Cooking, certainly one of my passions. Writing is one of my others. I’ve been writing for quite some time. I’ve been told that I’m an excellent writer by a lot of different people. So now I humbly submit some of my short stories here for your approval, enjoyment. Thanks for visiting. – Harry Conlon.

These are Rated G thru R.

My Musical Memoirs

(a work in progress)

MUSIC: an artistic form of auditory communication incorporating instrumental or vocal tones in a structured and continuous manner. That’s what the dictionary says. But it’s so much more complicated than that. Music will pull memories from the deep dark recesses of your mind. Good ones, bad ones, happy, sad, sexy, and on and on. You can relive some of you past through the emotions music brings forth. Poetry set to notes. Stories, others have written, but somehow you find the simile that bonds you forever to that song. It’s now YOUR song. Everybody’s life has a story, and not too many people realize that their life also has a sound track. This is the Sound Track of My Life. . .

Music. One of the passions of my life. Always has been, all ways will be. I am the “baby” of six kids, raised by our father and our deceased mothers sister, Aunt Peggy and her husband Uncle Dick. I am married now, fast (like a freight train) approaching fifty. My wife and I are the parents of one child, our son Harrison, who, at the time of this writing is twelve.

In my childhood, music really was a big part of our family. No, no musicians, but certainly singers. My dad, the master vocalist. Not a professional (although many people that heard him sing said he could have been). No, he was a pharmacist who just really loved to sing. His daughters, (my sisters) they were singers too. Us boys, three of us, nope, no singing talent what so ever. Me: I love to sing. Unfortunately, my voice is not that of my fathers. (but that doesn’t stop me)

So what brought this all about, this musical memoirs of mine? The ‘butterfly effect’ of sorts. One too many of my music CD’s got scratched. A favorite, . . .right in my favorite part of the song too! “SHIT!” I thought, “I am so damn sick of this….” Yet another ruined CD. Oh sure, you can get one of those scratch taker offers things, but it’s a real pain in the ass. “I oughta just start downloading my own music and keep it all digital on a stick. . .or an MP3 player…” The more I mulled it over, the better I liked it.

Sharing this idea with my wife Debbie, we decided to get a membership on a legitimate music download site, and well – the next thing you know we’re having a great time, reliving old memories through the songs we grew up with. The search engine of our new site is awesome; just type in a part of a song and hit enter. Cruise the hundreds of hits and find what you’re looking for. Download it and move on to the next.

We’ve been at it pretty much non-stop for a little over a week. The songs I’ve heard, the memories they brought back, oh man – very nice indeed!

So, this will be a journal of sorts. I‘ll try and keep them in order, the order at which they came to be known to me…somewhat in order. The songs I treasure, and the story and reason why. I wanted each song to have an accompanied MP3 file you could download. Scribd unfortunately does not accept MP3’s. SO: You want the song, email me, I’ll send you any or all. Read the story, email me and I’ll send you the file, then listen to the song. . . Each song, a chapter in my life. . . The Sound Track To My Life.

I’d like to start at the start. The song that I feel encompasses completely who I am, and what I’ve become. My life story BEGINS with this song. You know him, you love him, you can’t live without him. Lady’s and gentlemen, Jimmy Buffet singing “Harry’s Song” also know as,

Changes in Latitude by Jimmy Buffet

As your life relentlessly moves forward, your attitudes changes. Sometimes for the better, sometimes not. Your circle of friends change, you lose touch with some while holding strong to others. Every person experiences change for change is inevitable. What keeps me sane is the ability to find humor in most all situations. Laughing makes you feel good, plain and simple. I find a peacefulness and sense of well being by just hanging out with my best friend / friends and reminiscing. (and knocking back a few cocktails) Telling our story’s. Chapters of our lives that make us laugh, sometimes making us cry. But in the end, we’ve spent a night with people we love, and learning more about each other as our lives move forward. Learn to laugh at yourself, learn from your mistakes and afterwards you can laugh at them too. Everybody needs a grave yard in which they can bury the bad thing. Mistakes, the hurt, the pain, the anger. These things do indeed make you a stronger person, but dwelling on them will never do you any good. Learn from them, then dig a hole and bury them. Keep and relish the good things. The joy and wonder of all that life has to offer. God has blessed us all, learn to recognize His blessings. He gave us all the ability to laugh, laughing is good.

