This I Believe, I Believe
Today marks the end of a series on NPR called, “I Believe”. I only heard it for the first time maybe two years ago, and I must confess, every time they announced a new segment I half expected to hear a bar or two of a song that was popular when I was a little girl, “I Believe”. They probably thought of it and decided against it as being too schmaltzy. Wise.
I really loved this series. It is fascinating to hear people from all walks of life and in all sorts of circumstances make a public statement about their most privately held and most central core belief. Most of the time I would listen and think to myself, “Gee! That’s a good one! I believe that, too!”. But I had never consciously thought about most of these ideas. They just informed my life, always working at a subliminal level, the mirapoix that flavors the soup, but whose taste nobody can identify.
Then, inevitably, I would say to myself, “Gee, I really ought to write a “This I Believe” essay and send it in. Then I would think: “Who knows? They might choose mine to put on the air”. (Notice the immediate departure from ‘Art for Art’s Sake’?).
So I have to ask myself the musical question: Do I really believe in what I say I believe in, or do I believe others would validate me if I said I believed in it? How do you really get deep beneath the bubbling surface of the potato leek soup of your mind to the most basic of its elements? And how do you know when you’ve gotten there?
This is an especially thorny issue for a songwriter. I write songs all the time that set out to express some aspect of what it is I truly believe. Some of the songs do this overtly in a kind of spiritual testimony. Some of them do it obliquely in a kind of story tradition that is so prevalent in country songs. (Some songs I write for pure fun, so they don’t count here). I have one song that states that I, like Norman Rockwell, try to describe the world as the best of all possible worlds, not because it really is that way, but because that is the world I would like it to be. The hope is that, “we get the life we make”. This is a corollary of the affirmation theory; the belief that you can change your life by changing your perceptions. As much as anything I have ever believed in, I believe in this.
Or do I?
I never have sent in my own essay for the show. Every time I came up with a hypothetical title, I questioned it. The questioning would inevitably plant just enough doubt in my mind to make me think, “Who am I to make this statement? What proof do I have? Is it truly an original thought? And while we’re on the subject: Who cares?”
As I write this, I believe that we can change our reality by changing our perceptions. Will I believe that tomorrow? If I had been one of those people who survived Katrina in New Orleans or the bombing of the World Trade Center — not from the comfort of my living room, but at ground zero — would I still believe this is true? I might take the other tack. I might start to believe that it doesn’t matter about my perceptions. I am simply collateral damage in the battle with nature or the battle with fundamentalist extremists.
But I did have my own kind of personal catastrophe. I survived cancer. Twice. I came out of it believing that one of the things that saw me through was my ability to envision myself whole and healthy. Simultaneously, I was able to surrender to and accept the reality of the situation and my own limitations in altering it. This allowed me to reach out for as much help as I could possibly get. So, yes. In other words, “Sit back, take a deep breath, and accept your reality”. This I believe, too.
So for me, I have two seemingly diametrically opposed ideas which I hold on to for dear life. Will a new life-altering event create a new belief system? And how will I know that unless I hear another essay on NPR?
War Stories With Phil Spector
Sad to hear about Phil but not surprising. I worked many times with Phil in the 60s and 70s with The Righteous Brothers and John Lennon. Check out our other site at http://over50music.com/arts-musings/my-time-with-phil-spector/ for the complete story.
MOTHER-IN-LOVE
Back when Art proposed to me (well, when he asked whether I thought we ought to get married), I was happy with the prospect of our new life together, but I had no idea what to expect in terms of his family, which was about to become *my* family. I had already had the experience of one set of in-laws, plus a whole raft of the mothers of my boyfriends. Let me tell you, I was scared.
Over the years I had come to expect that the women who would come to know me through their sons were not necessarily thrilled with me. I seemed to have a knack for choosing men who were just a little too close to Mom, and therefore, mothers who were just a little too attached to their sons. Most memorably, one of these Moms had taken one look at me, scanned me up and down and pronounced, “You’re obviously a very weak person!”.
