that. It was her screaming that scared the hell out of me. Blood curdling screams. I’d feel the adrenalin let lose in my body in classic fight-or-fright fashion. Once she agreed to wrap her favorite leopard scarf around her face so she couldn’t see. Or scream. But then she put her big-rim eyeglasses on, over the scarf, so “I don’t look strange.” By then “strange” followed her like day follows night.

I tried to reason with her. “Mom! Don’t scream! It scares me when you scream. I’m not a good driver when I’m scared.” But my mother is a troubled woman. The Dr. Jekyll, Mr. Hyde type and playing the “reason game” doesn’t work. She tells me she can’t help it. And today I know that’s true because that is how mental illness is.

When my mother was behind the wheel of her own car and another driver did something that pissed her off (which is casting a very wide net), her face went all Exorcist as she shouted “GO TO HELL…” Then she’d flip them off. I tell my mother it’s not a good idea to do that kind of stuff in Los Angeles. There’s that “reason” thing again. She’s lucky to be alive.

Then something happened: Dementia. When my mother no longer knew what pills she was taking, we added Zoloft to her colorful array of capsules. It helps modulate her moods. Within two days she had morphed into a sweet old lady. Fricking Betty Crocker. The caregivers say she’s so nice. She smiles a lot, laughs, kisses her stuffed dog.

And I’m thinking “who the hell are you?”

It’s been a long hard road for my mother and me. How different things would have been between us and in all of her relationships if she had been taking Zoloft, or something like it, the last ten, twenty, thirty years. And now folks who meet her for the first time are enchanted. It’s an ongoing challenge for me to reconcile “my story” of my mother with what is true today.

Like the people I work with in memory care units, I try to meet her where she is. YES, my mother was an angry and sometimes vindictive woman. YES, today she is mostly kind. YES, she has forgotten the people who were on her “hit list.” “I will destroy them,” she’d snarl. Red lights flashing. YES, she has forgotten I was on her hit list too. YES, her eyes get all sparkly when she sees me and we hold hands.

What is true? All the above, of course.

momandpuppy By now the crazy dude on television is driving south on the 405 Freeway. He will soon run out of gas and the police will throw cuffs on his wrists and haul him to jail. Thankfully no one else is hurt in this pursuit. My mother is napping in her Lazy-Boy, clutching her polyester puppy (that fortunately survived its first ride in the washing machine and dryer).

So many memories. So many stories. And no answers. Except to trust this moment to shine a little light.

4 Apr 2016

MIRRORS

shoppingtherapy I call it “shopping therapy.”

I jump on the “consumer bandwagon” and follow the sales to my local brick and mortar store. It’s like a mini-vacation that I book on my way to a gig. I don’t have to buy anything and usually don’t. But there is something about shopping that gets me out of my head and into a kind of hypnotic trance. Well that’s the way it’s supposed to work…

So here I am pushing open the doors to Steinmart. I’ve got a fist full of coupons, an hour to spare and I’m in the mood to browse. This store, along with Goodwill and Ross Dress For Less, are my go-to lodges for colorful distraction.

I veer right toward the boutique part of the store and just like that, I am seriously staring down a blue ombré tunic dress. It’s “hippy chic.” Please know that I am not a hippy. Nor chic. But then very little makes sense to me in this life so what the hell. Just then a fellow shopper swoops beside me and exclaims — I mean she EXCLAIMS: “That dress is SO you.” And she doesn’t budge until I snatch the blue thing with its black crochet sleeves off the rack and drape it over my arm. This woman is so convincing I believe her. The short-circuiting has begun.

After that encounter I wander through the rest of the store, drawn to the sale racks first, petites, hats, jewelry, shoes. This is so fun. I balance more clothes over my right arm and proudly dangle that hippy frock by its hanger as if I am a walking billboard for “cool.”

Off to the fitting room I go. I’m second in line behind another woman. She turns around and sizes me up.

“Is that dress for you?” The words slither from her mouth as her eyes drift over the blue ombré.

“Maybe…” I reply, going all wishy-washy and noncommittal.

“It’s too young for you.” She snaps.

“That’s not a bad thing…” I poof, feeling like I have to say something even though what I am thinking is F—K You!

