First up, something that recently gave me those warm and fuzzies, plus something to chew on. I was attending a live show that featured some friends of mine as the musical offering. As far as entertainment value and energy from the stage, it was a great show. The place was packed with music lovers and revelers, and the dance floor was packed with happy, smiling folks of all makes and models.

Initially, I didn’t notice him out there on the dance floor, but once I saw him, I couldn’t take my eyes off him. He was dancing by himself near the front of the bandstand, and the radiant smile on his face let the world around him know that he was in a good place. He didn’t have a dance partner, but that didn’t deter him one iota. This fella was just doing his thing, and didn’t seem to even notice anything outside of the swinging groove that propelled his feet to move and his narrow frame to twirl and gyrate. This guy was having such a great time, it was difficult to not watch him.

To witness someone so immersed in their own personal tornado of energy and joy is a special gift, if you’re open to such things. It really made my day. This exhibition of unabashed happiness can and should positively affect anyone who takes a couple seconds to expose themselves to such a joyful display.

The one thing that made it even more exceptional is that this young man was partially disabled. I had no idea what his particular disability was, or how it came to be, and I won’t venture a guess. I can say that his legs looked spindly and weak, with one of them being significantly shorter than the other. He wore a special shoe on that foot which seemed to have a sole that was several inches thicker than the other. In spite of this physical obstacle that he apparently has been living with for his entire life, he spent the majority of the evening out on the dance floor, twirling, bouncing, and boogying like it was his last chance to dance, and he wanted to make the most of it. And he certainly did.

His joy was infectious, and I couldn’t keep the smile off my face. My thoughts immediately went to all the excuses I continue to make in my own life. I can’t do this or that because __________. (Insert lame excuse here.) This dude was having the time of his life, and didn’t seem to even notice that his body hadn’t developed the way it could have and should have. Maybe he wasn’t dancing in spite of his impairment, but because of it. Perhaps it was his way of saying, “Do your worst, universe, I’m going to live my best life anyway!”

Since that night, every time I think of him, I can’t help but smile. I also can’t hide from the fact that far too often, I find it far too easy to come up with reasons why I can’t do one thing or another. Methinks it’s time to flip the script – instead of coming up with an excuse for not doing something, I need to come up with reasons for tackling the challenges that present themselves from time to time.

My intention was to walk over to this young man after the band was done with their set, and simply thank him for his example, but when I turned around, he was nowhere to be seen.

The following night, I witnessed an example of something entirely different: one of those things that made me shake my head in disbelief. Mind you, it wasn’t some horrific deed that would make the headlines, but it was a blatant act of selfishness, entitlement, and total disregard for others.

I was playing a last-minute duo set at a country club. We were set up in the corner of the room, and like every country club gig I’ve ever done, it wasn’t much fun. As I’ve mentioned before, my favorite thing about performing is the engagement with the crowd. When you’re essentially background noise, there’s no engagement to be had. To paint the picture for you, we were about 87 minutes into the first 90-minute set before we even heard any applause from the members in the bar. This was not unexpected in the least, and we made the most of the situation. Those gigs are great opportunities to try new things, or stretch out on tunes that you normally wouldn’t have a chance to play.

The thing that made me shake my head, however, had nothing to do with our performance, or the reaction – or lack thereof – from the folks in the room. Nope, the thing that still sticks with me was the act of one woman in the room. You see, there was a popcorn machine close by to where we were set up. I guess the idea was the members could help themselves to some fresh popcorn whenever they wished. A stack of cardboard popcorn containers was situated next to the machine for the members’ convenience.

This lady, who may or may not have been drinking, walked over to help herself to some of this freshly popped corn for her and her table mates. She filled up a couple of containers, then placed them on the nearest table, presumably to fill up a couple more. When she placed them on the table, one of the containers fell over, spilling most of the buttery snack on the table. Instead of leaving the mess as it was, or, I don’t know, cleaning it up, she quickly took her hand and brushed all of the spilled popcorn onto the carpeted floor of the bar. Since she was about eight feet in front of us, she looked in our direction with a wry grin, then held a finger up to her lips as if to say, “Shhhh. Don’t tell anyone.” She then made her way back to her party of four, leaving about a quart of popcorn to be ground under the heels of her fellow club members.

Again, this wasn’t some abominable action that would have a far-reaching, negative impact on the world at large, but it was a display that still makes me wince when I think of it. Is this person so entitled that she thinks the club staff exists solely to clean up after her? Does she have a total disregard for the people around her? Is she in anyway representative of country club members in general? Or am I making much ado about nothing?

It wasn’t the mess she left that I found bothersome, it was the way she perpetrated the act. I have to admit that I was somewhat soured by the not my problem attitude that she displayed. I’m sure the staff had no trouble in vacuuming up her mess at the end of their shift that night, though their job is hard enough without being treated like their time isn’t important. Her entitled, cavalier attitude wasn’t in the least bit attractive.

So what’s the big deal with one guy dancing by himself and another lady carelessly making a mess that she knew someone else would have to clean up? They’re both examples that we can chose to either follow or avoid. I find it a valuable exercise to simply be observant of others, then ponder whether or not I want to walk a similar path. It’s also a good reminder that the things I do can inspire someone who’s watching – and trust me, people are always watching. My sincere hope is that I leave more people smiling than shaking their heads.

I was 14 years old, and in the middle of my paper route. (For the record, I was the worst paperboy to have ever serviced my little hometown, largely due to my tendency to be easily distracted.) I delivered those daily newspapers on my bicycle, unless my bike was busted, which then required a bit of walking.

On this particular summer day, I was on that old bike of mine, likely handed down from an older sibling. One of my customers lived way up on this giant hill, and since the road that led to the two houses that were situated up there was quite the detour, I would always park my bike, and climb what seemed like an endless flight of concrete steps to make my delivery.

The other house on the hill – not my customer – was occupied by one of the larger families in town. The family consisted of two parents and nine kids, several of whom I was friends with. As I was walking past, my buddy, Chuckie, called for me to check out something cool. The access road behind his family home, which led to the other house, was a sunken dirt road not much wider than the width of one car. It had a substantial bank several feet high on either side, and was peppered with large, round stones that barely protruded from the road’s earthen surface.

Chuckie was excited to show me a swing that he had discovered that allowed for Tarzan-like travel from one side of the road to the other. Now this swing didn’t consist of a sturdy rope, or even a strong vine for that matter. It was basically a very pliable tree limb that he was swinging back and forth on. I didn’t need much of an invitation to try it out – boys will be boys after all.

I grabbed hold of this limb, launched myself over the sunken, rock-strewn road, and sailed through the air to the opposite bank. “Pretty cool, huh?” asked my friend. It was, in fact, pretty cool. As I made my return journey over the road, I lost my grip on the limb, and landed sideways, hitting the road with a thud and a sickening crack. I climbed back up the bank to where my buddy was standing, and announced that I thought I may have broken my arm. Being that every kid from the beginning of time has made an identical claim just about every time they had a spill, my pal quickly called BS. When I tried to operate my left arm, the shoulder moved slightly, but the rest of my arm hung limply by my side. Chuckie’s skepticism turned to panic, and he ran to get his mom, which is what kids do in that situation.

A phone call to my home soon brought my sister to pick me up in the family car. Once home, my old man gave it a quick look, and confirmed my diagnosis – my upper arm was broken in half. He didn’t want to take any chances, so my dad called the volunteer fire department, and I got a 30 minute ambulance ride to the hospital in Wheeling.

Other than being a little freaked out, I didn’t have much pain, at least initially. As the shock of the injury wore off, the pain came on with a vengeance. Throbbing pain like I had never experienced caused me to grimace at every little bump in the road.

I spent the next five days in the children’s ward of the hospital – I guess I didn’t rate getting a private room. The x-rays revealed a pretty clean, but complete break of my humerus, about an inch or two from the shoulder joint.

Due to the extreme pain and discomfort I was experiencing, they decided it best to put me completely under in order to set the broken bone. The doctor informed me that I might need a cast from my waist up in order to position the bone correctly, though possibly not. I was really hoping for not. When I woke up in the recovery room, the fresh plaster cast still felt clammy. Not only did the cast start at my waist, the doctor had my left arm propped up in the air as if I was raising my hand to wave or ask a question. It was a little tight around my belly, so they came in and cut a hole in the plaster to allow for easier breathing.

How long is six weeks? When you’re a 14 year old boy trying to enjoy summer vacation, that’s an excruciatingly long span of time. Never mind the long list of things one simply cannot do while wrapped in plaster. When everyday things that we take for granted are no longer an option, it adds a bit of a challenge to life. I couldn’t take a bath or shower for obvious reasons, so I washed up as best I could, and Mom washed my hair in the sink. Other things that were now impossible included tying my shoes with one hand, which I eventually learned to do … kind of. I mostly just wore flip-flops for the bulk of the time. Of course I had to get other folks to handle my paper route for me, though I’m sure my customers were happy to receive their newspapers while the news was still current. Heck, I couldn’t even wear a shirt. Thankfully, my mom was quite skilled at the sewing machine, and crafted a couple of shirts with one sleeve on the right side while the opposite side featured some snaps that fastened around my elevated, constantly waving left arm. (I believe I still have one of those shirts around here somewhere.)

One of the most difficult things was sleeping. At that time I was very much a face-down sleeper, and I rolled around a lot in my sleep. Due to the angle of my arm’s position, I had to sleep on my back. Moving around wasn’t an option. That was torture for me, and the first night without the cast found me with my face buried in my pillow. In case you were wondering, I haven’t slept face-down for many, many years, though I do tend to migrate around the bed at night.

Of course I would still walk downtown to hang with my friends, who could always be counted on to lampoon my predicament when they saw me heading in their direction, holding their left arms up in the air just like mine. I guess everyone thought it funny to mock the invalid kid. And I couldn’t not continue to be a teenaged boy. There’s no way to keep a boy from doing dumb stuff, even when completely encumbered with a plaster suit.

By the time I reached the end of my six week long sentence, that cast was covered with names, signatures, silly drawings, and an autograph from U.S. representative from Ohio, Wayne L. Hays, a local politician who made it to the halls of congress. (A few months later, ol’ Wayne resigned from office after a scandalous affair with his secretary.)

Not only was that cast covered with graffiti, it was broken in several place – again, I was a teenage boy – and held together with several rolls of tape, which made it easier for them to remove when the time came. After wearing a partial body cast for six weeks through the height the summer, I’ll spare you the description of what that removal process was really like. Suffice it to say that the healthcare professionals who did the removal were desperately looking for some fresh air after that thing hit the hospital floor.

Thankfully, the cast came off shortly before I started high school. Unfortunately, I was still the object of unwanted attention from my new school mates, as my left arm was covered with thick, black hair, and since my arm was in such an odd position for a month and a half, I couldn’t even straighten it out for weeks afterward. It did, however, get me out of gym class for the first semester.

Eventually, the entire broken arm episode ended, and thankfully, there wasn’t a sequel. It’s all just a distant memory now. If you’re looking for a moral, a message, or a lesson from this little incident in my early life, there isn’t one. I suppose you could consider the warning about swinging on tree limbs being a less-than-intelligent thing to do, but what 14 year old boy is going to heed that warning? Obviously, not this one. No, I just thought I’d share this little memory with you for no particular reason.

Be well, friends, and if you’re determined to swing through the trees like Tarzan, be sure to hold on tight!

My wife and I have attended more than a dozen of these conventions, our first being in Columbus, OH, in 2002. It became a regular event for us in 2011, missing only a few years since. I’ve been a teacher, seminar presenter, and occasional performer at the SPAH convention for many of those years, and more importantly, have formed an abundance of close friendships with others in the community over time.

Speaking of the Harmonica community, there’s something special about this particular group of folks. It may have something to do with the fact that we’re all drawn to the same weird little instrument that most of the world has never taken too seriously, or maybe the weirdness lies within the players themselves. Either way, this annual gathering of harp nerds has occupied a special place in my heart, primarily because of the people involved.

I firmly believe that if you study or play the Harmonica, or even if you simply like the instrument, you owe it to yourself to attend a SPAH convention at least once in your life. Most folks can’t fathom what attending one of these conventions entails, so I thought I would shed a little insight on what this year’s event featured. This is a day-by-day recounting of my experience at the 62^nd annual SPAH convention which was held in San Antonio, TX. (Keep in mind, this is my experience – your results may vary.)

ARRIVAL

The convention officially runs from Wednesday morning to Saturday night, though it unofficially begins on Tuesday night with the Blues Blow-off, which features a wide variety of accomplished players backed by a stellar house band. Many folks arrive on Tuesday, sometimes sooner, to get the party started.

We don’t usually arrive before Tuesday, but this year my wife and I decided to roll into town a couple days in advance to check out a little bit of San Antonio. (Cool town – be sure to remember the Alamo!) We took the opportunity to check out things within a walkable distance from our hotel, which was on the San Antonio River Walk. It was quite nice in spite of the triple-digit temps that one would expect in Southern Texas in August.

DAY 1 – CHECK-IN and THE BLUES BLOW-OFF

Check-in at the registration desk is always exciting, mainly due to reconnecting with the folks you only see at this event. The line can be long and slow-moving, but that gives you plenty of time to share handshakes and hugs with your fellow Harmonica enthusiasts.

Though unofficial, the Tuesday night Blues Blow-off has been a long running tradition of the SPAH convention. Picture a house band backing up a long list of talented Harmonica players. Myriad styles and one great tune after another. There are always some world class performers and recording artists in attendance, and this year’s event was no different. I was thrilled to be invited to be one of the featured performers at this year’s event. And if you’re wondering if it’s somewhat unnerving to play the Harmonica in a room filled with accomplished Harmonica artists, the answer is a definite YES!

I hesitate to mention names, mainly because I know for certain I’ll forget someone. However, I will mention a few of the world renowned Blues Harmonica artists who attended this year: Steve Guyger, Dennis Gruenling, Charlie Musselwhite, Jerry Portnoy, and Rick Estrin. (For the average Blues Harmonica junkie, that in itself would be more than enough to make your cup runneth over.)

DAY 2 – WEDNESDAY (It’s on!)

The first seminars of the day kick off around 9:00 AM. There are dozens of individual seminars offered throughout the week covering just about every Harmonica-related topic you can think of, plus many you would never have expected. Subject matter typically covers playing techniques and styles, new innovations in the instrument, various gear and equipment, etc. Last year, I led a seminar on good stage practices and habits. It went over so well, I offered it again this year.

Wednesday features the Blues Harmonica Showcase, a forum hosted by my dear friend, Joe Filisko, which features some world-class players in a Q&A/Performance presentation.

