Preview

I slammed the car door shut, clicking the remote to lock the doors and headed for the back door of the nursing home. Four stories tall, red brick, this was home to the Montessori preschool my older two sons attended. Considered a revolutionary concept at one time, now the intergenerational congregation of the very young and the very old, both of whom require constant attention while frazzled mothers and fathers eke out a living, has become almost commonplace.

Back then, we came to this building for joyous reasons, dropping off our precious toddlers, applauding them at their semi annual theatrical productions of T’was the Night Before Christmas and The Forest Hotel. From September of 1991 through May of 1995, we paraded through the halls, smug in our youth, confident of bright futures for ourselves and our handsome sons. I was in that last, ripe stage of pregnancy, a month before giving birth to my third son, when Greg graduated from preschool and we exited the halls for what we thought was the last time.

Eleven years later finds me ringing the button for the elevator 3-4 times per week, glancing at the door to the Learning Center with a mixture of nostalgia and regret. The love of learning the Montessori program promised to instill into the hearts of our babies never happened. Not an avid reader amongst the three of them, which at times causes me to question the actual parentage of their birth. If they didn’t resemble each other, and their parents so much, I might realistically be concerned.

I rode the elevator to the fourth floor. I don’t even notice the antiseptic smell, mixed with the acrid odor of urine and the very, very old. I’ve gotten used to it. My oldest son still recoils when the elevator doors slide open. I’ve smelled worse. I’ve worked in places without in room bathrooms, where residents used chair commodes next to their beds. This is lilac and lavender in comparison.

The nursing home where my mother will spend the remainder of her days is quite nice. The nurses are friendly and cooperative, respectful to my mother. The hallways are clean and uncluttered. The food is appetizing and very much appreciated by my mother’s simple country taste buds. I often visit her during meal time. She is happiest then. She has always greatly enjoyed food, especially food prepared by someone else, and now to be served to her in the comfort of her hospital bed while she watches Turner Movie Classics is a luxury she never imagined.

I usually stop at the kitchen to get us both a cup of decaf coffee. Somehow, sipping coffee with my mother gives my visit more of a congenial feel. It feels more like I’m just dropping by, than making an obligatory visit.

I had stopped by yesterday, Kevin in tow, after watching Kevin’s team soundly beat the Springdale fifth graders 40-13, but I had promised to bring her a small table for her telephone, so there I was, two days in a row. I set off in search of two cups of coffee while the nurse finished up with her. While I was in the kitchenette, one of the workers pointed me in the direction of the clean coffee cups and asked who I was visiting.

I answered and she smiled, “Oh, your mama’s a sweetie. Always got a smile on her face.” She extended her hand and said, “My name’s Vanessa, I’m the activities person.”

I shook her hand, “Mom is doing so well here, she loves being around other people, although she’s shy and hesitates to do stuff on her own.”

“Oh, trust me, we get them out of their rooms, they have a choice, but not much of one.” Vanessa grinned, winking at me.

I thanked her and headed back to Mom’s room. We watched the tail end of Pillow Talk. Mom has complained ever since she got there that they took her off her narcolepsy medicine, and as we watched the movie, she fell asleep between sips of coffee, spilling the hot, brown liquid all over her top sheet and blouse, waking her up from her reverie.

Springing into action, I whisked the top sheet off and fanned her leg, rolling up the sopping wet blouse, getting her cooled off first of all, then dry as quickly as possible. I hustled up a clean sheet and hospital gown, got her cleaned up and calmed down, and threw away the offending coffee. She was fast asleep again in minutes.

Usually, Mom chatters away during my visits. I tell her all about my dates, the boys’ latest adventures, give her play by plays on movies I’ve seen or books I’ve read. Today, Mom needed to sleep. Nothing she nor I could do about it.

I watched her slack jaw, drooping eyes, looked down at her veined hands. I held mine up in comparison. We have almost exactly the same sized hands. Her nails are nicer than mine. Her blue veins were prominently displayed through the aged and spotted skin of her hands and mine, though not yet spotted, were slightly raised and translucent.

I had visions of being very much like my mother in thirty years; old, dependent, but regarded by all as extremely nice, thought of in affectionate terms, but still alone. I’ve noticed a phenomenon in other families. One child is informally selected to be primary care giver, not necessarily based on feasibility studies or affection, but somehow through some intricate web of family dynamics. My brother serves that role for my father. I serve that role for my mother. My cousin served that role for my uncle, my sister-in-law served that role for her mother. It doesn’t even really matter how many children a person has, nor the gender of either the child or the aging parent, the job usually lands in the lap of one and only one, of the children.

