Monday, December 18, 2017

December 2017

Being deer in the headlights at the Bluebird Cafe

Greetings!

Against all odds, we find ourselves roughly as far from the West Coast as it is possible to drive in the "Lower 48." A transition through about ten states in two weeks places us on the Space Coast of Florida, just below Cape Canaveral, halfway down the Atlantic side of the state. According to Google Maps, we are more than 3,000 miles from our home. Perhaps the distance is why we let eight years pass since the last time we admired Spanish moss draping the live oaks in Savannah, sniffed the distinctive odor of salt water mangrove swamps, tasted an authentic Cuban sandwich, or chuckled at the goofy looking manatees printed on signs warning boaters to avoid collisions with these gentle mammals. There is a seasonal charm to the festive Christmas decorations on neighboring RVs at Patrick Air Force Base and even though the camp has been updated since our last visit, the remembered palm trees, egrets, runways, ospreys, base facilities and nearby towns are all comfortably familiar. We hope your holidays are also full of warm, familiar comforts and bright, seasonal festivities.  ~  Brian and Andi

Wish You Were Here

It's nicknamed "Music City", reflecting the vast quantity of popular music that is composed, produced, recorded and performed in the fast-growing metropolis of Nashville, Tennessee. Though much could also be said about Nashville's importance in banking, healthcare, higher education and publishing, it was the legacy of country music that attracted us. Our visit began with an unforgettable performance opportunity related below in "Life on the Road." The rest of the time we were tourists, starting with a trip to the somewhat suburban area called "Music Row."
The heart of Nashville music business
This is where the business of music takes place – recording studios, record label offices and other nitty gritty of legality and distribution that brings music to the people. We wandered along sidewalks amid unassuming buildings that would turn out to be Decca Records, offices of the Country Music Association, BMI, or RCA Studio B where Chet Atkins launched hits by the likes of Elvis Presley and Dolly Parton.
Not a clandestine government agency,
 but the Nashville Songwriters Association main office
A wooden building with a water mill wheel on one end had a sign reading "Nashville Songwriters Association International." A buzzer by the door said to ring for access – so we did! A kind receptionist offered us a form to complete regarding our specific songwriting interests, then we were given a tour of the old mill building which was moved to this site and now served as a two-story composers' clubhouse – recording studio, conference area, writing rooms complete with pianos and guitars, and shared kitchen. A membership to NSAI earns you advice from professionals, free seminars, discount on conferences and many other tidbits to tempt an enthusiastic songwriter. We bought a tee shirt, accepted the proffered business cards, magnets and stickers, and promised to think about joining.

Next stop was Carter Vintage Guitars, a megastore of guitars, mandolins, banjos and other stringed instruments required for the country music sound. We admired the fine workmanship, wondered which big stars might wander in for a new axe, turned over a few price tags and generally kept our hands to ourselves. We overheard the staff filling someone's order for 50 sets of guitar strings and not an eyelid was batted. They gave us a guitar pick, so we were happy.
That would usually be enough for us for one day, but we were staying in an RV park on the outskirts of city center very near the current Grand Ole Opry, so we drove by for a peek at the building - just the outside since the first available tickets were for three months from now. Dusk was beginning to fall and lights glowed on the businesses we were passing.
One that caught our eye was the Willie Nelson and Friends Museum and General Store. Now how could we resist? The store itself was as full of tacky key rings, shot glasses and tee shirts as one might expect, but the museum in the back was informative, comprehensive and truly moving. We saw the Martin guitar Willie used at his Grand Ole Opry debut, the hand written lyrics of his first big songwriting hit (Hello Walls), Waylon Jennings' garment bag (once collected in error at a Paris airport by Henry Kissinger), a Dolly Parton dress plus costumes and memorabilia from scores of other influential artists, a wall covered with gold and platinum records attesting to Willie's popularity, and a huge, worn carpet depicting a Texas flag that once covered every stage on which Willie performed and still displays a single unfaded red spot where his microphone stand was always located. A documentary movie showed Willie and his friends yucking it up about the good old days when they would hang around at Tootsie's Orchid Lounge for inspiration and camaraderie. "Tootsie" (Hattie Louise Bess) would never let a musician go hungry and accepted IOUs for drinks and food without ever collecting the debt. The ideal location across the alley from the Ryman Auditorium made her honky-tonk the hangout of choice for Kris Kristofferson, Waylon Jennings, Patsy Cline and other famous country musicians, and the interior walls are covered with inscriptions and photos.

