My sixth grade teacher was Miss Janet, the first lay teacher of my life.

At my elementary school, Resurrection, the classes were inside an old church, outfitted into a school. The classes were lined up from the entrance doors to what would have been the front of the church. The alter was still there, so for the first time in six years, in order to enter my sixth grade glass, I now needed to step up into the class, symbolic I suppose of our final step before Middle School.

That was a year of firsts for me. First time I needed glasses. First time I wrote an original short story.

And the first time a teacher gave me a gift, in this case a book as a graduation gift. The book was a collection on mythology. Miss Janet signed it Keep Dreaming. I still have that book.

Even all these years later, I recognize that particular school year as an important one, a significant period in my life - before my mother became sick, before the cruelty of my middle school, right at the front end of my not just thinking about reading and writing as a career but actively being encouraged to pursue those fields. Magic.

All that was on my mind this morning as I drove Uma and her friend, Daniella, to their first day of sixth grade. There are some differences. She started Middle School, technically, in fifth grade. She’s had lay teachers all her life.

But as I listened to them chatting in the back seat, I could hear both their anxiety and their excitement. Sixth grade feels… different. Like taking that step up to get into my new classroom all those years ago. They are no longer the babies. They can start walking home on their own.

Did we prepare her? Is she ready? What sort of life tests will this year bring?

Am I ready?

We’ll see. In the meantime, we take another step, on another day, with another mission, and we see where this one goes.

We pull up in front of the school and the girls pile out of the car, gabbing and grabbing stuff as they go.

“Ladies,” I call out to them, “watch out for each other. Be safe. Have a fantastic first day. I love you!”

They laugh and smile and the door shuts, and I drive off. Sixth grade begins for all of us.

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Today, at the library, a patron brought us ice teas from Dunks! And then, about an hour later, another patron brought us homeland chocolate chip cookies. Later in the evening, our Book Club let us eat their leftover fruits cups and cupcakes!

I must admit that with this much comfort food giving going on, my first thought was why is everyone feeling sorry for us! But nope, just kindness.

And since we’re not elected officials, we are - generally - more than pleased to accept such generosity!

Financial donations, of course, are something else entirely. I wouldn’t want any member of the community to write me - personally - a check and would encourage them to make THAT donation go toward some aspect of the library like the expansion fund, or event fund.

But cookies? Well, those can’t deposited anyplace except our stomachs.

After that happy day of culinary giving, it occurred to me that we - as a staff - actually benefit (not often, but more than occasionally) from patrons bringing us food. Sometimes it’s little things like a candy bar or coffee, but other times, well… let’s just say that once, somebody brought in a whole tray of brownies.

Maybe some of it has to do with the fact that we also OFFER food to the community, in the form of coffee or tea, snacks and lollipops. In fact, when we held a recent open house about our plans for an expansion, the one thing that the community wanted to see the most was a snack and coffee bar/cafe.

At first blush, this may seem antithetical to the organizational purpose of a library, but not really, at least not any more.

New Librarianship in a digital world requires something above and beyond simple dusty book-shelves. We are a place to center. To meet friends. To sit in a comfortable chair and take a deep breath.

I should get a sign that says this and post it above our entrance because it’s worth repeating over and over, but:

You do not need to check out a book, or even want to read, to use and be comfortable and find value in our library.

Repeat that again.

And what’s more comforting than homemade chocolate chip cookies? That’s way up there in the hierarchy of leading a meaningful existence isn’t it?

So we’ll take the food offerings as a compliment, the highest compliment in fact. Think about what it means to give someone a cupcake. That’s no small or insignificant moment; it never is.

A library can be that place: a warm kitchen, a comfy island surrounded by choppy seas.

Anyway, high blood pressure and cholesterol aside, if you bring it, then we’ll gratefully eat it. Because it comes from the heart.

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Both myself and my daughter are a little startled when Plush bassist Ashley Suppa leans over the backstage meet and greet table, points to her patch work bass and says, “Uma, do you want to try it?”

Uma looks at me. I just shrug. “Your interview,” I say. “Go for it.”

We are at the Plush VIP meet and greet at the Capital Center Music Hall in Harrisburg, PA. A small group of us have already been given a private acoustic performance by the band of an unreleased song from their upcoming album, “Mass Hysteria,” which is scheduled for release on Sept. 18.

Ashley comes around and pulls up a short stool, and instructs Uma to put one leg on the stool to prop up the bass. She then brings the bass over and shows Uma how to hold it and pluck the strings. She helps her with finger placement and chats a bit.

The kid is all smiles. Heck, who wouldn’t be getting a one on one lesson from Ashley!

This is our second day following the band. Yesterday, an extended power outage delayed their show for about an hour in Fallston, Maryland. But Uma and the band all got to meet up in the parking lot to say hi and exchange hugs and bead charms Uma had made for them all.

So when we came in today, the band greeted Uma like a little sister, all enthusiasm and smiles.

The VIP line has all had their turn and Uma and the three members of Plush - Ashley Suppa (bass), Faith Powell (drums) and Moriah Formica (lead vocals and guitar) - get comfortable. Several members of the crew and even some VIP fans gather on the outskirts to listen in.

This would be Uma’s first face to face interview and she wanted to be sure to remember her questions. So, weeks earlier, she had written them down and I typed them up on a interview sheet for her, but for the most part she doesn’t need much help. She glances a few times at the sheet but asks the questions as she likes, in her own voice. I turn my recorder app on and place my phone between Uma and the band, and the interview you’ll read below is (for the most part) word for word, in Uma’s and the band’s voice.

I step back out of the way, and Uma begins…

~ We hope you enjoyed this excerpt from the larger story and interview that Uma conducted with Plush while we followed the band for a few shows. The full story and interview is posted at Uma’s own music newsletter, Interviews By Uma. Uma is beginning to gather her own music loving subscribers over there, and quite a list of musicians and bands who have been interviewed. We’d love for you to click the link below, sign up and share and subscribe.

INTERVIEWS BY UMA

An 11-year-old little rocker's personal site for interviews with bands, musicians, artists and writers!

By Dan Szczesny

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At some point, I discover that you’ve taken my phone and have left me a series of self-portraits. You sticking your tongue out at me. You grinning like a maniac. You tweaking your nose.

I have no clue when this happened. My phone has never been missing. Maybe you did that when I had handed it to you to listen to a music video. Maybe I had left it in the living room and you grabbed the opportunity.

But I’ll leave them there of course, because in those weirdest moments, I’m aware that you care. Or at least you think you can amuse me/surprise me. And you’re right of course. I suppose I just like knowing that you think about me.

That reminds me of the reels your mother sends me about food, or travel, or how to take better care of myself.

I’ll take being thought of any day, every day, no matter if it’s just you making funny faces.

I was going to post one of those pictures you took here today. But you know what? I’m not going to. I’m going to be selfish. You took them for me, and I’m going to cherish them for myself.

Instead, just a reminder to stay a little strange, stay yourself and always take an opportunity to make a funny face.

Coming tomorrow: Big, big day tomorrow! Uma’s first face to face music interview will drop over at her music site, Interviews By Uma. This came out of our trip last week down to Maryland and Pennsylvania following Major Moment and Plush. We’d LOVE for you all to give that site a follow and subscribe. We’ll post a couple highlights of the interview here, but if you want the whole thing, that’s where we’re going to drop it! See you tomorrow, we can’t wait! Click here to sign up:

INTERVIEWS BY UMA

An 11-year-old little rocker's personal site for interviews with bands, musicians, artists and writers!