After a break for dinner, it’s time for the shows on the main stage. Kicking things off was a set from this year’s hosting Harmonica club, Alamo HOOT (Harmonica Organization Of Texas) followed by a set by the amazing Jimi Lee. The evening’s entertainment wrapped up with Michael Rubin’s Variety Show – a showcase of talented players that is always a highlight of the convention.

If it’s an opportunity to jam you’re looking for, there are several to choose from each night after the official performances come to a close. Country, Gospel, Jazz, and of course, the very popular Blues Jam. For those who can’t get enough, there are plenty of spontaneous hallway jams throughout the week.

DAY 3 – THURSDAY (More Blues)

Each morning starts out with several seminar options. Being one to stay up late hanging out and occasionally taking part in the late night jams, I prefer to take a leisurely approach to the mornings, opting to sleep in, then perhaps grab some breakfast with my wife and anyone else who wishes to join us. This causes me to miss some of the things scheduled earlier in the day, but there’s so much to do and see at SPAH that you really have to pick and choose what’s important to you. The nice thing is, with today’s technology, all of the performances are live streamed, and the seminars are made available for all SPAH members.

On Thursday, Friday, and Saturday, the aforementioned Joe Filisko organizes his annual Teach-In. The large conference room that houses the main stage is set up with 20 or so large, round tables, each one headed up by an accomplished player/teacher offering insights on various styles, techniques, and disciplines of the Harmonica. I’ve been honored to teach at the Filisko Teach-In for the last several years.

Following the Teach-In are the afternoon performances on The Founders’ Stage. SPAH has a fantastic youth program that offers talented, young players from around the world a chance to not only attend the convention, but to be featured on the performance stage. The Youth Showcase gives folks a chance to enjoy some of the players that have benefited from this program, and to see that the instrument’s future is in good hands.

Following the youth was a set by Ben Balmer, a fantastic singer/songwriter based in Ashville, NC. Armed with an acoustic guitar, a Harmonica in a neck rack, and a long list of fantastic original music, Ben had the room in the palm of his hands.

The dinner break was followed up by the evening’s line-up of main stage acts starting with Iowa’s story teller, Dave Moore. Thursday night is usually Blues-centric, and this year was exceptional. Steve Guyger, accompanied by Chicago’s Gerry Hundt on guitar, absolutely floored the room with some of the most authentic Blues available. Everything about Steve is authentic, both on the stage and off. If you fancy your Blues in a traditional flavor, you need to get hip to Steve Guyger. The final set of the night featured the music of The Dig 3, and incredible trio of Gerry Hundt on bass or guitar and the Farmer Foot Drum, Andrew Duncanson on guitar and vocals, and Ronnie Shellest, one of the world’s most well-known Harmonica teachers, on, you guessed it, Harmonica.

My evening was capped off with more jams and sleep deprivation.

DAY 4 – FRIDAY (What?!? Already?!?)

The day started out with some breakfast and a walk to a coffee shop to get some beans. (I can’t drink the sad, impotent brown water that most hotels provide, so you do what you gotta do …)

There’s always a swap meet for attendees to try to sell or trade the gear they no longer have a use for. Unfortunately, it was scheduled practically at the same time as the Teach-In. The swap meet started at 12:15, and the Teach-In at 12:30. That gave me just enough time to pop in and buy stuff that I don’t need.

I usually get asked to give a private lesson or two while I’m at SPAH, so I try to squeeze in what I can. Due to this. I missed the Friday afternoon shows this year, which featured my young friend, Mighty Michael Mendelson, another product of the SPAH youth program, and Neil Adler, a world class chromatic Harmonica master. I love to share what little knowledge I have about the Harmonica, so I’m willing to make the trade-off. And like I said earlier, it’s impossible to do everything that’s offered at SPAH.

The evening’s main stage show kicked off with performances by the current crop of youth scholars, followed by the Tom Stryker Big Band, a nine piece Harmonica orchestra. Next up was a set from Cheryl Arena, an accomplished Blues singer and Harmonica player from Massachusetts. The evening finished up with a set from Italy’s Gianluca Caselli and his trio.

Add some jams; subtract some sleep; call it a day.

DAY 5 – SATURDAY (Gospel Show and the Grand Banquet)

Saturday morning offers the always popular Gospel Show. I’ve played this set in the past, and it’s always special whether I’m in the audience or on the stage. And of course, like every other day, there are several seminars from which to choose.

Along with the seminars, the last day of the Teach-In provides more opportunities for learning and improving your relationship with the Harmonica.

If you care to, you can attend the annual general meeting to learn a little about the inner workings of SPAH and the annual convention. Most folks, including my wife and me, took the opportunity to prepare for the final banquet on Saturday night.

The final night of the convention features a lavish banquet where most attendees put on their best duds, and enjoy a delicious meal with their fellow Harmonica enthusiasts. Dinner is followed up with recognition of the the sponsors, the annual awards ceremony, and an In Memoriam presentation to remember all of the SPAH family members who have passed over the years.

This year’s convention ended with a spectacular evening of music starting with Shane Sager, a gifted player, singer, and writer, backed by a band of stellar musicians out of Austin, TX. If you’ve seen Sting in concert over the last several years, you likely saw this young cat on the stage with him. (For the record, Shane is the one who turned me onto Substack, the writing platform where you’re currently viewing this essay. You should give him a follow.) The final performer of this year’s convention was Argentina’s Mariano Massolo, a monstrously talented artist with an equally amazing band.

When the performances come to an end, there’s a huge raffling of donated items which benefits the youth program. (I never win anything, but luckily, my wife does.)

There are no official jams on the final night, but there is a tradition of the final hallway jam, which is typically wild and crazy – what a way to cap the week!

FINAL THOUGHTS

And just like that, it’s over. Looking ahead on Tuesday or Wednesday, it seems like you have so much in front of you. Then before you know it, it’s Saturday night, and you’re wondering how it can be over already. A few hours of much needed sleep, then it’s time to plan your trip back home, all while anticipating next year’s convention. (In case you’re thinking of attending, 2026 will find SPAH in St Louis, MO.)

Our experience at this unique affair is always fun, and this year’s event ranks right up there with some of my favorite SPAH memories. When I have conversations with other SPAH attendees and Harmonica lovers, words like community and family are commonly used. In my experience, this is more accurate than not. There’s something about this quirky little musical instrument that brings those who make it a part of their lives together on a whole ‘nother level. I can’t explain it, but it’s definitely a cool thing.

I’ve mainly touched on the highlights of this year’s event, primarily the ones that I’ve experienced. If I were to add all of the personal interactions with the other performers, teachers, and attendees, I would have to do this essay in two parts. And to be honest, those personal interactions are a big part of what makes this such an awesome event.

As I’ve said earlier, if you like the Harmonica, even if you don’t play one, you owe it to yourself to attend a SPAH convention at least once in your life. You can just attend for a day or two, though the best way to experience it is to do the full event, Tuesday through Saturday. And if you do love the Harmonica, become a member of SPAH.

My old man – and I use that term with the utmost respect – was simply a man. He did what he needed to do in order to care for his wife and four kids. He worked long hours on a dirty and difficult job for not much money, but it fed, clothed, and housed his family. He did whatever he could to supplement his meager income, in addition to being an active and involved member of the community.

Born in 1923, my dad was the oldest of four children born to Hungarian immigrants in the little coal mining town of Crescent, OH. Making due in any way necessary to get through the great depression, his life was not one of abundance. I’m sure life was much simpler back then – simpler, though not easier.

After quitting high school to help support his family, and along with three million unmarried, young American men, he spent some time in the CCC – Civilian Conservation Corps – one of two major work programs rolled out during the depression in order to put folks to work and improve the infrastructure of the nation in the process. Then World War II happened.

He wound up in the 17^th Airborne, receiving both his Jump Wings and Glider Wings, and making what had to be a hair-raising battle landing in a glider during Operation Varsity – the push across the Rhine River into Germany.

You never really talked much about the war, though it wasn’t because I didn’t ask about it. Being on the tail end of the baby boom generation, I was always looking for some insight as to what that experience was like. I mean, you and all the other WWII vets were heroes in my eyes. I loved to drag the old tobacco tin out of your bottom desk drawer, and marvel at all of your war memorabilia. Your medals, patches, and ribbons, plus the German souvenirs you’d collected while you were over there. No, you didn’t talk much about your time spent in the European Theater of Engagement, I would imagine to protect me, though it was likely in self-defense as much as anything. The few things you did share with me later in life were appreciated, but I understand you not wanting to relive any of those horrors.

He married his sweetheart – a beautiful woman that I knew as Mom – and they began to grow their family. Working in a variety of situations that included odd construction jobs, roofing, even running his own beer joint for a spell, my old man eventually wound up in a stamping mill punching out steel parts for trains, trucks, and cars, plus components for the coal mining industry on gigantic presses.

A loving wife and four kids over the next fourteen years – I being the youngest – made up your family, though you were never far from your own siblings and parents. Devoted family man? Yeah, there’s no doubt.

In January of 1962, when I was about a month old, that damned stamping mill took something crucial away from him in one terrible moment. While he was setting the die on a massive press, the machine engaged, and the four fingers of his left hand ceased to exist. I’m told that incident changed him more than just physically, though being so young at the time, I can’t verify one way or the other. I only remember him with nothing but a thumb on his left hand. In fact, it seemed so out of place when I would look at old photos of him before the accident and see both of his hands intact.

In spite of the obvious difficulty that came with losing your fingers, I never saw you as disabled, or even hampered, for that matter. I worked right alongside you as we performed rebuilds and remodels to the house, and you didn’t shy away from any task, utilizing what I knew to be the strongest thumb in town. You did everything necessary around the house, and having four less fingers than you used to didn’t slow you down. You even went back to work at the stamping mill, at least until they closed the plant and stole your pension. You gave them 22 years and four fingers, and they gave you nothing in return.

The economic slowdown of the early 80s made it difficult at best when it came to finding and keeping a job. There he was, 58 years old, without even a high school diploma, and nowhere to find work. So he did whatever he needed to do in order to keep food on the table. Scrimping and saving was nothing new to my parents, as they both grew up in the same world affected by depression and global war.

By the mid-to-late-80s, all of us kids were out in the world making lives for ourselves, so you really only had yourself and Mom to look after. And that’s just what you did.

My old man was known to have a drink now and then. He wasn’t an everyday drinker, and in my recollection, never stopped off for a beer on his way home from work. (It was a 30 minute drive to and from the plant, and you knew without a doubt that he’d be pulling in the driveway exactly 30 minutes after his shift ended.) However, when the occasion called for it, he could keep up with darn near anyone when it came to tossing a few drinks back. Wedding receptions, Hungarian picnics, Men’s Night Out at the fire hall, or just a Saturday afternoon at his favorite beer joint – the one he had managed years earlier – these were all occasions that called for it.

I don’t know when he started the tradition, but every year, my old man would quit drinking alcohol from New Years Day to Easter. I asked him once why he did that, and he said he did it just to make sure he could. Later in life, he would only have a beer on New Years Day and his anniversary, which was on July 5. Eventually, he quit all together.

In addition to that, he quit smoking cigarettes after more than 45 years, which didn’t look easy. He had great motivation, and he leaned hard on that motivation anytime he needed. His motivation was my Mother. It’s not that she complained about his smoking – he smoked as long as she had known him. No, his motivation came from something much deeper, notably his love for his wife. My mom had a long list of health issues, and my dad couldn’t bear the thought of her winding up in some facility because he wasn’t around to take care of her. He quit smoking in 1980, and lived another 25 years – three years longer than Mom.

Of all the examples you left for me, both good and bad, your love and devotion for Mom and us kids is probably the most powerful. You didn’t just say you were devoted, you demonstrated it in all you did. After Mom died, you stayed focused on your kids and grandchildren, always ready and willing to help. I can’t deny learning some pretty bad habits from you as well, though I claim full responsibility for every one of my poor choices. I learned a lot from you, and credit your example, as well as Mom’s, with turning me into the man I am today.

I have so many fond memories of my old man throughout the 43 ½ years I was fortunate to have him in my life. Sled riding and playing in the snow, hunting and fishing, remodeling our house – all of these experiences elicit a smile as they replay in my head. To be sure, there were plenty of not-so-warm-and-fuzzy moments over the years. I suppose it’s a common thing for a young man to butt heads with his father during his formative years.

It’s a safe bet that I was damn near as stubborn as he was, and that surely didn’t help the situation. For a period of several years, if he told me not to do something, it was a safe bet I would go out of my way to do exactly that at the first opportunity. I could say that I learned that from him as well, though it’s likely more common than not, especially among young men.

I cherish every memory of my old man, good or bad, and I would love to hang out with him again for a spell. I’m not sure what I would say to him or ask him. I believe I would be thrilled simply to sit with him on the porch, and let him talk about whatever he wanted.

Pap, I really miss you! I know I was personally responsible for adding stress to your life, as well as Mom’s, and I truly regret that. I also know that you never harbored any ill will towards me for all of the stupid choices I made while I was desperately trying to figure out who I was. That’s most likely due the fact that you went through the exact same growing process, and all the difficulty that goes along with it.

You were far from perfect, which is yet another quality I’ve inherited, but you were a devoted husband and father, as well as a contributing member of society. You experienced things that no one should ever have to, yet your focus remained on trying to do the right thing. I hope that it’s enough for me to follow your best examples, while trying to avoid the same mistakes that you made. If I can exhibit some of those qualities to the people around me, perhaps that’s the best way to carry your legacy into the future.

I try not to cast blame on others, but my obsession with the Harmonica started with you. You didn’t play it nearly often enough, in my opinion, but that in itself was sufficient to ignite something inside of me that has become a significant part of my life. Though you left this world before I began performing and recording in earnest, I’d like to imagine you’d be proud of what I’ve done with the little musical instrument you kept hidden in your desk.

By the way, that ‘something’ that I sensed the last time I saw you was the fact that it would be the last time I saw you. I just didn’t realize it at the time.

For those of us who are old enough, we remember when the Compact Disc, or CD, was brand new technology, promising more convenience and higher, digital fidelity. No more scratchy records spinning on the turntable, popping and hissing more noticeably as they age. Not only would these newfangled CDs sound better and take up less space, they’re also quite durable as well as portable.

I remember back in the mid-80s when the local radio stations – yet another entity that has suffered major changes over the last few decades – would promote this exciting new technological breakthrough with great enthusiasm. We’ll be offering a totally digital weekend of music, playing only Compact Discs from Friday morning to Sunday night! It was kind of intriguing to see new options for listening to music come along, though I wasn’t about to get rid of my record collection anytime soon. (Fact is, I still have all my old records, as well as my CD collection.)

Being someone who doesn’t instantly jump on new trends, I waited for quite a while before delving into the Compact Disc world. When it was clear that CDs were here to stay, I embraced the new format, and my collection of these little shiny discs began to grow. No. they weren’t as cool as the LP records that I knew and loved, but they sounded nice and clean, and offered more listening opportunities than vinyl.