The facade of the Ryman Auditorium,
 originally the Union Gospel Tabernacle
And that segues to our next day – a look at Ryman Auditorium and the Nashville honky-tonks. ("Honky-tonk" defines a country-style saloon and also the name of the type of music which was originally played there.) A shuttle bus dropped us in downtown Nashville and we immediately hoofed it to the enormous, red brick Ryman Auditorium that began as a church and has now been a venue to all varieties of music. Although it might be best known as the original home of the Grand Ole Opry, it is safe to say that if you like any music at all, from Caruso to Glen Campbell to the Foo Fighters, someone you admire has performed before the semi-circular wooden benches of the two-tiered Ryman. Without going into too much of its 125-year past, suffice it to say that we felt the thick aura of Ryman history in the dark pews and display cases.
After all, how could you see Minnie Pearl's actual price-tag hat and not be moved?!

We walked across the alley to the back door of Tootsie's Orchid Lounge, prepared to hear one of the live bands for which Nashville's glittering row of honky-tonks is known. To our surprise, not one but three bands were performing on different levels of the crowded bar. We took a rooftop table in the November sunshine and had lunch in earshot of several other honky-tonks, all competing for the attention of our eardrums. The first few blocks of Broadway up from the Cumberland River explode with boots stores, tee shirt shops, souvenir stores, and bar after bar featuring live music. We left Nashville feeling simultaneously drained, nostalgic and invigorated. You can expect a new song to join our ukulele repertoire as a result of our visit to this inspiring "Music City."

Life on the Road

Queuing up at the Bluebird Cafe
As wandering minstrels, we sometimes take advantage of open mic situations to test our ukulele tunes on new, receptive, non-judgmental audiences. There is a small club in Nashville called The Bluebird Cafe that has launched the careers of many a singer-songwriter and hosts intimate concerts by established and rapidly rising stars. It is hard to get tickets for these performances, but their web page had a tab labeled, "how to play". We pressed it out of curiosity and discovered they have an open mic on Mondays. Realizing we would arrive in Nashville on a Monday, we double-dared each other to play at the famous Bluebird. To get on the list, you have to phone them on the very Monday you wish to play and they take the first 25 callers. That Monday we were driving from Arkansas, but we pulled off the freeway shortly before the appointed time of 11:00am, hoping we actually had figured the time zone correctly. With the number punched into the phone and a finger on the dial button, we watched the clock strike 11:00 and pressed call. The first try resulted in a recorded message about no one being available. We hung up and immediately dialed again – too late, it was busy. Tried again, busy. Dialed again, again, again for 20 minutes and suddenly got a voice at the other end. (Uh, oh!) Hello, we'd like to play on your open mic and yes, we can be there at 5:15. Gulp – we were in!

The big moment
The rest of the day is a bit of a blur – something about driving 100 miles, checking in at our RV park, finding The Bluebird early enough to park the RV on a nearby street, drinking coffee, changing clothes and collecting our ukuleles. It all comes into focus again as we stood in the brisk, gathering darkness on the sidewalk outside The Bluebird chatting with other musicians for about half an hour before being ushered inside. We nervously found one of the small tables up front labeled "Reserved for Songwriters and Guests", pulled out our instruments to let them warm up and tucked our cases under our chairs. We glanced at some sort of menu in the half light and politely ordered a snack and water, though neither of us could eat. The event ran like clockwork and we were assigned slot number 15. Each musician popped onto the low stage in front of bright lights, plugged in the dangling cord, adjusted the mic and gave us one song. Some folks had lots of poise and experience, others bravely gave it their all, and everyone was rewarded with sincere applause. For our part, we performed "Island Sun" and it seemed that we really had them under our spell! There was a good show of appreciation and lots of kind remarks whispered afterwards. We felt good. A few folks had their names drawn to play again, including us. In honor of the upcoming holidays we concluded with "An Island Christmas" and were rewarded with similar enthusiasm. When the open mic was over, we filed back out into the cold, black Nashville night, each breathing a sigh of equal parts gratitude and relief.

Did You Know?

Kelly Slater riding a wave in front of Ron Jon Surf Shop

Without question, the most successful professional surfer of all time is Kelly Slater, who was born in Cocoa Beach, Florida, just up the road from where we are now camped at Patrick Air Force Base. His larger-than-life image surfs a mighty cement wave in front of a larger-than-life store called Ron Jon Surf Shop. Ron Jon is a two story megastore of all things beachy from boards and Hawaiian shirts to sandals and household decorations. It is open 24/7 and we counted no fewer than 17 giant billboard ads on our drive down from Savannah.

Coffee Chat

It has been eight years since we have visited the Space Coast and for eight years we have been receiving monthly emailed invitations to the Indian River Native Flute Circle, which we attended one time. We enjoy this little link with Florida and have not been able to bring ourselves to ask them to remove us from their email list. We are glad we didn't because a timely reminder gave us the opportunity to meet up with them once again in the Cocoa Public Library. Every face was new but the welcome was warm, the playing was fun, the many Native flutes were beautiful, and the emails will continue to taunt us.