By Dan Szczesny

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Once again, the time has come to highlight your picks for best books! A few weeks ago, we let you, our wonderful readers, take over this space. For a few days, we let you answer the Question of the Day. We received A LOT of answers, both here in comments and via email.

As we promised we’d do, we’ve collected all your responses and have been publishing them weekly or so. Check back over the last two Mondays for favorite dinosaurs and favorite songs. We hope you had fun with these, we know we did!

Today, we present QUESTION THREE: What is your all-time favorite book and what has it meant to your life?

You gave us some lovely answers. It was interesting to discover that most of your selections of meaningful books in your lives were children’s books; a testament to how critical reading is at a young age. What a wonderful book list this would make. So, put on your reading glasses, dust off your library card and let’s see what you all selected as your favorite books!

~ No real favorite, but the books I read at least 4 times are the Hobbit and the The Lord of the Rings of which I read at different phases of my life. I am about due to read again. The one book I had trouble putting down was Where the Crawdads Sing, why I do not know. (Of course, if I was 9, it would be Eloise.)

~ Winnie the Pooh! He is a kind and gentle friend to help one get through life.

~ It’s not an easy one: so many books I loved throughout life, but a few I come back to. When the girls were little, we filled their library with all the books I loved as a child, Richard Scarry’s Busy Busy ,World and all his wonderful books. Where the Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak. Anything illustrated by Rosemary Wells, Timothy Goes to School.

The series that doesn’t fail, even as an adult, Adventures of Frog and Toad. I was not familiar with the series at first, but we collected the books. The Peacock Players in Nashua did the adaptation “A Year with Frog and Toad.” It was so delightful, we went back and saw it three times. (The sledding scene was a raucous belly laugh) I laughed until I cried. Thank you Arnold Lobel for creating a unique series.

~ Favorite book, The Bible. It means everything!

~ The Velveteen Rabbit. It means I have a hard time throwing away stuffed animals!

And our favorite selection:

~ Godel, Escher, Bach by Douglas Hofstadter. It showed me there could be serious books that were not text books, and could be fun to read but not easy. And that we can use logic on the world even if logic itself is somewhat shaky at bottom. There are things that are true that we cannon prove are true. It still hurts.

Thanks everyone! Next week, your favorite foods!

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Soon after the tragedy, the story began to be retold, in poetry and journalism. The fatal decision made that night by the family was to attempt to leave their main house and take shelter in a nearby barn. Had they stayed in the house, they would have survived as an enormous boulder just up slope from the home split the mud slide in two, saving the house. Everything else was destroyed.

My story, The Rebirth of Eliza Willey, is a fantastical alternative history look at the eldest daughter of the family, and a special fox god named Eleanor. The story was originally published in the Plaidswede Press collection “Live Free or Dragons” in 2019. The short story is also available as a digital short on Amazon. This will be the first time the story has been reprinted.

I hope you enjoy this story of tragedy and rebirth. Please let me know what you think!

When the mud came the final time, Eliza Willey knew how to save her family.

“Come on, Eliza,” her father yelled, “we haven’t a moment to spare!”

Outside the family’s small inn, the world was tearing itself apart. The Saco River had turned into a lake and the cold water lapped at the doorstep of the inn. The storm howled, the wind whipping like a locomotive through Crawford Notch, picking up speed at a curve in the valley where the Willey’s operated their farm and inn. The timber and beam structure shook under the pressure, the side-ways rain slipping in under the shutters, soaking Eliza’s father and mother.

From somewhere high above their home, up on the ridge, something exploded and for a few seconds their house seemed to ripple and move like the very earth underneath was sliding. Then, for an agonizing moment, everything went quiet. Eliza’s three siblings and her mother were already near the door. Eliza and her father paused, and listened.

And then the rumbling started, low and deep, the sound growing steadily like a whole herd of moose were breaking through the woods.

“Oh God, the mountain is coming down!” Samuel Willey was not a man to scare easily, but the fear and shock in his face was something thirteen-year-old Eliza had never witnessed. “Move now, Eliza, we have to get to the barn!”

Samuel clutched his daughter’s arm and pulled, but Eliza resisted.

“No, papa, no. Stay here, you’ll be safe here!”

“Eliza, have you gone mad?”

The rumbling, now accompanied by the snaps and cracks of uprooting trees and rocks, was getting closer, almost upon them.

“No!” Eliza screamed. “The lady said I can do this, and I know how. I earned our lives!”

Eliza’s father didn’t bother to argue, lifting his daughter up over a strong shoulder even as she struggled against his grip.

“Go, Polly, go,” Samuel yelled to his wife over the thunder of the approaching landslide.

“Stop!” Eliza screamed again and this time her voice was a wave rippling outward, slowing time itself. Her father seemed to stop in place, his motions pausing long enough for Eliza to squirm free of his hold. She dropped to the floor of the inn and bolted past her mother to the door.

She turned one last time to look upon her family, her mind struggling to hold back time. “I’m sorry, papa, but this is where my story begins.”

She stepped outside into the torrent, and turned toward the oncoming wall of rock and mud and earth. And even over the shrieking wind and roar of the falling mountain, Eliza heard her father cry, “Sweet Jesus, save her!”

Eliza moved up slope from the inn until she could hold back the flood of time no more, and then let it go. She had enough time to hold her hands up and out to the plunging earth and looked up into the enormous wave. Then little Eliza Willey set to work saving her family.

THREE WEEKS EARLIER

Eliza had no idea who the woman was, only that she was beautiful.

The woman sat atop an enormous boulder, at least enormous to Eliza who had to stand on her tip-toes to peer over the lip of the rock. The stranger’s hair was golden and fine like the silk bonnets Eliza’s mother occasionally wore to church events.

“Hello Eliza,” the woman said. Her voice was so soft Eliza had to stain to hear, like a distant breeze high atop the mountain ridge.

Eliza looked around. She was a good distance from her home, in a spot where there were no paths and where no one else should be. This was Eliza’s place, the place where she would come when she needed to think or cry. This boulder in the woods was the place where she came to reflect upon her new life after her parents moved the family from Bartlett to the remote Crawford Notch. Eliza stole a quick glance back down through the woods at the structure that now served as her home, as well as an inn and tavern to notch travelers. She couldn’t see any sign of her parents or younger siblings.

“Where is your horse?” Eliza asked.

The woman tilted her head. “Why do you think I have a horse?”

“Well, miss, you’re beautiful and clean and why would you be here at all if not a guest at the inn? I haven’t seen a carriage in days, so the only explanation would be you must have road in today.”

The woman smiled and it seems to Eliza that the treetops parted for a moment letting in a bright white flash of light. “You are a clever one,” the woman said. “You make me glad I finally decided to reveal myself to you.”

“I don’t understand, miss,” Eliza said.

The woman slid down off the rock, and out of the corner of her eye, Eliza could have sworn she saw the flash of an orange, fuzzy tail, like a fox might have. She shook her head. The late summer light was playing tricks on Eliza. The woman patted the rock. “Right here, I’ve been here the whole time, with you.”

The woman extended a hand, and Eliza marveled at her long, thin fingers, clean and brilliantly white. “Some have called me Huxian, but you know me as Eleanor,”

Eliza stepped back. First, she was told never to go near strangers, though if she had to be honest, this woman didn’t feel like a stranger. In fact, it felt like Eliza had known her all her life. Second, no one knew about Eleanor.

“Don’t be afraid child, I’m here to help you.”

“How do you know about her?” Eliza said. She was very close to bolting away, down the hill and fetching her father. But what would she tell him? A tall beautiful blond woman was sitting on a rock up the ridge? She’d get the switch for sure.

