Author: Deb

Passing Notes with Lenny

/ Deb / 1 Comment

I started packing my daughter’s lunch again this year. Somewhere around middle school, my kids had taken over primary responsibility for packing their lunches. But now my son is away at college, it’s my daughter’s senior year and she’s returned to school after 18 months of remote learning, and I am keenly aware of the fact that we soon will be empty-nesters. So packing her lunch just feels right.

We’ve settled in to a nice morning routine. I pack her lunch, we chat about our upcoming day, and I help her get out the door to school. Taking a page from my dad’s playbook, sometimes I’ll go out and warm up her car or scrape her windows.

Yesterday morning we were listening to KEXP over cantaloupe, and an old Lenny Kravitz song came on. Our day was now off to a great start! I thanked John Richards out loud, turned it up, and told my daughter of my Lenny memories. In what must have been my sophomore year in college, Lenny had just released his first album and was doing a publicity tour. He was doing an autograph session at Tower Records on The Ave of the University District in Seattle, barely a block from our apartment. My bestie/roommate was the driving force in getting us there, as she owned the album. There was a line that snaked along the aisles, and there he sat, at the rear of the store under a poster, oozing coolness. When it was our turn, we mumbled hello, Lenny signed her cassette tape, and we went on about our day, which likely included a muffin at Muffin Break, or a slice at Pag’s. Years later, I saw Lenny Kravitz in concert at the Paramount with my sister, and he was just as fabulous as I wanted him to be. I recall that he did a Jesus pose at center stage (which you absolutely should always do if you are a rock star), and the crowd went wild. My daughter chuckled at the story, and off she went.

I recently started my annual cleanout/purge/re-organize effort. I’ve previously admitted that I am a sentimental hoarder, and I have boxes of things from my childhood and young adult life. But I’m trying to be more intentional about what I save, so it was time to go through a bin of old high school items and see what could go. I had a box of old notes from friends that made for a hilarious afternoon of reading about things I had forgotten (oh, the drama of the senior year Homecoming dance! How on earth did we ever make it through?). Most were mundane day-to-day musings about lunch plans and classroom events, prompting my daughter to ask, “wait, did you write these during class?” I said of course we did (duh), and when you saw your friend in the hallway between classes, you would pass the note to them. It was the 1980’s version of texting, before anyone could envision that something like text messages would ever exist.

With my hoarding habit exposed, I was surprised when my daughter observed that it was cool that I have these physical items as a snapshot of my life back then. Her communications with her friends exist only in the ether of electronic messages, and there will be no box for her to sit and go through someday with her daughter on a rainy afternoon. I told her that she can always change that, and write a note or letter to her friends. Maybe she will.

I texted with my friend yesterday, asking if she remembered the Lenny autograph session (she did), but I forgot to ask if she still has the tape. I hope she does. I still buy physical copies of albums, and I have all of my old vinyl, CD, and cassette tapes. After going through the box of high school things, I tossed all of the notes from old boyfriends, but I ended up keeping the ones from my friends. And OF COURSE I have a box of letters from my college days — hometown news from my parents and younger sisters — that I will never get rid of. So look out, college kids and soon-to-be college kids who are related to me…..old school letters are coming your way.

With all of this nostalgia for pen and paper rattling in my head, I wrote a note to my daughter in our old write-and-pass-back journal from years ago. In honor of the tradition of high school note writing, I penned my first new entry with “W/B”, but of course was careful to include a notation to her, explaining that this means “write back”. And she did.

The Pandemic Stole the Gravity

/ Deb / 3 Comments

(“I’ve been falling so long it’s like gravity is gone, and I’m just floating”……)

While I don’t know that I’d use the term ‘falling’, 2021 has definitely been an unraveling of sorts. I’m still curious to see which knots will hold.

In the fall of 2019, I went to a Black Joe Lewis & the Honeybears show at the Tractor Tavern with my sister. I was already standing on the river bank , and in looking up at those old beams and exposed brick, had one of those rare moments when my path seemed clear: What do I love more than old buildings and live music? What’s stopping me from opening my own venue?

