January 14: Daddy's Girl

Yesterday’s song was about the wind. Today Mother Nature seems to be listening to my playlist. The wind is so blustery I feel like grabbing an umbrella and seeing where it takes me (a la Mary Poppins).

Do you recall Winnie the Pooh’s The Blustery Day? Today brought it to mind. It didn’t blow in a Tigger, but it did blow my Christmas tree (which I finally managed to haul to the curb) down the block a bit. “Owl talked from page 41 to page 62, and on page 62, the blustery day turned into a blustery night. To Pooh, it was an anxious sort of night, filled with anxious sorts of noises. And one of the noises was a sound that had never been heard before.” – A. A. Milne

I was reflecting upon the era when my dad lived in Wichita during my late high school and college years. Specifically I was remembering a car ride with just me and my dad along the Kansas Turnpike with a tornado accompanying us.  I’ll come back to that tale in a bit. First, I’d like to share a few reflections about my dad.

My parents divorced when I was 5, and time with my dad has always been precious and scarcer than I would have wished. Divorce is hard on kids. Everyone talks about how children are resilient, and this is true. But since I’ve been 5, I’ve only had visits with my dad. I never did live with him again in any permanent capacity. I’d stay during a college summer or in transitional periods of my life while seeking a new job or apartment, but by then I was a pseudo-adult. Those eyes see our parents from a different angle. I loved looking up.

I adored my father when I was a little girl. I have huge blocks of time without a single tangible memory in them. Remember the Men in Black memory zapper light thing (technical term)? I swear to you there are entire months of my life that are lost to me. Perhaps years. But the handful of seasons I spent on our family’s farm with my dad pre-divorce are filled with an overwhelming amount of warm memories.

He played guitar with a friend, and they made up a song about farming. I can still sing it. I would lay on the floor snuggled next to him to watch a football game, although I had NO interest in the sport. I just wanted to be close to him. I got piggy back rides that made my heart giggle. I hid his cigarettes (which he eventually quit – thank heavens) because I was terrified he’d get sick and I couldn't imagine a world without him. I would rush to the door when he came home from work (he was a recruiter with the National Guard at the time and I thought he was so brave and handsome in his uniform). We had cattle and would go visit “the girls” together. He made me feel adored through no precise action I can articulate - simply by being near me.

Post divorce, the closest we lived to each other was 5 hours by car. Often more. With a stepfather who was a minister, we were bound close to home every weekend for church. It makes sense that I only saw my dad for holidays and a few weeks in the summer, on paper. I don’t know the adult details of my childhood that made me share so little of my dad’s world. They don't matter today. I only know that I ate up the time that I was given like spoon fudge and always, always wished for more. Perhaps we had a special bond or maybe that’s just how little girls love their daddies.

Back to the car. Kansas Turnpike. The tornado. (See I do swing back around after my tangents - promise). I was high school age – maybe 15 or 16. I don’t recall the circumstances, but I had 7 solid hours in the car alone with my dad. I was nervous. I was thrilled. The gift of intentional time with no distractions between us was new to me. We had no magical talk. We shared no earth shattering truths. We ate at the Toot Toot Lounge along the way, for heavens sake.  I didn't need frills to make that car ride a memory I embrace. I don’t particularly even care that there was a tornado that followed us for miles. (We lived. Clearly.) I just appreciate having a memory of dedicated time alone with him.

Dad and me (and Abby makes 3) in Wichita, KS, circa 1989:

Tonight’s song is an oldie blown in by the wind bringing memories of a moment in time. It’s one my dad used to sing to me as a little girl. It makes me feel about 4 years old to hear this song. It makes me feel cherished. 

Elvis Presley - Love Me Tender

January 13: A Taste of Home

Someone shared this link today on Facebook: Des Moines Photos

It showcases my town beautifully. It also inspired me to begin sharing some of my favorite Iowan artists with you all. More will unfold with 2014, but I wanted to start with my Rosetta stone for understanding folk music.

 

I (abashedly) finally discovered Greg Brown in my 30s. And me an Iowan… Where have I been? Musical backstory commencing now.

 

Remember how I told you I wanted to be cosmopolitan? The white beret? The highly cultured addiction to Duran Duran? (January 9 post)  There were whole genres that were kicked to the curb when limited exposure met sounds that didn't please my ear.

 

Factors?