At that point I abruptly turn around and go back into the store to find more clothes. This is supposed to be “Cali Time.” Rest and relaxation and all that… But now I’m descending into the caverns of unresolved psychological stuff. Yet again.

Let’s review:

Within minutes two different people share two different opinions about the same dress. Unsolicited. And thank you very much. But what if one of them is right? Even a little right…

brain_image One of the gifts of getting older is that most of us reach a point where we don’t give a hoot what other people think about us. At least most of the time. But these interactions at Steinmart, albeit brief, get to me. They slice a little, like a paper cut. I want folks to like me. I want to feel like I belong to a tribe and this is what my lizard brain hears:

Woman #1: “I like you.”
Woman #2: “I don’t like you.”

Wait a minute! We are talking about a dress. That’s all. A dress. But isn’t it interesting how a whole chapter in our life story can rise out of some mere trifle like this…

The truth is neither of these women know a damned thing about me–my tally of gain and loss; what scares the hell out of me and what makes me giddy; what I value and what puts me to sleep. They don’t know my name.

Yet both of them make snap judgments. Lordy, we all do. And based on what? One of my music teachers was the “deep thinker” type and often likened us to mirrors, we human being people. When we look at each other we are really seeing flashes of ourselves. You spot it, you got it. Could it be that those two women were seeing reflections of themselves in that dress? In me?

And visa-versa?

To be honest, I enjoy the first encounter more than the second! She seems like a pal, a girlfriend. The other woman has a “boss lady” vibe like “I know best.” Or worse “I know you.” Well screw that. We are lucky in this life if we finally begin to know ourselves, much less anyone else. Being a human is THAT complicated. And mysterious.

Finally I lock myself in a fitting room and pull the dress over my head. I turn this way and that way in front of the mirror. Well it’s cute and fits perfectly.

BUT…

On me the blues and blacks look like something Morticia from the Addams family would wear when she’s harvesting this week’s stash of mushrooms in the dark cellar of the old homestead.

What was I thinking?

The truth is both women are wrong. This dress is not “me.” No matter the year I was born. I can hear my inner fashion guru again–the whispery voice that knows only two words: Yes. No. Her batting average is not perfect but it’s pretty good.

I buy a pair of fakey-silver heart earrings. With my coupon I get a whopping 75% off. That’s $4.32 out the door. I love hearts. I’d like to think I’m an open-hearted person. A kind person.

Until some pushy b-i-t-c-h comes along and tells me how to dress.

Damn those mirrors!

___________________________________________________

PROGRAM NOTE:

My next “OnGoing Ukulele Workshop & Jam”

AND

My “Five-Week Ukulele for Beginners”

BOTH start Saturday, April 23, 2016 at Boulevard Music in Culver City, California. Make music…make happy!

The flyers are below and a big hug of thanks to all of you!

ONGOING UKE:APRIL 2016

21 Feb 2016

TOUCH THE SKY

Maybe you saw the movie Whiplash? About a mercurial music teacher who thrashes his young protégé into a drum-thumping master? I left the theater feeling like I’d been pummeled too.

Chocolate please…

I’m not sure what you would call this bombastic style of “getting your point across” but I prefer teaching with, shall we say, kindness. Love, even. Not gushy, but honest. The great Zen master, Suzuki Roshi, told his students “all of you are perfect just as you are and you could use a little improvement.”

The music teacher in Whiplash bullies his students, humiliates them. He sucks their spirits so dry their eyes go dead. Well that’s how it looks from my seat. In the mega-decibel finale his student performs an inspired drum solo, seemingly reaching the pinnacle of perfection and transcendence. One might conclude that the teacher, in all his mean-spirited bluster, is vindicated.

Maybe. Maybe not.

We’ve all had teachers. They stretch across the big bell curve of competence—from exceptional to “you-have-got-to-be-kidding.” Nobody has a corner on the truth, the immensity that is music or that is anything. “You’re just one little dot in the painting that is the music of the universe,” says Tabla master Zakir Hussain.

I tell my ukulele students that I am sharing my experience, the stuff I’ve learned first-hand as a working musician. My little “dot” in the painting. But they have to connect their own dots…

For years I studied with three teachers who were extraordinary mentors. They planted seeds, they cajoled, they got testy, they made me listen to songs and singers and music that were way outside my comfort zone. They lent me books and tapes that were subversive. They changed the trajectory of my life and for that I am deeply grateful.