Since I was around at the beginning of the CD age, it still seems like new tech to me. I mean, it wasn’t that long ago, right? What? It was over 40 years ago?!? That can’t be right! Funny how one’s concept of time distorts with age.

When the Digital Download reared its ugly head in the 90s, I never dreamed that would be the beginning of the end to the way people listened to music. Fast forward to today, and I can plainly see how these technological innovations have completely changed how we consume music, and not for the better, in my opinion. I wrote an essay about this subject called, Do You Listen To Music … July 15, 2024, so feel free to check out that entry for more thoughts on the matter.

Yes, if it’s convenience you’re looking for, digital streaming is great. Clear, clean sound, and no racks, drawers, or shelves filled with records, cassette tapes, or CDs to contend with. You can access your complete music library from your smart phone, a device that the vast majority of us can no longer live without. For a while, the MP3 player was where you kept your music, but that too has gone the way of the Dodo.

However – there’s always a however – the quality of recorded music isn’t what it once was. Music was compressed more and more, even with CDs, but now with most music coming through streaming platforms, that compression has increased to the point of taking the humanity out of the equation. Everything sounds perfect and sterile, which isn’t a good thing when you’re talking about music – a human creation that is based on and intended to elicit emotion.

In the early days of Compact Disc, the digital manipulation of the music wasn’t that bad, though it still sounded less real than LPs. As time moved forward, the industry decided that compression was king, and music that was all at the same level was easier, and therefore more profitable, for them to create. To hell with what’s best for the consumer! Once the trend of streaming took over, there was no turning back. Most of us don’t even remember what listening to records was like. Even with the pops and scratches, it was more real, more human, more alive.

If you’ve never been exposed to something, you won’t miss it. Sadly, most of the younger folks out there don’t even realize the difference, because they’ve never had any other option than streaming music. I imagine they’re so enamored with the ease and accessibility of streaming that they don’t even think about the things we took for granted such as analyzing the album art, or poring over the liner notes to learn about the writers, musicians, and producers of the project. And since everyone just has this playlist that exists in the background of their day-to-day activities, the thought of simply listening to a record is as foreign as taking your grain to the mill so you can make bread, or grooming and caring for your horse so you had transportation into town. How quaint!

And it’s not like the world makes it easy for us. The options for listening to Compact Discs are dwindling to near zero. Cars don’t come with CD players anymore, and computers don’t offer disc drives either. Thankfully, there are options for external players available. I guess if you really want to continue utilizing CDs, it’s not entirely impossible.

While I admit to using streaming platforms, I do still purchase and listen to Compact Discs. I often buy CDs at live shows, and I do this to support the artist. Yes, I can listen to and/or download the same music on a streaming platform for a nominal monthly fee, but that does next to nothing to support the artists out there who rely upon music and merch sales to supplement their income. As a working musician, I know firsthand how difficult it is to make a living in this business – more so now than ever before.

I create new music, and I still have CDs replicated so I have some way of getting my music into the hands and ears of the general listening public. And I appreciate every single person who not only comes to my shows, but also supports me by buying some merch, or throwing a few bucks into my tip jar. It’s not uncommon for me to hear the following: I have no way to play a CD, but I want to support you and your music, so I’d like to buy one. Please sign it for me. I can’t begin to tell you how much that means to me!

For quite some time now, musicians have relied upon the sale of merch as a part of their income. Now that CDs aren’t the hot item they once were, that little bit of additional compensation has shrunken significantly. For those non-musicians out there, entering the music biz is not what you would consider a lucrative venture, and any economist with any sense at all would not recommend this business model. Why do we do it, you ask? Because that’s what we do. Creators create, and performers perform. It’s either in you, or it’s not. For those of us that stay the course, we need all the help we can get in order to continue creating and performing for those who care about such things.

You might assume that the only reason I have for trying to prop up the Compact Disc and avoid its total demise is that I benefit from the creation and sale of that particular item. You would not be entirely wrong. I’m a creator and a musician, so yes, your support is very important to me, as well as all the other working musicians out there. But it goes beyond that. In my youth, I and everyone I knew experienced a completely different way to consume and enjoy music, and I desperately want to preserve that experience. I’m also worried about the details behind the music being hidden from sight - there are no liner notes connected to a playlist. Add to that the concern that the sonic integrity of music is becoming diminished solely for the sake of the industry while the listener is left with an inferior experience. As things change yet again, which they most certainly will – think AI - the future of recorded music is looking grim.

All that being said, I do have some new music in the pipeline, and I’m super excited to be sharing it in the not-too-distant future. Like most of the music I’ve created thus far, the new material will be available for digital download and streaming, but I will be making these new projects available on Compact Disc, and perhaps Vinyl as well. Hopefully, there will be more options for enjoying these formats, and not fewer. Perhaps I’m being blindly optimistic, but that’s what keeps me getting out of bed every day.

In the meantime, continue supporting the musical artists that you know and love, and keep buying that merch. If enough of us call for putting disc drives back in our cars and computers, maybe, just maybe, those cries won’t fall on deaf ears. And I promise to write some clever and informative liner notes so you have something interesting to read while you listen to my future records.

Peace!

COMMUNICATION (or the lack thereof)

Since this is one of my biggest pet peeves, it seems like a good place to start.

I recently had a gig cancelled. That happens from time to time for myriad reasons, and I accept that as a part of the music business. Typically, there’s a clearly defined reason, and it’s communicated in a timely fashion. And then sometimes …

This was to be the second time we played this event, with the first one having been, for the most part, a positive experience. The event in question was brand new the last time we participated, and by all accounts was a grand success. The one concern from my point of view was a conspicuous absence of communication between the organizers. I attributed this to the fact it was a new event, hence the expected growing pains.

Everything was looking great for a return engagement: the weather was shaping up to be a perfect summer day, the response to the promotion done by the organizers and myself was extremely positive, and the boys in the band were all in rare form and chomping at the bit to do this event again.

36 hours before this scheduled appearance, I received a text from a friend who informed me that this event had been cancelled by the organizing body. This was complete news to me, and I thought it strange that I’d be learning the news from a random person not remotely related to or involved in the event. Being that I was in the middle of a gig at the time of this communication, I couldn’t follow up on the news at that point. The next morning, I searched social media for some information to confirm things one way or another. Sure enough, there was the digital event poster with the word CANCELLED plastered over it in big red letters.

I screenshotted the poster, then sent it to both of the organizers that I had been dealing with, asking if it was in fact true. One person replied that it was unfortunately accurate. I asked about the reason why, but there was no further response. The other party that I had been working with, also involved in the organizing of the event, had just learned about the cancellation, but had no idea as to what was behind it.

Losing a gig is rarely a good thing. Having a gig cancelled, but not being notified, is simply unacceptable. If I were to decide I wasn’t going to do a show that I had committed to, it would be incumbent upon me to inform everyone involved, especially the party that hired me. Simply not showing up would be damaging to my reputation, and quite frankly, very uncool. If I hadn’t been forewarned by my friend about this cancelled event, and had shown up with my band to find an empty park and a locked gate, well, that would be way worse than uncool.

These lapses in communication are usually at the root of all failed ventures. It doesn’t matter what kind of effort, organization, or relationship we’re talking about, clear and timely communication is crucial. It’s bad enough the event was cancelled with no clear reason, but to not inform the other involved parties is inexcusable. Never mind the sad fact that communication within the organization is conspicuously absent.

If your goal is failure, poor communication will get you there quickly.

FOCUS

Not too long ago, I ran into someone I hadn’t seen for a while. At first, it was great to reconnect with my old friend, but it didn’t take long for him to slip into a pit of negativity that quickly threatened to derail our interaction.

Now don’t get me wrong, I am prone to bouts of negative thinking, and because of this fact, I take great effort to avoid traveling down that path. I’m not 100% successful, as anyone close to me will tell you, but I do recognize the importance of positive focus, and how it impacts my world.

My friend, however, seemed to have a passion for everything that was not ideal in his life. In our relatively short conversation, he complained about the weather, his job, some coworkers, his living arrangement, someone who owes him money, his car, and of course, the sad state of world events and geopolitics.

In spite of the fact that I hadn’t seen this guy in a while, I found myself wishing that my phone would ring so I would have a valid excuse to get away from his torrent of skepticism. It’s not like I could do anything to help him out, unless simply being a sounding board for his gripes and complaints offered some respite from his misery.

Let’s face it, life is hard enough on its own without constantly turning up the volume on everything that makes it hard. Most of the things we rant about are out of our control, which renders the complaining moot. If it’s out of your hands, it deserves freedom from your mind too. I’ve shared this sentiment here before on more than one occasion, and I do my best to apply it to my life. I tried to impart this mindset to my friend, but I don’t think he heard what I was saying in between his grousing and grumbling.

I’m sure studies have been done that prove the connection between the object of your focus and how that impacts your mindset. Anecdotally, I know this to be true based on my own experiences. If I fixate on the things that make me unhappy, I most certainly will remain unhappy. But when I keep my gaze on the rose, the thorns become less of a problem. It’s all about focus.

As a side note, a negative focus does have an upside. People like to say that complaining never helps, but I don’t agree with that notion. If you enjoy your solitude, consistent complaining will insure that people will give you a wide berth, allowing for plenty of alone time.

IMPACT

I’ve written previously about how what we do and say has an impact on others, and it’s usually not planned or intentional. The truth is people are watching and listening to what you do and say, and that can stay with them for a long time, which is awesome if what they remember about you is positive. If you’ve left a negative impression, that’s somewhat less awesome.

I was chatting with a dear friend who’s been contending with some serious health issues as long as I’ve known her. She’s remained steadfast and resolute in her efforts, and has one of the most beautiful outlooks towards life that I’ve ever witnessed, in spite of her less-than-ideal health situation. Her focus remains on all that is positive, and even though her struggles are real, she always wears a bright smile, and carries with her a forward-looking approach to life, which is an example we can all benefit from adopting.

My friend recently reminded me of something I said to her one of the first times we’d met. I apparently offered some positive words of encouragement upon learning of her health concerns. It wasn’t that my words held some deeply hidden wisdom that hadn’t occurred to her, or that I offered an answer to her problems – I just stated that modern advancements in medicine have turned what used to be a dire prognosis into something significantly more manageable and treatable. And it had nothing to do with our friendship, as this was likely the first or second time we had ever talked in person – I just wanted to offer some encouragement to a fellow human being.

I didn’t leave the house that day with a quiver full of positive comments, looking for an opportunity to unleash them on anyone in need. I simply encountered someone who was dealing with hardship and uncertainty, and I wanted to offer some hopefulness and optimism. My friend reminded me of how that small gesture has stuck with her over the years, and how revisiting that moment has continued to make a positive impact.

The fact of the matter is that my friend’s example of strength, quiet confidence, and grace continues to have a huge impact on me and how I view life. She may not even realize the significance of the way she carries herself through her struggles, or how her example affects the world around her, just as I had no idea that a few words of encouragement would help to buoy her through rough waters.

All of this is simply a reminder that what we do and say is being observed by someone. A simple action or gesture can change the course of another’s life, and we rarely know the effects we have on those who are watching. This goes both directions, positive and negative, so I try to be mindful of my own words and actions, as well as the impact they are likely to have on others.

I suppose that’s enough blather for this week. Be well, my friends!

I saw you walk in and take your seat. Initially, you chatted with the other members of your party, ordered drinks and food, and eventually, your attention turned to the bandstand. You were there for some social time with your friends – food, drinks, and hey, there’s live music there tonight. At some point between your 2^nd and 3^rd drink, and about 2/3 of the way through your mac and cheese covered with pulled pork – which looked amazing, by the way – you started to appreciate what the band was doing.

Now the process of eating is complete, the plates have been cleared, and you order one more drink to nurse as you fully immerse yourself in the music. I watched as the passing glance, the subtle head turn towards the band, made a complete transformation to dancing in your seat as you sang along to a song you’ve never heard before.

It began as a simple hang with friends, and before it was all said and done, you were tipping the band, buying some merch, and asking for a card so you can follow the schedule.

I saw you search for and claim the perfect spot on the lawn to set up your folding chairs and cooler. Along with your significant other, you settled in for an afternoon of live music, fresh air, sunshine, and some quality time with one another.

The mass of people surrounding you seemed not to exist as your focus was primarily on each other, and as a distant second, the band. It was heartwarming to see you gaze at one another with that look – one that I know so well – the look that states nothing else matters besides the one you’re sharing the moment with. You slow danced for a spell, not even cognizant of the fact you weren’t close to keeping time to the music. Your attention was clearly on each other, and it was almost as if I was the one intruding upon your space, in spite of the fact that it was you who came to attend my show.

You would both periodically smile at the band, though it was obvious that the vast majority of those smiles were meant for the one you were with, and that’s more than okay with me. I didn’t notice when you packed up your belongings, and walked hand-in-hand back to the parking lot to find your car. I did, however, smile broadly when I realized you had quietly slipped away to continue your time together elsewhere.

I saw you, though not at first. You were standing behind your dad, half hidden from sight. It seemed as though there was some force – perhaps curiosity – that kept your focus on this group of musicians on the bandstand, primarily on me as I played my Harmonicas during the set. With each song, you got more comfortable with being one of the few young folks in a space filled with adults enjoying the event. I got a huge kick out of watching your facial expressions broadcast the emotions you were experiencing. Most of the other kids were running about, sweat streaming down their faces, and more focused on anything but the music. But not you – and I noticed.

You looked slightly mortified when I called you out over the mic, and beckoned for you to make your way to the bandstand. You sheepishly approached the stage, unsure of what was about to happen, but when I proffered one of the entry level Harmonicas that I carry for just such an opportunity, your eyes brightened, and your smile threatened to grow beyond the size of your face.

We made a connection that day. I gifted you an instrument that you were clearly intrigued by, and you gifted me with a chance to share something that’s a big part of my life. I can still see the smile on your face.

I saw you standing out in the audience for what seemed like the very first time. You’ve been there for me for as long as I can recall, and never missed a show if possible. Even though it’s been a painfully long time since you were able to attend one of my shows, that rush of emotion came flooding back, and suddenly you were the only one in the audience.

Just like the countless times in the past, I knew where your attention was focused, and it was plain to see that your smile was meant for me and me alone. I can’t describe how it felt having you in the audience again, but it made the whole thing more exceptional than it already was. I hope you realize how much I cherish those moments, especially since they are fewer and farther between these days.

I wouldn’t be doing this without your love, guidance, and support, at least not at the level I am now. Just knowing how instrumental you’ve been in this journey of mine is pretty heady stuff, but having you by my side throughout the process often stops me in my tracks. I love you and appreciate you, and just want you to know that I saw you.