• Country had a lot of twang in my formative years. It did not sound cultured to my discerning ear. There was a whole lot of note scooping going on. Broken pick-up trucks. Cheating women. That kind of fodder. Then in the 90s, Shania Twain. Need I say more?
• I grew up in a home that was not musically inclined. Meaning we didn't have a common radio in the house that was ever turned on.
• We had a piano we practiced on, and my mom played piano in church so I could sing every hymn ever written, but didn't know a single Beatles song.
• In school we’d do Cole Porter musicals and other classics, so I had those bases covered also. I am a musical waiting to happen. Chorus? Check. Show choir? Yes, please. I speak those musical languages.
• My sister and I shared a record player with an 8 track and a radio feature on it. We couldn't really pick up any radio stations in the house, and we had limited vinyl / 8 tracks.
• In the car, my parents refused to turn on the radio generally. On occasion we’d get to listen to NPR (SO popular with the youth set) or if we were incredibly lucky, an old John Denver or Kenny Rogers cassette tape.

 

My access to popular music in any genre was dangerously low in my youth. My limited exposure to country music which I didn't like led me to reject it heartily with few exceptions. Country bled into folk. You get the idea. I have whole areas of music in which I’m not versed at all.

 

Which brings us back around to Greg Brown. Greg is the consummate folk musician. Warm. Humorous. A born storyteller. With a deep dark chocolate soul. And for me, he was a gateway drug. Because of him, there are so many musical doors that have opened to me. He made folk accessible. He made me want to explore not only his contemporary counterparts, but his musical roots - those artists who inspired him. This was a revelation in sound for me.

 

Tonight I celebrate Greg Brown who provides the perfect taste of my state's folk offerings.

Greg Brown - Spring Wind

January 12: Botox Alternatives, Luge Sleds and Movies - Oh My!

Cause:

• Temperature in the double digits (finally).
• A new sled received for Christmas that has been taunting us as it sits in the corner of the living room.
• A disturbing wrinkle on my forehead that seems to have taken up residence. (I have a theory there is no reason to get Botox in the winter months when you live in the Midwest – just go outside. Instant frozen features on exposed skin).

Effect:

• Sledding!!!
• Copious amount of hot chocolate consumed.
• No forehead movement in the foreseeable future. Can I get a woot?

 

Aria, my 10 year-old, and I spent part of Saturday on the sledding hill, testing out the zippiness of her luge sled. The hill was a mix of grass, snow and ice, which made for impressive test runs. 

We came home to a late lunch / early dinner (praise be to the crockpot), warm blankets to snuggle under, and a movie party (Wreck It Ralph). Saturday at 3 PM found us in our jammies doing what we do best - making memories together built upon humble events.

 

I used to find so many ways to feel inadequate as a parent. It’s easy to do. So often our path to connecting with others is built by relating to them. Which can result in comparison. Which is the death of happiness, I swear. Part of my own growth as a mother and person has been to focus not on how everyone else is doing this parenting thing, but how I’M doing it.

 

I have made a conscientious effort as a parent to ensure that our daily bread fills my daughter’s childhood with warm memories. We have special events also (like the trip we took to Disney last June) but I pray she’ll remember our baking together, reading stories every night, and common activities like our sledding this weekend as the fabric of her childhood.

 

I hope your daily bread is equally delicious. 

10,000 Maniacs - These Are Days

January 11: Ode to Rituals

A note on this blog posting: I asked my talented friend Stacey Kolars to provide photos to accompany today’s topic. Stacey lives in rural Iowa and captures the whispered beauty of my state effortlessly. All birdie pics that follow are courtesy of Stacey and her talented eye. Awe inspiring.

Saturday mornings have a basic ritual that consists of a Pyrex mug of coffee (the big one – regular coffee mugs are too dainty for my needs), my kitchen nook (with skylights and a full view of the backyard), and my bird feeders. I walk in a zombie state from my bedroom toward the kitchen to brew a pot of coffee. I snuggle Aria on the couch, where she is absorbed in morning cartoons, until it’s ready. I fill the Pyrex. I settle in for a little music and bird watching.

I’ve been in my home for over 7 years now – moving to Des Moines in the midst of a divorce. It’s a 1916 Craftsman, which means I always have a project list longer than my arm and a budget for paint rather than bathroom renovations. I adore this equation, irrational as it is. My home suits me. My neighborhood uplifts me. I chose well.

I have made big and small changes to both the house and yard. Because I’m sitting in my nook with my mug o’ coffee, I’ll introduce you to my backyard and its journey toward becoming mine.

The yard was a hodgepodge of old wood chips from a rotten play set. It had those massive railroad ties used for raised bed gardens that contained weeds. I have a walnut tree which my squirrels adore (and use as a weapon) but which is rather unforgiving if you want basics like grass in your yard. There was a mulberry that took up space but mostly just hung over the neighbor’s garage ominously. The fence was an old chain link number that had seen better days. In short, it was like most old home yards. Not going to make a Better Homes cover anytime soon.