I love them still. But there were “issues.” News Flash! There are always issues. Human beings are a roiling stew of pop-up emotions and contradictions. Eventually a sense of possession seeped into the teaching relationship. It was time for me to go. To take what I had learned and live it. To stand on my own two feet. When I finally left, it was messy and terribly sad. But I had to. I had to find my own way.

And I had to take a long hard look in the mirror. Music continues to teach me. About a whole lot more than music…

Seymour Bernstein, from the documentary "Seymour: An Introduction" — Seymour Bernstein, from the documentary “Seymour: An Introduction”

88-year-old pianist Seymour Bernstein tells his students that music, like life, is about dissonances, harmonies and resolution. And then he adds “I never dreamt that with my own two hands, I could touch the sky.”

It’s a dance, this teacher thing. Always changing, always in motion. Each of us teacher AND student. I am honored that Ukulele Magazine has published my essay about teaching and “Why I Uke” in their Spring 2016 Issue.

Now go forth, teach something to somebody…and touch the sky.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Ukulele Magazine1

From Ukulele Magazine, Spring 2016, page 24

When I stand in front of one of my ukulele classes and see people who have never played an instrument before or have been told they can’t sing and here they are, strumming and singing and making music, I say to myself, “it doesn’t get any better than this…”

I began my career as a professional musician just after I bought my first car, a funky old VW Bug. I jettisoned the front passenger seat so there was room for my PA system. My musician friends and I learned early to “cobble” together a career, hustling for gigs, networking and practicing, practicing, practicing.

Working in piano bars taught me to be a good entertainer and to engage the audience so they feel like they are part of the show. Night after night I saw how music brings people together. Then a few years ago my husband, Craig Brandau, purchased a tenor Fluke and it changed the air pressure in our house. We both got real serious about learning to play.

I put the piano, guitar and banjo on hold and began my romance with the ukulele. It’s friendly and portable and turns spectators into participants. But I never expected to be a teacher. To LOVE teaching the ukulele and leading a group. I never realized that the skills I learned as a working musician and entertainer would come in so handy. But it’s all show biz, right? Learning to play the uke is not always easy but hey, let’s have a good time doing it.

Here’s what happened: On a whim I offered an eight-week beginners uke class at my local senior center in Culver City, California. Eight weeks has turned into five years. We named ourselves The CC Strummers and play together every Thursday morning. They challenge and inspire me to be a better teacher. I started another eight-week beginners class on Mondays and the same thing happened.

Suddenly I had two huge classes and we were sounding good so we decided to “take it to the streets” because we love sharing the music that makes us happy. One of my mentors said that the audience won’t remember what you play, but they will remember how you made them feel.

Today my “cobbling” continues. It’s a laundry list by golly. I teach four uke classes a week, lead The CC Strummers and do my own arrangements for our songbook. I teach private students, tool around Los Angeles doing gigs and music therapy with dementia patients. I perform at ukulele festivals and do workshops. I have two ukulele albums, write songs and blogs and of course, practice, practice, practice. I don’t cook. Or sleep much…

Maybe a few people get their “fifteen minutes” of fame and fortune, but I’m grateful that, after all these years, I’m still making a living doing what I love to do.

15 Jan 2016

CHANNELING ELVIS–IN THE DESERT

My friend Wendy leads The Palm Desert Strummers who make beautiful ukulele music near the mid-century modern capital of the world: Palm Springs. Folks drive north, south, east, west from their desert abodes to play with this group. Snowbirds fly in for the winter, escaping the ice and cold of their homelands.

Last week they did one of the coolest gigs ever. And it has everything to do with Elvis.

Yes, THAT Elvis. The guy who would have turned eighty-one years old this month. IF he was still around to blow out the candles. Where was the gig? The Elvis Honeymoon Hideaway.

No kidding.

Apparently this is where Elvis and his bride Priscilla got “up close and personal.” Baby Lisa Marie was born exactly nine months later. You gotta love math.