So on I soldiered in the wilderness of all single girls trying to date their way to happiness.
I was lucky. Art appeared just as I had given up — just as I had reached the stage in my life where I had made my peace with the strong possibility that I would never remarry, never have a family beyond my family of origin, and (the silver lining to all of this gloom) would never have to face another potential (or actual) mother-in-law again.
So it was with great trepidation that I picked up the receiver for the first time to speak to Art’s mother. I was sure she would be resentful of me, sure she would find good reason to be critical of his choice, sure she would cold-shoulder me and find me unworthy of her precious golden boy, her eldest son. I remember gripping the phone with both hands, shutting my eyes tight, and waiting for her to lower the boom. So, imagine my surprise when I heard this sweet, benevolent woman at the other end saying, “Is this Robin? I’m so pleased to finally speak with you. Art has told me so much about you — all good!” and I could actually hear her smiling over the phone. She then continued, “I was so worried that he would be alone in his declining years!” . (Quite a turn of phrase, and it broke the ice!) I opened my eyes, which were now brimming with tears of gratitude, just as I suspected hers were, too.
A couple of years later, Art and I traveled to Connecticut for the first time as a married couple. I met my in-laws in person for the first time. Art’s father was a gentle, soft-spoken man who said little but made every word count. He had played in a square dance band for over fifty years and had the heart of a true musician. He treated me with great kindness and compassion. When Ed picked us up at the airport, I saw clearly where Art had learned how to be a gentle-man. My first instinct when Art introduced me was to give my new father-in-law a big bear hug. But I was still nervous about what would happen when we got back to my in-laws’ house. Would Marge accept me? Had our lovely conversations over the phone given me false hope? Was I about to become that old cliché, the long-suffering and marginalized interloper who had “stolen her baby”?
And what did Marge do? She greeted me with open arms and held me tight. She welcomed me into her cozy kitchen and into her family as easily as if she had been my birth mother. When she introduced me to her friends and neighbors she referred to me as her “newest daughter”. She put fresh flowers in the guest room and brand new sheets on our bed. She tolerated, and even welcomed our lavish public displays of affection. She allowed me help in the kitchen, rather than demanded it. (And believe me, I’m no Betty Crocker!).
Which brings me to the next point: Over the years, Marge has quietly taught me how to be a “balabust”– She doesn’t know the word, but it’s Yiddish and it means a woman who knows how to make a house a home. That’s not to say that I hadn’t learned the basics at my own mother’s knee. I knew how to iron (I’m not patient enough, but I know how), I knew how to put together a dinner party, I knew how to make a bed and I had the good upbringing that gave me a certain ability to be at ease in a conversation and to treat guests with courtesy and respect. (My mother taught me never, NEVER, to allow guests to visit without offering them food.) So I mean no disrespect to my Mom. She was great.
But Marge continued where Mom left off. After all, I had left home at eighteen, so my domestic education had been cut short. Over the past twenty years, Marge has generously given me inside tips about cooking — her recipe for pie crust (hand written and proudly displayed on my refrigerator), her secrets about how to remove all manner of stains from the laundry. She has allowed me to be present while she made delicious soups, and I found out that the trick to thickening a vegan soup is potatoes and a food processor. From Marge I learned the elegant economy of washing clothes in cold water (saves energy, saves you having to sort by color, good for the environment, and good for the pocketbook). How to stretch your money at the grocery store (coupons). The best way to reseal cellophane packages (clothes pins). How to find extra storage space in the kitchen (hanging baskets from the ceiling). The list goes on and on, and every day, it seems, I discover another kindness, another pearl of wisdom she has bestowed upon me. She has demonstrated how to create an atmosphere of warmth and harmony within the home (too complicated to explain in twenty-five words or less). And she has treated me as an honored guest and member of the family when I visited her home — not an easy task, since on the surface, you would not think the two go hand-in-hand. Sometimes I sensed I was underfoot, but she never complained. I could go on and on, but maybe you get the idea.
