Lord Baldwin or the musical interlude

It was a cool and cloudy day, a rather pleasant relief from some of the unusually warm days we have already had recently. My husband took the opportunity to fix the carburetor on his old rototiller, and I decided to work on my exotic butterfly embroidery at the kitchen table overlooking the patio and deck where my husband was tinkering with his tools. It was very quiet in the back yard and in our street, as it was Memorial Day weekend, and most families were at gatherings in or out of town. It was my birthday a couple days ago, and the husband of a very dear friend of mine had dropped off a recent CD of his music. I decided this was a great chance to listen to his songs, as no one was around and it would keep my husband and I company in our tasks. The artist in question is self taught, and lives here in Olympia with his wife Diane, and their children and grandchildren. Diane was an important friend when my son Nicholas was small, and he spent many happy hours at her house with her many children and their friends. An amazing woman because of her humility and heart, she gave me many a happy afternoon as our children played together. Her husband is an artist who taught himself piano, harmonica, guitar, and who writes soulful ballads where he accompanies himself on all these instruments. His music is good. He has a strong and convincing voice, that is not afraid to add a touch of humour to his troubadour songs. The CD I received  is called "World on Fire", and I was really impressed with the instrumentation. I felt like I was listening to a very skilled disciple of Tom Waits, Neil Young and Bob Dylan all in one. The acoustic guitar had the power of a Neil Young, the mouth harmonica too, and the voice carried the melancholy of Bob Dylan, and the bluesy, wry humour was all Tom Waits. I was impressed. And everything was done by Chester himself, because that is the name of this talented man, Chester Baldwin, or Lord Baldwin as he cheekily calls himself. There is so much cynicism these days, and as the music filled our backyard, I felt myself relax, and really enjoy this Americana musical interlude. Chester's music proves the American soul is still alive, is still worth saving and believing in. The 20 songs on the CD are varied and deal with the challenges of daily life as someone who as an artist still has to provide for his family. Chester's music is real, heartfelt, and deeply moving in its honesty. The song "Is anybody there?" deals with a frustration I can relate to all too well, as a writer trying to break out of invisibility and anonymity, the sadness at wondering if any one will ever hear or read your words and songs. "I don't remember" deals very poignantly with the reality of memory loss, and is very poetic in its emotions. "It looks like a long road ahead" deals with the daily frustrations of the working class, trying to get ahead, only to realize you are not. There are humorous songs, like "My engine stalled", and "No patience". One of my favorite songs is the song that refers to the title of the CD, "World on Fire", that deals with the very troubled times we live in, both politically and morally. It is a great CD, and Chester has many more. He has his own website, www.Lord Baldwin.com. Check out this Olympia artist. You will feel better. Better about your own place in the scheme of things, and better about the world around you, far and near.

The Wounded Pearl

As a child I was told about the oyster whose shell was invaded by a piece of dust and who ended up turning the unwelcome guest into a shiny pearl. I think most parents felt obligated to share that fact with their children, to bolster their resilience when faced with adversity. I know my father did. I responded to the advice with quite a bit of both indifference emotionally, and curiosity intellectually as to the biological processes involved. I found the tale interesting, but it did not make an impact on my child's mind. The other day, Mother's Day weekend as a matter of fact, I was hit by a wave of the blues, not uncommon for me on holidays. My son was gone most of the weekend, and I missed him. The story of the resourceful and creative oyster came to mind. But, this time, the experience was very different. I felt the piece of sand grinding in the inner part of my heart like a physical pain, it was a real sensation, that felt like I had a thing inside me giving me an aching, bleeding cut. It lingered for quite a while, as I was trying very hard to muster the will power to vanquish the pain. It certainly did not feel like I was making a pearl, or was eventually going to end up with one as a reward for sticking it to that intruder into my peaceful weekend. I realized all I could do was accept the pain, and hope it would subside. I tried very hard to rationalize the irrationality of the pain, to eradicate its uncomfortable nausea from my mind. It was like canoeing through sand. The only head way I was making was in level of irritation as I failed miserably. But, being blessed with a stubborn nature, I eventually convinced myself I was feeling better. If I ended up with a pearl in the process, it was a messy and bloodied one, no doubt about that. I am not sure who has more of an ordeal to go through, the oyster or the pearl. The oyster obviously has to battle to turn the piece of dirt into a pearl, but the pearl does not exactly get a free ride having to win a beauty contest in the stomach juices of its host. I had not thought about the oyster and the pearl in a very long time. I must say I look forward to the hopeful prospect that I will not be revisited by the duo for quite some time, as the only painkiller for the ordeal seems to be a sheer determination to deny its presence. "Go away" seems to work eventually. Eventually. No wonder I am not particularly keen on wearing pearls. I 'd rather wear a dragon's teeth, if you don't mind.