Lonesome Cattle Call by Eddie Arnold

If my father, William “Bill” Conlon had a signature-song, it would be this. He sang it better than Eddie! Dads voice was deep and clear. I’m sure in his prime, my father could have been a contender on “American Idol”. Seriously, he was THAT good. He owned 4 eight track tapes. One was Eddie Arnolds Greatest Hits. Dad love to hear that man sing this song. I don’t think he was capable of listening to it without singing along. He’d sing it solo too, no problem. On long car trips, out fishing, where ever the mood stuck him, he’d sing us kids a song. We all wanted to hear him sing Cattle Call, his most popular requested song!

Going to the Chapel of Love by The Shirelles

My sisters. I have three of them. Each a unique singing voice. Together, their harmony was awesome! This was a song they sang regularly when the three of them were together and dad would ask them to sing something. It would usually be late at night, dad just getting home from work. He’d have a cocktail or two, nothing on the tv, and maybe he’d ask his girls to sing him a song. On my wedding day, all three of my sisters were with me. My Aunt Peggy and Uncle Dick driving us all to the ceremony. Without anybody asking, one of my sisters began to sing this song. As soon as she began, the other two joined in and they serenaded us all the way there. . . My sisters love me, and they joined voices once again to tell me so. A song for our father, now sung for me. . .from their hearts. I went to my wedding serenaded by angels!Shirelles – Going to the Chapel of Love

Like a Rock by Bob Seagar

The United States Navy. The year, 1976. Me and boot camp: Not a pleasant mix. I’ve always had problems with authority and authority figures. A normal 8 week boot camp took me 18 weeks. I kept getting “set back” for discipline problems. Seriously! Yeah, me. I was 19, fat and out of shape, lazy. My father had died in my senior year of high school. After graduation, I moved to Arizona where, by this time in my life, Aunt Peggy and Uncle Dick lived. I was going to start my adult life in Phoenix. Three days after graduation I found myself knocking on their door. Uncle Dick retired from the Navy after 20 years of honorable and highly decorated service. The stories that man could tell, man did I ever love them! I listened to him tell his stories to his now adult nephew. I was completely enamored with them and finally joined.

My oldest brother Joe, (a former Marine officer and pilot) told me (he knew I was going to have problems) “Hey, it’s just head games. Learn to play their head games and you’ll do just fine.” My arrogance held me back from learning these games at first. But eventually, I did learn them. And I learned more about myself in those 18 weeks than I had in my short lifetime. In all of my grade school and high school, the lessons I learned were nothing close to what I was learning then, in boot camp.

After my 18 weeks of hell, I finally stood on the parade grounds, leading my company through their ceremony routine. I had been elevated in rank to RCC – Recruit Company Commander. (When the real company commander wasn’t around, I was in charge) I had my “shit together” like nobody else. My first taste of leadership, and my fellow recruits looked up to me. We looked sharp as razors on that field. My family was watching from the bleachers, Aunt Peggy, Uncle Dick, and my sister Marty. Uncle Dick had an excuse to wear his dress blues, something that filled him with pride and patriotism. It bore a chest full of ribbons from his long career of distinguished service, and gold rather than red ranking insignias which indicated perfect honor. In his career he had never once been in trouble, so his dress blues bore gold, very rare.  I had always been proud of Uncle Dick, but now, seeing him here in his regalia. . .I beamed with pride!

After the graduation ceremony, he left the ladies at the parade grounds and followed my company as I marched them back to the barracks. I pulled them to a stop and ordered “DIS-MISSED!” and all their hats flew into the air as they cheered. Uncle Dick came over and faced me, a very serious look on his face. He popped to attention and gave me his snappiest salute. I turned and faced him and returned it. My face and lips quivering, I was trying my hardest not to cry. And then he said it. “I’m so very proud of you son!” I lost it when he said that. I laid my head on his shoulder and he put his arms around me. “I made it! I didn’t quit!” I said.

“No you didn’t. And you probably never will again buddy.” All the guys were milling about, some were coming over wanting to be introduced for they had heard of my Uncle. I had retold his stories them at night in the yard during ‘down time’.

No other parents were allowed in this area, Uncle Dicks uniform gained him access with no questions asked. Last to enter the yard was our company commander. He saw me in a tearful, relaxed conversation with a gold master chief petty officer, and a dozen of his recruits standing around us. Rushing over he screamed “What the fuck is going on here?!?!” and uncle Dick stopped him dead in his tracks. “BACK OFF CC. . .I’m talking with my son!” to which CC replied, rather surprised “Aye, chief, sorry!” Uncle Dick held out his hand and introduced himself to my CC. My CC told him how impressed he was with who I had become. He then told us he had put my name in for S.E.A.L.’s training. I was the only one he had recommended from his 50 or so men. All I had to do was accept the offer and I was in. I was honored. Pride in myself was a new experience, and I liked it.