There’s a long running Blues festival in Central PA called the Briggs Farm Blues Festival. The Briggs family decided to host this event back in 1998, and it’s grown in scope, stature, and popularity ever since. Though it’s a mere 4 ½ hour drive from my little shack here in the holler, I’ve never made it a point to check out this popular event nestled in the Allegheny Mountains. That is until this weekend.

What started out as a one-day event is now a three-days-long affair complete with top tier musical acts on two stages, vendors of all kinds, and plenty of wooded campsites available to those who wish to make a weekend of it. I drove out there specifically to see some friends perform, but there was a lot more to be excited about.

The friends I went specifically to see have a killer Funk and Soul band from upstate NY called Sister Sparrow and the Dirty Birds. Several years ago, I caught them for the first time at a small club in Pittsburgh. They were a 9 piece powerhouse at that time, and they barely fit on the stage. Being a Harmonica nerd, I instantly hit it off with Jackson, the harp player, and brother to the lead singer and band leader, Arleigh Kincheloe. Over the years, I’ve become friends with the core of the band, and would catch their set whenever our paths crossed.

After building a huge following while garnering many accolades along the way, they took a hiatus while Arleigh started a family of her own. As with most truly creative types, this hiatus was a pause, not a stop. I’m thrilled to let you know that they’re back in the studio working on some new material, and if the little bit of the new project that they shared with me is any indication, this new record is gonna be dynamite!

Even though Arleigh’s family continues to grow – she told the audience that she was “Bluesin’ for two” as she lovingly rubbed her current baby bump – they’re still engaging in some limited touring. When I saw they were scheduled for Briggs Farm, I put it on my calendar, and man am I glad I did! Sister Sparrow and the Dirty Birds haven’t missed a step! Their arrangements are dynamic, their musicianship is top shelf, and the energy they bring to the stage is palpable. As great as their show was, I have to say that it was enough for me just to hang backstage with this great group of friends that I haven’t seen in several years.

After Sister Sparrow was done, the main stage was reset for the headliner, Victor Wainwright and The Train. Every time I see Victor and his band on stage, I’m reminded of just how damn good these guys are. Talk about energy! I simply stood out there in the crowd with a big stupid grin on my face for his entire set. I’ve had the pleasure of hanging with Victor on a few occasions, working with him in his piano class at the Pinetop Perkins Workshops in Clarksdale, MS, and I can say for a fact that he’s not only a monster performer and teacher, he’s a stand-up dude as well. If you ever get the chance to see Victor and his band perform live, don’t even think twice – just buy the tickets!

As mentioned, the Briggs Farm event is a three day festival. While I only attended one day of this year’s fest, I was impressed with the line-up of talent featured on both stages. Whether your thing is full on and funky, rockin’ and raucous, or laid back and acoustic, the Briggs Farm Blues Festival has something for everyone.

And let’s not forget about the vendors! Food, handmade crafts, food, clothing items, food, souvenirs and keepsakes, and did I mention the food? Again, something for everyone!

One very obvious detail that jumped out at me was the festive atmosphere. One would think that a festival would naturally be, I don’t know … festive? Sadly, this isn’t always the case. This event, however, inarguably had that vibe about it. I sensed it in the performers, vendors, staff, and especially the attendees. Beach balls being bounced around the crowd; bubble machines that would make Lawrence Welk jealous; hippie chicks with hula hoops; people of all ages in one big jubilant frolic – it was a high-energy party and dance environment that harkened back to many of the music festivals I attended during my younger days. It felt really good!

Another thing I couldn’t help but notice was the number of young people reveling in the crowd. For quite some time, Blues events seemed to draw folks of a certain age demographic – usually 50 and up. This crowd had a more diverse selection of age groups, and I found that to be very encouraging, not just for the Blues genre, but for live music in general. After years of lamenting the aging crowds at Blues shows and events, could it be that the pendulum is swinging back in the right direction? Time will tell, though I remain hopeful.

Another nice surprise for me was seeing my pal, Mikey Jr, holding down the duty of main stage emcee. Friendly, outgoing, and an amazing performer and stage presence, Mikey did a fabulous job in engaging the crowd between sets, as well as sitting in with a few of the bands on a number or two.

Mikey has his own event coming up on Saturday, July 19 – The Bucks County Blues Festival in Eastern PA. I’ll be performing at this year’s event with a long list of talented Blues artists from around the country. If you haven’t made your plans to attend that one yet, what are you waiting for?!?

So do yourself a favor, and get yourself to some sort of gathering or event that will provide some healthy food for your soul. Whether it’s something music related or not, go do it simply because you want to. If you haven’t attended a great Blues festival in a while – or perhaps never – there are many awesome Blues events around the world, and absolutely no reason to keep putting it off. And be sure to invite some younger folks to join you.

I spend a fair amount of time traveling across the highways of this great land for various reasons, though most are music related. Folks who know me even just a little have heard me rant about some of the traffic related things that stick in my craw. Since I just returned home after putting another 2000 miles on my vehicle, I thought this would be a good time to let off a little steam in regard to some of the things I find most annoying while driving in my car.

Let’s start with driving slowly in the passing lane. I spend a lot of time driving on the U.S. interstate highway system. It’s typically the fastest way from point A to point B, and these federally funded roads are usually well maintained. Things can get a little dicey at higher speeds, especially when there’s a heavier than usual number of vehicles on the road. This high stakes dance that we all do on the highway requires every driver to be alert, undistracted, and possess at least a modicum of common sense.

The first thing I tried to impart to my daughter while teaching her to drive was, Don’t do anything unexpected while driving. This is true at any speed on any type of road or highway. The first thing I taught her while driving on the interstate was, Go with the flow of traffic. Driving much slower than everyone else can be just as perilous as driving much faster – both scenarios are dangerous. Most law enforcement officers understand this better than anyone, as they see the unfortunate outcomes of bad driving. I am in no way suggesting that you should ignore the speed limit. However, if 90% of the traffic around you is travelling at 10 MPH about the posted speed limit, driving slower can be problematic.

Here’s where my rant starts. Operate your vehicle at the posted speed limit – or even slower – if that makes you feel safer, just do it in the right hand lanes whenever possible. The left hand lanes are there for passing and overtaking slower moving traffic. Once you’ve passed the slower moving traffic, then move back to the right to allow for drivers to pass you if necessary. If you’re not sure, just look around you. Is there a long line of cars accumulating behind you in the passing lane? If so, that means you need to move over ASAP. Are there vehicles passing you on the right? Once again, move your vehicle to an appropriate lane.

Most states have laws regarding proper lane usage, with some specifically referring to multi-lane highway driving. I’ve seen drivers get pulled over and cited for driving the speed limit in the passing lane, and I applaud those actions. One of my favorite highway signs was one that I saw while driving through Kansas. It stated, WE’D LOVE FOR YOU TO CAMP OUT IN KANSAS, JUST DON’T DO IT IN THE PASSING LANE! (pp)

Sadly, there are fools out there sharing the roads with us all who believe they’re morally superior because they never exceed the posted speed limits, and they often like to put their perceived superiority on display by clogging up the passing lane. I once had a guy intentionally pace the car in the right lane so that neither I nor any of the long line of cars behind me could get around him. Being that I was directly behind him, I got to enjoy all of the obscene gestures he was throwing around while he was in the process of teaching us all a lesson on how to drive properly.

Heavy sigh!

Somewhat related to the irksome behavior mentioned above is the tendency to pass on the right. This generally is a result of some nitwit driving slowly in the passing lane, but often, it’s just some impatient a-hole zigzagging in and out of lanes in order to never have to slow down. Now most of us aren’t expecting to be overtaken on the right, so that in itself can cause someone to get startled, resulting in an accident. Add the fact that there’s a bigger blind spot on your right, and things can go badly without warning.

When I see a driver closing in on me from behind, I always try to get over to the right to properly free up the passing lane. Occasionally, the faster driver is already trying to pass me on the right when I start to change lanes. Danger, Will Robinson! Another good reason to follow proper protocol.

I’ll throw in other egregious behaviors like some motorcycle riders’ tendencies toward lane splitting and other reckless look at me actions like wheelies and trick riding. Regardless of your choice of vehicle, if you want to risk your own life, that’s your call. Doing that sort of thing on a public highway puts innocent people at risk, and is, in my humble opinion, a dick move.

Saving my biggest driving-related pet peeve for last, let’s talk about the Zipper Merge. “What’s a Zipper Merge?” you ask. In a nut shell, it’s using both lanes all the way to a lane closure on a multi-lane highway, then taking turns at the merge point. If traffic is light, and there’s no slow down to contend with, there’s usually not a problem. If traffic is heavy, on the other hand, these bottlenecks can back traffic up for miles.

Many studies have been done on this issue, and the zipper merge has proven to be the most efficient way to navigate a lane closure on the highway. Some states even erect large, unambiguous signage directing drivers to USE BOTH LANES TO MERGE POINT, THEN TAKE TURNS. Unfortunately, these directives are often ignored.

I can see why you might become annoyed at the drivers who cruise unimpeded down the wide open lane after you diligently moved to the right lane immediately upon seeing the LEFT LANE CLOSED IN TWO MILES sign a mile and a half back down the road. That was your choice, so don’t get mad at others for not making the same mistake.

The absolute most aggravating situation of all is when, during one of these lane closures, some chucklehead decides to block that open lane so everyone has to comply with their wrong way of thinking. This jerk off move is usually perpetrated by a driver of a semi-truck or other large commercial vehicle. I actually encountered a truck driver who was driving in a serpentine style in an effort to block two open lanes at once. Where are the cops when you need them? (For the record, I passed that turd on the berm.)

If you don’t believe that the Zipper Merge has been proven to be the most efficient way to keep traffic flowing at a lane closure, a quick Internet search will enlighten you. Here are some valid points made by our AI overlords:

To improve traffic flow and reduce congestion, consider the zipper merge technique:

· Promotes efficient use of available road space by utilizing both lanes until the merge point.

· Reduces the likelihood of sudden braking and lane changes, enhancing safety.

· Minimizes traffic backups by keeping vehicles moving longer before merging.

· Encourages cooperation among drivers, fostering a more courteous driving environment.

· Decreases overall travel time for all vehicles involved in the merge.

· Helps prevent road rage incidents by reducing frustration during merging.

Please bear in mind that this only applies in a lane closure situation. If there’s a backed up turning lane, it’s definitely not cool to bypass the slow moving lane, then try to slip in at the end. That’s a whole ‘nother rant.

In the interest of keeping this entry at a reasonable length, I’ll not delve into how badly drivers behave in parking lots. With the tendency to ignore all driving rules, parking lots are often more hazardous than highways.

Statistics have proven that travelling on our highways and byways is dangerous and all too often deadly. Stress levels are elevated, and along with that, emotions. Road rage is a real thing, and it can overtake the kindest, most mild mannered individual. Being present, paying attention, and using a little common sense will help keep us all happier and safer.

So the next time you’re camping out in the passing lane, and you see a long line of cars stacking up behind you, slide on over and let them proceed. And if you feel the need to block that long, open lane leading up to the merge point, don’t be surprised when I come flying past you on the shoulder. You’ll know it’s me because I’ll be waving at least one finger.

Be safe out there!

Looking back through my younger years, I don’t think I was encumbered to the point of needing therapy. I was able to concentrate enough to get my school work done – usually at the deadline – and I managed to get decent enough grades. Thankfully, the tendency to medicate distracted kids came along a little bit later, so I dodged that mind-altering bullet.

Like many kids, especially boys, it wasn’t always easy to stay on task in the traditional classroom setting, unless the subject was particularly intriguing. Most were not, at least to me. I often found myself traveling through some other dimension in my mind, creating worlds of my own that held more interest to me than whatever wisdom and knowledge the teacher was trying to impart. When my daughter was in school, one of her friends referred to this condition as ADOS – Attention Deficit … Oooh, Shiny!

I decided that I would pursue a career in the building trades, so it made sense to transfer to a fulltime trade school. I’ve always loved working with my hands, and building things also tapped into my creative nature. It’s crucial and a bit easier, and safer, for that matter, to stay focused when you’re using powerful tools and equipment, or working in the potentially dangerous environments of building and construction sites. Even then, there was always that thing over there …

I worked diligently throughout my career as a carpenter, never shying away from overtime or doing my own jobs in my spare time. I also put as much effort into my recreational interests. During the mid-to-late 80s, in an effort to lose a few pounds accumulated through my fondness of beer, I started running. (More like jogging, but slowly – let’s call it slogging.) I did it every day whether I felt like it or not, and actually kind of enjoyed it … sort of … a little bit. Then my brother, Michael, who was into cross country cycling, bought a new touring bike, he gave me his old Schwinn. It didn’t take long for me to replace the running shoes with cycling gear.

When I rediscovered my love for cycling, a favored pastime from my youth, I poured a ton of effort into training and conditioning, which allowed me to enjoy the act of racing my mountain bike through the woods all that much more. It was a lot of effort and expense with no monetary return, but the benefits reaped in health and wellbeing were immeasurable.

My sister, Susan, once made the comment, “Chuckie isn’t lazy, he’d just rather do something fun.” (Yes, I was known as Chuckie growing up. In fact, people from my hometown still call me that.) She saw something that I didn’t even realize myself, and she was not wrong. I got the work done when necessary, but to be honest, I’d much rather be putting my energy into something fun. And that in itself could be an ever-changing target.

In addition to working and running and working and cycling and working, I spent time gardening and canning vegetables, playing a little racquet ball, hiking with my dog, Omar, and pitching horseshoes. (I put in a nice set of pits on the edge of the yard of the farmhouse we rented.) I had many interests, and I dug into them as deeply as I could.

When my daughter was born, my priorities were redirected, as you might imagine. The extra time, money, and effort that my semi-serious cycling addiction required would have to be curtailed, plus the last thing I needed was to break a collar bone during a weekend adventure or race, and not be able to support my family. From that point on my spare time and resources were devoted to being a dad. I was able to put a little more energy and effort into the Harmonica, something I had been tooling around with for well over a decade at that point, though it was more of a hobby for me during that time. So I leaned into it a little more forcefully, at least when time permitted.

Between the days of my youth and now – not youth – I’ve had various and varied interests. I’ve spent time drawing, writing, and making music. I’ve also collected things like beer cans, pocket knives, hats and caps, old bottles or tools. Did a little fishing and hunting, though I prefer to hunt for wild mushrooms – they’re easier to sneak up on. I like to cook, and I can hand sew enough to repair a torn garment now and again. And of course my youthful days consisted of a fair amount of partying and chasing after the fairer sex.

Why am I sharing all of this with you? To some, it may seem banal and mundane, and to others, somewhat exciting and adventurous. The main point, I suppose, is that the focus of my attention has bounced far and wide over the years. Maybe that’s good, maybe it’s bad. I still occasionally struggle with staying on task, and yes, that complicates things. Some days I can dig into whatever it is that I need to accomplish. Other days – like today for example – I can’t keep it between the lines no matter what I do.