Of course The Palm Desert Strummers play Elvis songs and are joined by an Elvis impersonator. Is it any wonder that Elvis has made more money as a dead person than an alive one? It’s like he’s still here. And in this case looking especially boyish and rosy-cheeked.

elvisplaysuke There is a reason I am bringing this up. I have my own Elvis story too…

I am packing up after a gig at an average retirement home in Los Angeles. There is a kind, portly fellow visiting a friend that day and he stays for the show. Afterwards this man offers to load my gear into the car. He has a warm southern drawl, rich with natural resonance that’s sweet like honey. He is what chivalry sounds like…

“What do you do for a living?” I chirp.

“I’m an Elvis impersonator.”

Oh really…

“How’d you get to be an Elvis impersonator?” That’s a good question, huh. I mean do you wake up one morning and realize you look and sound like the guy. AND have the marketing chops to book gigs and get paid for singing “Hound Dog,” swiveling your hips and flirting with the ladies?

He tells me that he sang in Elvis’s backup group. This was towards the end of Elvis’s career when the singer was rotund, sick and his vocal chops were chipped away. According to “Mr. Chivalry” some nights Elvis couldn’t even sing. That’s when the backup guys vocalized his part for him.

So far so good. This story is within the realm of, let’s say, possibility. But just as he’s leaning into my car trunk to re-arrange the amp, he goes all loopy.

“You know Elvis is still alive…”

“Elvis is still alive???” I repeat the words like a parrot who has just been bopped on the head by a falling coconut. “Elvis is still alive?” I aaaawk. He tells me there are things people don’t know. Will never know. This man is very sincere. And serious. I get the impression that, in his opinion, Elvis wanted out of the celebrity life and the only way to do that was to fake his death.

Gee maybe there are flying saucers too. May I remind you that I did this retirement home gig some fifteen years ago, long after Elvis had left this mortal coil. Or so we think.

But I love stories, especially “what if” stories and I begin to construct my own novella about Elvis. And me:

Free at last now that the world is grieving his death, Elvis is taking on a new identity. Like he’s in a witness protection program or something. He begins a second career working in the garden department of my local Home Depot. This is his new normal. One day I mosey in looking for a houseplant that will survive. In spite of me. And there he is. An older fellow, kind of marshmellowy-looking, receding hairline. He leads me to a perfect pothos hanging in a planter and says “how about this one.” I swear his voice can melt snow.

All right. Elvis probably died when Elvis died, but I chew on this story now and then, especially in January when I’m doing Elvis songs in my shows too. Stories can be so captivating. Soothing. They might even compel us to consider the impossible. Or at least the improbable. Isn’t there a brush stroke of imagination, magical thinking even, in the stories we tell ourselves? And others?

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Well here’s another story and I’m sticking to it!

The Palm Desert Strummers have invited me to do a ukulele workshop in the land of Honeymoon Elvis, Tuesday, January 26, 2016. I did a workshop last year and let me tell you it feels mighty fine to be invited to do another one. Isn’t this something that makes our day? Being invited BACK. Whatever IT is. I’m doing my “Let’s Arrange A Song” class, but with two new songs. The workshop is totally different this year. We’ll play different strums, finger picking patterns and even try a little chord melody. There is something for both beginners and intermediate players.

I’ll also offer private lessons Wednesday morning, Jan 27 in Palm Desert. Maybe I’ll have time to swing by The Elvis Honeymoon Hideaway and marvel, one more time, how the currents of life move us in the most mysterious ways.

P.S. UKE WORKSHOP:2016

4 Jan 2016

FLOATERS

images I can’t see the big “E” on the eye chart that hangs in the eye doctor’s office. With my left eye, that is. Actually I can’t even see the chart. I was a little girl when they first discovered my goofy left eye. Was it because I walked into walls now and then?

Like most folks who have only one workable eye, I have adapted. I drive my car with ALL mirrors on high alert. I wear a headset microphone when I perform so I can use my good eye to see the ukulele fretboard. I’m almost sure that my depth perception and your of depth perception are not the same. For a short time I took a softball class at the local junior college. I remember the P.E. teacher groaning loudly as I’d swing the bat. Way before the ball arrived at the plate. Maybe she thought I was on drugs or would do better with T-Ball. Or no ball at all.

I bring this up because I worry about something happening to my good eye. My right eye. Because I don’t have a spare. And that’s how I end up in the Emergency Room at U.C.L.A. The day before New Years. It’s our second trip to the E.R. in 2015.