This all happened in the spring of 1977, thirty years ago! About 10 years ago, this song came on the radio and as I once again listened to it, really listened, I thought how perfect of a piece it was for this time of my life. Every time I hear it, this chapter of my life is what I remember. I think about it often and use it as motivation for my new lifestyle change. I want to be buff again, I want to be “like a rock” again. I need to drop about fifty pounds, and at fifty years old, I need all the help I can get. The ‘help’ needs to come from within though. This song and those memories. Joining the United States Navy was the best thing I ever did with my life. Like a rock baby, like a rock.

Marlboro Country by Henry Mancini

Growing up in Indiana, Arizona seemed so far away. Not only in miles, but in “will I ever get to go there?” It was Christmas time of 1968. I had just turned eleven. My best friend at the time was Phil Unrue. Everybody knew him as “Gumby”. His hobby was electronics, and his dad had taught him  a lot. In turn Gumby taught me what he knew and together he and I built me a stereo. Now, this was ‘back in the day’. No CD’s, no mp3’s, no digital anything. Only vinyl and 8 track tapes. We had taken an old and busted turn table, fixed it, attached an amplifier and some skanky speakers, and viola, I had a stereo. It was a piece of shit, but it was mine. One problem; I had no records. My brothers and sisters all had records, and I had to beg each time I wanted to listen to something. The only other stereo belonged to my older brother George (we called him Buzz. Why? Different story). Buzz’s stereo: HANDS OFF. That Christmas, Buzz gave me an album: Music from the  Marlboro Country. If memory serves me right, he had gotten it from sending in empty Marlboro cigarette packs which he picked up from my two older sisters (he himself did not smoke). He didn’t care for the album, so he gave it to me instead. I LOVED it. I reminded me of Arizona and Aunt Peggy and Uncle Dick. They had moved back to Arizona after staying with us for about eight or nine years and I / we missed them madly. Shortly after Christmas, dad told us we’d be spending the upcoming summer in Arizona with AP & UD. We were THRILLED! It would be me and my three sisters. My brothers had already graduated high school. Joe was in college, Buzz had a job working with dad. We were going to Arizona, land of cowboys and horses. The grand canyon. The painted desert, cactus, John Wayne. . . I could hardly wait! My oldest sister Maggie was graduating and AP & UD were driving back for that. After, we’d all pile into their station wagon and head back to Arizona for a summer of fun. For 5 months I listened to that album each and every night when I went to bed. I’d listen until I fell asleep, visions of the wild west filling my head. I took the album with me, and AP & UD let me play it as loud as I wanted on their very fancy stereo. They loved it too! A few months ago, I found the music for guitar on this song. I have found great joy in learning to play it. As I play, my own personal music video plays in my head. . .a young boy, warm and safe in his bed, dreams of the wild west filling his head. Eye’s closed, my face gently smiling. . . I remember.

——————————-

“What is wonderful about music is that it helps one to concentrate or meditate independently of thought, and therefore music seems to be the bridge over the gulf between form and the formless. If there is anything intelligent, effective and at the same time formless, it is music. Poetry suggests form, line and color suggest form, but music suggests no form. It creates also that resonance which vibrates through the whole being, lifting the thought above the denseness of matter, it almost turns matter into spirit, into its original condition, through the harmony of vibrations touching every atom of one’s whole being. Beauty of line and color can go so far and no further; the joy of fragrance can go a little further; but music touches our innermost being and in that way produces new life, a life that gives exaltation to the whole being, raising it to that perfection in which lies the fulfillment of one’s life.”

-Sufi Hasrat Inayet

I have no idea who Sufi Hasrat Inayet is (or was) but he sure seemed to know what music is!

Sweet Surrender by John Denver

A defining moment in my life came with this song playing as a backdrop as I contemplated the unthinkable.

The year was 1991. I had given up a pretty good paying truck driving career to pursue a new one in graphic arts. I quit driving in 87 when I received in the mail, notice from the veterans affairs office, that I needed to use my GI bill benefits or they would expire. I jumped at the opportunity to leave a career I had learned to hate. I have always been an artist. As a little kid I excelled at drawing. Drawing anything. Then in high school I achieved celebrity status for a state art contest victory (I was in 7th grade) and for also being suspended for distribution of obscene cartoon strips / books. (As an adult I found out that those comic strips and comic books that I had poured my sick and twisted sense of humor and art talents into, were the hit of the teachers lounge! I digress. Different story) .