I wondered who would care for Rexford, when he’s old and can’t care for himself.

I wondered who would care for me.

Believing

A curious time of year, this end of January, in 2006. My garden thinks it is spring. The forsythia have sent out a few scout blossoms, testing the direction of the still winter winds. My hydrangea is all budded up in prepubescent anticipation. The tulips are peeking tentatively out of the ground, like reticent swimmers, gingerly extending pointed toes into the pool.

Last year, the tulips didn’t come up until March. The snow stayed cold and white in piles on the parking lots, dirty heaps reminding us of the wicked winds that blew and blew and chilled our bones, keeping us inside to watch Desperate Housewives and Survivor and American Idol. Last year, my heart was heavy and I didn’t feel much like doing anything other than stare at my computer, or stare at a book, or sometimes, stare at the television.

This year beacons us outside with a seductive swirl of nature’s ample hips, daring us to believe that warmth is just around the corner, and the cold will soon become a distant memory. I’m hoping the feeling lasts.

After all, Groundhog Day is a mere four days away.

And I, the eternal optimist.

Theme song from Brokeback Mountain

I don't know who wrote it, Emmylou Harris sings it. It is just beautiful.

And yes, despite my lack of luck in love as of late, I still believe. I still believe.

A Love That Will Never Grow Old

Go to sleep, may your sweet dreams come true
Just lay back in my arms for one more night
I've this crazy old notion that calls me sometimes
Saying this one's the love of your life.

[Chorus:]
Cause I know a love that will never grow old
And I know a love that will never grow old.

When you wake up the world may have changed
But trust in me, I'll never falter or fail
Just the smile in your eyes, it can light up the night,
And your laughter's like wind in my sails.

[Chorus]

Lean on me, let our hearts beat in time,
Feel strength from the hands that have held you so long.
Who cares where we go on this rugged old road
In a world that may say that we're wrong.

[Chorus]

Brokeback Mountain

The trees shimmered in the late summer frost on Brokeback Mountain, when Jack said a silent goodbye to Ennis in his rear view mirror. The classic, bittersweet love story of two people meant to be together, separated by reasons beyond their control, lived with me for days after I left the theatre. Jack and Ennis had for each other what every beating heart strains towards; they were each other’s one true love.

How many “one true love”s do most people get in a life time? Sometimes, only one, and when that one slips through our fingers, whether by design or by fate, one is left, not with a love that never dies, as the song on the soundtrack suggests, but with a longing that never dies. A longing for what was lost.

I approached Brokeback Mountain with great anticipation. Way back in October, my oldest son had beckoned me towards the computer.

“Mom, you’ve gotta see this.” He looked warily at me and left the room.

I sat in my chair and watched the trailer for Brokeback Mountain, saw the panorama of Wild West beauty, saw the faces of the wives of the two lovers, heard the plot line of a love that was never allowed to be.

My heart jumped up in my throat.

I searched the internet for information about the movie. Robert lent me the 58 page short story by Annie Proulx upon which the movie was based. In December, after the movie was released, I read review after review of the movie, and interviews with the cast, the screenwriter and Ms. Proulx. I read everything about Brokeback Mountain I could get my hands on.

I saw the movie on Sunday. I watched as the characters danced around each other, uncovering bits and pieces of childhood, of experience, of habits and mannerisms that all lovers waltz through in the beginning. I soaked in the pain of separation when they said their first goodbyes. I intuited the missing piece they each felt as their lives moved forward on separate planes for the next four years. I rejoiced for them when the cloud of dust settled in front of the Laundromat and Ennis took the stairs two at a time to jump into Jack’s arms.

I felt the proverbial boot that landed smack in the middle of Alma’s stomach when she looked out the door and saw her husband passionately kissing a man.

Brokeback Mountain is a movie that needed to be made. It needed to be made for many, many reasons. It needed to clarify the intensity of romantic attachment that can be felt in the hearts of two men who love each other. It needed to make real the reality of hate crimes that exist and continue to exist in much of the world. It needed to demystify the long term ramifications of unrequited love. The movie did all this, did all this and left us wanting to know more.