Perhaps I’ll start a new hobby …

With more than a few years under my belt as a working musician, both locally and on the road, I’ve learned that certain actions and behaviors can be considered either good or bad, acceptable or tolerated, preferred or frowned upon. Some of these things I’ve learned through close observation of other performers, which is a great way to learn anything. Other Dos and Don’ts I have learned from firsthand experience, which is usually more directly impactful. Those lessons tend to stay with you. I thought I might share some with my fellow noise makers out there.

In past essays, I’ve written about proper behavior for audience members. See Audience Participation 6/3/24. That blog entry was primarily concerning people who bring small noise makers or instruments to play along in the audience during live shows. To briefly summarize, if you ever feel like doing that, DON’T! Yes, there are other behaviors that are best to avoid as an audience member – things like having a loud conversation while in a listening environment, talking to the band members during a song, requesting songs that are obviously out of the band’s normal playing style or playlist, or just generally being disruptive – but I’ll venture down that rabbit trail some other time.

I’ve also shared some thoughts on good practices for owners and managers of small venues. Check out If I Managed a Small Venue … 8/19/24. In that writing, I made some valuable suggestions for making a small music venue ideal for not only the musicians, but for the listening patrons as well.

For this entry, I’d like to share some suggestions for good habits and routines as a gigging musician.

PREPARATION

For starters, how about being prepared for the gig? Familiarizing yourself with the material is a good place to start. If you’ve been hired for a gig, and the band leader has sent you a list of songs that will likely be covered, spend enough time on that material so you can perform as a cohesive unit once you hit the bandstand. It’s perfectly acceptable to make chord charts or notes that you can refer to during the set. Become familiar with the songs – for that matter, the style of music – that the band will be playing.

Put some forethought into the equipment that will best serve the featured music for the gig, and have it ready and checked out before you leave the house. Speaking of equipment, bring everything you might conceivably need, perhaps even extra items like mics, cables, mic stands, etc. Even if you don’t need it, someone else might.

When it comes to smaller local gigs, oftentimes the band leader doesn’t care what you wear or how you look. Regardless of the situation, you should always look like you belong on the stage. This is my personal opinion, and you can take it or leave it, but if you’re being paid to perform, you should look like a performer. Just like your gear, you should choose clothing or a look that’s appropriate to the gig.

And what about shorts in the summer? This long-running debate will never run out of steam. If you’re in a Heavy Metal or Grunge band, knock yourself out. Wear shorts and an Iron Maiden T-shirt with the sleeves ripped off to a Classic Country, Blues or Jazz job, and you most likely won’t get called back for a second gig. It’s definitely possible to dress comfortably in hot weather without looking like a slob. If you’re not sure, check with the bandleader or the person who hired you. Even if they couldn’t care less, you’re better off being overdressed as opposed to underdressed.

With the convenience of today’s GPS network and the smart device that most of us have access to, you should know well in advance how long it will take you to get to the venue, and which route will get you there. Leave enough time to arrive well in advance of start time so you can load in, set up, and sound check your equipment.

PRE GIG

Once you’ve arrived, load your rig onto the stage area, and set up where the bandleader wants you. Stow your cases and carts out of sight, whether backstage or in your vehicle. A clean, spacious stage not only looks better, it makes for a safer, more pleasant environment in which to work. Set up your rig, and run your cables in a way that won’t cause a tripping hazard, or impede your bandmates in any way.

Once you’ve sound checked your rig, both individually or as a band, leave it alone. The soundman, if there is one, will appreciate not having to make any more adjustments than necessary once the show starts. And for Pete’s sake, don’t sit there and noodle on your instrument like some nitwit starving for attention.

Then, assuming you’ve managed to get there early enough, take some time to relax. Hang with your bandmates, or better yet, hobnob with the audience. One thing that performers and audience members have in common is humanity. Connect with the folks who came out to hear you play. They’ll appreciate the connection, and will retain the good memories of having made it.

If you haven’t yet, change into your gig clothes, arrange your set list, charts, and notes in an accessible place on stage, and be ready to take the stage on time for the scheduled start of the show.

DURING THE SHOW

Here we go! The show has begun, and that should be your focus. Watch and listen to your bandmates, especially the leader, serve the song, engage the audience, and have some fun.

The song may take an unexpected turn, either intentionally by the bandleader, or due to a miscue by one of the other musicians. This is why it’s so important to pay attention. And when the inevitable mistake happens, roll with it to help smooth things over. The worst thing you can do is call attention to an oopsy on stage. Any blatant reaction, gesture, or even something like a sideways glance, will magnify a mistake, which typically goes largely unnoticed by anyone not in the band. And if you make a blunder, don’t point it out; just keep playing. If your bandmates are doing their job, they’ll do what they can to push through it so as not to derail the momentum of the song. Remember that you’re there for the listeners, not your self-esteem.

The best approach you can take while playing music, whether live or in the studio, is to serve the song. There’s a time and place for the dig me thing or some well-timed schtick, just remember that a little goes a long way. And if you’re a rhythm player, remember this: The fills bring the thrills, but the groove pays the bills!

Speaking of the audience, make a little effort to engage them while you’re playing. Small gestures like eye contact or a simple wave or nod to a random person in the crowd makes them feel like a part of the show, and gives them a positive memory, which will make them want to come back to see you in the future. Just like mingling before and after the set, this fraternization will provide a connection on a human level that is priceless.

POST GIG

Clear your equipment from the stage in an orderly and timely manner that allows for your bandmates to do the same. Once your gear is stowed back in your vehicle, offer to help the other musicians with their equipment. Wrapping cables, packing up mics, carrying amps and speakers – these things all have to be done. Even if your help isn’t needed, trust me, the offer will be appreciated.

Always clean up your trash. Empty glasses, cups, water bottles, set lists, sweaty towels, and anything else that needs to be disposed of should be promptly taken care of by you. Always leave the stage at least as clean as you’ve found it, if not cleaner. This is not the responsibility of the bandleader, soundman, or the venue staff. Don’t be a pig!

If the venue staff took care of you, throw them a tip. Not only do they tend to remember that when the manager asks for suggestions for bands to hire down the road, it’s just the right thing to do. While you’re at it, thank the soundman, and find the manager or owner, and thank them for having you.

GENERAL DOS AND DON’TS

Be straight and sober! – Nothing will ruin a good gig like one or more of the performers being impaired. Not only does the music suffer, it can and will breed contempt from the other musicians. It can also cost you future work with that band or venue. If you can’t stay clear-headed for a few hours, get some help.

Promote! Promote! Promote! – If people don’t know about the gig, they will not be there. It’s incumbent upon everyone to let the world know where and when you’re playing, not just the venue and the bandleader.

Wear your game face! – It’s inevitable that you’ll occasionally be booked for a gig, but just not be in a good mindset to do it. Perhaps you’re feeling under the weather, or maybe you’ve just received some bad news. Even if your puppy ran away from home, you still need to go to work. If you can’t be happy and engaging, at least try not to be a dick.

Be present! – Being moody, aloof, and distant may seem like a cool persona to adopt, but it’s not at all welcoming from the audience’s perspective. Your bandmates won’t appreciate it either. You might fit right in with a Death Metal band, so if that’s who you are, tune it down, and turn it up.

Some of these suggestions should go without saying, but it doesn’t hurt to be mindful of them. I’m sure there are a lot more things that I have yet to learn, but these few items have served me well.

Have a great gig!

We’ve all been there; someone comes to us with a problem, a predicament, or a bad situation, and our first inclination is to try to problem solve. (And before anyone points out that this is primarily a man thing, let me just say that you are correct … mostly.) I like to think that the majority of us want to help our friends and family whenever possible, so we do what seems like the reasonable thing, and we try to be helpful. The point that we often miss, however, is that most times, they don’t want you to fix anything. Frequently, they don’t even want you to try, they just want to have you nearby.

I recently called a dear friend on the phone, only to learn that he and his wife were about to travel out of state to be with one of their children during a very difficult situation. It seems that one of my friend’s grandkids had suffered a serious injury, and he and his wife were on their way to assist in any way they could. Though this unfortunate accident had resulted in a situation that no parent would ever choose for their child, it could have been much, much worse. All things considered, the prognosis is not as dire as it might have been. Make no mistake, it’s a serious plight that they’ve found themselves in, but things appear to look very encouraging.

So what can my friends do to help? In all likelihood, not much. Of course they can help with some practical needs while their kids spend time with their young child during what must be a confusing and scary time. They can also provide some respite for the young parents by giving them an opportunity to step outside of the immediate space to catch their breath. Primarily, they can simply be there, which in itself can provide a much needed level of comfort to their family members.

How about those times when someone close to you is exceedingly upset, and just rants and raves about X, Y, or Z? The tendency is to complain right alongside them, throwing in your two cents every chance you get. That’s helpful, right? It’s an outward display of solidarity, and it shows them that you’ve been in a similar scenario, so you can relate. You denigrate the same people or situation as a way of saying, “I’ve been there too, bro!” Sadly, this often turns into a game of one upmenship, which truthfully doesn’t help a damned bit – it just makes them feel worse when they simply need you to be a shoulder to cry on, or a pillow to scream into.

This tendency to chime in on every little thing gets old very quickly. When people are talking to you, the best thing you can do is to shut up and listen, and I mean really listen. Personally, I know I’m not the best at doing that shut up and listen thing. I know this because I have caught myself doing the opposite. Not only that, but my wise and beautiful wife has pointed it out once or twice. I find it quite annoying when people do it to me, so I make every effort not to be that guy, and simply be present. While I’m not quite there yet, I am making the effort. (Thanks, honey!)

Another notable occasion where our presence is helpful and greatly appreciated is when someone loses a loved one. Death is an unavoidable part of life; we’re all headed there. When someone dies, the greatest amount of difficulty falls upon those of us who remain alive. Their pain is over, but ours has just begun. And what is most helpful when we’re dealing with that type of loss? For the most part, the presence of family, friends, and acquaintances during this difficult and emotional time. Nothing can change the fact that our loved one is no longer with us, but knowing that other folks are sharing in that loss helps to dim the hurt a bit.

When someone we know is dealing with the loss of someone close such as a parent, sibling, spouse, or child, we want more than anything to help. Grief has its own course to run, and it must do so at its own pace. As much as we want to assuage their pain, there’s not much we can do that is more effective than being there for our hurting friend. Don’t get me wrong, all of the common responses are extremely helpful and appreciated. Pitching in with small gestures like grocery shopping, running errands, mowing the lawn, etc. – these are all great ways to help friends while they deal with their loss, and it gives them some room to breathe when they might otherwise feel overwhelmed. While it may seem helpful to give them some space during difficult times, that’s not usually what your friends want and need, even if they can’t express that thought to you directly. Simply remaining present in your friends’ lives, letting them know that you’re nearby if they need you, goes a long way.

A wonderful and talented woman that I happily call my friend, Sherrie Dunlevy, has written a beautiful and informative book on this very subject. Her book, How Can I Help? covers this complex issue in great detail, and offers a long list of things you can do to help friends and loved ones navigate times of loss. She was motivated by a tragic loss that she and her family suffered years ago, and her experiences during and afterward led her to write this insightful and invaluable resource that we will all be able to use at some point.

Here’s a link:

https://a.co/d/0tEUPF1

When we find ourselves in the inevitable dark or difficult place, what’s the one thing that magnifies the darkness? I would have to say the feeling of being alone with our pain. Speaking from experience, when I have found myself in a dark place or difficult circumstance, it makes a marked difference just knowing that people are thinking of me. All it takes is a message, or perhaps a phone call asking, “How are you doing?”

When I think of some of the wisest philosophers throughout history, a little bear by the name of Winnie the Pooh, along with his furry little friends in the Hundred Acre Wood, has provided some of the most valuable lessons for us all. One scene that has always stood out for me is the following:

“I don’t feel very much like Pooh today,” said Pooh.

“There there,” said Piglet. “I’ll bring you tea and honey until you do.”

I’ve heard more than a few folks from generations before my own speak of the mind boggling advancements they’ve witnessed over the course of their lives. They began their lives subsistence farming, with their equipment and machinery powered by beasts of burden. What little traveling they did was done on crude dirt roads or cobblestones with horse and cart. By the end of their lives, those fortunate enough to live into their 80s or 90s – not all that common for the majority of the history of man – they witnessed men walking on the moon.

I’ve spoken before of the technological advancements that I’ve witnessed just in my lifetime. Communication, for example. As a kid growing up in Southeastern Ohio, We had three options for communicating: the U.S. Mail, a telephone that was tethered to the wall, and face-to-face conversation. Now we have a myriad of choices to chat, send files, and even have real-time video interaction. (And I thought Dick Tracy’s 2-way wrist TV was cool …)

We all drove around in in heavy vehicles that featured carburetors, bias-ply tires, non-powered steering, bench seats with no seatbelts – if they had them, we usually tucked them behind the seats – hand-cranked windows, 4/40 air conditioning (4 windows down, 40 miles an hour), and AM radio. To get from point A to point B, there were things called maps – sheets of paper covered with squiggly, colored lines, and nearly impossible to fold back to its original shape. The modern vehicles of today have more creature comforts and high tech features than the USS Enterprise. Some of them practically drive themselves. I suppose they all will before long.

Entertainment options were plentiful, but required some work on the part of the consumer. Our TV had perhaps 3 or 4 viable channels, which depended upon an antenna being positioned just right. If you wanted to change the channel, adjust the volume or picture, or even turn the darned thing on or off, well, you had to get up, walk across the room, and do it manually. Listening to music was just as involved. You could listen to the radio, which most everyone did, but you had to find the station that played something you liked and wanted to listen to. If it was something specific you were in the mood for, you had to buy the record, and fire up the old high-fi. Nowadays we have the ability to watch or listen to practically anything ever filmed or recorded totally at our convenience, any time, any place.

Books, encyclopedias, music libraries, movies, cameras, photo albums, video recorders, clocks, timers, calculators, maps, phone books, restaurant menus and reviews, shopping catalogs, weather forecasts; these are just a handful of the things most people carry around in their pockets and purses in today’s advanced world. And that barely scratches the surface!

Advancements in the medical realm are nothing short of astonishing. Surgeries and treatments that were highly invasive, requiring several days of hospital stay and care just a generation ago, are now practically outpatient procedures. I myself had to have a surgical spinal procedure done in my lower back a few years ago. During the pre-surgery consult with the neurosurgeon, I asked how long I’d be in the hospital, expecting at least a day or two. He laughed, and informed me that my wife and I were to arrive at 7:00 AM, and would in all likelihood be driving away by 2:30, 3:00 PM, which is exactly what happened.