The Visitors

Last weekend, we had our Internet and phone and televisions all updated as far as wiring goes. It had been a long time, close to 20 years. So, we thought, this will be great. Two guys showed up, both polite and pleasant, one a young apprentice, the older person someone with a lot of experience in the field. Two hours, I figured, no problem. Five hours later, they were both struggling to wrap up the job. Of course, a visit to our house is like a visit to the Weasleys' house in one of the Harry Potter  movies. Everything is a bit quirky and a bit off. My son cracked me up, when he quipped matter of factly : " This is a weird house. We are weird people. We have stuff everywhere. " I laughed, having realized some time ago, that our house is like a friendly overstuffed curio shop. It is a small house filled with stories in all the stuff that lives there along side us. It was  a challenge for the two guys to work around the stuff. I even apologized, but they both felt it was a comfy house, and that they felt at ease. It is always an interesting experience to have strangers in your house, strangers who are providing a service, like installing a new washer or stove, or putting in new wiring. I am endlessly intrigued by people, so I become an instant journalist, asking people about their work and lives, and pretty soon, it starts feeling like they live at my house, too, or will in the near future somehow, as awkwardness gives way to  friendly conversation and ease. As the carefully crafted order of our home gave way to the inevitable chaos of bare wires and emptied out cupboards and drawers, and our patience began to run thin as the hours dragged on, I mused on the precariousness of order in our lives. I guess that is why robbers are so shocking, or raids by police or a repressive government, or during war brutalities, turning a home upside down, even in a small and benevolent way quickly becomes unnerving and very irritating. In slapstick comedy it is hilarious, in dramas tragic. Like our skin covers our muscles and vulnerable organs, our homes and houses cover our psyches and their elaborate defenses. Our home is a collection of memories, it is where our spirits live, our hearts remember. It is not a fancy place with fancy things. Probably what we have the most of are books and stuffed animals. There is a naivety about the place, and a certain nonchalance and wisdom at the same time. But, because it looks like Merlin's cabin in the woods, it is easily tossed, so to speak. So, when the two technicians finally left, I was very quick to re-establish order, to clean, dust, sweep. I had to put my touch back on things, reclaim my precarious territory. My husband was very understanding about that need, and even the next day , he was helping with the vacuuming and putting things back in order everywhere, as technology these days ends up in every room except the bathroom, it seems. It felt good to have the house back put together, its guts carefully covered up, so to speak. And as that happened, I felt more at ease about my own togetherness too, feeling that I too had reclaimed my space and function among the many things around me. 