So I quit my job and  became a full time college student. I was the oldest person in most of my classes. I had already done a 5 year tour in the Navy and 8 years as a truck driver. I was 32 years old! The government kindly sent me a check for $480 every month. And to bring in extra money, I had a part time job as a parking valet at a swank restaurant, and later starting my own handyman service. I graduated with an associates degree in graphic arts. I landed my first job and it lasted about 6 months before the company folded. Second job was a little more money. When, after about a year, a third position came along offering yet more money, I took it. Got laid off after 6 months. Dusted off my resume and art samples and went “in search of” once again. 8 months later – nothing. The savings had run out. We were living on my wife Debbie’s income alone. Not even close to enough money coming in. Graphic artist jobs were hard to come by. The ones that did, better artist got those positions. All this played a terrible toll on my soul and even a worse one on my ego.

I felt like a complete failure. The thought of going back to driving a truck for a living nauseated me. (Seriously – even today the thought of it makes a little vomit come up into my mouth!) I worked my ass off to get that degree and “I’m a damn good artist!”. But there I was – an unemployed, no talent looser.

Mid afternoon one Friday. I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at the pistol I held in my hands. I was crying like a baby. Debbie came home early from work and found me on the floor crying. The pistol lay on the bed. She tried her best but I was inconsolable. She called 911 and they put her in touch with an emergency  counseling place that was for this very problem I was having. She got me in the car and drove me over. The councilor prescribed a trip. “Anywhere. Just go. Get in your car and go for a long drive. Anywhere, as long as it’s away from this city (Phoenix). Drive. Talk. Listen to your favorite music, see some sights…just go.” was his advise.

“We don’t have any money for this.” Debbie said.

“Sure you do. Fill up you tank, grab some peanut butter and jelly, some bread, something to drink, and GO. You’ll be fine. If you don’t, he won’t be fine.”

So we went. That night. North towards Utah. Late into the night we came to a place I recognized. It was close to a turn off I use to take as a truck driver going to Salt Lake City. This turn off was an obscure two lane road that would cut almost 2 hours off your trip. Not many truckers used it because it was very dangerous, lots of switchbacks and hairpins. Very steep with major drop offs on both sides.  (and I use to take 18 wheelers on this thing?!) The thing is, I had never taken it in the day light. It was always at night when I drove this forgotten old highway. I asked Deb to take the turn as I knew there was a pull out where we could park and take a nap. She did, and a nap we took.

After several hours sleeping I got out of the car to pee. Business being taken care of, I leaned on the fender and stared toward the eastern sky contemplating my situation. I was going to have to go back to driving a truck. The morning sun was just about to make itself known when Debbie awoke and she to came out of the car and joined me. She was in a wonderful mood and began telling me how much loved me and how she had faith in me and my decision to change careers. She held confident that I would land on my feet and we’d be just fine. I wasn’t so sure about all that. She got back into the car to retrieve our cigarettes and she turned the car on, and hit play on our cassette player. Leaving the door open, she came back and leaned on the fender with me as we stared into the starry morning sky and listened to John Denver. The sun was beginning to rise. She took my hand and we walked about 20 yards to a nice overlook of a yet unseen valley. As the sun began to light the valley before us, the music stopped. It had come to the end of that side, and the auto reverse was about to kick in. There was about a 30 second lull in the music before side 2 began. It began with Sweet Surrender. The song completely engulfed me, I heard every note and every word began to resonate within me. A warm and loving blanket seemed to wrap itself around me as I held hands with my wife and watched the suns rays light the spectacular valley below us. I felt a presence. I don’t know how I knew, but I did. This presence was God. A peace filled my soul like I had never had before. I began to weep. As the song finished, Debbie turned and asked if I was alright. I had been reborn completely in those 2 and a half minutes, standing right there next to her, holding her hand. Was I alright?! The biggest fattest smile you ever saw was plastered on my face. I threw my arms around her and beamed “I’m wonderful! Thank you so much for loving me! I love you! Thank you!” and tears of joy poured from my eyes as we embraced.

“God is here honey.” I whispered to my wife.

“Yes He is.” she agreed.

“No, I mean – right now, He’s here with us…with me! I feel His presence.” I reiterated.

“I know honey, He’s ALWAYS been there. He’s never left you. That’s why you didn’t go through with it yesterday, He stopped you. He’s not done with you.”