“Know about her? Child, I am her. All this time, it’s been me you’ve been talking to. Don’t you know?”

When her family first moved to this lonely outpost, away from Eliza’s friends and other children her age, she had sought refuge and shelter in the woods by the rock. And as the weeks and months had passed, she had created a companion, Eleanor; someone Eliza could share all her secrets with. Eleanor was someone Eliza could cry to, confide in and rage against when she felt alone and confused. Eliza felt foolish. She was 13, too old for an imaginary friend, and yet Eleanor kept coming back, kept being a source of strength and companionship. Now, somehow, this woman knew.

Eliza kept quiet, her way of not digging the hole any deeper until she understood what was going on. Over the months, Eliza had learned that she had only herself to puzzle things out. She loved her parents, and thought them book smart, but the ways of the forest still alluded them. But to Eliza, these woods were her playground. Since father had hired two inn workers and stable boys, much of Eliza’s past chores were now no longer her concern. And with mother running the kitchen, not to mention taking care of Eliza’s three-year-old sister, Sally, Eliza found herself in the woods often.

It took her three tries that first summer to scale the enormous mountain that loomed like a green wall over the house. On the third try, dressed in a oversized petticoat and armed only with some carrots and a water pouch stolen from the barn, Eliza climbed up onto the mountain’s summit and looked across the valley in amazement. She couldn’t see the Willey House from the open rocks, but shortly after arriving, she was greeted by a flock of grey and white birds, very tame and apparently very hungry. She was delighted when the birds trotted and skipped around her and ever more so when they snatched carrot shavings right out of her outstretched hand.

Up there in the sky, filthy from mud, her little legs quivering like saplings in the wind, Eliza felt as strong and happy as she ever had in her life. The more she walked in the woods, the more she felt like she belonged there, and even better, she felt the mountain wanted her to be there too.

“Where have you gone, child,” the lady was saying. “What are you reflecting on now?”

“If you know so much about me, then you must know what I’m thinking,” Eliza said. She instantly regretted her outburst and looked at her feet, but there was so many emotions and such confusion in her mind that she was unable to contain it.

“Proper young ladies don’t challenge their elders, Eliza,” Eleanor said.

“I’m sorry miss, I just, it just came out.”

Eleanor sighed and squatted down to be eye level with Eliza.

The mysterious woman reached out and gently brushed a lock of Eliza’s brown hair out of the girl’s eyes. Eliza didn’t protest the touch and when Eleanor’s fingertips brushed Eliza’s forehead, it was as though the girl had been transported back atop the mountain. The memories of that day rushed forward, and not just memories, but the sounds and feelings of the wind and the tiny prickle of those birds’ feet as they alighted on Eliza’s hands. It was like she was there again.

After a moment, the memory faded and Eliza realized Eleanor was no longer touching her.

“I do know what you’re thinking, Eliza,” Eleanor said straightening up, “and you’ll be pleased to know that you are the youngest human to touch the summit of your mountain.”

Eliza’s eyes went wide. “You know I was up there?”

“Of course, you told Eleanor, therefore you told me.” A long silence fell between them. Finally, Eleanor said, “This mountain, this place, is special Eliza. I think you know that.”

Eliza nodded.

“The mountain you climbed is Mt. Osiris,” Eleanor said and smiled, but Eliza didn’t understand. “Well, that’s what we call it, dear, a place of death and of re-birth. You’ll understand, perhaps, someday soon.”

“We?” Eliza asked. “Are there others watching me?”

“Many,” Eleanor said. “But you, my little Eliza, you are all mine.”

A long silence settled between them. The only person to come back from the dead that Eliza knew about was Jesus. The family was too far from any church to make a weekly pilgrimage, but once a month or so a preacher from distant Shelburne would come down and spend the afternoon talking to the Willey children about Jesus and suffering. That story of resurrection, at least to Eliza, seemed to be more about blood and pain than salvation, but the one time she said as much, her father sent her to bed without dinner, so she never mentioned it again. Instead, now, when the preacher came by, Eliza just smiled and nodded and said the things she was supposed to.

But perhaps her mountain understood something that Jesus didn’t. Eliza certainly felt alive when she was here amidst the dirt. Perhaps she was reborn every time she set foot on this soil.

“You don’t believe me, still, child?” Eleanor said. Eliza’s new companion had sat back up on the tall rock and was looking down at the girl.

“I don’t know,” Eliza said. Actually, she did believe, fully and truly. No one else could have known about her mountain hikes.

“I’ll give you a gift, and you can take that gift back to your family. And when you see the power of the woods and of what you can become through this earth, you come back here and we’ll talk again.”

“What gift, a present?” It had been a long time since the girl had received a present from anyone.

“Of a sorts. Here.”

Eleanor held out her hand and uncurled her long fingers. In her palm sat what looked like a pile of thin, dry roots. “This herb is my gift to you, and to your family.”

“What do I do with it?”

Eleanor smiled. “Take it, and you’ll know.”

Eliza took the small pile of roots from Eleanor and cupped them in both hands, and as she did a wave of images washed over her. She closed her eyes and watched her mother in the Saco, pounding clothes against the rocks. Her baby sister, Sally, lay on a blanket at her feet. From across the river only a few feet up the slope, a clump of trees and rock dislodged from a ledge, loosened from the summer drought. Polly looked up in time to see the mini-landslide, but not to get out of the way. She threw her body atop Sally as trees and rocks began to rain down.

“No!” Eliza screamed, her eyes snapping open. She was still at the rock, clutching a pile of roots. Eleanor was gone. Sally understood what she needed to do and headed back to the inn as fast as she could.

It took Eliza only ten minutes to reach the farm property, but by the time she did her legs and feet were caked in dirt, her stockings torn from brambles. One of the family’s farm hands David Allen, was pumping the well when Eliza came upon him.

“Whoa now, little miss,” David said. “You’re a mess, looks like you might have tangled with a bobcat.”

Eliza loved David. He was older and rugged, and didn’t treat her like a baby. Sally had often thought about telling David about her adventures and perhaps, he’d even join her some day. But today, she had other urgent business.

“Mr. Allen, where is my mother, has she headed to the river yet?” Eliza was out of breath and panting, and surly she’d catch some sort of punishment for her ripped clothes.

“I don’t think so, Eliza, I saw her just a few minutes ago out by the coop.”

Eliza headed off without another word. “Hey...” David said behind her. She rushed first into the inn, taking the back door to the kitchen. As she hoped, a pot was on the stove and she poured a cup of the steaming liquid into a tin. Then she added the roots Eleanor had given her and stirred the concoction. Before her eyes, the roots dissolved into the hot water, sizzling and churning almost of their own volition. A sweet odor drifted up to Eliza’s nose, the steam making her feel lightheaded. She turned away quickly.

Out back, her mother had just finished with the chickens as Eliza approached.

“Good heavens, Eliza,” Polly said, “what a state you’re in, how did this happen?”

“I - mother, I brought you some tea.”

“I asked you a question, don’t try to sweet talk me!”

“I’m afraid it was my fault, Ma’am.” David appeared behind Eliza. “I asked Eliza if she would help me with some chores, and I guess we just got carried away.”

Eliza nearly melted in gratitude.

“David, you know how much a pair of stockings cost, there’s no need for Eliza to be doing such work.”

“I know, ma’am, Mr. Willey can dock my earnings this week and we’ll fix the girl right up.”

Eliza knew better than to say a word when two adults were discussing her fate.

“Fine, David, fine,” Polly finally said. “Go get cleaned up Eliza, I need to bring the laundry to the river.”