Mothers-in-law often get a bad rap, and perhaps, many of them live up to their reputation. But daughters-in-law can be less than perfect, too. And with all of my own faults and shortcomings, Marge has treated me with more than respect. She has treated me with unfailing compassion and love. Recently I have begun to call her “Mom”. I couldn’t bring myself to use that word with her when my own mother was alive. I was afraid of being disloyal. She always understood that. But it feels as if my own mom has given me permission. Lizi will always live in my heart as my first mother, the one who gave me life, and the one who was there for me through every sickness, every crisis, every broken heart, every failure and disappointment, my first confidante, my mentor. But Marge is my “other mother”. The one who has, with uncommon grace, taken me under her wing as a daughter, a sister to her other children, and as a friend. The one who has entrusted me with the role of caretaker to her grown son. She is much more than my mother-in-law, she is my mother-in-love.
C, Eb and G Walk Into a Bar…
C, E-flat and G go into a bar. The bartender says, “sorry, but we don’t serve minors.” So E-flat leaves, and C and G have an open fifth between them. After a few drinks, the fifth is diminished and G is out flat. F comes in and tries to augment the situation, but is not sharp enough. D comes in and heads for the bathroom saying, “Excuse me. I’ll just be a second.” Then A comes in, but the bartender is not convinced that this relative of C is not a minor. Then the bartender notices B-flat hiding at the end of the bar and says, “Get out! You’re the seventh minor I’ve found in this bar tonight.”
E-Flat comes back the next night in a three-piece suit with nicely shined shoes. The bartender says, “you’re looking sharp tonight. Come on in, this could be a major development.” Sure enough, E-flat soon takes off his suit and everything else, and is au natural. Eventually C sobers up and realizes in horror that he’s under a rest. C is brought to trial, found guilty of contributing to the diminution of a minor, and is sentenced to 10 years of D.S. without Coda at an upscale correctional facility.
———————-
Thanks to Billy Rader for sending me this. Just had to post it!
Christmas, Loss, and Frosty
It’s January 1st. Time to strike the Christmas set. Time to strip the house of all of our little gee-gaws and doo-dads — the reindeer mugs, the Christmas Tree candles, the holiday tablecloth, the Christmas cards from our near-and-dear who are scattered hither and yon all over the world. Finally, it is time to take down the tree.
Every year when we take down the tree, I am filled with sadness. There is something so utterly poignant about denuding this beautiful, well — this creature, who has been a most hospitable house guest for the past three weeks. She has silently endured the indignity of being festooned with ornaments and strung with colored lights. She has endured countless hours of my playing the Beach Boys’ Christmas album. She has spread her branches like outstretched arms welcoming our brightly colored packages. She has allowed our cat, Henry, to sleep under her wings, peacefully enjoying her delightful aroma of earth and pine. She has weathered the unending hours of having the fireplace blazing only four feet away, literally sucking the life out of her by depriving her of her moisture. She has beamed her beauty for all, including our little neighbor, Stone, who came over frequently during the holiday season, I suspect, at times, just to feast his eyes on her. But now, it is time for her to leave us.
This year, for the first time, I actually cried as we undressed her. I had thought that this year we would be more lighthearted when it came time to say goodbye. We had made a point this year of spending lots of time with her and enjoying her company. And she never disappointed. So I thought when the first of the year rolled around, we would be able to part company with a sense of completion.
But this is the year that I lost my mother. Whatever that something is we feel when we have to let someone or something go, it was especially hard for me this year. The fact that we had tried so hard to honor her and treat her with the respect and admiration she deserved did nothing to ameliorate the sorrow of her loss. Am I talking about the tree or about my mother? For today, anyway, it feels like it’s all the same. Loss is loss. The harder I try to grab life with both hands and hold on tight, the more I feel it slipping away from me and vanishing into the Great Beyond.