The Wisdom of Ice Cream

The other night, after the surprise of a warm day, my son and I decided we wanted an ice cream cone for dessert after dinner. It never ceases to amaze me the enthusiasm the prospect of an ice cream cone generates in young and old alike. One of my fondest memories of going to the seaside in Oostende, Belgium when I was growing up, was getting an ice cream cone after a long walk on the beach.There were only four flavours at the time : strawberry, vanilla, chocolate and my favorite, pistachio. When you eat ice cream, you have to slow down. And when you don't slow down, you end up with a sticky mess on your fingers, or clothes, or face. The ice cream demands you slow down. It is a wonderful thing. Perhaps that is why children love to get ice cream. They seem to know intuitively that no matter how crazy things may have been up to the point where ice cream was introduced into their day, things were about to get fun and messy and for a nice while, slower. Because ice cream, especially in a cone, gets messy even when you try to pay attention. You have to lick it, slurp it, carefully, strategically, so it does not drop on the ground, so, in other words, you have to slow down. It is a forever funny sight to see an adult walk super slow while eating an ice cream cone, just to make sure the sticky deliciousness does not get the best of them. Young parents, aunts, uncles, grandpa, grandma, all walking cautiously making the human race look rather awkward indeed. It is hard to be in a bad mood eating an ice cream cone. I have seen many a sour puss getting an ice cream cone, and that thing ends up softening the person's frown or cynical eyes. People should have ice cream parties when they don't get along, at home ,at work, at political rallies and meetings. Here, have an ice cream cone, you will feel a lot better, I promise. And you can really go all out with an ice cream cone. You can add whipped cream, and sprinkles in all flavours, and nuts, and candies, and syrups, the list is quite extensive. What you lack in generosity in your character, you can amend by being extravagant with your ice cream cone. Old men and women become children again. I always find it so amusing to see a very distinguished old gentleman or lady, all stiff and serious about themselves, struggle  with a towering ice cream cone full of exotic candies and swirls. It gives me hope for the human race. Children giggle and are totally comfortable with the sticky stuff running all over their faces and hands. Actually, most children seem to prefer it that way. Cool looking teenagers temporarily sacrifice their carefully crafted images to surrender to the guilty pleasure of acting like a giddy five year old, slurping their ice cream delight, heaped full of gummy worms. I think when Congress is in yet another gridlock, they should stop for a mandatory ice cream party. That should move things along a bit more smoothly. Cake and cookies just don't cut it. Too predictable and clean. No, ice cream is where it's at. Ice cream in a cone.

The Pomegranate Seeds

I had been walking for what seemed forever
in a dusty night, crossing a desert's fiery frights.
It was a hot and treacherous caravan I had been
following through darkness and soulless parts,
where the travelers looked by far more weary
than my own tired mind.

My thirst was quenched by a few strangers who
I knew but saw me not, and my family was there
but remembered me not.

A fierce wind led me to a solitary spot where
I found rest and comfort under a starless sky.
It was there I first noticed it, the visitation of
youth in the pomegranate seeds found among
my blushing pride, I was a girl once more,
the fruit's red seeds crushed richly in my
womanly delight.

Persephone set free, I reached the gardens
where paradise holds court, and recalled Adonis
and his blood sacrifice, while you stood by me
cautiously along the path leading quietly
to the warmth and light that keeps my soul
safe and alive.  

Trudi Ralston.
May 7th, 2014.
for D.O.

The mini - blinds

When my husband and I bought our house at the end of 1989, we put up mini - blinds on all the windows. They were aluminum and dusty rose in colour. They proved to be a good idea, as they lasted 24 years, before starting to show the need to be replaced. We ordered the same kind and installed our new improved mini - blinds throughout the house, this time in a robin's egg blue. It rained like the monsoons all weekend, and as the drenching rains gave a fresh scent outside, we got busy cleaning house inside, washing all the windows in preparation for the new blinds. It felt good, simply cleaning together, my husband and I , and then putting up the blinds while all the window curtains were being washed. When we were done, I felt this sense of small elation, at having all the widows look sparkling clean, with their fresh, pretty blinds and spanking white curtains everywhere. Simple pleasures on a rainy weekend, laughing together with our son who helped hold up the living room curtain, as we were putting it back up, just giggling at the awkward swath of curtains, trying to keep them off the floor, my son being the designated curtain holder as he stands almost 6 foot 7. I loved the robin's egg blue colour, as it matched the comforters in our bedrooms. I felt like a child, happy with the fulfillment of a wish. I had been looking forward to replace the old blinds for several years now. It felt good to have it accomplished finally. My husband and son planted four new blueberry bushes the next day, in the still pouring rain. They got drenched and muddy, came in and stripped out of their soggy clothes and shoes, and took hot showers. They too felt a sense of accomplishment to see the new bushes in the ground. Simple pleasures. The new mini - blinds would give us visual pleasure and privacy for many years to come, as would the blueberry  bushes give us summer delight with their delicious fruit. Sometimes life is so simple, and I am grateful for those simple days where my world and life make perfect, uncomplicated sense. It makes me feel simple, uncomplicated too. And that is a refreshing, relaxing feeling after many years of uphill struggle to make sense of both my world and myself. The rain kept pouring down, and the happy feeling kept flowing inside me like a singing mountain brook. Robin's egg blue. Blue, fluid, free, fresh, clear. Today I could see all the way to the bottom of my heart and soul, and not a shadow or sigh to be found. Only smiles and fresh air.