Brokeback Mountain also did something else, albeit perhaps unintentionally, and not to the extent that I had hoped it would. It took a stab at addressing the collateral damage to American families of mixed orientation marriages. It acknowledged the extreme pain the wives of the two lovers endured. It acknowledged the confusion of the children to a seemingly apathetic father, and their desire to be loved by him simply because he is their father. It acknowledged the inability of gay persons to ever truly love the opposite gender…no matter how much they might want to.

To ask that gay people live their lives without ever experiencing the rapture of true love is one of the cruelest jokes our society has ever played on an unsuspecting public. Asking them to submerge their feelings, to marry the opposite sex to fit into the accepted norm subjects them to cruel and unusual punishment, and subjects their innocent spouses to the same.

I’d love to see the next challenge to marriage as only between a man and a woman try to use the Eighth Amendment cruel and unusual punishment defense. As Brokeback Mountain demonstrated so persuasively, it punishes not only the gay people involved, but also the unsuspecting straight people who marry them.

Man of the Hour

“Ok, everyone, on the count of eight, ready?”

My salsa instructor counts to eight and we do the basic step for eight beats, feigning a partner, watching his feet, doing the footwork for an inside turn as best we can. There are eight dancers on the floor, three men and five women.

“Grab a partner, let’s try this with a few times, then we’ll put on the music. The instructor pulls the woman closest to him into his arms, the husband and wife team on the left pair off, and one of the women makes a bee line for the last remaining man standing alone. I look at the woman beside me.

“What the hell, I’ll be a guy for an hour.”

“I don’t know, I’ve never danced with a man in lace before.” She laughs at my cream colored lace top that I wore with my brown silk suit.

I smile back at her. She’s about six inches taller than me, but then, I’m short for a woman. I have on two inch heels, but hers are equally high.

“Where there’s a will, there’s a way,” I quip back at her. “I dated a Cuban man for a year and he was always accusing me of trying to lead when we danced. Now’s my chance. I may never get another.”

We stand at dance attention, her right palm cupped in my left hand, my right hand resting on her shoulder blade, her left hand resting on my bicep.

I resist the urge to flex. After all, I’m a girl, not really a guy.

We fumble through the first few beats, my eyes glued to the instructor, trying to figure out the fancy footwork of the inside turn. I turn to smile at my partner, doing the eight count basic step, working up the courage to try the new step.

In salsa dancing, the man has his hand on the woman’s shoulder blade, for the most part. The inside turn requires the man to lift the hand holding the woman’s hand slightly, nudging her in the hoped for direction with the other hand, and keeping his hand on her while she turns. To my horror, I discovered that when I kept my hand at her shoulder blade level, when she turned, her breasts slid right around my arm and into my outstretched hand.

I have never touched a woman’s breasts before, besides my own, of course. I quickly dropped my hand to her waist and hid my face in embarrassment. I did not look at her again, staring intently at the instructor, waiting for the blood to flow away from my face and back down to my feet where it belonged.

After a few minutes, I turned my stony faced glance back to my partner, and turned her again. She turned beautifully. My hand dropping to her waist, just in time, and I turned her again. It was kinda cool. I got to decide when she turned. She had to pay attention to the signals I was giving. I was in charge.

I like being in charge.

Some of the time.

I played the guy for the rest of the hour. I danced with two other women. I figured out how to drop my hand to keep from copping a feel, but I also recognized the potential for a guy not quite so reluctant. No wonder so many guys like salsa.

No wonder so many women like salsa.

This morning, I hustled my two older boys out the door. We pulled out of the driveway and I glanced to the left to look for traffic. The dawn was breaking, the hues of deep red and magenta suffusing the eastern sky.

“Boys, look,” I whispered.

Greg turned to the right.

“No, the other way.”

He looked to the left.

“Mom, we gotta get going! Come on!” Scott muttered impatiently.

I put the car in gear and pulled away.

“It was beautiful, though, Mom. Just brings home that we have to get up way too early.”

I laughed. Scott is such a teenager. I drove the boys to school and in the five minutes it took me to drop them off at the door and get back home, the sunrise was over, the sky a leaden gray once again. I pulled into my garage, and switched off the motor, thinking about the fleeting moment of beauty I had just witnessed.

Nice to know that I’m not really the one in charge. Not if I don’t want to be. I can turn it over to the universe when my dance arm gets too tired.

