Love The One(s) You're With...

A few days ago, my family was boarding an airplane after a great week of adventure and a visit with family.  We were feeling tired, happy, loved and – for the kids, at least – excited about another plane ride.  Flying is a new experience for the kids, and they haven’t learned to dread any part of it yet.

That all changed when the ladies across the aisle made their way to their seats.  They were mother and daughter and, based on appearance, the elder woman was in her very late 80s or early 90s.  As I was busy getting my children settled, I shouldn’t have even noticed them.  Unfortunately, the scene they created meant that everyone in our section of the plane noticed them.

As the elder woman, who was rather frail-looking, made her way down the center toward her seat, her daughter shouted at her.  Rudely, loudly, with just flat out mean tone and words, she barked at her mother to hurry.  When the mother would speak, the daughter would hiss more demands through her clenched teeth.

The young gentleman in their row, who offered to sacrifice his own aisle seat for them, was stuck in this hell for the next few hours.  While the mother wept, the daughter complained.  Then ordered wine for them both.  Then complained some more.  Each time she yelled something nasty at her mother, she’d lean to the young man with a sweet smile and apologize for her mother’s behavior.  When we finally landed in Atlanta (after this poor guy tolerated that madness and had a tray of coffee dropped on his lap by a flight attendant), the daughter scolded her mother for being too wobbly down the aisle, for not going fast enough or for getting in someone’s way.  They were met with a courtesy wheelchair and I wished the attendant luck.

I took my girls into the public restroom, only to be greeted by the wheelchair attendant, the sound of a crying old woman in a stall, and the woman from the plane beating on the door for her mother to hurry and stop doing this to her, while her own tears began.  The whole scene was nothing short of abusive and it was unsettling to say the least.

At this point, I made my girls pinky swear that when I am an old frail woman, they will be kind to me.  They, in their beautiful little kid minds could not understand why or how anyone could be so mean to their mother.  “Doesn’t she love her mother?” they wanted to know.  And I had to tell them the sad truth:  That in this whacky world, sometimes people are the rudest and meanest to the people they love the most.    Thankfully, they agreed that was a stupid way to behave.

I don’t know those women’s story.  I sure don’t know what they’ve been through or how stressful it may be to have to care for someone who once cared for you.  But I do know that they are not alone.  We see behavior like this all the time and just accept it as “the way it is”.  But it isn’t the way it should be, is it?

Personally, I believe that all human beings should be kind to all other human beings.  If being kind to someone is too difficult, then they shouldn’t be in your life.  Most of us would agree with this in theory, right?  So why do so many people find it so easy to lose all manners in the presence of the people they love the most?  Slinging insults, shouting at, name-calling, berating and cutting down one’s significant other, sibling, child or parent is done so freely that it never seems to occur to the perpetrators that this is the opposite of loving behavior.

It makes me really uncomfortable to hear siblings call each other names.  No matter how much you’re smiling or think you’re being funny, it’s uncalled for.  When spouses yell and address one another with profanity-laden nicknames, it’s unacceptable.  When children (6 or 60) curse at their parents and make them feel like a burden that is just not okay.

We all know grown people who act like this.  If you look closely in the mirror, you may recognize some version of this behavior very close to home.  These people are probably also incredibly gracious, friendly and kind to perfect strangers while they are behaving so poorly with the people who know them best.  The people they love the most.

Why do strangers get the best version of us?  We save the ‘Please and Thank you’ for the people we’ll never see again in our lives and then go home, turn off the courtesy switch and lash out at the people who have a solid place in our hearts.

The kids are right.  It doesn’t make any sense at all, does it?  Kindness begets kindness.  Gentleness begets gentle reward.  Love grows more love.  Try it.  Just try it.  Ask your spouse to “Please pass the potatoes.”  Say “Thank you” when your kid cleans her room.  Call your brother by his name instead of @&%!.  If you can help someone, do it.  If someone can help you, let them.  You’ll just never know how great it can be if you don’t try.