A few other people drove up and parked. Nodding good morning to us they disappeared around a bend. We went to investigate where they had gone and discovered a hiking trail. We followed them. What an absolutely amazing hike it was! Such beauty and splendor you can only imagine. The area this all happened in is called Bryce Canyon. Go there sometime if you get a chance. It’s incredible!

We were home again on Sunday afternoon. I was a new man. Picking up the paper I found an ad for a company called Best Impression, looking for a graphic artist, full time. Monday morning found me bright and early on their door step, waiting to impress them with my portfolio. They were only 3 miles from my house. After the interview with Gary Grimes the owner, I rushed home to call my wife and tell her how well the interview went. As I walked into the house the phone was ringing. It was Gary asking me when I could start. “Would tomorrow be ok?” I asked.

“Perfect. See you at 8” Gary said.

Gary said he always liked to surround himself with quality people. I was the only person working there who DIDN’T attend his church. DO NOT get me wrong: none of them were ever preachy. But they never backed down from a religious debate. And me being the hard headed individual I am, loved to debate the existence of God. Just for the sake of a fun argument! I do have to admit: I never won any of these debates. That group of people showed me the way, and for that I will be forever grateful.

Lost and alone on some forgotten highway,

Traveled my many, remembered by few.

Looking for something that I can believe in,

Looking for something I like to do with my life.

There’s nothing behind me and nothing that ties me to

Something that might have been true yesterday.

Tomorrow is open; right now it seems to be more then enough

To just to be here today…..

And I don’t know what the future is holding in store

Don’t know where I’m going

I’m not sure where I’ve been.

There’s a spirit that guides me, a light that shines for me

My life’s worth living, I don’t need to see the end…

You go listen to the song now… God loves you.

Zippity Do Da – A Violins Story

This is surely a story about a song, but more importantly, the violin that played that song and Heaven speaking to me through that simple act. “zipity do da, zipity aye, my oh my what a wonderful day…”

We all know the song, right? From the Disney classic “Uncle Remus – Songs of the South”. I couldn’t have been much more then 3 or 4. My sister Marty, being a year older then I, was with us too. Our aunt Peggy, my sister Marty and I, out driving somewhere and aunt Peggy taught us to sing that song. We’d sing it any time we were out driving, and eventually sang the song to death. Two adorable toddlers singing Zipity Do Da. I’d say it was the very first song I ever learned. Needless to say, I love this song.

Way back then, so may years ago, in the dark deep corners of aunt Peggy’s closet, rested a torn and tattered case. A small black case. We were told NEVER to touch or even go near the thing. Very mysterious. We never messed with it either. Later in adult life, aunt Peggy told us and finally showed us what it held. A very old violin. This violin held a wonderfully jaded past, and all documented too. The documentation was in the case with the violin and it consisted of a couple of newspaper clippings and a master luthiers

(a maker and repairer of violins and other stringed instruments) appraisal documents and his several dozen photo’s of his disassembly of this violin and its restoration. When aunt Peggy showed me the violin for the first time, she told me it’s story.

Peggy was a girl of six, when a friend of her fathers gave her the violin as a gift. This must have been back in the 1920’s. He had claimed he had “found” it while cleaning up after a massive fire somewhere in Chicago. I cannot remember this mans name for the life of me. Lets call him “uncle” Bob. Peggy didn’t realize until she was a teenager that Uncle Bob was a scum bag. The truth came out that he was a career criminal, who, at the time of her finding out, was currently in prison. A letter from prison to her was also in the case, all yellow and crusty…but VERY cool. He was on clean up duty after this fire and amongst the ashes and debris he found the case holding safely this old violin. He managed to slip away with it, and gave it to Peggy. One of the newspaper articles inside the case was about a world famous violinist who was distraught over loosing her beloved violin in this fire. As a teenager finding out her violin was stolen, Peggy refused to continue trying to learn to play it. Trying to find it’s rightful owner, she found this newspaper article, tried contacting this woman, but found that she had died. She kept the violin. It saddened her so that she had deprived this woman of her instrument. She buried it in her closet and rarely ever looked at it. Decades later she and her husband sent the instrument off to the Smithsonian Institute to have it looked at. They had been told by a friend that it might be a Stradivarius, and could be worth upwards of a million dollars. They sent it back saying it was indeed a marvelous piece, but not a Stradivarius. Most likely it WAS built by one of Stradivarius’s apprentices. They also told her it needed to be rebuilt and gave her the name of a luthier that turned out to live here locally in Arizona. He meticulously disassembled the instrument, photographing each step, and put it all back together again. He, once finished, appraised the instrument at $3,800 for the violin and $1,200 for it’s bow. The case he mentioned was worthless. The case (in my opinion) was the coolest part of the set… it had burn marks on it! After all that, aunt Peggy once again put the tattered case back into the closet. Another 5 years or so. Then she gave it to me. Shortly there after, aunt Peggy passed away.

