by Fitz | Dec 7, 2013 | Journal
It has been a long time since I wrote a simple old “this is what I am going to do today” post. So this is what I am going to do today: [and trust me, it will have nothing–absolutely nothing–to do with school work:)] Before the true winter settles in, I am going to try and install a wood stove hearth in our family room AND install a stainless steel chimney outside. I never like starting things when I don’t have a clear visual in my head, but for this, I can’t afford the outrageous price that installers charge–usually much more than the usual carpenter’s wage. I have my permits; I met with the inspector, an I am confident that I’ll figure it all out. I’ll even take some pictures because I finally figured out (actually Kerry from camp just figured out) why my iPhone takes such horrible pictures–the lens was dirty.
Maybe I won’t be able to figure things out.
We’ll see, I guess.
One last sip of coffee…and here I go…
by Fitz | Dec 4, 2013 | Poetry
Moaning like a lost whale
the thin ice
bellowed behind us
then cracked and rang
as if spit from a whip.
The sharp steel of
my over-sized skates
etched unspeakable joy
into the slate-grey,
reptilian skin
of Walden Pond.
Our mismatched hands
gripped together
in the fading light
of a January afternoon,
And you pulled me
onto untouched darker ice
where fathers
should never take sons.
You circled tighter
and, spinning like a bullfighter,
you let me go,
splayed across the ice,
arms outstretched,
screaming to you
into the black hole
of memory.
by Fitz | Nov 28, 2013 | Journal, Poetry
I am surprised sometimes
by the suddenness of November:
beauty abruptly shed
to a common nakedness—
grasses deadened
by hoarfrost,
persistent memories
of people I’ve lost.
It is left to those of us
dressed in the hard
barky skin of experience
to insist on a decorum
that rises to the greatness
of a true Thanksgiving.
This is not a game,
against a badly scheduled team,
an uneven match on an uneven pitch.
This is Life.
This is Life.
This is Life.
Not politely mumbled phrases,
murmured with a practiced and meticulous earnestness.
Thanksgiving was born a breech-birth,
a screaming appreciation for being alive—
for not being one of the many
who didn’t make it—
who couldn’t moil through
another hardscrabble year
on tubers and scarce fowl.
Thanksgiving is for being you.
There are no thanks without you.
You are the power of hopeful promise;
you are the balky soil turning upon itself;
you are bursting forth in your experience.
You are not the person next to you—
not an image or an expectation.
You are the infinite and eternal you—
blessed, and loved, and consoled
by the utter commonness
and community of our souls.
We cry and we’re held.
We love and we hold.
We are the harvest of God,
constantly renewed,
constantly awakened,
to a new thanksgiving.
*Have a great Thanksgiving!
by Fitz | Nov 26, 2013 | Essays, Journal
The house is quiet earlier than usual. I can hear Margaret playing her guitar and singing in her bedroom—door closed as she would have it, but still beautiful to hear. It reminds me of Kaleigh when she was younger singing her heart out, as if the world didn’t really exist outside of her room.
EJ and I played some banjo and guitar earlier tonight. He has some pretty fast fingers on the old “banjer” and a good ear for music. At some point all of the kids, sans Charlie, were playing something: Tommy on the trumpet, Emma on her new ukelele—even Pipo picking up a few chords on the guitar. We were talking about music at the supper table, and I noted that I have never met any adult who regrets playing an instrument. Maybe something actually soaked in. On Saturday night, we took all the kids to a party at Tom Cummings house and there was a big jam session going on all night. EJ and Emma sat in a for a bit, but at least all the kids got to see the purity of experience that music brings to a community. I do want all my kids to play something, and I want them to find joy in music. Really, all I want is for them to experience true joy, and that’s what music brings to life—done right.
I can’t figure how music is done wrong. I love traveling around on Sunday mornings giving guitar and song-singing advice to a few young teenagers. They are all earnest, sweet, and love their music. My only regret is that I really can’t do the same for my own children. I teach them on the rare occasions when they come to me for some advice, but we don’t have the spare cash to give them lessons. For the most part they have done well with our rather feral approach to music and have “figured things out” on their own, but there is always this pang of guilt that I haven’t given them the same kind of chances to have a teacher, guide, and mentor for weekly lessons, though I guess they have all had plenty of chances to have a heck of a lot of fun with music at pubs and campfires, concerts and camps, and living room jams and long car rides.
I should stop now, lest I indulge even more in one of my deepest fears—the fear of becoming that overly proud parent who somehow manages to spill out the accomplishments of their children to anyone willing to listen.
But damn, Margaret does sound good.
by Fitz | Nov 21, 2013 | Essays, Journal
Every Thursday, for some thirty years, I have been spending this same time each week wrapping up the loose ends of the day before heading down to the inn to play to whomever and whatever shows up. Tonight looks like a fun night: Maroghini will be with me for his last show before heading back to Jamaica; Seth will be down. We’ve played less with each other the last few months, so it will be good to “get back in a groove’ with him, and hopefully Hatrack will show up, too.
What’s cool is that I never really know who is going to be there or what kind of night it is going to be. I know a few posts back I wrote about the power of the “redemptive moment,” but tonight feels like everything is in place for a great night. I know some folks are coming down; I took the day off from school and feel pretty rested, and I am in the mood to sing. I even sent out an email to my list of folks who over the years have kept me in the business of folksinging.
I had been practicing the Mumford and Son’s song “I Will Wait” this afternoon because Joe, the bartender at the inn, has been asking me to learn it for far too long now, but I will take the reprieve and not spring a song I barely know on musicians that perform on a level far above most of their peers. In that sense, it is a humbling experience for me. I can hold my own on the stage, but when Hatrack, Seth, and Maroghini get going, it is usually wise for me to let them go down their own roads without me screaming…”wait for me…”
It’s a small stage tonight, but it will be a full one.
It has been a long time since I wrote a simple old “this is what I am going to do today” post. So this is what I am going to do today: [and trust me, it will have nothing–absolutely nothing–to do with school work:)] Before the true winter settles in, I am going to try and install a wood stove hearth in our family room AND install a stainless steel chimney outside. I never like starting things when I don’t have a clear visual in my head, but for this, I can’t afford the outrageous price that installers charge–usually much more than the usual carpenter’s wage. I have my permits; I met with the inspector, an I am confident that I’ll figure it all out. I’ll even take some pictures because I finally figured out (actually Kerry from camp just figured out) why my iPhone takes such horrible pictures–the lens was dirty.