Of course, I appreciate kindness from strangers.  There’s plenty of room in the world for it.  But just like charity, kindness should begin at home.  To adapt a song lyric (sorry, Mr. Stills):  WHEN you’re with the one(s) you love, LOVE the one(s) you’re with.

Behind Every Interesting Face...

I’ve always been drawn to the most interesting faces in the room.  That doesn’t mean the most beautiful or even the most popular.  Usually, it’s the oldest face – but not always – and often it’s a face that’s flawed and/or grizzled.  Why?  Because that face belongs to someone with stories to tell. 

I think I’ve always been this way.  When I was a kid, summer visits with my dad included a lot of time in divey taverns.  Usually, I drank chocolate sodas and played pinball in the corner, but I also sat on the stools next to the coal miners, factory workers and blue-collared men who called my dad ‘friend’.  My favorite of these guys had one arm, a scar under his eye, and always a kid-friendly joke and a quarter at the ready for me to play another game or a song on the jukebox.  I was too little to really get what he and the other grown ups talked about, but I wasn’t too little to see that he made them all laugh and they were always happy to see him walk in the door.

As a 16 year old Waffle House waitress in Florida, I saw no shortage of interesting faces in the booths.  Always alone, always planning to stay a while, always with questions about me and my day that were unexpected and different from the usual small talk that people make.  Those men (the occasional woman, but usually men) made me think about my answers and points of view in new and out of the ordinary ways.  My other customers probably suffered because my focus was on “the old coot in the corner” and I surely missed out on tips but the time spent listening was worth so much more. 

At Christmas time, these customers brought me gifts and money.  Maybe it’s because I was a cute young girl who gave them the time of day when others didn’t.  I prefer to believe that my ears were more appealing to them than my youth or beauty.  For myself, I know I learned so much more from them than from most of my teachers.  Many, many moons have passed and I still recall words of wisdom from John (2 eggs, scrambled with cheese and wheat toast with gallons of coffee) at the counter and I’m grateful.

I’ve been fortunate over the years to spend time with seasoned musicians with road scars and endless tales to tell.  As much as I love hearing these guys play their instruments and sing, sitting and talking with them is my favorite part.  I don’t care much about the glamorous part of their lives, I want the heart.  Once, when I asked Bill Monroe for a tour of his bus, he was surprised.  He thought this little girl was expecting some ‘Lifestyles Of The Rich And Famous’ experience but all I really wanted was a peep at how these guys spent their downtime.  A well worn deck of cards and dirty coffee cups told it all.

A few days ago, we were visiting my brother in law in Arizona and made the rounds to all the sites that would entertain the kids.  This included a trip to a gold mining ghost town.  All very interesting and informative, with a mine tour, panning and the like that kept everyone occupied and amused.  But my favorite part, by far, was my chat with Cantankerous Carl.  I suppose he’s sort of the town mascot, with cartoon versions of him on many of the signs.  He stood in the gift shop, decked out in Old West miner garb, guns at his side and his job was to talk to potential customers – in a heavily put-on cowboy-esque voice – about the people in photos they were viewing or the things they might consider buying.  My husband and his brother chatted with him for a bit.  Then it was my turn.

He started by telling stories about Sitting Bull, prompted by a postcard in front of us.  I turned the talk to questions about himself.  The faux cowboy drawl gradually drifted away and we talked about different places he lived, his years of mining and people he’d met.  When he referred to mining, he said “I sure never got rich.” I said “but you are rich with stories and memories”.  His eyes lit up, he smiled, agreed and continued story telling.  His voice was gravelly, his face was leathery and his body was worn, but there was nothing at all cantankerous about Carl.  If children’s patience would have allowed it, I’d have pulled up a chair and talked to him for hours.

In the library, I seek out autobiographies and memoirs of people I know very little about.  They’re almost always more entertaining than the fiction and I learn something new every time.