“Here mother, I may have been trying to earn your favor, but there’s a chill in the air and some tea will give you strength.” Eliza held her breath.

Polly sighed. “You are a troublesome girl, Eliza, but thank you.” Polly swallowed the tea in three long gulps and handed the cup back to Eliza. “Now git’ I have work to do.”

David and Eliza waited until Polly had gone into the inn. “Thank you Mr. Allen, why did you lie for me?”

David winked. “Because I been up top as well, Eliza. People like us, we gotta stick together.”

Eliza blushed. “I have to go, sir.”

In the inn, everything was quiet. No guests were there that day and Eliza’s father had taken the rest of the family down to Bartlett for supplies. “Mother?” Eliza called out. In her parent’s bedroom, she heard Sally gurgle, and found her mother sprawled on the bed, fast asleep. There would be no laundry run that evening. “Thank you, Eleanor,” Eliza whispered, and curled up next to her mother. In a few moments, she drifted off, only this time she dreamed that she was flying with the grey birds, high above the ridges, happy and free.

* * *

Day after day, Eliza now went to the hills where she would meet Eleanor by the big rock. And together they would learn about the forest.

“I can’t walk far with you Eliza, I need to stay close to this boulder, but there’s much you can learn.” Eleanor would lead Eliza to hidden waterfalls or moss cover tree trunks and say, “Here.”

Eliza would reach out and run her hand along the rock, over the lichen, through the moss. At first, she was able to only feel the texture. But slowly, with Eleanor’s gentle prodding, the surface began to crackle under Eliza’s fingertips like tiny jolts of electricity. Pins and needles would envelop Eliza’s body and she could see, truly see, the forest around her. Tree roots slithering like rutty snakes below her feet, the silk, dewy webs of a thousand spiders wrapping the leaves and branches above in fine white strings, millions upon millions of insects, criss-crossing the forest like microscopic buzzing waves; Eliza began to see these things through her hands, began to feel them in her body and her heart.

“Here, child, sit on the bare earth, and watch the ripples of time,” Eleanor said.

Eliza sat on the ground, unmoving, Eleanor whispering in her ear, and slowly the movement of the forest past, began to make itself know behind her eyes – a family of deer that moved through this spot four days ago, a black bear, newborn, looking for its mother yesterday and today, a grouse, walked right over the ground where Eliza sat, his tail feathers straight up, looking for a mate.

“How can I see this?” Eliza asked. “Are you doing this to me?”

“No child, I’m only here to help bring these gifts to your attention, to give you the tools you’ll need when the time comes.”

“I don’t understand, Eleanor, am I the only one who can do this? Why will I need this?”

“You’re not the only one, but there are very few who still remain.” Eleanor’s shoulders slumped, and for the first time since the two had met, she seemed heartbroken. “Time is a circle, Eliza, sometimes you go around that circle in the blink of an eye, sometimes it may take thousands of years, but you always come back to where you started. My time on that circle is nearly over. Yours, though, is just beginning.”

Eliza grew petulant. “I’m tired of your riddles. Just tell me what I’m supposed to do!”

Eleanor reached out and lifted Eliza’s chin, and kissed her on the forehead. A window opened in Eliza’s mind, images of a wall of mud and trees, of side-ways rain, of the heartbeats of her family and cries of her baby sister.

“Stay in the house Eliza, that’s the only way to save them. They must stay in the house.”

Eliza opened her eyes and Eleanor was gone. The first few drops of rain landed on her cheeks and Eliza looked up to the blackening sky and knew that her circle was about to begin.

By the time Eliza reached the house, the family was gathered in the kitchen. Eliza’s father was reading the Bible. “My God, Eliza, you’re back, I was about to send David out to look for you.”

“What is it father, what’s happening?”

“A storm Eliza, the river has already broken its banks, we must pray to Jesus for our lives.”

Eliza saw the fear and weakness in her father’s eyes. She threw her arms around his big shoulders and whispered, “Jesus can’t save us father, but I can.”

* * *

As the wall of earth bore down on little Eliza who stood only 100 feet from her family inn, the girl concentrated on rocks, granite and strong, uncleaved by time or ice. Her hair stood up, fingertips crackling with energy. She called on the earth to halt Osiris, to have mercy on her family. She reached into the dirt and pulled the granite straight out of the bowels of the ground and flung the boulder in the path of the landslide.

“Take me if you must,” Eliza cried, “but I won’t let you take them!”

In the final moments before the mountain enveloped Eliza an enormous granite pillar thrust out of the ground, cleaving the mud and splitting the slide in two. Eliza raised her hands to the rock and as she did, she felt the mountain take her, like two hands wrapping around her ankles, pulling her into the earth. Her last image before the mud covered her eyes was the landslide splitting around the the inn, destroying everything in its path, but leaving the inn whole. Eliza sighed and let the earth take her into the darkness.

* * *

Two days later, Eliza and Eleanor sat on the enormous rock ledge that saved the inn and watched as search crews finally found Eliza’s body, just below the lip of the rock. Her father was brought up to identify Eliza’s remains, and the sight of him brought tears to Eliza’s eyes.

“They stayed inside,” Eliza said. “They listened to me.”

Eleanor nodded. “You saved them, Eliza. And now you can take your place here.”

“But I don’t understand Eleanor, how can you be here, you’ve never left the area of your boulder.”

“And now you can’t either, my dear Eliza. But in becoming one of us, a spirit of the forest, you’ve saved your family and you’ve set me free.”

“Eleanor, no - “

But there was no Eleanor anymore. Eliza watched in wonder as a bright orange fox skipped down off the rock and headed into the forest. The fox stopped once before scurrying into the brush, and turned to look at Eliza, before disappearing forever.

Eliza turned back to the scene unfolding below her and watched her father lift her empty body and gently begin the walk back to the inn. Eliza Willey ran her thin fingers along the cool, hard surface of the rock that saved her family – now her home – and waited. Her circle began its turn. Her turn as sentinel had begun.

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Today, something different! Since Uma’s big backstage interview with Plush will drop sometime early next week, but we’ve also been asked a lot of questions about how our big music road trip went last week, we figured we’d offer a photo story today.

Between Uma and myself, we took MANY MANY pics and videos, and the bands were all so kind with their enthusiasm and time. Here’s a visual story for you all to enjoy!

We hope you enjoyed our photo story of our amazing music trip to see Major Moment and Plush. Each year, Uma and I try to find the time to go on a musical road trip and this one was extra special. We’ll have a few more stories from the trip in future posts, but the big story will be our exclusive interview that Uma gave to Plush backstage at our VIP meet and greet. I’m in the process now of transcribing the interview and we hope to publish it first over at Interviews By Uma. Please subscribe there to get all of Uma’s interviews. Click that below and we’ll get that interview to you soon!

INTERVIEWS BY UMA

An 11-year-old little rocker's personal site for interviews with bands, musicians, artists and writers!

By Dan Szczesny

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Pausing for a moment today to respond to an outpouring of messages and emails we received over the last couple days regarding the utterly devastating natural disaster that’s still ongoing in Nepal.

First, thank you! We really appreciate your notes of concern and offerings of prayers. The good news is that our family and friends in Kathmandu and elsewhere appear to be safe for the time being. The terrible news, of course, is the extent of the disaster appears monumental with (as of this writing) hundreds killed and thousands missing, not to mention whole towns and villages destroyed.

Flood waters continue to create havoc as they move south and with rains predicted the next few days, there are many places hundreds of miles from the initial point of impact that may still be affected.

There are many disaster relief sites operating, but be wary of contributing to non-official organizations. The Nepal Government has set up an official relief fund site called The Prime Minister Disaster Relief Fund.