I’m having a lovely day, doing errands. I like doing errands. I like watching my fellow people behaving in interesting ways in our natural habitat. Stores. Here I am at Target and I like Target. The lights cast a yellowish “buy me” glow from above. Not like outside. And that is when I notice a throng of tiny gnats swarming in front of me. And a miniature Medusa head, tendrils and all, zigzagging to my right. Long waving filaments glistening to my left and a little puddle of goo straight ahead. What the hell kind of promotion are they doing in Target today? Then I realize I am experiencing my own private light show. In my good eye.

I flash to the last time I visited my ophthalmologist. Before my eyes totally dilate, I am staring down the poster on the wall in the darkened waiting room. It’s a “bad news” poster: If you have these symptoms, get your ass to the doctor right NOW because you are screwed! Or something like that. Standing in the express line at Target, I am seeing BAD NEWS and other stuff you might watch swim by in a dirty aquarium.

Lots of us have “floaters” in our eyes. Little knots of diaphanous pebbles that dance around the visual field. I’ve had them for years. They come and mostly go or else my brain gives up and ignores them. But today in Target this is different. WAY different.

And that’s why I’m in the Emergency Room and very embarrassed because, come on, it’s not like I’m having a heart attack or I broke some bones, like my husband did a few months ago. I apologize from the get-go to anyone who will listen. “Maybe it’s just floaters…but this is my only good eye…” I whimper.

But a generosity of kindness and goodwill pervade the E.R. on this pre-holiday afternoon. The doctors and nurses reassure me that I did the right thing. What if this is a worst-case scenario? What if my retina is detaching or tearing, even a little? Then time is of the essence to save my vision.

They begin with an ultra-sound of my right eye. Wow, I didn’t know there was such a thing? The doctor rubs the ultra-sound wand across my covered eye. Back and forth. She doesn’t see a retina tear but calls in the expert anyway. A few minutes later an ophthalmology resident appears and dilates my eyes with an assortment of drops.

I’ve never had an eye exam like this before. He warns me about the bright light he’ll shine directly into my dilated eye and the “poking and pushing.” Ladies let’s just say it’s like having a mammogram on your eye. Okay? And it goes on and on. Like ten years worth of mammograms in one flesh-squashing session.

Well I applaud the guy for his thoroughness and my husband for not keeling over. With his super-duper light probe, the doctor circles my retina as I aim my eyes at an imaginary clock on the ceiling. One O’ Clock, Two O’Clock, Three O’Clock…

“I have good news for you,” he finally says… Unknown

The gel in our eyes is called the vitreous and it’s supposed to stay jello-like; but as we get older the gel begins to shrink and detach from its moorings. The retina. The official name for this is Posterior Vitreous Detachment.

goofyeyes1

Apparently I’m okay for now, although this is an interesting way to begin a new year—watching spots and goo dance across the computer screen as I write this blog. I have a feeling my new ophthalmologist and I will be having regular meet and greets from now on. Maybe the flotilla of wiggling stuff will recede. Maybe not.

So I’m keeping an eye on things. And that is not a pun. So no groaning. I’m on the lookout for fireworks (not just a little sparkler but the grand finale of the July 4th Show) and a black curtain rolling down across my visual field. That could be bad news indeed—a detached retina.

But why should I, or anyone, be surprised. Everything changes. Our points of view, our body parts… I’m grateful I can still see and do and eat and love and be loved in return.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

PROGRAM NOTE FOR MY LOS ANGELES FRIENDS

Both my ukulele classes begin Saturday, January 23, 2016 at Boulevard Music in Culver City, CA. I teach Ukulele For Beginners, which is a five-week workshop and our four-week OnGoing Ukulele Workshop & Jam where we strum, fingerpick and learn a lot of new cool stuff. Please scroll down to see the flyers.