I often tell my kids “I know a little about a lot of things.”  This is why.  Behind every interesting face, there s a wealth of information about life.  Struggles and victories, hard knocks and gravy trains, riches and lack, love and loss, lessons learned along the way.  If you listen – truly listen – you can file those lessons away and pull them out as you go down your own path.  Sometimes it’s very practical knowledge and household tips.  Sometimes you’ll find much deeper spiritual advice that can carry you through a rough patch.  Used properly, tales of another’s bumpy roads can make for a much smoother ride for the person who listened and remembered.

In the not-so-distant future, when my back is not as straight, when my skin is lined with the ages, and my face is “interesting”, I hope that some young person will see beyond the little old lady and recognize the vault of stored information that lies beneath the surface.  I will probably be cantankerous.  I’m on my way already, but a genuine smile is usually all it takes to get past the guard.

Next time you’re in a crowded room, instead of naturally drifting to the most familiar faces, or the most attractive faces, spend a moment with the most interesting face and see where the conversation takes you.  You may travel to worlds you never imagined with the stories they have to tell, but you'll never know if you don't take a peek behind the interesting face.

 

Somebody Has To Clap...

So I married a musician.  If you’d have asked me as a young girl, as a teenager, or even as a twenty-something, I never in a million years would have said that would be my future.

I spent my life surrounded by music and the people who make it.  While the three girls in my family missed out on the musical talent gene, all six boys have it in spades.  Some have made their living by making music while it’s a hobby for the rest, but it comes very naturally to all of them.

I tried.  I really did.  When my brother Rick was first getting into Bluegrass, I showed interest so he – somehow, some way, that I still don’t really understand – brought home a fiddle.  I took lessons at one of the finest bluegrass music shops around.  And I failed.  Perhaps if my instructor didn’t eat tuna sandwiches in our tiny little practice room just before my lessons, I’d have stuck it out.  I doubt it.  I got through the basics but it just never felt comfortable.

Later, I took up the flute.  I kind of thought I may want to learn the drums, but my mother told me enough stories about having to carry her sousaphone on the city bus and I witnessed older kids struggling with their bass drums, so I made my decision based on the size of the case.  It was a fine choice.  I enjoyed it and played for years.  I took private lessons, played in the school concert band and felt very proud of myself.  But the reality was, it was always work.  I could play the notes on the page, as they were written, but the natural abilities just weren’t there.  I hung on to that flute for years after I stopped playing, thinking maybe…one day…one day never came and I eventually gave it to a kid who did have talent and interest.

I can’t sing.  I mean, even if I could carry a tune in a basket with a lid on it, I can only remember the words to one song.  There’s just not much call for a girl to sing Purple Haze (and trust me, no one should suffer through that, anyway).  Still, music is a very important part of my life.  I can’t make it, but I can definitely support it.  While the talent is on stage baring their souls, somebody has to clap.  That’s my job.

My oldest brother, Tim, left home at 16 to follow his musical dream.  He was brave, he was determined, and he did it.  I followed his travels with a bulletin board map with push pins at every destination.  In the summers, when we were supposed to be with my dad or other relatives, we almost always chose to be at Tim’s place instead.  I learned to read on R. Crumb comics, I learned how to run lights (badly, but it enabled me to get into the clubs where he played) and I learned the hard way not to stand barefoot on a concrete floor while plugging a guitar into a 60s-era amplifier.  I rode in band vans with day-glo orange fuzz covered dash boards and missing floorboards.    I learned how to pack gear and I learned not to sit next to the guy who ate the convenience store burritos.  I learned the bad jokes and I heard the great stories.  I napped under keyboards in an East St. Louis studio and I napped behind drum cases back stage at festivals.  More than anything, I learned that while people may say they “Play Music” the fact is that music is work.

If you’re lucky enough to have the ability to make music, it can and should be fun.  It should feed your soul and bring you pleasure.  But it’s still work.  It can be heartbreaking.  It can be back breaking.  And, like any other art form, music often attracts people who are already broken.

