The Voice I Thought I Lost

 

Me, 17 years old

All my childhood and teens I sang, sang all the time. Played guitar. Music was the thing that brought me to life, and I wanted nothing more than to buy a PA system and join a band. The singers I listened to shaped my style. Grace Slick, Tina Turner, Ann Wilson, Janis Joplin, Janis Ian, Joni Mitchell.

My dad always encouraged me in my music, always asked me to play and sing for him, always got happy when I learned a new song or wrote one. He especially loved that. He gifted me my Harmony Sovereign for Christmas when I was twelve and paid for guitar lessons twice a week for several years. He was my biggest fan.

When I was fourteen I won a school wide talent show singing the 59th Street Bridge Song by Simon and Garfunkel and accompanying myself on my Harmony Sovereign guitar. That was the kind of kid I was. Music was where I lived.

I would watch the street musicians in Harvard Square, hungering to be playing, but too damn self conscious to even consider it. Then one day I was really high on weed and very relaxed, and I started singing along with a musician who was playing John Prine's Angel From Montgomery. The reaction of the other people listening, and the musician asking me to join him in more songs, opened the floodgates and made me feel like performing publicly would be a fun thing to do.

I set my future ambition to be a professional musician, to sing, to play music, to share the joy of melody with the world.

In my mid teens, I would play music in Harvard Square. I never put my guitar case out for donations because I was too self-conscious about it, I just played for me and my friends. Sometimes, though, somebody would walk up and hand me fifty cents or a dollar. That was coffee money!

Patti and I usually just hung out with our friends, smoking joints behind Out of Town News, getting coffee at the Mug and Muffin, playing music in the Pit, and generally having a good time. Those were the years when I thought music was going to carry me forward forever.

Then came the car wreck when I was seventeen. I went through the windshield and took three hundred stitches to my forehead. My throat slammed into the edge of the dash. Paralyzed one of my vocal cords. I couldn't sing for more than one or two songs after that before my throat would hurt bad, and I would start hitting bad notes. Me, who has perfect pitch. It was devastating. My hoped for future career was up in smoke, I had an immense scar on my forehead, and I had no hopes any more.

Over the years, I gave up singing for the most part. It was too emotionally painful.

As my voice got rougher and weaker, I fell into depression about singing and wouldn't even try, which probably resulted in helping my voice get progressively worse, along with the pack a day habit. Heavy smoking, injury, never using my voice, it went really bad. I was croaking when I sang Happy Birthday or whatever. It was bad. It felt like something that used to be mine had slipped away and I could not get it back.

Well… lately I have been singing along with the radio. I am also singing while I practice ukulele. And my voice is improving. I have my projection back. I am on key. I can sing a little longer every day.

And I am blown away.

I am not going to be a big rock star, not at 61 years old and in poor health, but I have my music back. 

Yesterday, Sam told me I was sounding pretty good. 

My heart soared.

Chicago: Where the Music Took Hold - TWICE

I am willing to bet good money that the first music I ever heard was my mother singing to me in Chicago, the city where I was born and where I lived for the first three months of my life before we moved to Boston. 

The year I was eleven, life went pretty cattywumpus. I'd been living with my mother for the previous year, and that pretty much imploded due to my special needs as an undiagnosed bipolar person. I returned to my father's home, and since he was in the middle of relocating across town and setting up housekeeping, he asked his mom, my Gramma Mary, if I could come to Chicago and stay with her for a month or two. Gramma said yes...

Clickety Clackety!

I have never been good at saving up my money for purchases. But there was one time, when I was about six years old...

Back in the late 60s or early 70s, I collected returnable bottles and turned them in for the 5 cent bounty, and saved my 25 cent a week allowance. I busted tail to buy a pair of clackers, and after several weeks of hard work and no penny candy from Max's Smoke Shop, I had the $1.49 I needed to buy my clackers. I knew which pair I wanted, too, gorgeous royal blue with gold glitter inside the balls.

So I trotted off to Woolworth's to buy my clackers.

And the shelf was filled with Nerf balls.

I asked the clerk where the clackers were, and was told that they had all been recalled, because they would shatter and glass would fly and hurt people.

Man, was I PISSED.

Ever since then, I have wanted a pair of clackers.

Looks like they're back, but with an acrylic ball instead of glass. So I ordered some.

Because the inner child MUST be placated.

Adolescent Adoration and Adult Music Taste

Eric Faulkner of the Bay City Rollers was such a handsome man in the 70s, and still is, really. 

Even when I was ten and had just discovered boys, I leaned toward older boys who had a more MAN look to them than that pretty adolescent boy stage where they could just as easily be a girl. For instance, all my friends wanted to marry Luke Skywalker. I wanted me some Han Solo. Han looks like a MAN, not a teenage girl.

Arachnophobia

I am a major arachnophobe. Show me a spider, I show you a woman having a panic attack, whimpering and staying in the center of the bed for safety from spider fangs. I am particularly terrified of tarantulas, the big hairy bastards.