But part of the joy of life, and of Christmas, is that it is not permanent. It has its season, and then it’s gone. But, as with just about anything in life I can think of, it reappears at some point, maybe different in some aspects, but also, thankfully, very much the same in others. Every year I say, “This is the most beautiful Christmas tree we’ve ever had!” — and every year it is true.
So now, I have dried my tears and just about put away Christmas for the year. I will miss our lovely green friend. I will try to remember the parable of “Frosty The Snowman”, according to the Beach Boys: “But he waved goodbye saying ‘Don’t you cry, I’ll be back again some day!’”.
Remembering Delaney Bramlett — R.I.P.
Play clip from rehearsal tape.
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I was saddened to learn that Delaney Bramlett has just passed away. It immediately took me back to the early 70s. I had just recently moved to Los Angeles from Newport Beach when I got a call from Delaney to join a band he was forming. He was about to record an album for Columbia Records titled “Mobius Strip”. Of course I was thrilled and flattered. (I think this was just after I had been touring with Nancy Sinatra — ahh — the life of a working musician!).
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So Sorry, So Tardy
Well, I recently noticed I have been very tardy at posting and keeping up our website. It’s all good as Robin and I are working on finishing up her new album. She is writing up a storm and that’s keeping me busy as well as my just completing a new quad core PC for my studio. Lots of little bugs in that bugger but I’m stamping those out slowly but surely! Stay tuned. Ill be back soon!
God Bless Us, Every One!
Well, it’s officially here — The recession that everyone has been predicting and wringing their hands over. I don’t know anyone, literally, anyone, who has not been affected. People in every walk of life, at every rung of the socioeconomic ladder, of every political stripe — all of us are feeling the pinch. Some, more than others, but we are all in this boat together, and the boat has sprung a leak.
It reminds me so much of the tales my mom used to tell from “the olden days”. Mom was born in 1927, so she remembers the Great Depression very well. My grandfather lost everything when the markets collapsed. He had leveraged loans which he used to buy several real estate properties with a partner. When the market crashed, the loans were called in. Of course, Grandpa had no way to pay them back. He lost the properties and all the income that he would have been earning from them. He developed a severe infection from a decayed tooth, had what was then called “a nervous breakdown”, and he never recovered, mentally or physically. My grandmother supported the family taking in washing, working part-time as a saleswoman, doing whatever it took to keep her family together. My father’s father, a roofer by trade, with a wife and eleven children to feed, woke up while it was still dark every morning to get in a few hours of selling apples or pencils (I can’t remember which it was) on the street corner before beginning his work day doing construction. (I suppose there wasn’t much construction going on at that time).
When Art and I talked to Mom last year about the economy and Art cited the dire predictions she listened attentively and answered thoughtfully in a very subdued voice, “People are going to be jumping out windows”. It gave me the chills. And as it happens, I just heard a story of someone who had been laid off of his job who did, in fact, commit suicide. I didn’t ask how. It doesn’t matter. It was dreadful, and for once, I wished Mom’s prediction had been a case of her being a drama queen.
But I also remember from Mom’s Tales of the Depression childhood that there was a general atmosphere of can-do spirit. She described people as being generous and caring to the less fortunate. In spite of her own economic woes, my grandmother always kept her door open for passing strangers in need of food or momentary shelter. This was in no way uncommon. People did not worry so much about being victimized by the homeless or the desperate, although there were plenty of homeless and desperate people everywhere you looked. There was a spirit of cooperation. People pooled their resources. Neighbors looked out for neighbors. Children found ways to play that cost little or no money. They made go-carts out of orange crates. They literally made lemonade out of lemons (and sold it for a penny). Mom remembered playing stickball in the street. She remembered kids finding secret caves where they would light a small bonfire and roast potatoes. She said they were the best potatoes she had ever tasted. Shoes were mended and resoled until they fell off your feet. Clothing was handed down from the oldest child to the youngest. Everyone cooked from scratch because it was the cheapest way to eat — and coincidentally, the best way to eat. My grandmother was a first-rate cook and baker, and she could do it all on a shoestring.