It wasn’t that long ago that a trip across the Atlantic or Pacific Ocean was a long, arduous journey with no guarantee or expectation of a safe or timely arrival. Now we routinely do it in a matter of hours. Traveling the breadth of North America was a gamble with one’s life 150 years ago. That’s done today without a second thought.

Many of the advancements in technology that we enjoy today got their start in military applications. In WWI, in order to observe the troop movements of the opposing forces, they used small propeller driven planes to fly over enemy territory, then report back as to what they had observed. Presently, anyone with access to the internet can bring up a picture of nearly any location on Earth. The militaries around the world can view things in real time, and at a level of detail that is astonishing, and more than a little frightening.

I remember my old man being stunned and bewildered in the early 1990s as he watched the Persian Gulf War unfold in front of his eyes on the television. Smart bombs and cruise missiles launched from more than 100 miles away were finding their targets with near surgical precision. Being an airborne infantryman in WWII, his experience of landing in an engineless, plywood and canvas glider during the heat of battle was far from what he was watching on the TV screen. He sat there and said, “They sure don’t fight wars the way they used to!” The military tech of 35 years ago is ancient compared to what we see happening today, and that’s just the stuff they let us see!

Again, all of the things I’ve mentioned above are but a mere speck on the overall scope of advancements we’ve made in our technology, and we have no idea of what’s to come. The whole Artificial Intelligence thing is an area that even the experts in the field admit to not having a firm grasp on. Let’s just hope and pray those Terminator movies weren’t being prophetic.

It’s undeniable that the technologies of the world continue to advance and accelerate with mind boggling speed, and will likely continue to do so. A deeper question persists: Have we advanced on a human level? I often wonder if we’re doing any better as a society and a species. Are we any kinder, caring, or more understanding?

Have the modern advancements and conveniences helped us, or they moved us backwards? Does having a calculator in our pockets make us better at math, or does that diminish our basic skills? Will the GPS strengthen our ability to get to where we want to go, or will it erase our ability to remember directions and follow landmarks? If everything is done for us, how will we acquire and retain the capability to do anything for ourselves?

If we’re to believe that humans are more enlightened than ever before in history, why are we still squabbling over the control of territory and power? Why are most of the major, impactful decisions that our governments and world leaders make based on what’s profitable rather than what’s proper? Is it truly considered progress to be able to feed more people, even though the food we’re producing is absent of nutrition, and filled with harmful chemicals? Is it really better to be able to kill and destroy people and places with drones from further and further away as opposed to full frontal assaults at close quarters?

If you’re wondering why the last section comprises mostly questions, it’s because I don’t have the answers. To be sure, I have my suspicions, based mainly on my own observations. Sometimes, however, I find it more helpful to simply ask myself the question, then ponder as many possibilities as I can come up with.

I got one last question. Are we really an advanced society, or do we simply adhere to the basis animal instincts that have fueled our survival over the millennia?

“Everyone talks about the weather, but no one does anything about it.”

– Charles Dudley Warner

For as long as I can recall, this clever, oft-quoted statement has been attributed to Mark Twain. That’s entirely understandable, as it seems and sounds like something he would have said. I read somewhere many years back that Mr. Twain actually stole, borrowed, or otherwise acquired this nugget from his neighbor, which is also easily believable. As it turns out, this is most likely true, as Mr. Warner, an editor for the Hartford Courant in Connecticut during the late 19^th Century, was also a neighbor, friend, and occasional collaborator with one Samuel Clemens, aka, Mark Twain.

As I sit here on the 1^st day of June, tucked away in my little holler in Western PA, I look around at the startling amount of bright green foliage, listen as the songbirds chirp, whistle, and sing out their love songs, and I hear the din of another all-too-familiar occurrence – that of my furnace running.

Certainly there are those who reside in areas where this is common and accepted. Where you decide to make your home is entirely your choice, but this isn’t what I signed up for. I’m not opposed to cooler weather conditions, mind you, I actually like a change in the seasons. But come on – Junuary?!? My garden has been planted, and I’ve been mowing the grass for six weeks already; I should not be thinking about how much heating oil remains in my tank!

I used to take a hardline stance in regard to when I turned the furnace on or off, and I wouldn’t budge on those dates. Mid-October to mid-April – if you were cold outside of those dates, you put on another layer of clothes. Nowadays, I have taken a markedly different approach: if I’m cold, I’m headed to the thermostat. Perhaps this has something to do with my growing older? Nah, that can’t be it.

I’m not writing this essay to complain – not that it would change a thing – and I don’t want to talk about the weather. Rather, I want to talk about talking about the weather – which also won’t change a thing.

Back when I was working in the building trades, we had an electrician that we worked with from time to time. This guy was quite the small talker, and the current state of the weather was a common topic of conversation when he was around. If you’re going to make small talk, the weather is a good place to start; it’s a subject that everyone is impacted by, and therefore an easy way to fill some conversational space. It can be a bit predictable and monotonous, however. “Cold enough for ya?” “It’s not the heat, it’s the humidity.” “If this rain keeps up, we might have to build an ark.” I may be wrong, but I believe it was around this time in my life where I began emitting audible, heavy sighs.

Even more fruitless than mindlessly jabbering about the state of the weather is complaining about it. We’ve all encountered this individual at some point. For them, it’s either too hot, or too cold; too wet, or too dry; too this, or too that. Give it a break, dude! Squawking about atmospheric conditions isn’t going to change a thing, except, perhaps, for how long the rest of us care to be in your presence. If the weather spoils your plans, get another plan. Just don’t cry to me about it!

Over the course of my life, I’ve heard an awful lot of hubbub and ballyhoo about drastic changes in global weather, and how these changes would potentially usher in the end of mankind. In the 1970s, there were grave warnings of a coming ice age, which would admittedly be devastating. I’m not sure what we did to avoid that, but I’m glad those predictions haven’t come to fruition. There’s also been a growing chorus of doom and gloom surrounding a warming of the planet. To be sure, no one believes that vast, uninhabitable swaths of the planet, and drastically rising sea levels would be a good thing. Thankfully, these predictions of global death and destruction seem to be missing their mark as well. Instead, a measurable 20% greening of the planet has come to light. I’m not a climate scientist, but wouldn’t the presence of more trees and plants to eat up carbon dioxide while emitting more oxygen be a positive thing? Eh, what do I know; I’m just a simple minded carpenter.

And then there are all those conspiracy theories about weather manipulation, cloud seeding, and chemtrails. I guess it doesn’t help to quell these theories when governmental entities around the world are openly talking about doing such things. Now I like a good conspiracy theory as much as the next guy, but after many decades of observation, I can’t say that I believe much of anything these days. That being said, nothing would surprise me at this point. It could be revealed that the leaders of the free world were all holograms, or that an expansive, advanced civilization of aliens exists in the darkest depths of our oceans, and I wouldn’t be all that shocked. Heck, the pope could call a press conference, and peel off a mask revealing his true, lizard-person features underneath, and I would be like, “Hmm, didn’t see that coming. What’s for dinner?”

Getting back to talking about the weather, it’s obviously not what it used to be. Perhaps my memories are a little fuzzy, altered by the passing of years, but I recall the winters of my childhood in Southeast Ohio being colder, snowier, and longer lasting. At this point in life, I would be lying if I said I missed that.

It feels to me like this giant rock on which we live is itself a living organism. Kind of like a big, blue dog, and we are the ticks and fleas that make our home on its back and belly. The Earth is going to do what it has to do to shield itself from the harsh environment of the galaxy, at least as far as its capabilities will allow. The landscape is forever changing, as is the weather, along with all the flora and fauna that call it home. The one thing that never changes is the fact that everything changes.

None of these things detract from the main point of this writing – it’s freakin’ June and my furnace is running!

Sometimes you have to intentionally redirect your focus. Perhaps the darkness of the clouds obscures the light more than you prefer, or the long list of everyday responsibilities appears more arduous than usual. Occasionally, the weight of life becomes a little more than you’re willing to carry, and a simple change of focus is all that’s needed to get your mind right.

As I sit here at this point in time, I find myself in need of a slight course adjustment, if you will; a redirection of my focus. It’s not that I’m in a particularly dark place, I just need a different set of lenses to peer through for a moment. With that being said, I thought I’d share a short collection of things that tend to bring a smile to my face.

SMILES

Seems like the obvious place to start, right? We all know how contagious a smile can be, and I am 100% in favor of spreading that contagion whenever and wherever possible. I don’t know the science behind this phenomenon, but I’m always happy to run the experiment. It doesn’t take much to alter someone’s day with a genuine smile. When I receive a smile in exchange for one I have given, it makes me smile that much more. Just like compounding interest, it implements exponential growth. Keep smiling!

LAUGHTER

Along the same vein as a smile, laughter has great potential to cause a sudden and uncontrolled outbreak of more laughter. You can easily find countless internet videos that bear this out. Whether a stranger on a bus or subway car starts laughing aloud at something, which then spurs the strangers around them to react in kind, or those outtake videos from well-known movies and TV shows where the actors can’t get through their lines due to a fit of the giggles; it’s nearly impossible to proceed with a straight face.

There was a French TV show that brought together a group of people who each exhibited a very unique and unusual laugh. Within moments, the entire panel of guests, the crew, and the studio audience had tears of laughter streaming down their faces. Check out the link, and see how long you can last without a chuckle of your own.

We’ve all heard that laughter’s the best medicine, but you need not be ill or infirmed in order to appreciate that particular drug.

CHILDREN

The sound of children laughing never fails to bring a smile to my face, though it doesn’t end there. The innocence and wisdom that comes from the mind of a child is a treasure that is far-too-often overlooked. They’re living in a world that we as adults have put behind us, and not considered for many years. Kids see things from a unique perspective of curiosity and awe, and if you let yourself tap into that, they’ll take you on an amazing journey through a landscape that you have all but forgotten has ever existed.

Children haven’t yet been polluted with the things that adults continually waste time and energy on. We like to think we’re enlightened enough to have the answers, and are far too wise to squander our time and efforts on the silly minutia that fill the day of a child. Every time I observe small children at play, I wonder who are the more enlightened ones – them or us.

DOGS

It’s no secret that I love dogs. If you’ve never had a close, personal relationship with a dog, your life is, in my opinion, less than complete. The same can be said for cats, or any other animal that one might invite to share their life. Every critter has its own unique personality, and each one will act and interact in their own special way.

I’m sure there are people who form strong bonds with snakes, turtles, birds, fish, and other creatures that may be kept as pets, but for me it’s mammals, particularly dogs and cats. Yes, I’m that guy who tells a stranger’s dog Hello! while walking down the street, and I can barely restrain myself from petting pups and kitties while out and about. The mere act of observing animals – domesticated or in the wild – as they play and frolic with one another is enough to add a couple of smile-induced wrinkles to my face. Well earned, I would say.

NATURE

The beauty of nature that’s all around us, regardless of whether we live in a large urban area, or out in the boonies, is a great source of wonder and happiness, assuming we open our senses to it. The way big, puffy clouds transform and morph as they move across our little chunk of sky; the annual cycle of bud and bloom to discoloration and defoliation, and ultimate hibernation of perennial plants and trees; the sound of a crick or stream as it makes its way to larger and larger tributaries, all on their path to the oceans of the world; the grandeur of the sunrise and sunset as our little, blue orb spins within the rays of our nearest star; the breathtaking sight of countless galaxies in the dark, night sky – these are just a few of the things in our natural world that bring me peace, joy, and a smile to my face.

PEOPLE

This one can be difficult, especially if you’re in the habit of seeing the worst in people. Yes, I’ll concede that there are some nasty folks out there – some downright evil – but I refuse to focus on the worst of our species. I prefer to pay attention to the more positive tendencies that humans are capable of, and display more often than the news would have us believe.

My faith in humankind is often buoyed by the sight of people doing the right thing, and/or helping others. There are innumerable accounts of people who risk their own safety and well-being in order to help others in need. To them I say, “Bravo!” Truth be told, you need not go to such great lengths in order to make the world a better place. Simple things such as being friendly and kind to a neighbor, or gifting a lonely person with a short visit, might not make a huge impact on your daily routine, but it can pay huge dividends to them. Making room to let someone into or out of traffic is something anyone can do if they so choose, or holding a door open as you go in and out, are also the sort of things that may seem insignificant on the surface, but you can’t know the effect those gestures have on your fellows. And how about the simplest way of all to improve the world around us – smile.

This is a short list of things that change my world for the better. What are some of the things that make you smile?

As we go throughout our lives, we become familiar with and connected to things, places, and people who, from our points of view, have been a constant presence. When friends and family members who have been a part of your life for as long as you can recall eventually die, it’s understandably difficult to accept. They’ve always been there, and now, nothing but a series of memories.

The same can be said for objects and places. For example, old oak tree in the back yard where your dad hung the tire swing; things weren’t the same after the big storm blew it down. The same goes for that favorite restaurant or club after they’ve closed. Perhaps, upon visiting the old neighborhood, you discover that your childhood home had been torn down to make room for a new highway or retail center. And when the old church where you attended worship services with your family is closed, de-sanctified, and turned into a restaurant or a residence, it’s often hard to comprehend. Perhaps generations of your family were baptized, married, or received their last rites there. It had been a constant fixture as long as you can remember, but now ‘tis no more.

The twin towers of the World Trade Center were scarcely even a thought prior to the 1960s, but they were so much a part of the New York City landscape, it seemed as though they were always there. If you were born after their construction, for you, they were always there. Until they weren’t.

Other iconic structures have been present for far greater periods of time. The construction of the magnificent and historic cathedral, Notre-Dame de Paris, began in the mid-12^th century, and took nearly a century to complete. It survived the French Revolution, and two world wars, yet was nearly burned to the ground in 2019. I’ve never been there, nor do I have any personal connection to that grand cathedral, but I remember experiencing a great sadness when I saw news of the fire. It likely has something to do with my career as a builder, and my affinity for such breathtaking, historic sites.

Through tremendous efforts, the cathedral was reopened in the latter months of 2024 – a feat that is, in my opinion, nothing short of remarkable. That particular landmark has stood fast through many generations, yet it was very nearly lost to the ashes of history.

This difficult truth doesn’t just apply to man-made structures, as there’s no guarantee of immortality for features in nature either. The Old Man of the Mountain, an iconic, natural rock formation that stood for millennia in New Hampshire, succumbed to the forces of nature and gravity when it crumbled to the ground in May of 2003.

This famous Great Stone Face gazed out over the landscape from 1200 feet above, and was recognized and revered by the indigenous peoples of the region as well as the European settlers that came well after them. It has become synonymous with the state of New Hampshire, and memorialized on everything from medals, mugs, and t-shirts, to stamps, coins, and license plates.