I decided I was a pretty decent guitar player, let’s see if I can play the violin. I signed up for some one on one lessons. This teacher was my age. He was delighted that he had a student who wasn’t a kid. I showed up for my first class and broke out my violin. The teacher about fell off his stool! He gasped and held out his hands “May I?” and I handed him the violin. Holding it, he gasped again. “Oh my God, tell me about this instrument!” As I gave him the short version of this story, he played. Diddled actually. Testing the instrument, listening to the tones of the notes, feeling the air vibrate. . . I had never heard this particular instrument played. . . It was remarkable. He handed it back to me, picked up his violin, and played the same stuff he was playing on mine. The difference was simply amazing. He told me how fortunate I was and we began our lessons. Three lessons actually. That’s how many classes it took me to realize that I was NOT a violinist. Back into the closet. MY closet. And there it sat for another year or so.

My brother in law Steve was dating a girl who knew how to play the violin. I took it over to my in laws one night for a dinner party. She to gasped when she first saw it. She played for us. Wow, it sounded so pretty! I told her and the family about the violin. She told me that to put an instrument like this in it’s case and keep it in a closet would eventually destroy the instrument. “An instrument like that needs to be played!” That comment stuck with me.

Maybe a year later, my wife and I were in a slight financial bind, and after much considered thought, I decided to sell the violin. Fortunately, I had no takers. I did however have an inspired idea.

At this time I was (and still am) a graphic artist. I was working on a job for the Phoenix Youth Symphony. The conductor had hired the company I worked for to produce tee shirts for them. As I worked on this job, this inspiration hit me. The Phoenix Youth Symphony is a non profit organization. I could donate the violin to them and claim the entire value of the violin as a tax write off. “Sweet!” I called the conductor, and she and I talked it over. We met and I introduced her to the violin. I told her it’s story, she was completely enthralled and amazed that I was willing to give it up. I told her I wasn’t willing to just give it up to anyone. It was a special violin in need of a special owner. A smile came to her face as she told me of one of her students. A truly gifted musician, who had to share a violin with another student. Her parents couldn’t afford her a decent instrument, but they were saving up for one. The young lady was 13 and the conductor was certain she was destined for the big time. “Then she’s my girl.”

The three of us met on a Saturday afternoon a week or so before Thanksgiving. It was a cold, damp, drizzly day here in Phoenix. We met at my office, and it being a weekend, there was nobody there but us. The conductor had brought along her violin. Her young student was pleasant and polite young lady. I remember her being scared to pick up the old violin. But she did. She and her teacher tuned the violin. I sat there smiling, waiting to be blown away. She began some classical masterpiece. Ten or so notes into it, she messed up and started over. Once again, she messed up but I could see tears forming in her eyes. Her teacher put her hand on her shoulder and told her it was ok, “relax, focus. . . Turn around so he can’t see you….” the girl turned around with her back to me, the teacher smiled at me and winked, they began again. This time, my office filled with the splendorous sounds of a masterful musician and her priceless old violin. She was magnificent! Finishing the song, she turned around and faced me. Ear to ear smile beaming at me with cheeks drenched in tears. Holding the bow in one hand and the violin in the other, she threw her arms around me and said over and over “thank you, thank you, thank you!” To be completely honest, all three of us were crying. She walked out of there on cloud nine! I sent everything with her. The instrument, the case and all the documentation. (I made copies of all of it of course, taxes and all).

A week later I received a wonderful thank you letter from the young lady. Along with tickets to the Phoenix Youth Symphony’s Christmas performance. How Cool!? Would not miss it for the world! My sister Dee-Dee was in town at the time. I told her of what I had done and invited her to come along for the show. She thought what I had done was crazy, but agreed it would be cool to see aunt Peggy’s violin in action.

If you’ve never been to hear an orchestra play, I highly recommend it. It’s wonderful to hear so many different instruments play at the same time. Truly magical! For the first ten minutes Dee and I were trying to figure out where our girl was. They were in the middle of a Disney music montage, when all of the instruments went soft, and one musician stood up. It was our girl, and she blasted out Zipity Do Da. Goose bumps covered our skins as we both recognized this song oh too well. Several people around us began softly singing the song. With tears bursting from my eyes, I looked at my sister. She too was crying and we threw our arms around each other. “I think aunt Peggy approves of what you did with her violin!” she said as we hugged. As Zipity Do Da finished and they moved into the next song, our violinist sat down. . . She was beaming with pride. The three violinist around her had bright shinny auburn colored instruments. Hers was faded and dull with age – well over a hundred years old, but in her hands had the sound of pure delight.