BEGINNERS CLASS FLYER:Jan 2016

ONGOING FLYER:Jan 2016

POSTSCRIPT

I am still receiving the most interesting responses to my last blog (THIS IS MY SEAT) about Frank Sinatra. Thank you! My neighbor’s father was a well-known and respected photographer. He took this iconic picture of Frank at the Hollywood Bowl in 1943. Apparently Sinatra didn’t like photographers either but he wanted a copy of this shot.

frankathollywoodbowl

27 Dec 2015

THIS IS MY SEAT

When I saw Frank Sinatra perform at The Universal Amphitheatre in Los Angeles, the whole aroma of the evening burrowed into my memory. The theater is gone now and so is Frank. But after all these years I can still smell the evening.

I was one of thousands ensconsed in the darkness of this gigantic space, my eyes focused on the lone spotlight that Sinatra inhabited like he owned the sun, and when he turned his head in my direction and sang “Embrace me, my sweet embraceable you,” magic happened. Every other person in that audience disappeared. I mean “whoosh.” All that was left was Frank and me. He was singing to me. Just me.

Frank Sinatra had that ineffable “thing.” I saw it and felt it that night and certainly hear it today in his recordings. It’s like he’s talking to me and it feels like I’m part of the conversation. This is an astonishing gift of inclusion.

He is my favorite singer. That said, I would not have wanted to take him to lunch.

This is a tough one for me… Living with ambiguity, residing in the uncomfortable gray zone of life. We are all a mixed-bag of stuff and Frank certainly exemplified this. He had that enormous talent. He could be astonishingly generous but he also treated people miserably. I have read the stories and I’ve heard a couple first hand. He is not someone I would have wanted to hang out with.

I bring this perplexing contradiction of emotions to Party Night at the Saban Theater in Beverly Hills. It’s Saturday, December 12 and this night is Frank Sinatra’s 100th Birthday. His son, Frank Jr., is singing with a 32-piece orchestra and telling stories about dear old dad.

frankandjunior

I saw the advertisement for this show six months ago.

“You want to go with me?” I ask my husband.

He laughs and says “have a good time.”

So I get online, study the seating chart and claim MY SEAT. It’s second row mezzanine, as center as center can be.

mezzanineview — My view from the mezzanine. During intermission some of the musicians took selfless before running backstage to pee.

The night finally arrives and with my hot ticket in hand I am swallowed in a crush of L.A.’s beautiful people. This audience is inter-generational. Young ladies are wrapped in mink stoles. Older women are wearing high heels and fashionable ensembles with expensive fabric and arrays of fancy jewelry around their necks and wrists.

I am not one of them.

I hunker down in MY SEAT, brush the lint off my jeans (well…they are nice jeans…and clean), push my unhip but totally utilitarian backpack purse under the seat, and arrange my jacket just so…like a warm pillow against my back. My nest is feathered.

I am one person in a sea of couples and groups. That’s when “they” arrive at my row. The very tall woman with the short cropped blond hair and hip blue glasses looks down at me and with stunning hubris announces that “my husband and I want to sit together. Please move over one seat.”

Are you picturing this? They purchased one ticket to my left and one ticket to my right and she wants me to move.

This is one of those moment… Too often in my life I back down, acquiesce and later flog myself for doing so. Then again, what’s the big deal, moving over one seat?

These two opposing thoughts rush through my head. But this woman has such a haughty air of entitlement that she pisses me off.

“No,” I say.

“Why not?” She snaps back.

“Because this is MY SEAT.”

In a huff, she sits to my left as her husband settles to my right and I pull my arms close to my body like a figure skater beginning her spin. I’m thinking to myself “this is going to be a LONG night.”

But the husband is an amiable guy. After a few uncomfortable moments he turns to me and asks if I know what’s going to happen at the show. Do I look like a freaking oracle?

“You like Sinatra?” I ask.

“Well my wife does.”

Oh…so the mister got dragged along for the ride.

“Well at least you are here. My husband is home. Asleep.” I laugh. We laugh. This brief interlude softens the missus and, like that, she and I start chatting. She tells me that her parents played Sinatra records on Sunday mornings during the family breakfast. “All The Way” is her favorite song. She’s a physical therapist and makes house calls.

“What do you do?” she asks.

“I’m a musician and singer.”

“What kind”?

“The kind that gets paid.” I chirp.

She turns out to be an okay person. Not someone I’d hang out with, but okay. Both of them. And I stay in MY SEAT.