Two other legit fund relief sites are Global Giving and the International Federation of Red Cross.

One word of warning. There is a ridiculous amount of AI and other fake video out there circulating. Please verify your sources, or turn to legitimate news sources. Both the BBC and the Kathmandu Post are doing some excellent coverage. Watch random FB or Instagram reels with great skepticism.

Scientists are still working to figure out what exactly happened. It was reported at first that the flash flooding was caused by an earthquake. But it now appears the disaster was triggered by a huge glacier ice collapse and landslide. The collapse and initial debris flow actually set off the US Geological Survey’s automated detection network as an 5.2 magnitude earthquake.

Some outlets are reporting that the glacier chunk was up to 2,000 feet wide and slid down into Lhede Khole River some 10-17,000 feet below. The Lhede Khole is a tributary of the Bhote Koshi, a major river in China and Nepal with deep gorges.

CNN reported that the flood wave descended the first 10-15 miles at an average speed of 120 miles per hour; so about 7 minutes. People in those locations had virtually no time to prepare or escape.

As you all know from how much we’ve written about Nepal here, it’s a land and people of great culture, kindness and natural beauty. I consider it a second home. We’ll continue to be in touch with our family and keep watching as recovery and clean up begins.

In the meantime, I wanted to close with some of my favorite photos of our time in north in the Everest region, a landscape that will forever bring me joy.

Thanks again for your concern everyone, really that means a lot.

Information on my book, The Nepal Chronicles, can be found at my bookstore below:

The Nepal Chronicles

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Did you ever wonder why omelets at Waffle House are called Toddle House Omelets?

No? Well, we’re gonna tell ya anyway!

During our trip down to Maryland last weekend, our hotel put us right across the street from a tiny Waffle House and the morning pull of hash browns, grits and coffee was too great to resist - as it always is.

On a previous visit to a Waffle House near Nashville, the waitresses hovered over Uma like my daughter was a little princess, bringing her Waffle House crowns and even a slice of pie. (Don’t ask, but the kid’s super power is being adorable.)

Anyway, this visit was no different. Our waitress, whose name was Shantel, actually poured her a free iced tea to take with us on the road!

We utterly devoured our breakfast.

“Can you imagine if we had a Waffle House near us?” I asked Uma.

She shook her head. “It’s better we don’t. This makes it special.”

I did a quick mileage check. The nearest Waffle House to us - of roughly 2,000 across the country - is in Scranton, PA, about 330 miles away. So, special indeed.

My daughter is right, of course. There’s something about a hot ceramic mug of black Waffle House coffee. Years ago, I drove down to Alabama to visit a friend who was going to school there and I recall sitting in a counter stool at a Waffle House outside Birmingham, reading a Stephen King paperback and sipping a black cup of coffee that tasted EXACTLY the same as the one I drank down in Maryland last week.

Anyway, back in 1932 Memphis businessman Frederick "Fred" Smith founded National Toddle House System, Inc. By the 1950s, Toddle House had more than 200 locations in almost 90 cities.

Toddle House was a hit, for a while. Each location was identical - a charming white-and-blue exterior with a functional counter-only interior that allowed for quick customer turnaround. Breakfast-centered menu. Affordable prices. Sound familiar?

It should, because in the 1950s, a cook working at a Toddle House in Georgia by the name of Joe Rogers Sr., became obsessed with learning how to make the perfect Toddle House omelet. Joe decided to open his own breakfast joint after Toddle House ran into some cultural controversy (More on that in a moment.)

So it came to pass that on Labor Day weekend, 1955, in Avondale Estates, Georgia, Joe opened a breakfast diner called Waffle House. He took the Toddle House recipe with him because he believed it couldn’t be improved upon. He took everything else as well. Familiar architecture. Cheap prices. Personal service. Fast turn around.

In 1960, Waffle House had five locations and they began franchising. That’s when it took off.

It helped that Joe’s main competition, Toddle House, made a - let’s say ill conceived - business decision to only allow white people to dine there. They opened a secondary chain called Harlem House, which operated with an identical concept and menu, except it welcomed black people. Toddle House did not survive the 1960s.

What DID survive, though, was the Toddle House’s omelet recipe which continues to be served at Waffle House thanks to Joe Rogers. Click here if you’d like to read about the omelet recipe: How to make a Waffle House omelet

For our part, we tuck into a corner booth and let the world pass us by for a little while; the clink of china, the buzz of passersby and the smooth attentions of Shantel. The day is young, we have miles to go for our next concert, but now we also have iced tea and bitter, thick coffee. All is right in our world.

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Some successful businessmen design libraries. Some go into space. Some build railroads.

One, built a giant shoe.

A work boot, more accurately.

Long after “Shoe Wizard” Mahlon Haines had built his fortune selling work boots out of his 50 or so shoe stores across New York, Maryland and Pennsylvania, he had an idea for a new advertising campaign.

In 1948, he handed architect Frederick Rempp one of his Haines Workboots and said, “Build me a house like this.”

And so the Haines Shoe House was born, sitting up on a rise, right next to the busy Lincoln Highway. The two story livable building was the perfect billboard.

The house is a notable example of mid-20th century programmatic architecture, in other words functional buildings shaped like objects or animals.

While I know nothing about the style or quality of Haines’ boots, he was a genius at promotion. He gave free shoes to parents who named their kid Mahlon. He’d stand up in the middle of ball games and offer twenty bucks to anybody who knew who he was. He’d dress like a cowboy and drive around in a shoe mobile, selling shoes to whomever he’d pass by.

And his ultimate promotion, the Shoe House! Completed in 1949 when Haines was 70 years old, the Shoe House stands 25 feet high and 48 feet long. Mahlon never lived in it. Instead, he turned the house into a promotional prize. Lucky winners, who were limited to either newlyweds or elderly couples who'd never had a honeymoon, could spend up to a week in the Shoe House. They’d be served by a live-in maid, cook and chauffeur. Everyone went home with, you guessed it, free shoes.

Haines died in 1962 and the Shoe House passed through several uses, including a private home and an ice cream parlor! Today, when Uma and I visited, the Haines Shoe House is run as a Bed and Breakfast. Unless you’re renting, you can’t tour the inside but there’s plenty of parking and views that enable the curious to get close and take pictures.

In fact, in the ten or fifteen minutes we spent there, we saw two dozen or so folks stop by or drive by for pictures.

Even nearly 65 years after his passing, the Shoe Wizard continues to create magic with a work boot that became a home.

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Well, by the time you’re reading this, we’re likely back from our wild three day music bender - exhausted, hoarse and road weary, as it should be!

Here’s some numbers:

3 Days

1,006 miles

8 performances

1 power outage

1 giant shoe

1 bass guitar lesson

1 Uma interview

1 amazing visit with my oldest friend who made us hummus and baked bread!

Dozens of bracelets given away, tons of new friends, stickers and patches and posters, several meet and greets

And, obviously, Waffle House

I have hundreds of photos and videos to sort through, many taken by Uma herself. I’ll also be transcribing and editing Uma’s interview with the incredible ladies of Plush who were so kind and enthusiastic to her!

Today, some rest. Unpacking. Going over the amazing array of autographs and merch we brought back. And remembering to be grateful for weekends like this. Thanks for being here with us!

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Once again, it’s time for your answers! Three weeks ago, we let you, our wonderful readers, take over this space. For a few days, we let you answer the Question of the Day. We received ALOT of answers, both here in comments and via email.

As we promised we’d do, we’ve collected all your responses and over the course of the next few weeks we’ll present them here for you to enjoy. We hope you had fun with these, we know we did!