Time of Your Life – a guitar recital

We went to a party last night, a BIG party. A fund raiser chili cook-off / throw-down for breast cancer. (my chili took 2nd place). The night wore on and the people had thinned down to about 25 people. About a dozen of us were gathered around the fire pit having a nice time. My good friend Dave had received a new guitar for his birthday earlier in the evening. Several of us were taking turns with it, playing some background music. Then Scott joins our little group. Not many was aware that he played guitar. He breaks out with “Blackbird” by the Beatles. Complete with singing! None of us there that know how to play guitar can play AND sing…were all just players. Everybody shuts up and listens to Scott play a couple of songs. Awesome guitar playing with a very nice voice….I mean really good. Harrison really likes Scott and I ran to go find him. He was inside playing pool with our hosts daughter. “Harrison. You gotta come out here and listen to Scott play…dude, he’s got some serious guitar skills!”

Harrison smiled huge and said he’d be out in a minute. Harrison really likes Scott a lot. A lot of the people at the party were at the lake last summer when Scott taught Harrison how to water ski, and how to ride a jet ski. So, Scott is one of Harrison’s favorite adults.

Harrison shows up and grabs a chair. I’m sittin’ right next to Scott and ask him to play Blackbird again. By this time everybody’s  back to their own conversations and not really paying attention anymore. Huge smile comes across Harrison’s face as Scott plays. Harrison tells Andy sitting next to him that he has a song he’s been working on that he’d like to maybe play. As soon as Scott finishes his song, drunk Andy announces “Harrison’s got a song he’s gonna play for us!!! Pass that guitar over Scott!”

Harrison truly does have a musical gift. Any of you that were @ Marty’s 50th remember his drum solo. Well, since then he’s gotten into playing guitar (go figure! – we own 7) I taught him as much as he could stand to learn from me. Not that I’m all that good, he just doesn’t like to learn from dad. I taught him how to find (for free, on line) and read a type of guitar music called Tabs. He took off on his own, and now his skills have exceeded mine. . . and he can sing along too! THIS he thinks is so cool “cuz dad can’t do it!” My reply to this ribbing has always been “Yeah, let’s see ya do it in front of a bunch of people.” This too is something very hard to do. Of course he points out said drum solo @ Marty’s 50th.

Over comes the guitar, and everybody stops talking and all eyes are on Harrison. He’s the only kid in our group around the camp fire. Everybody there knows and likes him. Several there knew he played drums, nobody except mom and I had ever heard him play guitar. Sitting on my right side was another good friend of ours Tracey. She’s a high school art teacher, she adores Harrison. Around rotten nasty teenagers day in, day out, she’s always telling us what a great kid he is. Harrison’s very comfortable around adults.

“Time of Your Life” by Greenday. (Listen to the attached MP3 file of Greendays version) Harrison’s been working on it for about 6 weeks. It’s one of our favorite songs. I hear him upstairs in the music room practicing on the electric guitar with the head phones on…it’s very quit, and he sort of mumbles the lyrics. It’s been fun to listen to.

Guitar now in hand, all is quit except the crackle of the fire. My son began his first guitar recital. A bit nervous on the first bar, but he found his grove and really got into it. I look around to see nothing but what can only be described as slack-jawed-gaping-smiles. Tracey let’s out an “OH MY GOD – He’s NOT lip syncing! That’s REALLY him!” Toward the end, everybody was softly singing along. He finished, and the entire audience erupted in applause and whistles, several of us lit our BIC’s. THIS is what gets him all embarrassed now. He gets all red faced, stands up and hands the guitar back to Scott saying “Thanks, I’ll be here all week…try the veal.” (much laughter) Everybody shouts they want to hear another, but Harrison walks off all red faced and goes back inside to play pool. Holding the guitar, Scott says “Oh HELL no, I ain’t followin’ THAT!” and puts the guitar down.

Debbie was standing right behind Tracey and I. I can’t speak for her, but my chest was swollen with what I’m guessing was pride. I don’t think pride is really the right word / phrase. “Delighted wonder” maybe?” A gift from God had reared it’s beautiful head.