At a party not too long after that (remember when we had parties?), I mentioned my idea to an old friend, who noted that my face lit up when I talked about it. I am sure that was true. Sometimes those around us can see things more clearly than we can. Anyway, the rest of 2019 wore on like any other year, and I was so excited about my barely-formed idea that I couldn’t stop talking about it, even convincing another friend to come on board despite the lack of any real plan. Of course, then 2020 hit, and I was suddenly very glad that I did not own a small live music venue.

At any rate, two years hence, “Gravity’s Gone” by Drive-By Truckers has been a bit of a theme song for me in the fall of 2021. Is it because:

  1. It makes me feel like I’m two stepping in the aforementioned Tractor Tavern, which is one of my favorite venues;
  2. The song makes reference to “champagne hand jobs”, which always makes me giggle. I’m still not really sure what this means (OK, maybe I have an idea). Anyway it’s a great phrase, one that I’ve yet to be able to work into casual conversation; or
  3. Another line in the song, which reminds me of my Grandma: “If you’re supposed to watch your mouth all the time I doubt your eyes would be above it”. (Such a great line; I mean really, can we all now just speak our truth like old women do?)

For those playing along, the official answer is #1. But of course it’s really all of the above.

Muddy Discovery

/ Deb / 1 Comment

I pulled into the Discovery Park parking lot, put in my headphones, and hit shuffle on Spotify. First song to come up? “Hunger Strike” by Temple of the Dog (site of the video). Nicely played, Shuffle Gods. I mean seriously, I could not make this stuff up.

If that wasn’t a call to leave my usual bluff route and head down to the beach, then I don’t know what would be. I wandered the trails, yearning to be lost and far away, at least in spirit. I took a different route down from the bluff, at one point encountering a muddy, washed out section of trail. The irony of my recent post about rock-stepping did not go unnoticed, and I kept going. When I reached the shore, I stopped and threw some rocks in the water, saying goodbye to some things and setting new intentions. Down on the beach, I lingered for a bit, soaking in the rare blue Seattle sky. I’d like to say that I had some profound realizations, as if I received a message that was waiting there for me in the beach grass, but that didn’t happen. I did, however, go home in a better mood than when I started, and that’s always a good thing.

My End of the Table

/ Deb / Leave a comment

It’s definitely fall around here. I went for a walk this morning while it was still dry and crisp outside. I heard a Black Crowes song and thought to myself — gosh, today would be a good day to listen to The Black Crowes. Usually when fall hits, I am compelled towards U2 and, more specifically, towards The Joshua Tree. (Was that album even released in the fall? Is it the moody music? I associate it with fall, but is that just because I discovered it during an autumn of teenage heartache?) Regardless, while The Joshua Tree will always mean fall to me, it shouldn’t get all of my autumn attention, and so it was nice to get a reminder of The Black Crowes and have something to dive back into. If I were ever forced to compile a list of favorite albums, their The Southern Harmony and Musical Companion would absolutely be on it (along with The Joshua Tree, of course).

Anyway, as often happens, I got sidetracked and had continued my day, Black Crowe-less. Then a friend texted me to tell me about a new Jason Isbell album of cover tunes, Georgia Blue. He was alerting me towards a cover of The Black Crowes’ “Sometimes Salvation”, which just happens to be on The Southern Harmony and Musical Companion. I laughed and told him that I had, just that morning, been thinking about The Black Crowes.

So of course on his recommendation, I listened to the Georgia Blue album, and it’s great just like he said. Imagine my surprise when I saw that it also contains a cover of R.E.M.’s “Nightswimming”. Just a few weeks ago, a podcast episode about that song sent me down a noodle-filled R.E.M. rabbit hole. I mean, really……isn’t this all some strange culmination of universal nudges?