I am not saying that I wish we would actually experience a Great Depression of our own. I pray that we do not. But in the I-Ching there is a symbol that signifies crisis and opportunity, each being opposite signs of the same coin. The economic chaos right now is certainly a crisis, but we can choose, if we wish, to also see it as an opportunity to explore the edges of our ability to cope and to re-examine our values and our humanity toward one another.
The holidays are upon us. It’s going to be a rough time for so many. Maybe this is the right moment to quote Tiny Tim in Dickens’ Christmas Carole: “God bless us, everyone!”.
HOLIDAY SHOPPING LIST
Most every Christmas — okay, *every* Christmas, so far — I have been stressed out and overwhelmed. Every Christmas I vow not to do it. Every Christmas, I do. Oh, I start out with the best of intentions. I make a detailed list, not only for gifts, but also for cards. I study the catalogs as if I were studying for the final exam of my life. I discuss it all calmly and rationally with Art. I make sure to learn the identity of the adult whom I will gift in Art’s family early. Like, right after Thanksgiving dinner. I plan for the lights, the tree, and I buy plenty of Christmas wrapping paper. I brave the madhouse of malls and department stores, driving in endless circles looking for a parking space. I scour the stores for those elusive perfect gifts (which are never right, anyway). Every year the holidays become,”an orgy of excess and waste”, to quote our president-elect. (Anyway, I think I got that quote right).
Every year on December 25th, right after the exchange of our gifts, Art brings in a big black trash bag. Out go the beautiful ribbons and bows, the artful wrappings, the raffia and tissue paper, a couple of rolls of Scotch tape, and the mountains of boxes are, at least, recycled.
The gifts are always thoughtful, lovely, and certainly appreciated. But while we sip our Christmas tea while gazing into the 5,000 watts of electric lights and staring at our beautiful gas-lit fireplace — while the radio brings us “Away in the Manger no room for a bed. . .” or “The Little Drummer Boy”, I think about all of the people whose Christmas will be anything but merry. Then the guilt begins.
On top of the stress of the holidays that everyone talks about ad nauseum, I have a little green Christmas monster. I hear his whiny little ET voice: “You are so lucky and blessed. What have you given to the needy, to promote the cause of peace, to help save the planet. Well???”. I picture this little monster tapping its tiny feet, its green arms crossed over its chest, its mouth scowling as it waits for a reply. (I take it as a rhetorical question so that I don’t have to answer). Usually in the week between Christmas and New Years, I put on a good five pounds trying to stuff down the little critter with pumpkin pie and egg nog. And then I make my one consistent New Year’s resolution: Next year I will make charitable donations instead of buying way too many expensive and unnecessary gifts. Next year I will celebrate in a more responsible and compassionate way.
So yesterday I was staring at the great pile of catalogs on our coffee table. (Never mind that I have been steadily trying to stop them from coming in the mail. They continue at an alarming rate! One catalog company stops sending, but a new one always comes to take its place. One company spawns another company, and now instead of one catalog, I have two). But sandwiched between Land’s End and Plow and Hearth, obscured by Pottery Barn on top and Herrington and LL Bean and Lord knows what else, I found a very slim catalog with a picture of a llama on the front. It proudly announces itself as “The Most Important Gift Catalog In The World”. If I had blinked, I might have missed it. This is the Heifer International catalog.
The idea is simple: This organization provides farm animals, as well as much needed tree seedlings and honeybees, along with education for needy communities around the world. By providing families with such valuable resources, many people can lift themselves out of abject poverty. In turn, for example, if a family’s donated goat gives birth, the new kids can be donated to a neighbor, and so forth. What a wonderful gift! You can buy a “share” of a goat or a “share” of a tree seedling for $10.00. (You can find them on the Web at www.heifer.org/catalog).