Knowing this, and knowing that my brothers have always been the exception to the “artists are broken” rule, I never had an interest in romance with a musician.  They can be terrifically entertaining friends, but date one?  No thanks.  Look at me now.  I guess you can’t fight destiny.  I’ve been very happily married to “one of them” for 12 years.  What can I say?  He’s also an extreme exception to the rule.

Over the years, I’ve found my own ways to stay connected with music.  I was a DJ when radio was still fun and I became very involved with the Atlanta Blues Society as a board member.  My husband and I created a great Blues In The Schools program to share the love of the music with kids and encourage them to love it, too.  I’ve run festivals and organized shows but that’s the end of the line for me.

Because everyone knows what my husband does for a living, I’m often expected to know the band’s schedule, who they’re playing with, and what they are thinking.  I’m asked why I’m not at shows and when I am there, I’m asked about band business.  Here’s the thing:  I’m not in the band.  When I’m working, my husband doesn’t come to my office and get into my business.  This is his business.

Obviously, I do go to some of his shows.  I loved the band before I met him, and I love them still.  I take my kids to see their dad at work.  At work.  If he needs my help selling merchandise or some such things, I’ll do that - but I go as a fan, not as a member of the band.  If I get in free because I’m With The Band, fantastic.  I don’t expect it.  If I’m offered backstage hospitality, I’ll accept it but I’ll never demand it.  When he leaves in the evening to go to a gig, our kids know that Dad’s going to Work.  Not “going to play”.  To work.

When I see a woman entering a musician friend’s life, I know almost immediately how it’s going to play out.  I’ve had years of research, observing my brothers and their friends.  Girlfriends who want to manage or promote the band may be useful in the short term, but they’re not going to last.  Those who become jealous because a drunk girl is dancing too close to the stage won’t be around for the long haul and those who can’t understand that weekends and holidays belong to the job should probably find themselves a nice banker or accountant instead.

Am I being harsh?  Maybe.  Probably.  But I also think I’m pretty right on.  I’ve been fortunate to stand on the side lines and develop a clear point of view.  Truthfully, I don’t know how much of my perspective is from life with musicians and how much is from my life with six brothers.   Either way, women are nuts and I doubt too many will argue that point with me.

So I married a professional musician.  Emphasis on the the professional.  He doesn’t need my help with that.   I’m proud of his talent and the show he delivers every time he steps on stage.  That’s his job.  I’ll be in the audience, wearing the t-shirt, enjoying the show.  Because somebody has to clap.

 

 

 

It's All About The Ride...

I’m a little late in this week’s posting because we’ve been away visiting family.  Say it with me…

ROAD TRIP!

Man, that used to be fun.  What happened?  Oh, wait.  I remember now.  I grew up and now I have to be all responsible and stuff.  That sucks the fun right out of it.  As a grown up type, it’s now all about the destination.  Let’s just GET there, already.  But the kid in me remembers that it used to be all about the ride. 

The summers of my childhood were loaded with road trips and adventures.  Camping trips, visits to relatives, sightseeing journeys, summer custody transfers, and so on.  Oddly, my memories of those trips are more loaded with the voyage than the destination.  I’m sure I had a good time once I got there, but the getting there was the best part.

I know my kids don’t feel that way.  I also know that it’s mostly my fault they don’t.  In an effort to make things easier on myself, I’ve eliminated some of the best parts of the ride.  A DVD player on the back of the seat keeps my kids entertained and occupied to reduce whining and complaints.  Stops for food on the road also keep the whining to a minimum.  I tell myself that it’s for them.  It’s not.  It’s for me.  And I already regret taking the easy way out.