Here in north Texas out in the boonies, we get one sneaking in the house occasionally. I generally freak out until my husband catches it and removes it from my house. But they're NOTHING compared to the opossum who somehow got in and spread our full trashcan all over the place. But the worst was that fucking giant white and yellow snake, about four feet long and rather girthy that it took two healthy teenage boys to lift from the top shelf of my pantry, and then carry out of the house.

I do not like living in a place where the wildlife just feels like it can come in and set up housekeeping. I fully expect to wake up one day and see a damn coyote curled up on the big dog bed. Or maybe a bobcat snoring on the couch.

Well, at least its not giant flying cockroaches, like in San Antonio.

My Fucking Sister Is A Piece Of Shit

When you plan to give somebody a simple gift of a book that you know they would love, and they spit in your face and say "Keep it, I'm trying to get rid of stuff." Like a fucking BOOK takes up a ton of space. 

Guaranteed she's buying some damn ugly piece of 1950s furniture this week, or some tacky green opaque glassware to fill her cabinets with and feel like she's so fucking bougie.

Fuck her and her pretentious, phony, all about appearances, bullshit self.

(Note: A LOT of anger inside, proceed at your own risk.)

Question on Quora: What’s one small habit that helped you become better with money?

Question on Quora: What’s one small habit that helped you become better with money?

It is time to shout out the truth.

 

Thank you, Deb Colburn, owner of Nomad, Cambridge and pretentiousl;y fake 79 year old hipster with the screaming fire engine red hair, the stupid glasses, and the designer dogs, for showing me a complete tour of your naked vagina, clitoris included, when I was five and you were 21, and encouraging me to hold and rub your boyfriend's penis and testicles when I was seven and you were 23 or 24. For breaking wooden spoons on my ass. For telling everybody I was a crazy liar so that they didn't believe me when I told them what you were doing to me.

For driving a wedge between me and my sister, and my father. For driving my mother away, then abandoning us when you had your own kid.

I hope you die bleeding painfully from your asshole.

I think I'll send this letter to the Cambridge Chronicle, Boston Globe, and WBZ news.

Bet you voted for Trump, too. Cunt.

Shit is going to get real, Deb. I won't hurt you or encourage people to. I'll just drive you batshit crazy.

Discovering the News of the Day and Ditching the TV

Apollo 11 takeoff

As a kid, I didn't pay a lot of attention to the news, even though it was the sixties and seventies, and a hell of a lot of history was happening.

The first major event I remember was the moon shot. Not the landing, the takeoff. My Dad told me to pay attention and remember this, because it was history. I didn't even know what history was. I was four and a half. The smoke and speed of it all amazed me. We watched it on our neighbor's big black and white TV. Looking at color photos now, I think that that would have absolutely blown my preschool mind!

Book Review: The Outsiders, by SE Hinton

The Outsiders by S.E. Hinton
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Have you ever read a book that changed your life?

For me, it was this book, which I first read when I was fourteen years old, over forty years ago.

Ponyboy Curtis lives with his two brothers, Darry and Sodapop, in Oklahoma, on the wrong side of the tracks. Their parents died in a car accident some time prior to the events of the book, and Darry is struggling to hold what's left of the family together, while working as a roofer.

One year stroke survivor!

An important anniversary passed and I didn't even notice.

One year and thirty days ago, on October 1 of 2024, I had a stroke. Luckily, it was VERY minor and I have had no residual issues. I have been absolutely RIGID about taking my blood thinners and all that, and seeing my cardiologist about my atrial fibrillation, to ensure that doesn't get any worse, which can cause strokes.

Yay for minor strokes and surviving!

I'm pasting in common signs of stroke. Watch for these in yourself and in your loved ones. For me, it was the fact that I couldn't type accurately with my left hand that made me think I best go to the ER.

If you experience any of these signs, get your ass to the hospital, PRONTO! Early and fast treatment is key to surviving with minimal lingering and disabling problems.

Common Signs:

• FAST:
  • Face: Facial drooping on one side
  • Arms: Weakness or numbness in one arm
  • Speech: Difficulty speaking, slurred speech, or inability to understand speech
  • Time: Act quickly! Call 911 immediately
Sudden numbness or weakness in one side of the body
Sudden loss of vision in one or both eyes
Sudden severe headache
Dizziness or loss of balance
Confusion or difficulty understanding speech
Nausea or vomiting
Double vision 

Other Possible Signs: 

Seizures
Chest pain
Shortness of breath
Difficulty swallowing
Loss of coordination
Sudden changes in mood or behavior

Remember: 

Stroke symptoms can vary depending on the affected area of the brain. 
Some symptoms may only last a few minutes, while others can last for hours or days. 
Even if symptoms resolve on their own, it's important to seek medical attention to rule out a stroke and prevent future complications. 

We're on the eve of destruction...

From CNN. Y'all, start practicing hiding under your desks again:

Trump in a post on social media said, “The United States has more Nuclear Weapons than any other country,” naming Russia as second and China “a distant third, but will be even within 5 years.”

“Because of other countries testing programs, I have instructed the Department of War to start testing our Nuclear Weapons on an equal basis. That process will begin immediately,” Trump said on the final leg of his trip to Asia.