Today, we present QUESTION TWO: What’s your favorite song?

There were a lot of great answers here! And some suggestions as well. What a wonderful play list this would make. So, put on your dancing shoes, and let’s see what you all selected as your favorite songs!

Footloose, because you should always have a song you can dance to like nobodies watching.

The Soft Parade by The Doors. The song is full of changes and weird storytelling.

The Campaigner by Neil Young, a visionary.

If I have to choose, I'll go City of New Orleans sung by Arlo Guthrie. It's such a tender song.

So tough to pick just one! The one that popped into my head that I have loved from childhood on is the Circle Game by Joni Mitchell. Usually makes me tear up a bit, but so lovely and true!

I have many favorites, but one I ask Alexa to play a great deal is West End Girls by the Pet Shop Boys. It is not the lyrics, but the voice styles and the drum. It is sort of mesmerizing.

Polly Wolly Doodle! My grandmother had an old wind up record payer - no electronics - and a handful of records. I was about seven I think. It was the fist time I found music that was fun for kids like me!

Sound of Music, what an easy one! That’s my song era!

And our favorite answer!

My favorite is Ricky Martin, the Spanish version of The Cup of Life, I believe it was called La Copa de la Vida.

Next week, we’ll take a look at favorite books. Till then, here’s some Ricky!

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I think about old images a lot, more than I should I suppose—about Super 8 and Brownies and VCRs and slides. Everyone has them. Somewhere, in some family member’s dark, old attic, there is a box of pictures of people you, mostly, don’t know.

Years ago, long before the miracle of digital, as I was cleaning out my father’s house—the house where I grew up—I stumbled upon an enormous box of dusty and decaying color slides. They were my mother’s, thousands of them, all neatly labeled and mostly dated. They were from the mid-1950s, before she met my father. For years, she took long, cruiseship-style voyages to Europe, a single woman sailing the ocean blue to visit the Roman Coliseum and the Dickens’ Old Curiosity Shop.

I knew she took those trips because I had her diaries. But I hadn’t seen the pictures until I held them in my hands that day at my father’s. A treasure trove. Priceless. Now that I have the technology at my fingertips to scan those slides, I’ve slowly been working my way through them, showing my daughter little snippets in her grandmother’s life.

“Was your mommy a princess?” Little Bean asked about one picture in particular that showed my mother as a bridesmaid in a pink chiffon, ruffled dress.

But in many pictures, when my daughter asked, “Who is that?” I had no idea.

All that light being imprinted, all those ghosts of my parents’ past, just sitting there, nameless, caught in a split second of a split second. Who was the photographer behind those blurry images of my mom standing in front of a trellis in Paris? Who was the grinning man in a short tie, holding a poodle on some street in Amsterdam?

Why would my mother take a picture of that particular street sign?

Or that building? Who was she before she was my mom?

I thought of this as I took pictures of my small family while we strolled around our yard, doing a little pre-spring inspection of the soil, the fence, the grass—our tiny urban plot there behind our house. These were small flashes of living as we prepared our home for its own rebirth.

I considered where those pictures would end up. Who is going to stumble upon an old flash drive in a junk store in 50 years and then go find some old ASUS computer to scan through images of me with my baby?

Just doing normal stuff. Just living.

What will they think of me, based on the chilly blue of a near-spring day in our earthen lot in some unknown place? Will they be able to see how much I love my family from the pictures I take? Will we look happy?

There is a picture of me, maybe 4 or 5 years old, standing in my backyard, in my mother’s garden, under an enormous sunflower. I’m grinning and pointing up at the yellow head of the flower. I’m happy.

I’m happy because it’s my yard.

And because my mother is taking the picture. And because my father will be home soon. And because it’s a sunny day. And because maybe, there is a grilled cheese sandwich waiting for me. To ghost me, looking at this photo now, possibility is endless.

I look at the digital pictures of my own daughter in her own yard, and I see my smile. My anticipation. She picked some smooth stones out of the vegetable patch and held them up, and I took a picture of her. The stones shimmered in the sunlight.

Full circle. The technology is different, but the transformative power of the dirt isn’t. That’s the same.

We are all, someday, going to be shadows on glass, or digital dots, or grooves, or tape, just sitting there in our backyards, pointing up at our sunflowers or holding tiny stones.

Someday, all that will remain will be us, standing with our arm around someone we love in front of Cinderella’s castle or sweating with joy, leaning over the Mount Washington summit sign.

We grow, we die. We’re captured somewhere living, for just a moment. The methods change, but the heart remains. Just like the garden, our impermanence is our strength.

We are, in the end, just light. I think I’m fine with that.

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Recently, my daughter decided she wanted to dig a hole in our backyard. Believe it or not, this actually seemed reasonable to me and quite in her character.

We’ve raised her to be close to the dirt, to not be afraid of black fingernails, to be curious. That her curiosity has led her to an appreciation of the soil is also not surprising given her mother’s miraculous green thumb. Put the two of them together near a garden bed in the springtime, and they are guaranteed to return home filthy.

What did surprise me was, well, how big the hole is. I use present tense because, as of this writing, the hole is still there and continues to expand. The hole is so large, in fact, that she can now stand in it up to her waist. I’ll soon have to put orange traffic cones around it. By the way, before anyone gets all “Dig-Safe” on me, the hole is in a corner of the garden that used to be an in-ground pool, so no wires or pipes to hit!

Speaking of a pool, the hole is so large, Little Bean had another idea in her head.

“Daddy,” she said excitedly, “what if it rains and the hole fills up, then we’ll have our own pond in the backyard.”

Unless there’s an actual pond in one’s backyard, the idea of a pond suddenly appearing in there can be a terrifying thought, but for her, that was a natural next step.

Exploring the waterways of our state has been another one of her passions, so she’s well used to the feel of sand and mud. She’s explored the tidal pools in Rye and Portsmouth. She’s made a hobby of swimming in every pond and lake presented to her. From Weirs Beach to Sunapee to Silver to Forest, find her some water and a bucket to collect shells and stones, and not much more is necessary.

Meanwhile, back at home, I watch from our sunroom as my daughter fills up a watering can, steps into the hole, and begins to pour the water over her feet into the dirt. I begin doing the logistical calculations in my head about how I’m going to get her into the tub later without leaving a trail of mud through the kitchen.

I also consider a quote from Walt Whitman:

There was a child went forth every day,
And the first object he look’d upon, that object he became,
And that object became part of him for the day
Or a certain part of the day,
Or for many years or stretching cycles of years.

I wonder how long that connection with the natural world will become her. Will she carry these days, these memories of dirt in her hair, into next week? Next year? Will she be sitting in her own backyard someday watching her own kids in her own pond?

What will be part of her?

Later that evening, long after her muddy clothes are tossed in the wash and the streaks of dirt have circled the tub drain, I ask her what she’s discovered.

“What’s important about that hole?” I say. “How deep are you going to dig it?

She gives it a moment. “Well, we can’t dig through to the other side of the planet, right?”

“Correct,” I say. We research where we’d end up, though. Turns out, going straight through would put us in the Indian Ocean, just west of Australia. “Besides, the Earth’s core is something like ten thousand degrees, so we really don’t want to go that deep anyway.”

She nods. “Well, we did find a plastic toy and a coin. Oh! And grubs!”

“Grubs?”

“Lots of them. So many of them!”

Turns out, she scooped the grubs out and spread them around the yard, near the bird bath, alongside some of the flowery bushes. Why? Because she wanted to leave a treat for the birds.

