Musical Deep Thrill

My era of big rock concerts is long past. The last one I saw was with my son and it starred the Dave Matthews Band and Santana.

Yeah, it was quite a show.

But one of the oddnesses of that concert was my reaction to the huge video screens onstage and at the back of the arena. I found myself watching them far more than I watched the stage. That's when I decided that too big was really too big.

So when I drove up to West Fairlee to do a story on the Vermont Instruments School of Lutherie and discovered they were hosting small, intimate concerts in their oversized living room, I was game.

And I have to tell you about the music we were treated to this past Saturday night when bluesman Scott Ainslie brought his collection of instruments, his incredible musicianship, and his vast knowledge of the history of blues to little West Fairlee.

The space holds no more than 60 people. There's bags of popcorn and bottled water out in the kitchen. Every seat is perfect.

Ainslie mixes his music with stories about the people who wrote the blues. He shows you how a mute on a steel guitar transforms it into an instrument that sounds distinctly African. He tells you how he made a one-string guitar out of a cigar box and a pool cue then shows how to play it.

He's got a banjo made out of a guord (with a wonderful, sweet sound). We learned about Robert Johnson and the difference between Delta blues and Memphis blues. He shared a few songs he'd written. He explained how Stephen Foster combined a gospel song he'd heard in a black church in the Old South with new words to make a compelling ode to mastering hard times.

It was, simply, one of the best concerts I've ever attended.

Seriously, check this guy out if you ever hear he's in town. Or you can listen to some of his music on buy it on his website.

Sundrops and the Power of Yellow

Sundrop, isn't that a wonderful name for a plant, especially one that looks like this. One of the other common names of this beauty is evening primrose but if you look that one up, you'll discover there's a wide variety of flowers in this family (the Oenothera) that slide around under the name evening primrose.

This particular beauty's Latin name is Oenethera fructicosa. It transplants easily, spreads rather nicely, tucks itself among the daylilies (which is quite an accompishment), and in the fall, it dies down to this bronze rosette that lies close to the ground.

One of my favorite plants and I figured it would brighten up your Tuesday.

One Good Joseph Bruchac Deserves Another

When I was growing up, my Grampa Hakala was the educational center of my life. He was probably in his late 50s when this picture of him with me was taken on the front lawn of his house in Boylston, Massachusetts.

Grampa had this way of getting you to do what you knew he wanted by setting the example and just simply expecting you to do your best. I think if I'd been smart enough to figure that out way back then and told him so, he would have been surprised, maybe smiled and then said to himself, "That Sonja. What will she come out with next?"

When Grampa "retired" from the factory where he worked, he went across the street to his neighbor and asked if he could plant a garden in the field next to the man's house. The neighbor agreed and the next summer, Grampa planted about three acres of strawberries, potatoes, squash, beans, onions, corn, you name it, in that field. He already had 75 cultivated blueberry bushes next to his own house plus several current bushes. (I swear I'm a devoted gardener and eater of veggies and fruit, locally grown if I don't grow it myself, because of Grampa and Grandma Hakala.)

Then Grampa built a stand next to the road where he could sell the produce.

Being the oldest grandchildren, my cousin Gigi and I (we were probably 9 and 10 when we started) took care of the stand. We also sorted strawberries, culling the good from the bad, because Grampa insisted on giving good value to his customers, who became legion. Seriously, they'd line up after church let out, waiting for us to bring the first berries in from the field.

We sold corn by the baker's dozen—always adding an extra ear for folks who bought less than twelve. We learned how to accurately add up the cost of three quarts of berries, two pounds of potatoes, some beans and beets, make change and treat people well.

And we witnessed how much others valued our grandfather.

He was my first and, I would argue, my best teacher. Many of my siblings and cousins get the same reverential tone in their voices when we talk about Grampa.

He's been gone for 30 years now and I still think of him nearly every day. I have a summer shirt of his and a winter sweater. The shirt is hanging in my closet right now and I touch it in the morning as I get dressed for the day. I do the same with the sweater in the winter.

Anyway, poet and novelist Joseph Bruchac obviously had a grandfather like mine and felt the same way about him. This poem is for them and it's found in Joe's book Near the Mountains.

Morning Song

My grandfather always rose with the sun.

It was his oldest friend.

The front door of the general store he ran

faced toward the east and he'd sit there

in a blue painted chair of pine cut from his woods,

waiting for those first rays to touch his face.

He grew stronger as the light moved higher,

hands moving like crickets coming back to life

among grass blades frosted overnight.

Then, before he'd stand to his long day's work,

he'd lift his palms and hold them there,

just long enough to cup the sun.