I just need to convince my twitching feet.

To Blog or Not to Blog

I have been having discussions with some of my friends lately as to what I should and shouldn’t blog about. It’s fairly limited, actually. I could invade the privacy of my neighbors if I told the story of my tattered flag, or the cats hunting for mice in the perennial gardens across the street…or even the hawk sighting on my walk on Monday. I could invade the privacy of my siblings if I write about my childhood, after all, it includes their childhood, too. I could invade the privacy of my ex husband if I write about our courtship and marriage. I could invade the privacy of my children by quipping about grades, or SAT scores, or experiments typical to teenagers. Things I thought were safe to write about are now wrapped in a cloak of ambiguity. I could write about my work, but my staff might complain. I could write about my friends, but even they arch an eyebrow when they discover an anecdote including their name.

When my cats started complaining, I figured I better take notice.

Of course, this doesn’t make me happy. This makes me hopping mad, actually. It feels unsupportive and selfish, on the part of my friends, to inhibit my creativity in such a way. It’s not like I have a vast audience. I have always thought that the opinions of those who don’t know me were meaningless, but I acknowledge that others might think differently. It’s not that I don’t wax eloquently about those I like and care for. It’s not that I write to intentionally inflict pain. The fact of the matter is that the only critical writing I’ve done relates to a minor few disappointing dates or affairs d’coeur over the last nine months. For the most part, if I write a story involving a romantic interest, it’s usually quite complimentary.

I am not the judge nor the jury in this matter, though.

Those participants haven’t been decided yet.

When they are, I may change my stance, but until then, as is my customary tact, I will do no harm, if it can at all be helped.

Last First Date

I had my last first date last night. Last for awhile anyway. There are no other first dates possibilities in the pipeline. This one, I have corresponded with on Yahoo Personals for over a year. He's local, don't know why we've never gotten around to meeting, but he would email me, I would email him, then nothing for a few months, then he would call me, or I would call him then nothing for a few more months. I met him last night. I went to a fundraiser for Children's Hospital...and there he was.

Tall, dark, handsome, funny, charming, intelligent...did I say tall?

Get this. Within ten minutes, he told me he liked me. Took all the guess work out of it, told me I was pretty and that he liked what he saw. Told me again after we had talked, laughed and flirted for an hour.

Man, that felt good.

He tried to sweep me off my feet while we were outside admiring the moon. Literally. I didn't let him. I've been an avid gymster for three and a half years. Muscle is heavy. I'm heavier than I look.

I didn't want him to hurt himself. I may need him to be without back pain one of these days. (g)

To hell with aloofness. To hell with The Rules. He liked me, I liked him.

Let the games begin.

Finally!!!

The Allure of Accounting
by Vicki Salemi
If the stereotype of a nerdy bean counter comes to mind when you think of an accountant, think again.

"All of a sudden, accountants are in the news. With all the scandals, and all the money that's changing hands, the profession has started looking sexy, dangerous and challenging," explains Eva Rosenberg, MBA, EA, publisher of TaxMama.com, and author of 'Small Business Taxes Made Easy' (McGraw-Hill, November, 2004). "Accountants aren't just boring geeks anymore. We're hot!"

Beginnings

A take off from an old favorite by Chicago. You all remember this song. I just changed a word or two. More on this subject later...

When i'm with me, it doesn't matter where I am, or what I’m doing
I'm with me, that's all that matters
Time passes much too quickly when I am laughing
I wish i could sing it to you, oh no
I wish i could sing it to you

Mostly i'm silent
Never think of the right words to say

When i kiss me, i feel a thousand different feelings
The color of chills all over my body

And when i feel them, i quickly try to decide which one
I should try to put into words, oh no
Try to put into words

Mostly i'm silent

Only the beginning of what i want to feel forever
Only the beginning
Only just the start
I've got to keep me in my life mama
Got to stay next to me
Only the beginning
Only just the start

Karma

I played hookey on Friday afternoon to see a movie with my buddy Robert. I dallied longer than I should have and found myself in a bit of hurry to get home. I had called the house as I cruised down Burns Avenue to ask Kevin to wait out in the driveway for me, so that I could whisk him off to basketball practice. We could still get there on time, but it would be close.