While at my sister’s house, reminiscing with my siblings about the good old days, I was reminded of all of those trips.  My mother didn’t have the luxury of McDonalds or whine reduction devices.  She had state operated rest stops, bologna sandwiches and “the look”.  You know the one…the one that alerts children that they’ve pushed things far enough and one more outburst will bring forth the wrath of no return.  Then we knew it was time to take a nap or review license plates from around the country.

What my mother also had was an abundance of patience and an adventurous spirit.  So while we’d drive all night to get somewhere, we’d also stop to “stretch our legs” at interesting places.  I remember a lot of those stops but more than anything, I remember the ride.

Once upon a time, we loaded 9 (possibly more, I get my trips mixed up) kids into the camper shell of Tom’s (my stepdad for a time) truck and headed west.  We took Route 66 and saw all of the cool Route 66 sites, camped and explored The Painted Desert and made it all the way to California to visit my aunt.  Granted, I was very young, but all I really remember of the destination was what we ate (Doritos with melted cheese!  Who ever thought of such a thing?!?) and seeing skateboards and hang gliders for the first time in my life.  The RIDE, however, I remember.

I remember sitting on a lizard that was caught by one of my brothers in the desert.  I remember collecting money to pay for a shower at the next rest stop because we couldn’t bear Pat’s pubescent stench any longer.  I also remember Rick’s reeking sneakers flopping in the wind as we drove down the highway because the other boys tied them out there so we could breathe.  I remember that we seemed to only have three 8 track tapes to get us across the country and, for this reason, Jim Croce still incites a facial tic to this day.  I remember mooning passing cars and I remember pumping our arms so truck drivers would blow their horn for us.

On another trip, we made it to Florida in a station wagon with something like 12 kids and 2 adults.  Toe wrestling, complaints about boys farting, and counting heads at rest stops got us there and I remember the miles fondly.  It makes me a little sad that my kids will never know that kind of fun. 

When we arrived at Disney last year – a surprise to the kids who should have been jumping out of their skin – they missed the giant lighted “Welcome To Disney World” sign because they were watching Underdog on the DVD player.  Modern safety laws mean they’ll always be restrained and never know riding in the back window or on the hump on the floor and surely they’ll never get to moon an innocent passing car.

When I think back on these trips, the real adventure came in the MISadventure.  I don’t remember Thanksgiving dinner at my uncle’s house in Minnesota, but I remember sleeping, reading, telling jokes and playing games in the snow bank we were stranded in along the way.  I  don’t recall details of a summer visit with my dad, but I remember riding home in my aunt’s station wagon under a bicycle in the back seat because we’d already had 3 blowouts and needed to more evenly distribute the weight we were carrying.

As I got older and was driving unreliable cars of my own, I never stopped to think about whether or not that $500 Chevy should be on a highway, I just went.  And I had misadventures.  I slept on picnic tables in probably shady rest areas and I relied on Good Samaritans (who are always there, by the way) to help me along the way.  I always got there.  I always had a story to tell about the journey.

Now, in 2013, we strap the kids in for 600 miles, so no wonder they whine.  So we give them electronic pacifiers and we forge ahead with the security of Responsible Grown Up AAA Gold Level Service, GPS devices and smartphones with internet access.  We stop in well-lighted areas with clean rest rooms and we remove all of the MIS from the Adventure.

Don’t get me wrong. I prefer not to break down and I want my children to be safe.  But maybe they need to experience more go-with-the-flow and less according-to-plan.  Within reason, of course.  I don’t want the Universe to think I’m inviting disaster here.  (Ya hear that, Universe?  Fun.  Not disaster!)

Years from now, when they are reminiscing about their own good old days, will they say “Remember that time we sat securely in our seats and made it to Grandma’s house in exactly the time we planned?” or are they going to say “Remember that wrong turn we took and we found that big ripe raspberry bush?”  (disclaimer:  that hasn’t happened yet, but maybe one day)  The destination definitely matters.  Safe is important.  Boring has it’s place.  But when they are looking back, I hope that they remember the ride.  The ride is where some of the best moments live.