Birdfoot's Grampa

It's late and we just drove home after spending the evening with a dear friend over a wonderful dinner and watching the newest version of Alice in Wonderland, which was pretty good, actually.

The air is saturated, very humid, and it rained while were in Wonderland so the drive home was in and out of foggy patches. And they made me think of my favorite Joseph Bruchac poem. This is from his book, Near the Mountains.

Birdfoot's Grampa by Joseph Bruchac

The old man

must have stopped our car

two dozen times to climb out

and gather into his hands

the small toads blinded

by our lights and leaping,

live drops of rain.

The rain was falling,

a mist about his white hair

and I kept saying

you can't save them all

accept it, get back in

we've got places to go.

But, leathery hands full

of wet brown life

knee deep in the summer

roadside grass,

he just smiled and said

they have places to go

too

This Ain't Your Grandma's Nine-Patch: Quilt Festival, Part the Second

OK, to immediately give credit where credit is due, the incredible quilter who made this rendition of coneflowers (echinacea to all of you who use herbal meds when you have a cold or the flu) is Ann Fahl. For those of you who don't quilt or think that quilting is all about squares of fabric, I wanted you to know that the quilting universe is HUGE and full of color and incredible artistry.

This is just one of the many exquisite visual delights that got ooohs and aaaahs at the Vermont Quilt Festival (going on through tomorrow). The second tier of ooohs and aaaahs are what you can find at the vendors who are there for the weekend.

This year, I was not on a hunt for fabric because I had that major score just after my birthday. I was after tools. So this is my take (oops, just realized my porcupine quill didn't make it into the picture) from the festival.

This festival got its start the same year Jay and I got married, 1979. In this neck of the woods, it's considered one of the best shows of the year. Buses crammed with visitors come in from New York, New Jersey and Canada. You hear as much French as you do English which is really cool. Makes me think about Montreal, one of my favorite cities.

I met people from Florida, Texas, Pennsylvania, Québec, Ontario, Minnesota and every New England state. The teachers are just top-notch and everyone who took a class just raved and raved.

Years ago, Jay and I got introduced to this show by our friend Jenna. That was probably ten years ago, and I was deeply hooked. Been quilting ever since and enjoying it more every day. You could make a quilt a week (as if) and never do the same pattern or use the same colors in the same way twice.

And a Mom note for those who have been asking: I talked to her today and she sounded OK. She's getting a lot of help from the aides at the nursing home as well as from the nurses and my sainted sister Heidi. She's also getting a lot of visits and calls, something that really gets her juices going. When I told her our son was heading down for the 4th of July weekend, she oohed and then said "Oh my, what shall I wear?"

So we know she's fading but we're trying to make sure we all get time with her and her with us. She seems relatively upbeat for the circumstances. We were cracking jokes today, always a good sign.

But it's day by day and we all know that.

Quilt Festival, Part the First

Just got back from a day at the Vermont Quilt Festival and it was quite a day! I left at 7 this morning for my first of two stints volunteering (I was taking money for admissions) and got back about 8 p.m. after a second stint at admissions. You see, if you volunteer for four hours, you get first dibs for taking classes next year and with some teachers, that's really important.

Last year was rather dead. This year, the quilters were back with a vengeance! Lines at the vendors were two and three deep nearly all day and the vendors were all smiling!

And the quilts, as always, were amazing.

I was after adding tools to my growing collection of tools—a porcupine quill, a Purple Thang, a new kind of thimble (because I really need to use one but don't like to) and stuff I'll take a picture of tomorrow.

But I am beat so off to put my feet up for a while and then to bed.

And Now for Something Completely Schlocky

Like many women my age, I've been a mystery fan ever since I read my first Nancy Drew book. (Oh she of the roadster, perfect Daddy, and boyfriend named Ned Nickerson.) That was when I was ten and since then, mysteries have been my escape from reality, like television only much better.

But I'm not into the blood-on-the-page kind of mystery. I like my murders discreet, the characters at least moderately interesting, the writing worth reading, and the puzzle solvable by the reader because the writer plays fair and puts all the clues in the book. To do otherwise is cheating.

Some books fitting this description, such as In a Dry Season by Peter Robinson, really soar above the crowd. He's a really good writer, a Brit by birth who now lives in Canada, and for my money, Dry Season is his best book though everything I've read by him is worth the investment in time.

Other books fitting this description, such as Mrs. Jeffries in the Nick of Time (shown above and which I finished last night) are reasonably entertaining when you don't want to be taxed by too much thinking because you've got other things on your mind like your Mom's failing health and the poison ivy on your arms.

I couldn't read a steady diet like Mrs. Jeffries all the time. I'd be bored silly in short order. But there are days when they are perfect, like that dish of Ben and Jerry's when you're supposed to be on a diet.