I was humming to myself, thinking of the Rufus Wainwright song that accompanied the credits to the movie I’d just seen when I saw a huge possum beginning a trek across the busy street. I slowed automatically, the speed limit already a leisurely 25 mph. To my horror, the SUV ahead of me hit the possum…and just kept on driving. I stopped my car, oblivious to the vehicles behind me, to make sure no one else took a swipe at the animal. The possum got up and wobbled a few feet towards the curb and my heart hoped for a few quick moments that perhaps he was just stunned. He stopped, in the middle of the street, his head hanging low, his jaw frozen open, and then I noticed the blood. Lots of blood. The possum was hurt and hurt bad.

I got out of my car. The possum was retching noiselessly, eyes dulled in exquisite pain, unmindful of the commotion around him . The cars behind started honking. Some guy yelled out his window, “Get out of the road, asshole.” I ignored him. I stepped closer to the possum, who balefully turned his head towards me, large teeth displayed in his locked open jaw. Now was not the time to tame this wild beast. The pool of blood grew in front of him and I knew I could not save his life.

A car came from the opposite direction and a twenty something kid stopped on the other side of the road, surveying the carnage.

“What happened?” he asked, his eyes never leaving the heaving body of the possum.

“An SUV hit this guy and then just took off. I don’t know what to do for him, but I know that I can’t just leave him here in the road to be run over by countless other cars.”

“He’s dead, you know.” The man sadly observed from the front seat of his car.

“No, he’s not dead. He’s dying. There’s a big difference.” I gently corrected.

The car moved on and the traffic behind snaked around me. Some people slowed to get a closer look, heads shaking in sympathy, others kept their eyes straight ahead and angrily accelerated to make up for the time they lost sitting in traffic behind a dying possum.

“Wow. That’s maybe the saddest thing I’ve ever seen.” A voice behind me whispered.

I turned to find the twenty something boy standing a few feet away, his car pulled over to the side of the road directly behind mine. He was about 6’ tall, three earrings on his left ear, one on his right, one in his nose. He was gangly in that twenty something way, his loose jeans and tee shirt a testament to his age.

We stood there for a few moments in silence, the possum taking a tentative step forward.

“So, someone hit him and then just took off?” he asked quietly.

“Yeah, didn’t even slow down.” I turned to him, speaking softly, my eyes filling at the memory. “I think it may have even been intentional.”

“Jeez. Hard to believe.”

“I have no idea what to do. I know I can’t save him. Somehow, it just seemed wrong to drive away. I thought he deserved at least the dignity to die in peace rather than be repeatedly run over by middle class weekend warriors on their way home.”

He nodded. I stepped closer to the animal, cooing softly. The possum began an ungainly gait towards me. I stepped aside. The possum followed. I stepped aside again. He still followed. Moving completely out of the way, the possum waddled in three wide circles, there in the middle of Burns Avenue, finally falling over as the battle for his life raged and waned.

Watching his breathing slow, I popped the trunk on my car, extracted a towel, and picked the possum up, moving him to the side of the road. His body was still warm and alive and limber. My momentary friend and I stood in silent witness as the possum struggled for a few more gasps of life, finally fulfilling his journey and moving on to whatever comes next for all living creatures after our work here is done.

I thought about the possum all weekend, watching Kevin’s undefeated basketball team blaze on in continued victory, as I strained through my New Year’s Resolution fitness regimen, during dinner at a fancy restaurant with the wedding guy. I thought about the possum and I thought about the person that hit him.

Last night, I sat down to check my email and my favorite blogs. AOL has little news stories that flash invitingly on the screen, distractions while you wait for page loads, I suppose. The story that caught my eye was, “Burned Mouse Gets Revenge”. I clicked on the icon and read about a man who caught a mouse and threw it into a pile of leaves he was burning in his yard. The mouse came running out of the pile of leaves, on fire, and ran back to the house, stopping under a window, and catching the house on fire.

I’m guessing revenge was the last thing on that little mouse’s mind. I’m guessing the mouse was just trying to get the hell away from the flames.

I’m wondering what kind of person would knowingly sentence another living creature to death by fire?

I’m thinking the mouse guy may have very well gotten karmic retribution for his cruelty.

I’m thinking the possum person better be careful.

According to the AOL story, nobody died in the fire.

Except of course, the little mouse.

