Only my wife can say to me, (as she did tonight)
“When are you going to write something on the blog?
There’s been nothing of substance lately. Where’s the writing?”
I hate when she’s right. Write. Right.
I have a few things cued up in need of definite editing so please check back on Monday.
Thank God I have someone to give me some much needed toughlove, huh?
Not everyone is as lucky.

The first guitar I ever received was in 1964.
It was Christmas and I was five years old.
It was one of those Roy Rogers guitars made out of some unknown kind of wood with shitty nylon strings.
It came with a rope strap as well which gave me some pretty serious neck burns after wearing the guitar for more than 5 minutes and trying to act like Elvis Presley.
The guitar itself didn’t last very long though because supposedly they don’t like being stepped on or dropped.
I ended up doing one or the other. Ooops.
I destroyed the thing.
I‘m thinking it must have sounded like crap even though I didn‘t even play guitar back then.
It was six or seven years later that a song on the radio would ultimately change my pre-pubescent musical life.
I can remember the first time I heard, Vincent, by Don McLean and how I heard every single note he played on his guitar.
I was going to teach myself how to play that song no matter how hard I tried.
Problem was, I had no guitar.
The internet now has webpages of the actual tablature. Click here.
But Sears & Roebucks sold guitars at the time (a scary proposition, knowing what I know now) and had one for 30 bucks, and I loved everything about it . . .  well, from what I could see in the catalog anyway.
It looked just like the guitar that McLean actually played (in my mind) though it wasn’t even close.
Sometimes if you wish hard enough the universe co-operates.
And co-operate it did.
New England was covered in 8″ of snow the very next morning and I had no school.
I put on my snow boots, grabbed a shovel and entered the working world of shoveling driveways.
Jesus Krispies, it was hard work.
Shoveling driveways didn’t pay too well either, maybe four or five bucks per.
Looking back on it, I should have made more, for cripes sake.
Maybe the neighbors were just cheap bastards, I don’t know.
I shoveled all morning and went home at noon to eat lunch before heading back out for the afternoon.
By the time the sun was dripping into the lavender and salmon horizon, I trudged back home, physically and mentally beat.
It felt like I’d shoveled 500 driveways when in reality I probably shoveled 6.
I sat in the dining room and counted my money.

“27 bucks?”  I muttered.

I hung my head in disgust and sheer exhaustion.
My shoulders hurt.
And my feet were wet.
I hate wet feet.

“That’s great, Michael! How much is the guitar?” My mother asked.

“Thirty, I’m almost there,” I said, still pissed.

A few days later she took me to Sears & Roebucks and paid the balance I couldn’t afford.
The one thing I’ll always remember about my mother was her uncanny understanding of my intense love for music.
Little did she know she’d lit a fire that still glows, though not as brightly as when I was 13, but it’s still there burning inside me.
Her lasting gift to me, perhaps.
If you’re curious, I did learn Vincent, note by blessed note and can still play it to this day.
I went through two 45′s to learn it but it’s amazing how much it taught my ears.
Maybe it’s not so ironic why the starry, starry night sky reminds me so much of my mother.
And sorry about the mishap with my Roy Rogers guitar, Mom.
I really didn’t mean to do it . . .

*On a more personal note, while writing this story, I was trying hard to think of what brand the guitar was and as I listened to my Ipod Nano (thanks, M) ‘Harmony’ by Elton John came on.
Everything clicked.
The guitar I got was a ‘Harmony’.
Truth.
Roy Rogers is riding tonight . . .

I went to the candlelit chapel at Jenna’s college tonight for mass and heard the choir (which Jen is in) do this song.
I had goosebumps and tears in my eyes simply because they sing it so well and the song moves me so.
I also thought of a close friend that needs to listen to this.
I know she will cry but I am ultimately hoping it gives her some much needed light at this somber point in her life.
Close your eyes and listen . . .
Groban’s voice is an amazing instrument.

{for my 3 young ladies}

Go higher than you ever thought you could.
Climb the ladder of success, whatever that is for you.
Climb your way to the top.
Take as long as you need: no one is watching the clock (except maybe you).
Before you reach out to hold onto something, make certain it’s strong enough to support you.
Grit your teeth and scrape your knees and bleed and sweat.
If your mountain is simply to get through the day, then scale it.
When you get to the top, look back at what you’ve accomplished.
Now smile or holler or cry.
Before you head for the valley and the next mountain, remember the women who have gone before you and the ones who will follow your climb.

~Rachel Snyder

“You can approach the act of writing with nervousness, excitement, hopefulness, or even despair, the sense that you can never completely put on the page what is in your mind and heart.
You can come to the act with your fists clenched and your eye narrowed, ready to kick ass and take down names. You can come to it because you want a girl to marry you or because you want to change the world. Come to it any way but lightly.
Let me say it again: you must not come lightly to the blank page.”
-Stephen King

My daughter sent me this quote and I thought others might like it.

Posting this tonight for all the courageous men and women in Iraq and the world over.
Know that we pray for all of you and hope for your safe return.
I heard this song many years ago and it moved me to tears.
I’ve since found it to be a comforting song to listen to in times of need.
Sometimes I just want people to know about songs like this.
Tonight is one of those times.
I send this out to my niece Cait (I miss you dearly, kiddo)
and all those missing someone dear that is currently serving abroad.
Come home soon guys.
This song is by Steven Curtis Chapman.

*listen with headphones!

I rarely link to posts on other blogs unless they really move me.
I meant to link to Daisy’s post sometime ago but sadly forgot all about it.
I visited there tonight and before I even commented on anything I decided this post would be better.
Simply because it will make you better.
She writes about the fact that we have a tendency to forget just how special particular moments in our lives actually are.
The post mentions Kurt Vonnegut, a wonderful writer and a man I need to read more of.
Just wanted to tell you to visit Daisy and read this post.
It will do your soul some much needed good.
Maybe could do the world some good.
It did it for me.
This post deserved 3X the comments it got and it still did very well in my humble opinion.
Let Daisy know you got this from me, okay?
Hang onto those precious moments when you know they’re happening, okay?
Click on the gorgeous picture above. (looks like the clouds in New England these days)
Enjoy, folks

Pen to paper. It’s just an act.
My blood splashes on the white page, in a thick crimson stream of scribbles;
the words that let the world see a glimpse of a real me, a man I barely know myself sometimes.
Letters form words forming thoughts, these effortlessly move me on the inside . . .
And it’s all on the inside.

It’s a turn of a phrase, a sliver of irony, the forbidden scent of midnight – it’s the epiphany found in discovering a new way ‘in’ that creatively fills me in ways I’ve never known before.
But . . .
“it’s beautiful, I don’t get it, you know my heart because it thanks you, for a song, a tear, a possible secret,”
a page ripped from the internal hard drive of my life and it hurts sometimes,
but it’s a good kind of hurt, a hard to say prayer

Pen finds a fresh, virgin page as I deeply come to understand the fundamental human need to sail unchartered waters, deep and stormy, my own vast oceans of thought
Zhivago green flows thick from a 14K nib, subdued and with no land in sight
Maybe this is all I’ve ever really wanted.

Pen to paper.
It’s much more than an act.
It’s purely me.

For Sas . . .
Keep the faith, kiddo
We’ll get you there.
Promise.
You got soul, girl.
Listen to Curtis . . . (and yeah, that’s David Sanborn on saxophone)

~Dad

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