My eight-year-old spent three days digging a hole, scooping out tons of grubs, and fed the birds. That’s a strange thing to be proud of one’s daughter for, but I admit that I am. This feels like a worthy pursuit, like something maybe even Whitman himself would approve.

Because at least for now, for this summer, my daughter began to understand the dirt. And all it took was a shovel, a hole, and a whole lot of grubs. How simple.

(Originally published in NH Home, June 2023)

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This week marks the third anniversary of mine and Little Bean’s music adventure together, seeing and meeting bands, interviewing musicians and also her learning how to play. Three years ago we saw and met The Warning for the first time, standing right at the front rail at Brighton Music Hall in Boston.

I’ll never forget that night. The next day, Uma asked me if she could take piano lessons. And away we went!

I know that not all of you are caught up entirely in our music journey, so that’s why we decided to open a second newsletter, just for Uma’s music and artist interviews, called Interviews By Uma.

We appreciate that you follow along though! Music has become a critical part of our lives. So that’s why we wanted to mention that we’ll be away for the next few days.

Every year, Uma and I pack the car and road trip someplace to see music we love. Last year was Nashville. This year will be Maryland and then Harrisburg to catch two of our favorite bands, Major Moment and Plush! We’re so excited!

We can’t wait to report back to you and hope to even film a road vlog of the trip. And if we’re really lucky, Uma will get to interview the incredible musicians of Plush face to face!

We have some cool posts lined up for you while we’re gone!

Also, a shout out! The very excellent New Hampshire folk duo Dan & Faith are performing a FREE concert at my library on Saturday, Aug. 22 from noon-1:30pm at our pavilion. I urge you all to go and catch them as not only are they talented but really nice humans. They are members of this community and even agreed to a two part interview with Uma. Here’s part one:

INTERVIEWS BY UMA

Interviews By Uma: Dan & Faith Senie, P1

(First published 2/26/25…

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2 months ago

My library is located at 22 Hooksett Road in Auburn and the show will be our first concert at our new park pavilion. Please bring some lawn chairs and blankets and enjoy a show under the clouds!

Meantime, we’re hitting the road! There are faces that need melting and heads to bang. Catch you on the other side next week and keep on rocking!

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When I was a kid, my dad created what he called “Man Time” for the two of us. This consisted of us sitting at the kitchen table and eating sandwiches. Those sandwiches were sardine, mustard, onion and limburger cheese on pumpernickle rye bread sandwiches.

The reason this was “Man Time” is because this food combination utterly drove my mother and sister into madness, to the point where they’d have to leave the kitchen.

Ergo, Man Time.

All of those food items still appeal to me, in particular sardines. Kippers and herring make me happy as well. In water, not oil.

Anyway, what’s even better about sardines is that they are what’s known as a superfood; nutrient dense, packed with protein, omega-3 fatty acids, vitamin B12, vitamin D, and calcium. And given that I’ve been trying to get both my weight and my cholesterol down recently, sardines are my go to midnight snack.

One problem. Like my mom and sister before them, my wife and daughter utterly can’t be in the same room as them.

I’ve taken steps to mitigate the discomfort - washed out the tins, taken garbage bags out before they wake up. Nope. They have normal noses and can smell things I can’t.

The other day, my wife suggested I take it outside.

“You know, just get some air,” she said. “Like you know how some people just go outside on the stoop at night with a cigarette. Instead of a smoke, just take your sardines. Might clear your head.”

So I tried it. Late at night, the ladies asleep, under the dull moon light, I sat on the steps leading out to our back yard garden, and had a tin. Washed it down with a seltzer. A little leafy smell from the tomato plants and basil. Deep breath. Tossed the tin in the outside trash, snuck back inside.

That works.

I recall a (not entirely family friendly) rant from the comedian Denis Leary where he talks about how happiness is best and sometimes only available in small, seemingly mundane servings and we should concentrate on recognizing those moments.

For example, he suggests smoking a butt and eating a cookie. I’ll pass on the butt, of course, and substitute the cookie with a sardine, but you get the idea. My wife understood.

Take a minute. Put your phone down. Watch the moon. Eat a sardine. That’s life.

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All the way back in early 1980, barely teen Dan picked up issue 129 of ‘The Uncanny X-Men’ at a shop down near the mall called Collector’s Emporium. I’d been collecting X-Men for a while - the ongoing story of a special group of teens, shunned by society, yet still trying to navigate youth AND make a difference in the world, appealed to me. (I wonder why…)

But issue 129 was different. This book began the 10-issue, 10-month arc now known as the Dark Phoenix Saga, one of the most well known super hero storylines in American comics and a story STILL referenced over and over today in graphic adaptations, movies and books.

The story followed Jean Grey, a confused young woman and telepath trying to make sense of her life. After a freak accident gives her incredible powers she’s unable to control, the arc follows her as the forces of good and evil attempt to co-op and use her to their own ends until ultimately Jean selects evil, and then must fight her friends. At the last moment, she realizes her corruption and sacrifices herself to save the world.

There was nothing like this in my life, just at the front end of my journey as a reader and writer. To experience themes of absolute power corrupting absolutely years before learning about Lord Acton in college, and through a medium I loved, changed me.

I loved comics then, and love graphic novels now. And I’m glad Uma does as well.

I was reminded of this last week when the family went out to catch the new Spider Man movie. While neither Meena nor Uma have the same cultural way-markers in their heads as I do when it comes to comic literature, the Spider Man part of the Marvelverse franchise has been solid, both story-wise and emotionally. So we all enjoyed it.

But there was a moment in the movie as Peter Parker begins to decipher who this new, powerful telepath he’s facing is when the name Jean Gray first appears on screen.

The movie’s characters have no idea who that is, but many of us in the audience certainly did. I gasped when I saw the name. Forty plus years later, and just seeing those words has an effect on me.

Medium rarely makes a difference when it comes to impact, be it pop culture or high art. Rather, how a painting, or movie, or book affects our lives has more to do with where we are in life, how we’re searching for the passage through it all, who we’re surrounded with and where we are when the art enters our circle.

Sometimes it’s just nostalgia. But sometimes it goes deeper, like it did for me when all those memories of that year following that story came rushing back to me.

How about you? Has there been a moment of ART in your life - when you were young or currently - that’s left you breathless and changed? Tell us about it!

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Two weeks ago, we let you, our wonderful readers, take over this space. For a few days, we let you answer the Question of the Day. We received ALOT of answers, both here in comments and via email. And surprisingly, there were very few that doubled up.

As we promised we’d do, we’ve collected all your responses and over the course of the next few weeks we’ll present them here for you to enjoy. We hope you had fun with these, we know we did!

Today, we present QUESTION ONE: What’s your favorite dinosaur?

We were surprised to discover that two of you didn’t have a favorite dino because you weren’t interested in dinos! This was a shocking development for Uma! She urges you to reconsider. Also, it appears that dinosaurs are a big thing in these pages, so please don’t unsubscribe, haha!

Anyway, among our favorite answers…

Brontosaurus - I think it goes by a different name now. When I was little, I had a book about a boy and his imaginary dinosaur that I love to read. I wish I remembered the title today. what I liked most about it is that dinosaur didn’t eat meat and little Stacey thought that made him nice because he didn’t hurt other animals.

Triceratops - Dinosaurs in general are the coolest things ever, but one of my favorite books as a kid was The Enormous Egg by Oliver Butterworth. It's about a boy named Nathan Twitchell in Freedom NH who's chicken lays and hatches an enormous egg that contains a triceratops. It's a brilliant story and I have been in love with the triceratops ever since.