Abundance

I am the volunteer chair of the Women Writing for (a) Change Capital Campaign. I made a pitch for the campaign today to about 80 of my fellow women writers. After the speech, several people came up to me to tell me they liked my poem. I didn't even know it was a poem. This is what I said:

We gather in the circle, flickering candle, hand heated stone, and the moist mist of our words bonds us. A woman speaks of a cheating husband, halting words, grammatically clumsy, the rhythm off beat, no metaphors, no analogies, no alliterations, just the stark, cold, terror of truth.

We cry with her.

A woman weaves a lyrical story, poetry almost, words jumping off the page to dance a beautiful ballet in our imaginations.

We sigh with her.

A woman writes a memoir of a childhood filled with negligible gifts, of a journey to uncover the treasure hidden in the rubble and with her, we trumpet the bugle of victory.

I am this woman, and so are each of you.

We are women writers. We are women writing for a change.

We build beautiful tapestries of truth and honor, courage and compassion. We paint our stories in hues of hunger and feast, blessing and abuse. Our strength cannot be quantified, only held and experienced in the creative comfort of the circle.

On February 5, 2006, as we celebrate the Bengals bounding glory at the Super Bowl, we will kick off the capital campaign to permanently create a place for women’s words. That place is right here, in this building, enveloping these bricks, this mortar, that roof, the floor beneath our collective feet. A safe house, as it were, for the thoughts flowering in your head at this very moment; pillowed comfort for the anguish that lies in your heart, aching for wordless release on the page. We welcome your art, your words, your presence.

It won’t be easy to tempt the funds from their comfortable nests in collective pockets to the coffers of community we seek to create. But it will happen, and we need your help.

We are raising $1,000,000 to buy this building, make some improvements, and create an endowment for the continuation of support to our operating programs. Anni has credit card slips, I have the Buck in a Basket. As a show of solidarity, we are asking for a contribution from each of you. Give whatever you want, as much or as little. As you decide what to give, we ask you to consider what you get. We ask you to consider the value of the bonds you have forged here at Women Writing for a Change, at the battles you have fought and won with the weapons of words you have learned to use so expertly. We ask you to consider the towers of strength you have built with the building blocks of words you have picked up and pieced together, one brick at a time. We ask you to consider the friendships found, the pronounced peace permeating our hearts as we leave each class. Consider those gifts you have received, and help us pay the gift forward to our neighbors, our co-workers, our unmet friends, our sisters, our daughters, and on, and on, to our daughters’ daughters, and the women who will marry our sons and our grandsons.

Your gifts, generously given, will be so gratefully received.

I receive such joy from this group. It is a pleasure to give something back.

Forty Six Year Old Groupie

The bar was right where he said it was. I arrived on time at the crack of 9:00, an unusual occurrence for me. I found a parking spot in front, squeezing in between a Honda Accord and a Toyota SUV. My breath billowed in front of me, reminding me that I had forgotten to wear a coat. I do that a lot. I don’t like to wear coats, and in the cozy connection between my kitchen and garage, it’s easy to be unaware of the elements outside. I shivered and pulled my jacket tightly around me.

I had been uncertain what to wear. I’m an accountant by day, a writer in the wee hours of the morning and sometimes into the dark hours of the night. My wardrobe primarily reflects the functions performed to earn the funds to pay for the clothes on my back. This does not leave a vast array of options to wear to the 19th Annual Townee Jam on High Street in downtown Oxford, Ohio. Jeans seemed to be the obvious choice. Jeans are not my favorite dressing for my lower half, too restrictive. I prefer clothing with a little more give. If I had my druthers, I’d wear sweat pants all the time. I dressed in red, instead. Not my favorite outfit, not a 20 something choice. I was comfortable, though, and at the time, that was reason enough.

Climbing the concrete steps to the Balcony, I wondered if stairs posed a problem for those with higher alcohol consumption rates. Perhaps the stairs served as a sobriety test. If you could navigate them without killing yourself, you were safe to drive. If you couldn’t, well, the test took care of what happened next.

Six pool tables greeted me as I surfaced from my climb, a cigarette dangled from the mouth of young man intent on sinking the solid green ball in the upper left pocket. A long bar wound its way around the back of the billiard space, down the hall to the room in the rear, pulsing with the possibilities of what was to come. A lone bartender scurried to meet a growing number of refreshment requests.