I put a curvy garden along one fence line, incorporating flowers, herbs and annual veggies along with a bevy of bird feeders in this space. I had the mulberry removed. I planted a dwarf cherry tree, a few columnar apple trees, a grape vine and some blueberry bushes. The rotten railroad ties were hauled away. Last spring I had a stamped concrete patio put in (it's curvy too!), followed by a new fence with a little trellis along the side of the house. It has changed how I use my backyard. On warmer days, I have my coffee on the patio. I read a book with a glass of wine after work. I entertain friends. I don’t just work in the backyard. I live in it.

Back to today, where I’m in my kitchen nook enjoying my morning coffee ritual. The bird feeders are full and the show is in progress. I don’t know that I had the patience or appreciation for the beauty of nature in my youth. I have always loved the outdoors, but sitting still for an hour or two to watch birds alight to feeders might have killed me in my 20s. Or might have seemed charming for a good 10 minutes. I was more kinetic. Now, it’s soul food to accompany morning coffee.

My favorite feeder is one of those suction cup numbers that is stuck right to one of my nook windows. Chickadees always find this feeder first. The nuthatches follow. Then come the cardinals. A flight of doves picks up the seeds that fall to the ground. Occasionally a blue jay comes in to bully the bunch. I have some very aggressive squirrels who sometimes climb my stucco, launch themselves at the feeder and bring it down to patio level for a good nosh. I should get upset with them, but honestly admire their determination. They are likable deviants. Any creature who can withstand the bitter winter challenges deserves an easy win now and again. We do get owls, such as this barred fellow, and on occasion a hawk. There are days when the backyard can feel very National Geographic.

A glimpse into my little world. I hope this Saturday greets you with joy, all.

Ray LaMontagne - Winter Birds

January 10: Sweet Dreams

Do you have certain songs that are your standards when you want to sing like you mean it? In the car with the radio off (or on)? In the shower? In that certain spot in your home with the best acoustics (for me it’s my dining room smack dab between the kitchen and living room)? Songs that showcase your musical ability? Are in a key perfect for your vocal range? Or perhaps you just know all the words (or some of the words)? Songs that speak to your soul and give you goose flesh along your arms when you hear their opening notes? Songs where you turn up the volume, then again and again until you realize you can’t make them loud enough to encompass the joy they instill? Songs that demand that you sing along? That won’t be denied? You feeling me? I have many, many of these songs.

 

Right before my alarm clock rudely awoke me this morning, I was having a vivid dream. It was an odd one – sort of a montage number more than a story board dream. It may be that bringing to the present past memories is impacting my subconscious. In my slumber last night, I was watching a slideshow of my happy moments over the years. In no particular order, my joy was presented. Bringing back random snippets of frolic, glimpses of people I haven’t seen in ages, and a hug from my gramps who has been gone for over a decade. What a gift. I lost a clear grasp on the details of all those memories, but the music lingered.

 

The song playing in my dream wasn't really a happy one - at least the lyrics aren't. It’s kind of deceptively titled, like REM’s The One I Love, which I used to hear dedicated to loved ones all the time on the radio. NOT a love song, people. Well, Sweet Dreams really isn't about happy things either. But it was a great soundtrack in my dream, and it is one of those go-to you are gonna sing don’t even try to stop yourself songs. 

 

I love singing Tori. She leaves me feeling raw, exposed, woman. And makes me wish I still played the piano as much as I used to so that I could jam along as I sang this. Perhaps another goal for 2014?

 

Tori Amos - Sweet Dreams. 

January 9: A Boy Named Simon

The majority of my childhood was spent in Northwest Iowa in a small town called Pomeroy. When I say small, I mean K-12 was in a single building. There were 23 in my class. There were no stoplights. No restaurants. No minorities. It was white bread America. In the very best and most wholesome sense of the term. I didn’t even realize you could remove the key from the ignition of a car until my teens. Or that homes could be locked. Or that everyone didn’t start driving around 11 on country roads. Honestly.

In my youth, Pomeroy felt small and stunted. I had a pedantic desire to be worldly in ways that a town like Pomeroy could never support in my vision of self-evolution. I have always been enchanted with elegance and culture. I often intertwined those concepts without any true measure, meaning that people with accents were often deemed smarter, better, more exotic than their American counterparts simply because they were from “other”.