After the effects of erosion became impossible to ignore in the early 20^th century, considerable efforts were made to shore up this cherished geological pareidolia. In all likelihood, these efforts prolonged the life of the Old Man by several decades, but eventually, nature was not to be denied. Down he came, much to the dismay of those who had a connection to him. He had, it seemed, always been there, though in reality, had been formed by receding glaciers thousands of years ago.

I was recently running some errands, one of which was grocery shopping, and came to the realization that I was more than a little hungry. I know better than to go grocery shopping with an empty tummy, so I looked around for somewhere to grab a bite. Even though there are some wonderful restaurants to choose from in the area, I really wasn’t in the mood to go to any of my usual favorites. Realizing that I hadn’t had any sushi in quite a while, I ventured to the Japanese steak house at the local shopping mall.

As I walked to my car with a belly full of delicious sushi, I decided to go back into the mall proper to have a look around. It had been a long time since I last visited this once bustling center of commerce, and the few times I did, I was taken aback at the growing number of empty retail spaces. This time it was downright shocking!

The question that kept running through my head was, “How does this place even stay open?!?” When I say empty, I mean M-T! Sure, there are still a few anchor stores, though one of those had been replaced with a giant storage facility, and another with a farming supply store. I didn’t do any actual counting, but it appeared that 95% of the smaller retail spaces and kiosks were vacant. Gone were the crowds, the families, and the rambunctious teenagers. Even the fountains were dry.

No, this facility hadn’t always been there. Prior to the beginning of construction in the mid-1960s, it was a golf course in the middle of a rural, farm-centric township. After its opening around 1970, it became the focal point for retail, entertainment, and community gathering. During its heyday, it hosted 100,000 shoppers per week.

I don’t remember those days, as I was still running around through the woods of Southeastern Ohio back then. I do recall how busy it was when I moved up the Ohio River to Western PA in the mid-80s. Restaurants, movie theaters, arcades, and of course, lots of options for shopping for practically anything you might want or need. And good luck finding a parking space during the Christmas shopping season!

Shopping malls, once the latest, greatest offering in retail, were largely responsible for the death of downtowns across the country. And now I suppose it’s the mall’s turn. I wrote about that in my essay, Downtown, April 8, 2024. Feel free to read it here:

For those who grew up in the golden age of the shopping mall, it must be a bit of a shock to see them going the way of the Dodo bird. Though I didn’t come of age in the era of the shopping mall, I did spend quite a bit of time within the halls of a massive retail facility much like the one I’ve described. It may not have always been there, but it sure seemed like it had been.

Though our lifespans encompass no more than a blip in history, that relatively minute chunk of time represents our entire lives. To us, that’s everything. In spite of that reality, unless we do something that gets us recorded in history books, we’ll be all but forgotten within 100 years of our own passing. I’m not trying to ruin your day; it’s simply reality.

Coming to terms with the fact that everything in our world is finite, up to and including this rock on which we fly around the Milky Way galaxy, has actually brought me a great amount of peace. It’s a not-so-subtle reminder that, in the grand scheme, people, places, and things come and go with regularity, so make the most of the experiences at hand, and keep your priorities in order.

And instead of pining for what was, relish what is while you still can.

It’s the height of springtime here in Western PA. As I sit on my porch steps, enjoying the freshly brewed coffee in my cup, I remain silent in my thoughts. The only stimulation I allow in my world at this moment are the sight of the crystal clear, blue sky, the scent of the grass – which I can almost watch as it grows – and the sounds of the songbirds, along with the burbling of the crick as it makes its way to the Ohio River. And what are my thoughts focused on? My mother.

Regardless of how you might feel about Mother’s Day – some folks consider it just another made-up occasion to sell more greeting cards – it does offer a chance to remember and honor our mothers and all they do for us.

Not everyone has had their mother present in their lives, and sadly, there are those who would have been better off if they hadn’t. I am extremely blessed to not be among that unfortunate group of people.

The youngest of three daughters born to Polish immigrants, Mom entered this world in the small coal mining town of Maynard, Ohio, just a couple miles upstream from the town in which my father was born. A handful of years later, my grandpap moved his family to a small farm he purchased nestled in the hills of Belmont County; a place known as Mutton Hollow. Like my dad, also born in 1923, she endured the hardships and tribulations of the great depression, walked a couple miles to school every day (it wasn’t uphill both ways, but it did consist of a significant elevation change …), and eventually quit school in order to help her family.

She and Dad got married in 1947, after the world had settled down following WWII. During the war, while the old man was doing his part in the Airborne Infinity in the European Theater of Operations, Mom worked in a textile mill in Ohio. After they married, she devoted her life to raising her family – I was the youngest of four eventual children – and volunteering around the community. She selflessly donated her time to the Catholic Women’s Club, the Women’s Auxiliary of the VFD, the Girl Scouts as a Brownie leader, and performed a fair amount of work as a seamstress from our home. These are just the things I recall, as there were likely many other groups that she worked with.

Being the youngest, I was the baby of the family, and had a very close connection to my mother. I would often help her around the house, doing chores, helping in the garden, and being a good assistant in the kitchen. (That typically entailed licking the mixing bowl when she was baking a cake.)

On one occasion – I was probably three years old - as I was playing on the swing set in our yard, Mom was headed to the garden, and beckoned me to accompany her to help. I jumped off the swing, and walked with her to our vegetable garden on the back edge of the property. Around the same time, the next-door neighbor, Albert, had left his car running as he walked back into his house. His car popped into gear, and proceeded to make its way into our yard, completely crushing the swing set I had just been playing on, then headed down through our front yard, over the hedges and across the street, before coming to rest on another neighbor’s front porch. I don’t know if it was serendipity, a mother’s intuition, or the great relationship she had with the man upstairs, but that could have ended much differently. I never complained about working in the garden after that day.

I have many smile-inducing memories of my mother, who passed on in 2002. The love that she poured into everything she did for her family was clearly apparent.

When we still heated the house with the old behemoth of a coal furnace, it was quite chilly upon waking up during the winter months, at least until someone went into the basement to stoke the coals. Since the old man worked a swing shift, he wasn’t always home when we were getting ready to walk to the bus stop to catch the school bus. Mom would turn on the electric oven, and open the oven door to warm up the kitchen as we prepared to walk out into the cold, winter air.

Every school day, I could count on a brown bag lunch to take with me, complete with a sandwich, piece of fruit, and a small snack cake. Oftentimes, I would find a little love note in my sack of goodies.

As I’ve mentioned, she did a lot of sewing. In addition to making most of her own clothes, she would patch and repair our clothes in order to stretch the life span of these items. As a teenager, I had one pair of denim shorts that I swear was more patches and thread than original denim. It wasn’t that I didn’t have other things to wear, I just didn’t want to let go of this particular pair of shorts. She also made all of the costumes needed for the grade school plays that I was cast in. You may or may not be surprised to learn that I was often in the lead role of these productions. (I guess the performing bug bit me at an early age.)

She ran a pretty tight ship in those days. If we were lollygagging in front of the TV past 10:00 AM on a Saturday, Mom wasn’t shy about chasing us out of the house, declaring, “If you want to stay inside, I’ll happily put you to work!” She didn’t have to tell me twice. With Dad grinding away for his paltry paycheck, Mom was the authority figure in the home, meting out the punishment when we inevitably got out of line. If things were passed up the line to the old man, you knew you had done messed up.

My mother was silent in her strength, and strong in her silence. She possessed patience where many could or would not. She endured every difficulty that came her way, including the pain and struggles that were often created by us, not excluding the old man. And she hurt right alongside each of her children with every scraped knee, burned finger, or broken bone. When I was in the 6^th grade, I was pushed from behind in gym class, and broke one of my front teeth on the gymnasium floor. When I got home after school, I smiled at her, and she immediately began to cry. I felt worse about that than my own broken tooth.

I don’t recall ever hearing my mother cuss or swear. In fact, we all did our best to curtail that sort of behavior in her presence. I only remember my dad dropping the f-bomb in front of her twice, and both times it was directed at me. (He did swear in his sleep when he had a few drinks in him, but I’m not counting that.)

And speaking of drinking, she didn’t do much of that either, though the old man more than made up for it. On special occasions, such as wedding receptions, she might have a highball, usually Seagram’s 7 and 7UP, but it was often sent back to have more pop added. (Pop is soda where I come from.)

Like most folks back then, she was always happy to bring a covered dish to those events. I recall at one wedding reception, someone wound up using one of her metal baking pans to bang together during the bridal dance, destroying it in the process. Needless to say, she was far from delighted about that. Her cooking – which was fabulous – consisted, for the most part, of Eastern European comfort food. I retained a few of her recipes, though I wish I had paid more attention to her secrets back then.

I wrote a song about my mother, which is included on my album, Just Me and My Friend(s), released in 2022. The song, Highball and a Covered Dish, is a fan favorite in regions that were populated by the same cultures of Eastern Europe.

This amazing woman dealt with a long list of health issues in her later years, and struggled mightily with not being able to care for herself, much less her family. The last several years of her life were quite difficult for her, though she rarely complained. She and my dad sacrificed so much for us kids, and did so willingly.

We all took turns sitting with her while she was in hospice care. She wasn’t very communicative during those last days, but there was still a quiet interaction between Mom and her family members. During one of my visits, as she lay quietly in her hospital bed, I attempted to apologize for the grief I had surely caused her over the years. She scowled, and dismissively waved her hand as if to say I was being foolish. On another occasion, I had flipped on the TV, and was half-watching an old comedy. Something on the screen caused me to laugh out loud. Concerned that I might have disturbed her rest, I turned to see her with a big, bright smile on her face. She was barely able to respond to my words, but the sound of my laughter brought her a moment of joy. That’s the sort of person my mother was – obtaining joy from the enjoyment of her loved ones. That’s how I will always remember her.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom, I miss you!

I recently embarked on a sojourn that added about 3100 miles to my minivan’s odometer, but was well worth the time spent behind the wheel. After a brief visit at the Hohner/KHS offices in Nashville, I proceeded to Clarksdale, MS for the annual Juke Joint Festival – highly recommended, by the way – after which I spent time working on my new recording project, which will be available sometime this summer. If you’re a music fan, and have never been to Clarksdale, do yourself a favor, and spend some time there.

Then it was off to Southern Oklahoma to spend some time with family. Quiet and laid back are two qualities that I appreciate, so that part of the trip was quite valuable to me, never mind the fulfillment that comes from spending time with the family I dearly love.

I was thrilled to be invited to take part in the Camp Street Blues Festival in Crockett, TX, which is a gem of a little town somewhere betwixt Houston and Dallas. Like Clarksdale, Crockett has a deep and rich history in the Blues world. Sam “Lightning” Hopkins made his home there, and the town was a popular place for traveling Blues musicians to do gigs and spend the night as they made their way from one town to the next.

I was asked to teach a Harmonica seminar, which is something I truly enjoy doing. Teaching people the ins and outs (pun intended) of the humble diatonic Harmonica, as well as a little about the history of the instrument, brings me immense joy, so I welcome the opportunity whenever it arises. Later in the day, I performed a duo set with my buddy, Hash Brown; a great player out of Dallas. After filling my belly with some delicious Texas brisket, it was back to Hugo, OK for the night. The next morning, I turned the old minivan towards home.

The 1150 or so miles between my in-laws’ home and my place nestled in the holler here in Western PA is not a one-day trip for me, so I typically break it up into a two day drive. Getting a bit of a late start, I had a room reserved in Terre Haute, IN, which left a very doable drive for the following day. It was late Sunday night, and I was about 45 minutes from my hotel room when things suddenly went sideways for me.

There I was, cruising along I-70 in the right lane, thinking about the comfy bed that awaited me, when a semi-truck started pacing me in the passing lane to my left, flashing his lights once or twice. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what this guy’s problem was, and as I found myself in his potential blind spot, I suddenly felt like Dennis Weaver in the 1971 classic, made-for-TV movie, Duel. (One of Spielberg’s first forays into directing – check it out.) A tad annoyed, I sped up to put some distance between us. A couple miles later, and the warning lights on my dashboard alerted me to the fact that my vehicle was overheating. Crap! This trucker wasn’t harassing me, he was trying to tell me that I was losing coolant. Doh!

I limped on down the Interstate to the next exit at Greenup, Illinois, and was welcomed by the giant yellow sign of a Love’s truck stop. After parking, a quick peek under the hood revealed the precious fluid leaking from the side of the engine. Back in the day, there was plenty of room to see all around the engine compartment of your vehicle. These days, not so much. It was clear there was coolant leaking, though I couldn’t tell from where.

I contacted my wife, and asked her to cancel my hotel reservation in Indiana, then began the Internet search for a mechanic, as well as a place to stay for the night. Thankfully, there was a motel right across the street, and a local mechanic about a mile away, though it wasn’t going to open until 8:00 AM. Yes, Loves has a 24 hour mechanic service, but they only cater to tractor trailers and large commercial vehicles. The friendly lady at the register called back to the shop, and the mechanic said he would at least come take a look to see if he could determine the issue.

While I waited, I did a little online research. All signs pointed to a failure of the water pump, which according to my search, was likely going to set me back a few bucks, assuming the shop could get to it anytime soon. When the truck mechanic eventually made it up to where I was parked, he confirmed the Internet diagnosis.

By then, the engine was completely cooled off, so I drove across the street, and got checked into the Budget Host Inn. It’s been quite some time since I checked into a lodging establishment, and was handed an actual key for the door. Now this place was not the Taj Mahal, but it was clean, relatively quiet, affordable, and the proprietors were very friendly. I settled in for the night, and tried to get some sleep.

I pulled into Greenup Automotive about a quarter to eight, hopeful, but skeptical as to whether or not they would be able to get me back on the road in a timely manner. The friendly lady behind the desk greeted me, and asked me what I needed. After recording all of my pertinent information, she instructed me to have a seat, then pointed me in the direction of the complimentary coffee and water.

After about an hour or so, the mechanic invited me to follow him into the shop to show me what my car was needing. As suspected, the water pump had given up the ghost. He suggested replacing the thermostat and the serpentine belt while he was in there, something I had figured on. Then he pointed out that my radiator had been leaking for some time, and while it would probably be fine until after I got back home, it would be needing attention soon. Unlike the days of yore, when automobile radiators were made of copper and brass, the tanks on this one were constructed of plastic. That meant a repair was not an option – time for a new one. Upon my inquiry about how long all this work would take, the friendly mechanic told me that if he could get all of the necessary parts, he should be able to have everything done by the end of the workday. Again, hopeful, but skeptical.

After returning to the front office, I was half afraid to look at the estimate, considering the addition of the radiator replacement. Much to my pleasant surprise, the projected cost was considerably lower than the Internet had predicted, so I had them forge ahead with the work. The only thing left to do was wait.