The stage was full of acoustic accoutrements. Nestled in the back, a drum set lay in rhythmic anticipation, to the left, bongos waited their turn. An army of guitars stood at attention, ready to be called into service, saluting the keyboard off to the right. Reinforcement guitars, still in their cases, lined the left wall. The bass guitar sat alone in deep thought. Above, the lights played havoc with color and intensity. Electric cords snaked their way around the equipment, becoming part of the pattern in the red tile floor. Everything else was black…the speakers, the walls, the ceiling, the vinyl covering the bar stools which would become home to our haunches for the next six hours.

I saw him as soon as I walked in, his hand on some kid’s shoulder, pointing towards the far corner of the stage. I heard him say, “I’d suggest you go tune up, so when it’s your turn to play, you will be ready.” The kid headed off in the direction of his mentor’s finger.
He hugged me tightly, laughing as he did so, and said, “We are in ‘what do I do now?’ mode.”

I smiled up at him and replied, “Well, they’ve come to the right man, because after all these years, you’re the one who knows. You da man.”

Adrian was in his element, coordinating the lighting, checking the sound, pacifying the players who would parade on his stage throughout the course of the evening. Every time I sought his face, he was grinning. Around 9:30pm, the show began. By that time, several of Adrian’s friends had arrived, I was duly introduced, and kept company for the rest of the evening. Nes, the sound man, stepped up to the microphone and in a booming announcer voice declared, “We are proud to present the 19th annual Townee Jam, including the Mackey Brothers Band, and featuring Adrian Martin!”

The crowd went wild, these were homegrown boys and the town was proud of them. They opened with Further on Up the Road/Green Onions by Bobby Blue
Bland and Booker T. and the MG's respectively, and they played until 2:00am. Sometimes, it was just Adrian and the Brothers. When Adrian crooned Gram Parson’s song, You Don’t Miss Your Water, I closed my eyes and just let the music wash over me. I don’t know why that song always hits me so hard. Maybe it’s the way he sings it, the longing almost tangible. All I know is that when I hear it, I get incredibly thirsty.

Periodically, a few of their friends would get up and sing with them, or sing by themselves. Betsy Jones sang an original, along with a couple other songs. Laurie Traveline, from my first Adrian Martin concert, sang a few songs. A tiny little blonde girl, a sophomore in high school as it turns out, belted out a sultry, jazzy tune, swaying with the music like she’d been doing it for decades.

The Mackey Brothers Band consists of Tom Mackey on electric guitar, Dave Mackey on drums and Noah David Cope on bass guitar. Tom was Adrian’s guitar teacher when he was a kid. The man’s fingers flew up and down the frets with frenetic speed, a burst of magic with each hummingbird touch. During a break, Tom stayed up to play with some of the younger guitarists, performing a particularly testy instrumental part. Tom’s fingers moved so quickly you could see only a blur. Adrian turned to me and said, “Obviously, he didn’t teach me EVERYTHING he knows.”

Intermittently, Adrian’s guitar students showcased their skills. A jazz band from the high school performed some of their original work, boys Adrian met while substitute teaching. At one point I called Greg, my fifteen year old son. Greg is a fledgling guitarist, himself. I held up the phone so he could hear. “You should be here!” I hollered.

I likened it to a recital, of sorts, for students of rock. Where else could guitar students, studying rock music, show off what they’ve learned, with the full support of an experienced band backing them up? Proud parents intermingled with the bar regulars, applauding with particular enthusiasm when it was their child’s turn to perform.

Throughout the concert, people were laughing, were dancing, were singing along, were snapping pictures of the historic event. After every song, they were hooting, stomping and clapping, clapping, clapping. It was fun. My smile stretched clear across my face and when I looked around, so did everyone else’s. That kind of joy is contagious at an event such as this. I mused, as I sipped my cosmopolitan, that this must be the most worthwhile of professions, because although the work might not save anyone’s life or make anyone wealthy, sometimes it’s exactly what makes life worth living. It spreads the joy around.

The music. The voices. The energy. The passion. From a tiny little town comes this huge array of talent. There must be something in the water.

After the gig, (see, I’m even learning some of the lingo) as we cleared the stage and carried the equipment out to Adrian’s van, someone jokingly referred to me as a “roadie”. I giggled to myself. This was the fifth time I’d been to one of Adrian’s concerts.

I think that makes me a groupie.

I’m a forty six year old groupie.

I’m thinking maybe I need to update my wardrobe.