Erudite. Cultivated. Well-read. Music to my ears. Words to make my heart soar. Yes, please. Oh, I aspired…

However, all of this self-evolution comes in stride with the pace of the evolver. To present day Andrea, refinement has taken on an entirely different outward presentation. I wear dresses and heals because they make me happy. I don’t worry about if my clothes are in style. They are my style. I have a home that is an outward representation of the inner me. It’s filled with art, whimsy and warmth. I can effortlessly craft a meal that will make you weak in the knees, which may involve high art menus or German peasant food (scalloped potatoes and ham is Aria’s favorite and so it’s often on the table). I can carry on an engaged conversation with anyone and never feel intimidated. I can book travel to anywhere with comfort and thrive anywhere I go, but prefer my home. I know enough about wine to order it well off the menu, but am not so snobbish that if I don’t know what pairs nicely with my meal, I won’t ask. I either like art or I don’t. I don’t worry about who made it. I walked out of Rent at intermission (didn’t enjoy it) but have seen Wicked three times and would go tomorrow given the opportunity. I’m incredibly comfortable in my shoes. But to get to today, I had to go through much chrysalis, if you will. I transformed a lot. I am rather certain I will continue to do so. There is so much more to learn.

Culture and elegance to Andrea in her pre-teen and teen years looked much different. It showed up in a pristine white dropped waist dress with a beret and white gloves for Easter. Sometimes it meant colored rubber bands on my braces. Watching Top Gun again and again on VHS (oh the volleyball scene…sigh).  I read and re-read poetry and various literature to become fluent in some of the greats and expand my vocabulary.  I spent hours fiddling with the radio on my record player to catch music greats such as The Cars, Prince, Pet Shop Boys, Janet Jackson and these gents, my very favorite band during those tender formative years: Duran Duran.

Which leads to today’s song, and also a confession on one of my largest fashion faux pas made. For about a year around 8^th grade, I had this little pin that I wore every day. It was just a head shot of Simon le Bon. {If you were sleeping under a rock in the 80s or perhaps just had less time on your hands, Simon is Duran Duran’s lead singer.} In my pursuit of culture and elegance, I had decided this Brit lead singer was to be mine. Clearly we were meant to be. I mean, I had a white beret and everything. I was a catch, baby. If only he’d tour in Northwest Iowa, we would have met. I could have given him some jelly beans from my Jelly Belly machine and we could have spun some vinyl. It would have been rad.

I learned of his marriage to a Victoria’s Secret supermodel through Teen Beat magazine. I threw out the pin in a flurry of tears. And I began attending teen dances in Pocahantas. But those are different tales with different songs.

Tonight, I give you Duran Duran - The Reflex.

PS - I’ve gotten over Simon. Nearly. Don't judge.

January 8: Wardrobe Cliff Notes

Allow me to set the stage:

- Today, it’s still super cold here. It’s winter. It’s Iowa. It’s cold, right? Not Polar Vortex cold, but nothing to sneeze at, either.

- I worked in the box (my office). The parking situation leaves something to be desired. It takes me longer to park in the garage and walk into the box than it does to get to the box.

- We've recently moved our desks to a side of the building that is exposed to gusting prairie breezes – it’s brisk. Not exposed to the elements brisk but I’ve considered bringing in a stadium blanket. And I’m generally too warm.

Anyway, all these conditions led me to wear pants today. With flats. I was asked no less than six times if I was feeling ok. Including by a stranger I see in the hallway every day for years, but with whom I've never spoken prior to today. Which leads to our wardrobe discussion.

Here is a basic truth about me: I’m a dress girl. I own a ridiculous amount of dresses and shoes. Not Carrie Bradshaw caliber, but certainly I’m a worthy adversary on a Midwest level. I love dresses. I love to twirl. I love to sparkle. I ride my bike with a dress on. I hike in dresses. My favorite sleepwear is a chemise. I am a girlie girl.  

So here’s my wardrobe hierarchy, which is a super easy indicator of my mood, at a glance:

- Wearing a dress and heels: Super happy day. I’m cloud nine material. This is my bread and butter state of mind. My default wardrobe, if you will.

- Wearing a dress with flats: It’s a great day, but I could use a free coffee at the Starbucks drive-thru.

- Wearing pants and heels: Things could be better. Better make it a coffee and some chocolate.

- Wearing pants and flats: Stop the presses. Mama isn’t happy.

Today was more necessitated by weather than mood, but I will admit a few extra cups of coffee or a stray dark chocolate would not have been misplaced. This song makes me happy. Perhaps I'll put on some heels while I dance to it to better elevate my stature and my mood...

Paul Simon - Diamonds on the Soles of Her Shoes