The concert begins and the adoring crowd “ooo and ahh” as Frank Jr. sings those iconic songs and the trombone wails on “I’ve Got You Under My Skin.” They purr as the pictures of young Sinatra, middle-aged Sinatra and finally Sinatra on the memorial postage stamp appear on the big screen behind the orchestra. It’s a love-in.

But I’m not feeling it.

These days my adoration is tempered with a measure of ambivalence. Truth is messy. People are a complicated concoction of ingredients. We can be kind and cruel. Wise and stupid. Self-centered and open-hearted. The list goes on and on.

I’m not solving this one. Just living it.

______________________________________

PROGRAM NOTE:

My ukulele group, The CC Strummers, really rocked our holiday party. My idea of a good time is getting the audience in on the fun. I put together a short video of our program. It’s two minutes and forty-eight seconds of joy. Click HERE to watch.

______________________________________

2016 is looming large. Another 366 days of UNKNOWN. Leap year, it is. What makes you happy? Or content?

Good health for sure… Hanging out with people who feel like sunshine on a cloudy day? Yummy food? Homemade. A job well done, whatever it is? A solid night’s sleep or a deep dreamy afternoon nap? A clear black sky where you see wisps of the Milky Way? The husband you love? Wife? Kids? Friends? Dog? Kitty? Catching all the green lights? A place to call home, with floor, ceiling, walls, heat and pictures on the wall?

I hope you have lots of sweet moments to remember in the New Year.

Frank Sinatra's ukulele he played to "woo" his first wife. As for the next three wives, who knows... — Frank Sinatra’s ukulele he played to “woo” his first wife. As for the next three wives, who knows…

13 Dec 2015

FINDING A WAY

“Come here. Come here quick! YOU HAVE TO SEE THIS.” My husband is shouting from the other room.

At the moment I’m peeing. I AM p-e-e-e-e-e-ing. So thank you very much. And as far as I’m concerned, whatever it is, can wait…

So I’m not the picture of open-heartedness when I finally appear and turn my gaze toward the television set where my husband is pointing. “The banjo player,” he exclaims, “look at his left hand.”

First of all, I see a bluegrass band. Monster musicians, they are. Guitar, fiddle, mandolin, piano, upright bass. The banjo player is hot!

Wait a minute…

I lean into the T.V. for a closer look, so close I feel the heat emanating from the screen. The guy has a thumb and part of an index finger. That’s it for fingers. The rest are nubs, like little toes. But his left hand moves across the neck of the banjo in this crazy beautiful dance.

His name is Barry Abernathy and he has found a wondrous, unorthodox way to position his left hand so he can play. A quick Google search reveals that he gravitated towards players in his bluegrass neighborhood, asked them to show him a lick, then he figured out how to play it.

His way.

Then there’s gypsy jazz guitarist Django Reinhardt. His whole life changed when he was 18 years old and severely burned in a fire. The doctors said he would never play guitar again. But he developed a unique style, using the two good fingers on his right hand and the scarred ones on his left. His enormous talent and innovation resonate with players today.

In his early thirties, Les Paul nearly died in an automobile accident. His right arm was crushed and it was bad, bad, bad. The doctors wanted to amputate. But they set the arm instead, at a permanent 90 degree angle, so he could still strum the guitar. It took him two years to recover AND adapt. But he did. And he continued to perform well into “elderhood.” And invent cool stuff like multi-track recording and the iconic Gibson Les Paul Guitar.

One of our CC Strummers, Betty Bryant, is a renowned jazz pianist and singer. She has made a living playing, recording and touring. With nine good fingers…

In my ukulele classes we do hand exercises. This little act of rubbing and stretching is a reminder that our body parts matter. They are precious. The exercises encourage me to get out of my head, where I usually live, and check in with my fingers and hands, my back and front, top and bottom. Yes that means accepting the truth that our bodies get tired, hurt, stiff, worn-out and out-of-whack, in one way or another.

But we find a way. That’s all. We find a way.

xmas — The CC Strummers at our 2014 Holiday Show

The CC Strummers and I are presenting our Ukulele Holiday Show Tuesday, December 22, 2015, from 1:00 to 2:00 P.M. at the Culver City Senior Center. If you live in Los Angeles and need a bolus of joy or an hour off from the holiday rushy-rushy , please join us. You will have a blast!

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Author Archives: Cali Rose