There are many other worthy causes that have programs for sending holiday gifts to loved ones. I am especially drawn to Unicef, whose mission is to care for needy children all over the world. Unicef has gift “tribute cards”. Each card costs $25.00, but if your budget is tight, or you have too many people on your list, you can buy a package of five cards for only $75.00, which comes out to $15.00 each. (I did the math — which is saying something for me!). They also have more tangible gifts available on their Web site that help support needy children. You can find Unicef on the Web at www.unicefusa.org.
Oh, don’t get me wrong — There will still be some totally frivolous and unnecessary gifts to friends and family. And I’m not going to stop accepting my husband’s unfailing generosity. There will still be a certain amount of sheer selfish delight. (I’m still a long, long way from sainthood!).
But I always remember the end of “Schindler’s List”. The moment when Oscar Schindler discovers the heavy ornate ring on his finger, and he realizes too late that he could have pawned it to save lives, but that now, the opportunity — and the need — has passed. He shouts in frustration, “I could have done more! I could have done more!” So this is the year I am going to fulfill my long-standing new year’s resolution. Finally. And when you think about it, you’re getting so much “bang for your buck”. While you are helping an anonymous needy person or community somewhere else in the world, you are also giving friends and loved ones the warm glow that is truly in the spirit of Christmas, while finally, finally, getting the very same glow yourself. (And silencing that annoying little gremlin in your head — at least until next Christmas).
Our Little Black Box
About ten years ago at Christmas, back when we lived in Tennessee, I gave Art a radio. Art is not an easy man to gift – Whatever he wants, he simply acquires, and what he desires is usually pretty simple. But he had expressed an interest in a short-wave radio, which delighted me. Finally, a present I could buy that would make Art happy.
I went to Radio Shack at the Bellevue Mall, and there it was: a simple, black radio with an AM, FM and shortwave band. It stood about five inches high, seven inches wide, and maybe one inch deep. It probably didn’t cost much more than $10.00. I brought it home and wrapped it up with two double A batteries. When Art unwrapped it, you would have thought it was the Hope diamond. His whole face lit up. We installed the batteries immediately and found the BBC on the shortwave. So while we unwrapped our gifts, we could hear the lovely strains of a boy’s choir broadcast live from the cathedral in Oxford. It was such fun!
The radio has now become a fixture in our day-to-day lives. We never use the shortwave band – for some reason, I am not able to get anything on it anymore. But the AM and the FM work beautifully. We just feed it a couple of double A’s every six months or so, and it hums along obediently at the touch of an index finger. I turn it on every morning while I make breakfast, listening to “Morning Edition” on NPR. Again, while I’m making dinner, I listen to “All Things Considered”. On the weekends we tune in 790 KABC to hear “Money Talk” with Bob Brinker. Saturday afternoons it’s “Prairie Home Companion” and the news from Lake Wobegone. Sundays while I change the sheets I like to listen to “The Splendid Table” or “Speaking of Faith”. (Of course, we contribute to NPR. The guilt would kill us if we didn’t.)
But the humble little radio. What an instrument of magic! With its three-inch speaker, it brings the world to us. It sits quietly on the kitchen counter in the evening, patiently waiting for us to get through the evening’s entertainment on the bigger, gaudier appliance in the living room. Its little chrome antenna folds in on itself, much in the way that two little hands would be pressed into the prayer position. If it is admonishing us for our fickle behavior, it does so silently. And we do love our Netflix subscription. So we are “equal opportunity” media consumers. The radio knows that and indulges us, nevertheless.
Oh, I know. It’s silly bordering on insane to anthropomorphize a radio. And yet, what a good friend this plain little gizmo has been to us. Sometimes it goes missing when one of us has moved it into the office or the bedroom so that we could listen to it while we do our chores or answer e-mail. Then we shout across the apartment, “Honey, where’s the radio”? But it always shows up, eventually. I actually heard myself tonight declaring, “I don’t know what I’d do without that radio!” Then, before I had time to be embarrassed, I heard the love of my life quietly answer, “I know what you mean!”.
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