And so as I continue my rock-stepping, I realize that my best times are not just when I have music, but when I talk about it. Music brings us together, and so do our musical memories. Those long conversations, when stories of concerts, albums, and songs come out. Maybe it’s around a dinner table, or a campfire, or on a beach. Even people who I don’t know very well — if I know your music stories, I feel like I understand you. Maybe that’s because the inverse is true — if you know my music stories, you know me.

Tonight I have the house to myself, and I am writing at the dining room table with my dog nearby, music playing. I happened to look back at my very first blog post, and had a full-circle moment. Plans and ideas are flowing as easily as the tunes on a favorite album.

Stay tuned.

Hiking in Flip Flops

/ Deb / 4 Comments

Have you ever been on a hike, only to come upon a small creek that you need to cross? You chart a potential path, identifying high rocks you can step on to make it to the other side. Will those rocks hold? Are they secretly slippery, even though they don’t appear to be? You are certain you will make it to the other side of the creek, but will you step on the opposite bank unscathed? Something holds you back from taking that first step, off the ledge, onto the nearest rock. Is it fear? Self preservation? Ego?

And then, eventually, (perhaps at the urging of your hiking buddy who is already across the creek), you take the first step. And it’s all fine. You don’t slip, or maybe just enough to get your boots wet, and surely that’s not going to ruin your hike. You get to the other side, take a look back at where you’ve been, and think — Huh, that wasn’t so bad. What on earth was I so worried about? Your hike continues, and you eat some cheese and crackers and have a great day.

To my husband, and later to a friend, this was the only way I could describe my recent anxiousness over a big decision. I was desperately craving the euphoria of that step onto the bank on the other side. I knew, with every ounce of gut instinct, that it was the right choice, but I was having problems stepping off the river bank, into the stream.

Perhaps this analogy makes no sense to anyone but me, and everyone else gleefully steps off a safe bank into a river crossing, with no hesitancy. But I’m not wired that way. At any rate, this is what was rattling around in my head, as I traveled to a California beach to see Pearl Jam play at Ohana Fest. My husband wasn’t able to go, so I invited my college-age son, whose campus is not too far away.

It felt great to be with my people (“Drop the Gyro and Run”). Although my kids both know of my PJ fandom, I am glad that they have both now seen that their mom is not the only one. I gave up long ago on trying to explain Pearl Jam (and my concert-going) to people outside my family. Now I just own it, and people can think whatever they want about why I’m “like that” (“Knowledge From the Box”). My son loves concerts too, and he casually observed at one point during the day, “Usually at music festivals, it’s people my age. But at this one it’s all… people your age” (read: old people). Oy. I refrained from telling him that his generation did not invent music festivals, and neither did mine.

At concerts, I am often in my head, and I typically make some discoveries. I knew that the show would be meaningful because it was my first post-pandemic concert, and because I would be seeing Pearl Jam with my son. I took my daughter to a PJ show a few years ago, and it was beautiful (“Big Sky Gratitude”). But I under-estimated the gravity of this one. As the music started, I realized that, while the show was all that I expected, it was also something bigger: a bookend. The first time I saw Pearl Jam, I was just a few weeks away from starting law school. This time, I am at the other end of that choice.

Somewhere in the evening, I realized that my analogy was all wrong. While that first step off the bank is indeed crucial, we shouldn’t focus only on the safety of the other side. I decided to embrace the discomfort. The rock-stepping is part of the process. The journey gives us freedom to view ourselves differently, and approach things through a new lens.

In the crowd near us, I overheard a son ask his dad why he wasn’t dancing to a particular song. The response was so great. The dad said, “It’s a perfectly fine song, it’s just not for me”. We can use that mantra for anything, including big decisions. (Also, I vow that, from this day forward, I will always embody this sentiment when I am complaining about discussing a set list.)

And in terms of my hike, I did take that first step into the creek. I haven’t yet taken that blissful other-side-of-the-bank step, but I am somewhere in the middle, and the rocks are holding up just fine.