Pterosaurs - I really never thought about what dinosaur I liked best. I am into those in the air and sea during the dino age - Pterosaurs and fish

Stegosaurus - It sounds neat! And it doesn’t eat meat, otherwise he might want to eat me!

And our favorite response-

My Sinclair Dinosaur Plastic Bank from 1965. Saved on a shelf and dusted regularly!

Next week, we’ll explore your favorite songs!

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One Time Weekend is different.

The Connecticutt-based prog/jam band is giving it all away. Literally. They’ve recorded dozens of their live shows, both full concerts and individual songs, and fans can go to Bandcamp or YouTube and watch and listen. All their music is available to stream for fans as well, for pennies.

The strategy of giving it all away seems to be working.

Since 2016, the band’s unique style of grungy, long form jam prog rock (honestly, I don’t know what else to call it) has earned them fans and bigger and bigger venues. When Uma and I caught them at the Portland House of Music last year opening for the Scottish rock funk trio High Fade, we had no idea who they were. We left as dedicated fans!

With their new album, As Above, So Below, One Time Weekend is looking to cement their reputation as one of the dominant shred-funk bands in New England. The independently released album, dropped at the end of May, ought to boost their reputation far and wide.

There’s the wonderfully strange ear worm “Crypto Joe,” a song about gettin’ rich quick. Who would have thought that a song with the lyrics “Remember me when you’re rolling in dough / As the one who told you about crypto / Nothing is real, take whatever you can steal” could be so foot stompingly catchy.

I don’t even know how to describe “Femme Fatale,” a six minute punk influenced jam session about, literally, a man eater. If you’re not laughing and bopping through the whole song, well, you might want to check and see if you have a pulse.

My favorite song on the album, though, by a wide margin, is “Moonflower.” The band takes its time here, layering riff after riff atop a poetic meditation that fans of early Yes would recognize instantly, building into a guitar jam outro that will leave you breathless. Here’s a live video of that song:

The band’s currently touring on the strength of the new album, with a collection of New England gigs that include shows in Bridgeport, Cornwell and Hartford, Conn. On August 21, they’re headliners at Soundcheck Studios in Pembroke, Mass.

(Sidenote: The openers for the Pembroke show are Canopy, another incredible band we saw earlier this year. This is going to be an amazing show.)

Info about Soundcheck Studios show

Band members Adam Eytan and Ian D’Arcangelo sat down with us for a quick interview about the new album, recording live music for their fans and what to expect at a One Time Weekend live show!

Enjoy the interview and we’ll have some links at the bottom of the article so you can go give the band some love at their socials!

One Time Weekend talks about their new album, “As Above, So Below.”

Dan & Uma Szczesny: Give us the band’s current regular line up and a bit of background on the band

Adam Eytan: Our lineup includes Ian D’Arcangelo on vocals and bass, Adam Eytan on guitar and vocals, Sam McGarrity on guitar and vocals, Alex Giosa on percussion, and Ben Sullivan on drums. One Time Weekend was founded in 2016. Ian, Adam, and Ben were at the tail end of high school entering college when forming the band. We’ve been making and playing music together as friends and bandmates consistently since then. With more recent additions to the band in Alex and Sam, we feel like we’ve found our most polished and cohesive sound yet.

Dan & Uma: Tell us about the meaning and inspiration behind the new album’s title, “As Above, So Below” and also the amazing cover art

Ian D’Arcangelo: As we were discussing which songs we wanted to put on this album, we noticed a few themes working their way through the lyrics and music. The record plays off the themes of direction, push and pull, flying and falling, earth, sky and water, and other spiritual concepts. The traditional origin of “As Above, So Below” is pretty heady, but to my understanding boils down to the idea that what happens on a bigger plane of existence is also happening inside the individual. Basically everything is connected and nothing happens without a reason or reaction.

Dan & Uma: Our two favorites are “Fly Into the Sun” and “Moonflower.” We love the prog/jazz feel of those songs. You’re known as a jam band, but there are way more influences on that album. Tell us about the band’s songwriting process and influences.

Ian: Are you asking me for the secret formula?? Just kidding, no gatekeeping here…

Adam and I wrote the songs on this album, with creative influence and musical additions from Sam, Alex and Ben. The songwriting process is different per person, but I know Adam likes to demo his songs out before bringing them to the band. He will fully write out most parts ahead of time. I on the other hand am more collaborative and tend to leave things a bit more open ended. We then all get in the same room to work through parts and develop the songs further.

As far as influences go, it’s funny you mentioned being labeled as a jam band. We have grown up in and around the jam scene here in the Northeast, which was a huge part of our sound especially early on. As we’ve developed as artists and people, our sound has changed a bit. This album in particular pulls from a variety of artists and genres like Muse, Alice In Chains, Jack White, Porcupine Tree, Soundgarden and many, many more. That being said, who knows what the next album might sound like?

Dan & Uma: We’re really interested in your strategy behind making so much of your recordings and all of your live shows available to fans on Bandcamp and other places. How has that worked out for you?

Adam: Making our live recordings available for our fans is not only a thank you to them for attending, but also a way for them to hear the band in its “true form” - being in our live setting. The live recordings have the feel of the high energy, raw feel that only our live shows can convey.

Ian: It gives the fans a chance to re-live a show and direct their favorite moments. I know for me personally sometimes it can be easier to hear things when I am in a controlled environment (verses a loud concert with other people). Nothing will ever replace going to see live music, but soundboard recordings can get you close. You can find our live recordings on nugs.net and bandcamp.com

Dan & Uma: Finally, for someone who has never seen One Time Weekend live, what can they expect from a live show?

Ian: We are at our core a live band. It’s been the element of One Time Weekend that we’ve honed in on the most. So I can guarantee that any OTW live show you attend will be an entertaining performance. Each show is a different set list, with room for improvisation, and a high-energy stage presence and song selection. We are a bunch of wise-guys too, and we love connecting to our audience. So talk to us!

For information about One Time Weekend’s new album or tour information, give them a look below!

ONE TIME WEEKEND

Just on the outskirts of the main garden at the Audubon Massabesic Center in Auburn, is a trail. It’s listed as the Purple Trail.

I’m walking it this morning after having dropped Uma off at her summer camp.

I’ve taken recently to doing a small walk along this trail in the short amount of time I have between dropping her at camp and opening up the library - early enough to not have to worry about bugs, and short enough so I don’t need actual hiking gear.

Uma doesn’t know I do this.

Audubon is her place. With her tribe. Her trails. Her bugs and turtles and snakes. I fear that if she knew I was doing this, she’d think me a trespasser. Silly, I know.

At a particular bend in the trail, the forest falls away to a lovely meadow. I can see the Audubon buildings on the other side. I can hear the children playing just on the other side of the field. I’m there before 9am so this is the time in camp when they are arriving, meeting with each other, beginning the day’s process of friendships, and expectations. The last thing she needs is to see her old man standing there.

But I linger for a moment, trying to focus my senses to see if I can hear her, to see if I can pick out her voice among the dozens.

Maybe a hoot. Maybe a laugh. But I can’t say, honestly. I’m unable to hear her.

So I go my way, and she goes hers. In a few hours, our paths (our trails) will cross again when I come back for her and this day she’ll come to the library with me for a time. And we’ll both have dirt from an Audubon trail under our fingernails, my daughter of the outdoors and me.

This fall, we’ll come back, as a family, when the leaves are exploding and the air is electric and we’ll ask her to lead us over these trails, to guide me, as she’s done so often. She’ll guide me, again, over trails where I’ve already walked, to places I’ve already been. But never with her, and that’s all the difference.

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