 

Keoni's Mele

Uncle Jack and Auntie Cathe

I wrote this piece around 2K, about my Uncle Jack. He has been a huge influence in my life, and is one of the people I love most on this planet. He's a musician, philosopher, student of life, and he is my beloved uncle and Godfather...

Casualties of War - A Poem

I wrote this poem 20 years ago about being a survivor of pretty intense child abuse at the hands of my stepmother, and clawing my way out of that shit. Trigger Warning: Child Abuse, Trauma...

Childhood Memories: The Atrocities of 60s Fashions

 

My big sister and I were hippie kids of a single parent hippie father. We wore blue jeans and tee shirts and tie dye, and funky clothes his girlfriend made for us. Pretty much everything that was not made for us was purchased at Salvation Army (or lifted out of the donation bins after dark)...

Ollie the Wonder Dog

 

I would like to tell you about my second dog, Ollie.

We got Ollie in 1971, when I was 7 years old. (I am sixty now, not that that is relevant). He was an 8 month old St Bernard/Old English Sheepdog mix, white and charcoal grey, and just gorgeous...

My Vegemite Initiation

I wrote this many MANY years ago about the sticky black salty ambrosia called Vegemite. I reproduce it here for your enjoyment. Brace yourself, it's gonna get weird!...

The age of sagging...

I vaguely remember having perky titties...

Concert Days

1975, Boston Music Hall, October 1 at 7:30 PM I was there in my pre-adolescent hormonal surge and plaid pants screaming so loud I couldn't hear a fucking note of music while five pretty boys from Scotland chanted S-A TUR-DAY NIGHT! 🙂 It was the absolute high point of my life at that time. The Bay City Rollers were all the rage, and I was madly in love with the lead guitar player, Eric Faulkner. He had these sleepy beagle eyes. Still does. The man is wildly handsome. He's the guy in the lower left corner of the above pic. Dreamy eyes, amirite? And here he is more recently. The man is 70 and still smokin' hot.

The concert lasted 45 minutes and one encore of a single song. I had no idea back then that we fans had been seriously short-changed. Every other concert I've been to in my sixty years on this planet, and there have been a LOT of concerts, lasted at least two hours. Bruce Springsteen, whom I have had the sheer joy of seeing live five times, never left the stage in less than three and a half hours, then would do a half hour encore. Bruce is the KING, man.

The next night, I was back at the Music Hall, back stage this time, with my Dad and sister, to see The Band. My Dad's best friend Howard was leading their brass section and got us the passes.

Little did I know then that I would grow to seriously LOVE The Band. At that time, I was unimpressed. They were not cute. Their music was not bouncy and bright. I was just there that night because my Dad made me go. If I'd had my druthers, I'd have been at home, watching Mary Tyler Moore and Bob Newhart. Eleven year olds are idiots. At least, I was.

It's been 25 years since my last concert. I'm not even sure who it was, but I wanna say it was either Santana or the Grateful Dead. It just got too hard on me physically to handle the concert scene any more.

I do miss those days. Man, we had some fun.

Gramma - An Historical Overview

My grandmother, Mary Thomas, was born in 1906 and when I think of everything she witnessed and experienced it just boggles my mind. Her family had kerosene lanterns and wax dip candles for light, chamber pots under the beds and an outhouse. Hauled water by the bucket to heat on the wood stove for baths. Almost everything they ate they grew on the farm, pretty much. They read books for entertainment, because radios didn't become available until 1920, and even then, a poor farmer could not afford one, or the batteries. Great grandpa had two mules and a wagon, and now and then they would take the twelve mile trek to the nearest town to buy staples. The trip took about two hours each direction, so it was a rare thing.

In those days, young women on their periods used rags, or hand sewn pads that they would pin into their underpants and then wash after use. There were no tampons. No Kotex. I remember Gramma being rather horrified to discover that I was using tampons when I was 15. She thought it would take away my virginity. My virginity had not been an issue for about a year by then, but I did not tell HER that.

When Gramma died in 1998, people were spending entire days chatting with strangers on the internet over on the other side of the globe. People were starting to carry a telephone in their pockets. My uncle, with whom she lived, commuted 50 miles each way to his job in his Toyota pickup truck every day, a trip that would have been unthinkable with a mule cart.

And then all the history that happened. Two world wars. The great depression. The rise and fall of the Soviet Union. Numerous presidents. The Civil Rights struggle. Women getting the vote and slowly gaining something that is just NOW starting to resemble equality in the workplace and the world. Vietnam, Korea, the Gulf War, and all of the little undeclared wars we've had our sticky fingers in. FLIGHT! Man on the Moon. Explosion of Space Shuttle Discovery. Television. The cold war and the arms race. And the disarmament of the nuclear stockpiles. I know she breathed a sigh of relief over that one. I wonder if she ever just looked at all the changes going on and wished things would just SLOW DOWN a little. I wonder if she ever paused to ponder just how much was happening and how amazing it was to be alive to see it all. She was pretty amazing, so I am rather certain she marveled at what she saw happening, and cheered for any sane progress we made.