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The Night I Almost Crapped My Pants

Bout 15 years ago. Our first house as home owners. Deb, my wife and I weren’t the fat people we are today. We were health freaks. I was about 70 lbs lighter than I am today. We worked out every night. Our workouts usually was either a long bike ride or a nice brisk walk. This we were walking. Sun had just set. We had finished dinner and were doing the outer perimeter of our neighborhood, big square, 4 miles. At the almost halfway point, my colon tells me “Dude, this is bad, let’s go sit and shit.” I ignore it. My colon is persistent and tells me again that it is full of some seriously toxic diarrhea. I tell Deb we need to cut this walk short and let’s cut threw the neighborhood. Doing so is like a maze, but we’ve walked it many times before. We turn into the neighborhood, but the cramps are really starting to hurt and the pace has been brought way down, almost to a crawl. Debbie suggest I go knock on a door and ask if they’ll let me use their can. NO FRICKIN’ WAY. Waste of time, “would YOU let a stranger in to crap in YOUR bathroom??!!” I ask. Point well taken. A few hundred yards into the cut thru, Deb says, “You know what? I’m gonna jog home, get the pick up, and shoot back here and pick you up.” and off she goes. (My h e r o ). I continue walking. . .with this horrible grimace on my face, and pretty much baby steps. My gut (right there @ the belt buckle area – yeah) is in the worst knot of my life and my colon is screaming “OOOH THIS IS GONNA BE BAD”.

“Look, a vacant house…” I think to myself.

“Kick the  door in, go take a shit, and leave.”

“Oh God, DON’T do THAT!” my colon yells.

“Hop the wall and shit in the backyard?” I ask my impacted friend.

“You stupid fucker! Kick in a door or hop a wall and I’ll fill your pants with the worst explosive blast of vileness you have EVER seen! Go check the gate and WALK into the backyard calmly lower you pants and let me do my thing. Sacrifice your skivvy’s to wipe your ass.”

“Good call!”

I’m basically standing still in front of this house having this conversation in my head with my very strained ass hole. As I begin to stagger onto the property, a  COP comes cruising by in his squad car… nice and slow, eyeballin’ ME.

<I AM NOT MAKING ANY OF THIS UP, AS GOD AS MY WITNESS>

“WTF?!?!” I turn around and begin to walk away, in the direction of my house.

Moments later, another squad car at the next intersection….”WTF?!?! Now I’m surrounded by COPS?!?!”

Minute later ANOTHER COP pulls up next to me and stops, his window is down, he doesn’t seem to be angry with me….

My colon pipes up with a brilliant idea, “Ask him for a ride to your house!!!”

I open my mouth and begin giving him the short version. As I speed thru the story, his face begins twitching, but he remains serious and listens.

“…so, I was wondering if you could maybe give me a quick ride to my house. It’s just around the corner, be there in 30 – 40 seconds, tops. I promise I won’t shit in ur car.”

“Sir, I’d seriously like to help you out with that…but we’re actually looking for somebody right now….” he rolls away in the other direction…” good luck with that sir, hope you make it!” he calls out as he inches away.

“Oh my God, I’m gonna fucking die here….with a pants full of shit….oh, God, please don’t let me shit in my pants…. oh, God, please don’t let me shit in my pants…. oh, God, please don’t let me shit in my pants…. then it became a chant…ohGodpleasedon’tletmeshitinmypants….ohGodpleasedon’tletmeshitinmypants…. ohGodpleasedon’tletmeshitinmypants…. “

Then I see them. Two squad cars at the next intersection, maybe 50 yards away. The two cops have stopped in the middle of the intersection in 69 fashion, both facing opposite directions. One is telling the other my plight. They are both looking at me. They are both laughing out loud. They pull away from each other laughing and continue their search for whoever…

“FUCK YOU BOTH! You can kiss my soon to be shit smeared ass!”

<Begin the Lone Ranger theme music>

Here comes Debbie .

In uncle Dick’s old white pick up. She comes around the corner, and (I swear) the ass end of the truck got away from her a little. She’s a hundred yards and two intersections away from me…comin’ like a bat outa hell. We meet at an intersection where she does a big U turn, stops and I jump in. She is laughing her ass off. We tear through the streets of our neighborhood, tires squealing, all the way back to our house. She even had the forethought to unlock the front door for me. We come screeching to a stop in our driveway, I bail out and waddle as fast as I can to the bathroom…unbuckling, unzipping all the way. Down they come, cheeks in place, sit on the throne. . . r e l a x e v e r y t h i n g .

“The horror.” (you have to say it the way Brando said it in Apocalypse Now)

“Oh the humanity!” (Hendenberg crash reporter)

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