I walked the mile back to the motel to return the key. When I left for the auto shop earlier that morning, they kindly told me to hold onto it in the event I would be staying another night. Brimming with hope and optimism, I returned the key, and thanked them for their hospitality. Then it was back across the street to fetch some coffee at Loves, and kill some time, which I did by calling some friends to chat.

I hadn’t had anything to eat since I left Hugo the previous day, so I needed to get some food in my belly. The gal at the shop had mentioned an establishment in town called Chances R – which, I’m sorry to say, is not a Johnny Mathis-themed bar; it’s actually a very cool sports bar with great food. The friendly staff greeted me, and got me set up with a menu and a comfy place to sit. They said that people seemed to like their pizza, so I ordered a thin-crusted, 12” pie. I have no shame in telling you that I devoured the entire thing after they placed it in front of me. If you’re ever traveling I-70 through Eastern Illinois, and fancy a great pizza, now you know where to get one.

With a full belly, and several hours to kill, I wandered around exploring this friendly little Midwestern town. Being that it was Monday, many of the interesting little shops were closed. A couple miles out of town, there sits an historic covered bridge, so that’s where I headed. The weather was beautiful that day, which made my unscheduled visit much more enjoyable than it would have been had it been cold and raining.

I spent a fair amount of time in and around that landmark, marveling at the workmanship clearly evident in the structure of the bridge. And I learned a few things while reading some of the magic marker inscriptions left by the local youth. Apparently, Billy really does love Gina, and Theresa, Kim, and Lori visited there on august 7^th, though it didn’t say which year. There were some not-so-pleasant messages as well, but I’ll spare you those.

Unable to resist the siren’s song of the babbling brook below, I made my way through the woods, and down to the edge of the water. If I had a chair with me, I could have caught a welcome nap right then and there.

A quick glance at my watch – yes, I still wear a watch – reveled that it was probably a good idea to start making my way back to the repair shop. I spent the remaining time having a few more phone conversations, and chatting with the friendly young woman behind the desk. Even though Jess and I were from different generations, lived in different parts of the country, and had vastly different life experiences, we shared some of the same priorities, concerns, and struggles. I find that to be true with many folks that I meet in my travels.

I’m happy to report that, not only did the good folks at Greenup Auto Service get me back on the road that day, they stayed past quitting time in order to make it happen. To show my appreciation, I gave Jess and the mechanic each a copy of my latest CD, and thanked them for their efforts. It took me another eight hours to get home, but I was more than happy to lay my head down on my own pillow when I finally did.

This whole ordeal could have been so much worse. I could have been stranded at night on the shoulder of the Interstate miles from an exit. It might have been cold and raining. The impairment of my vehicle could have been more extensive, and the repairs much more costly. I might have found myself at the mercy of an unscrupulous mechanic. Maybe even had to sleep in my car. My wife made it a point to remind me of all these possibilities. (There she goes again; ruining a perfectly dark mood with all her positivity …)

As it happened, I found myself in a busy, well-lit area with a clean place to sleep, a great place to eat, and a reputable and knowledgeable mechanic, all within walking distance. I was given an opportunity to explore a great little town that, up to that point, I didn’t know existed. And I was gifted the chance to interact with some fellow human beings, each and every one of them friendly and helpful. It may have cost me 20 hours of my time, and more money than I had planned on spending, but I can’t really complain.

You’ve probably noticed that everyone I’ve mentioned in this story is described as friendly, and that’s because they genuinely were. I’m acutely aware that not everyone in this world is friendly or helpful, and many are just downright cold, or even possessing nefarious intentions. That is precisely why I wanted to give a shout out to the folks in Greenup, Illinois who made what could have been a bad situation not bad at all.

In the case of gambling entities, the lion’s share of probability lies with the house. If there is such a thing as a safe bet, it’s that the house will always come out in the black. Why else would gambling licenses be so fiercely sought after and fought over? Still, the mere possibility, no matter how miniscule, will continue to lead hard working folks to part with their hard earned assets in hopes that a windfall will come their way.

Many years ago, during the economic downturn of the early 1980s, I worked briefly at Wheeling Downs – a greyhound dog racing track on Wheeling Island. Since that time, the facility has expanded into a full-service gambling enterprise complete with table games, slot machines, and of course, more dog racing.

The position I held was known as a Lead Out. Our job was to prepare the dogs scheduled to run in any given race. And what, you may ask, does that entail? It started with retrieving your assigned doggo from its crate, where it had been placed minutes earlier by the trainer or trainer’s assistant. We would weigh the dogs, adorn them with their racing blanket and muzzle, walk them around the piss ring – basically a large sand box – in order to hopefully capture a urine sample in a small foam cup. Since gambling facilities are state regulated, any animal finishing a race 1^st through 4^th would have to be tested for performance enhancing drugs. Then we would stand on display in the paddock to allow for the bettors to view the animals through large glass windows before they placed their wagers. There were two crews that handled these duties. While one crew did the prep work, the other crew would be facilitating their race out on the track.

It was honestly the easiest job I’ve ever had. And even though my stint working at Wheeling Downs only lasted a matter of months, I was able to gain some valuable tutelage from my experience there. As mentioned, the paddock was not accessible to the bettors, but all of the glass allowed for unobstructed views for those who wished to have a closer look at the individual canines they were about to wager on. From my point of view back there in the paddock, I had ample opportunity to observe the folks who were staring through the glass.

There was one man I recall seeing on the other side of the glass at just about every race I worked. He was always there, intently analyzing those magnificent animals, hoping beyond hope that one of them would provide a significant payout, and more notably, never smiling. I often wondered what all he had sacrificed in order to accommodate his obvious gambling obsession. While it was possible his life was vastly improved by his daily sojourn to the track, in all probability, it was not. The daily sight of that man staring forlornly through the paddock glass cured me of ever wanting to gamble.

The question of possibility vs probability isn’t just present within games of chance, it exists in nearly every facet of life. If I have a 30 minute drive to work, but my shift starts in 20 minutes, I’m probably going to be late, though possibly not. If I write, record, and release an original song, it’s possible that it will be a huge hit and a stunning commercial success, though probably not. Will your cute little house cat kill you in your sleep, and eat your corpse? Probably not, but I certainly wouldn’t rule it out as a possibility. I think you see my point.

One of the areas that this issue came into play for me was during the 40 years I spent in the building trades. There are many regulations and building codes in the industry that are predicated on probabilities vs possibilities, especially in commercial spaces that are accessible by the public. The signing of the Americans with Disabilities Act in 1990 changed the industry, and had to take a narrowly focused view of any potential scenario which may impact the people it intended to protect. Is it probable that someone with physical limitations would be impeded as they attempt to maneuver within a public space? Perhaps not, but it’s certainly possible.

While thoroughly researching these acutely defined rules, it was very clear that a lot of thought had gone into all of the regulations under the ADA. On the surface, a lot of these requirements seemed somewhat silly, perhaps even ridiculous. But in actuality, the seemingly minuscule details to which builders are required to conform all have a well thought out purpose.

I once had a building inspector threaten to fail me on a final inspection of a small office space where I was supervising the build-out. The occupancy permit was at risk of being denied due to the fact that the sink in the restroom was ½” too close to the toilet.

For those unaware, not only do you need a clear five foot turning radius to accommodate a wheelchair in any given space, there are also well defined dimensions for the placement of the fixtures. From the side wall, a toilet must be between 15” and 18” from the wall to the center of the fixture. From that same side wall, there is a required 60” to the next fixture or obstruction, in this case, a small wall-mounted sink, which also must be between 15” and 18” away from the opposite wall. My sink was 15” on center from the nearest side wall, but only 59 ½” from the toilet wall. There was literally no room to move it in order to accommodate these requirements.

The inspector, who was simply doing her job – inspectors get audited by the state, so she couldn’t let me slide without risking her standing as an inspector – suggested I move the wall. Everything was done, painted, and polished, so that was not an option. Luckily, my project manager was able to locate an even smaller sink, which barely met with regulations.

Now I ask, was that discrepancy likely to cause any issues, or otherwise impede someone who was differently abled? In all probability, no. Was it possible? As far as the Americans with Disabilities Act is concerned, yes.

Years later, as the head of the facilities committee at a church we attended at the time, I was installing some new fire extinguishers around the building. Just outside of the sanctuary there was a small nook off the hallway that housed a drinking fountain with a fire extinguisher right next to it. The sexton asked me to mount the new unit further back in the corner, and up high so the kids wouldn’t mess with it. I explained to her that the ADA required it to be accessible, and refused her request. She was adamant, and insisted I mount the fire extinguisher where she wanted it, so I proffered the scenario where a person in a wheelchair was the only one present when a potential fire should break out. She thought that was silly, since the probability of that sequence of events was extremely small. I replied, “That may be so, but can you guarantee that it’s not even remotely possible?” She could not, and acquiesced, pondering that improbable yet completely possible scenario.

I don’t suppose most folks take any time to ponder the probability vs possibility equation. I do, mainly as a result of my personal experiences. It’s now a normal part of my thought processes, and it’s actually been quite helpful as I make my daily decisions. Some might consider that to be over thinking, which I will admit to doing on occasion, but it can be helpful if applied discerningly.

So the next time you find yourself debating a decision, take a moment to ponder the potential outcome, and weigh the probable against the possible.

Easter is arguably the most important celebration on the Christian calendar. Commemorating the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ, it provides ample opportunity to reflect upon not only that unimaginable sacrifice, but how we as believers respond through our words and actions.

As with many widely celebrated holidays, much has been made of the connection between the religious and the pagan traditions of what we know as Easter. The supposed origins of the traditions surrounding holidays such as Easter, Christmas, and even Halloween, have been, and likely will continue to be, intensely debated by many. I won’t be wandering down that path in this essay, however, as I will be the first to admit that I am not an authority on these matters. (I’m not really much of an authority on any subject, now that I think about it …) I’m just taking a stroll through my personal memories of Easter, and you’re more than welcome to tag along if you like.

Buried deep within the upper reaches of the walk-in utility closet, there were four Easter baskets, one for each of the four kids in our house. They may have been brightly colored when they were brand new, but my recollection has the colors somewhat faded. While in their year-long storage in the dark, each basket contained its own plastic bag of fake grass, also faded with age. They weren’t marked in any way, but we knew instinctively which basket was unofficially assigned to each kid.

When the baskets were pulled out of the closet every spring, it was a reason to be excited. Once they were carefully removed from their protective covers – most likely old plastic garment bags from the dry cleaners – it was a sure sign that Easter was upon us. From the once splendidly colored grass emanated a faint bouquet of fragrances; a concoction of wicker, plastic, the mothballs which were ever present in that closet, plus the scent of chocolate from years past. It was our responsibility as kids to unwrap our respective baskets, arrange the plastic grass – usually either blue, green, pink, or purple – then position them in a spot in the living room where the Easter Bunny would have no trouble finding them as he made his rounds.

Once Easter morning had arrived, we then had to search for our baskets before we could inspect the bounty left behind by what was easily the most bizarre rabbit on the planet. I was never certain as to why, but that crazy rabbit would fill our baskets with some of our favorite unhealthy, but gloriously delicious treats, then hide the dang things. For the record, they were always easy enough to locate.

Each of us were thrilled to sort through the windfall of sweet treats nestled in the softness of that fluffy and fragrant plastic grass. You could always count on a large, bunny rabbit, made of solid chocolate. (I learned many years later that the design and mold for that classic Easter confection was created by the good folks at Daffin’s Candies in Sharon, PA.) This was usually the first treat to be sampled, and the ears or the tail were the first parts to be devoured.

In addition to that big ol’ chocolate bunny, there were plenty of other goodies hidden within the basket. As one might expect in a good Catholic home, there was always a small chocolate cross to commemorate the main aspect of the season. Looking back, I’m glad I never found a chocolate Jesus in my Easter basket – that would have been more than a little awkward to consume.

Though white chocolate has never been my favorite, there was always some hidden away in our baskets. These pale little bunnies may not have been eaten first, but rest assured, they did not go to waste. (I might have been picky at the time, but chocolate is chocolate.) Add in a wide variety of treats, mostly presented in an egg or bunny motif, plus the ubiquitous jelly beans, and you can guarantee countless sugar highs and ruined appetites for the weeks that followed.

Being that Easter is first and foremost a religious celebration, church was always a part of the mix. When I was much younger, that meant that Sunday morning was hectic with being made to look presentable in our finest clothes. In my case, getting that frustrating cowlick in my hair to behave was a constant struggle, not to mention the dirt smudges that somehow or another would show up on my young, cherubic face. Mom was always ready with some spit on a hanky for just such an emergency. I have distinct memories of clip-on bowties, shiny patent leather shoes, and my dear Mother trying to keep me from becoming soiled or disheveled as we walked down the street to the church. As I got a little older, we started attending Midnight Mass, which was held at a much later hour, and longer, but it meant that we could sleep in a little on Easter morning. (or snoop around, searching for those hidden baskets before everyone else woke up ...)

In the Catholic tradition, Easter isn’t simply a one day celebration of Christ’s resurrection, it’s an entire season. It begins with Ash Wednesday – Remember, man, that you are dust, and to dust you shall return – which ushers in the season of Lent. As preparation for the glorious celebration of Christ’s resurrection, one would prepare with 40 days of sacrifice, reflection, and repentance. Though the Vatican had eased up on the hardline stance of no meat on Fridays, this dietary restriction stayed in place during Lent. In addition, good Catholics were expected to give something up for the period between Ash Wednesday and Easter. And no, you can’t give up something you don’t like to begin with, it should be a true sacrifice. Try as I might, giving up homework or liver and onions wasn’t going to get me any time off from Purgatory.

As with most holidays, there was always some visiting and socializing happening. Whether to take to someone else’s house, or to serve to visitors at home, Mom would make an Easter Bunny cake. It was almost too pretty to eat, but that sentiment only lasted until the first slice happened. Of course, you wouldn’t even think of getting into that delicious bunny-shaped goodness until we had plenty of ham, potato salad, and deviled eggs. Did I mention the cookies? My Mother baked her amazing cookies for all occasions, and Easter was no exception.

Years have a way of passing by without noticing, but the one thing that remains unchanged is the fact that nothing remains unchanged. Our Lady of Angels, the tiny Catholic church that I grew up in, has long since closed its doors, but the memories persist. I spent about five years as an alter boy at that church, and I can still clearly see the religious icons that were on display in the sanctuary, smell the pungent incense as the smoke lifted toward the vaulted ceilings, and experience the sense of pomp and circumstance that accompanied the Easter related services in which I took part.

The little frame house on Church Street – the address that I called home for the first 24 years of my life – is now occupied by strangers, and all of the familiar names and faces from the old neighborhood have moved on. That leaves me sitting here with my fond remembrances of Easter. Thank you for allowing me to share them with you.

And Happy Easter to you and yours!