More scenes from Nashville

Got boots?

One of Tootsie's three floors of bars with live music

Ryman's back row seats, complete with monitors and speakers

Hmmmm... exactly what I need at home. Not!

Setting up for a Vince Gill and Amy Grant Christmas special

Soaking up the vibe


Just one of Nashville's many excellent bands













Willy himself, larger than life



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Saturday, August 12, 2017

August 2017

Greetings!

Ready to eat pie at Joyce Daze Blackberry Festival
Summer means a trip to northwestern Washington and the micro cabin we built nearly 20 years ago, somewhat before the current "tiny house" craze began. Much of our time is spent hacking our way through the overgrown brush and fallen trees to clear the quarter mile trail between the road and the cabin, then preparing the 8' x 12' dwelling for habitation, fixing up the awesome composting bathroom, testing the generator (not working) and the chainsaw (working), preparing the fire circle area for outdoor cooking, watching for the local elk herd, and poking around in the large storage building we call "the attic." As far north as we are, we have not been spared excessive seasonal heat and drifting wildfire smoke, which in our case is blowing down from the many blazes in British Columbia. The biggest disadvantage of being off the grid for several weeks is that it is difficult to keep in touch with friends, so we hope you have been faring well this season. Drop us a note and let us know what you did on your summer vacation!  ~  Brian & Andi


Wish You Were Here

The view down the neatly trimmed fairway from the first tee was bordered by tall evergreens with a scenic backdrop of Olympic Mountain, still touched with snow on the 26th of July. It was day number one for a brand new 18-hole course, not for regular golf but for our relatively new passion, disc golf. We had the pleasure of witnessing the culmination of an 11-year process that created the Rainshadow Disc Golf Park a few miles east of Sequim on the Olympic Peninsula. In searching for courses to play near our cabin in the north woods, we had come across an internet invitation to attend the opening ceremony of this newest Clallam County Park. After years of planning and land acquisition, the past 5 years were spent gouging a course out of convoluted, brushy, thickly timbered wilderness. The work crew included park volunteers, University of Washington students, county inmates, neighbors with chainsaws and backhoes, Port Angeles Disc Golf Association members and even the Boy Scouts! At 11:00am under blue skies, we joined about 40 disc golf enthusiasts to perch on folding chairs for brief opening statements amplified by a tiny generator-operated PA system. Remarks of gratitude flowed freely as we sipped our complimentary bottles of ice water and pounded our hands together in appreciation. When it came time to "cut the ribbon" we circled around a disc golf goal and after a countdown of "3 - 2 - 1" we simultaneously threw a hailstorm of discs towards the basket. 
As mementos of the occasion, small souvenir discs used as placement markers on the course were distributed. Finally, the years of work were over and the play could begin. The crowd needed no encouragement and bright plastic discs began to fly.



Life OFF the Road

July 24, 2017 - Today we cut firewood, turning the split logs of previous years into tidy bundles designed for our fire pit. We've learned that one full milk crate nicely diversified between fast- and slow-burning wood is just the right amount for an evening's cooking fire so we load up several milk crates at a time. As luck would have it, our short six acres has a good balance of conifers like fir and cedar which are know for their pitchy, easily ignited wood, and alder trees with steadily burning wood prized for the tasty smokiness it imparts to food. This morning we donned gloves and brown, surplus store hard hats, mine labeled "Fernandez" and Brian's "Milliken." Our big ax is double-bladed (hence the hard hats, but that's a different story.) We dragged tarps off of the two neat, airy pallets of wood we had stashed away over the past two years.
Beginning with Douglas fir and progressing to alder, Brian turned large wood into smaller sticks, swinging down onto our old chopping block log. The dry woods makes a loud ringing sound as it splits apart, like the clanging of a bamboo wind chime. The long, wiry grain of the fir is satisfying to split (unlike the easily fractured alder) and I use a hatchet and smaller chopping block to convert the straightest slices into pencil-like kindling. We do not require tiny bits for tinder; the fire starters we concoct from cardboard egg cartons, melted wax and dryer lint do the heavy lifting when it comes to igniting a campfire. When we have filled all four crates with a blend of fir kindling and alder cooking sticks, we flop into white plastic chairs and take a moment to appreciate blue sky peeping through tall, swaying alders, their high green canopy forming a leafy kaleidoscope of waving branches.

Coffee Chat

We only utilize the front half of our long, forested property and a herd of two dozen elk seem to enjoy the back half. Some evenings we hear soft, high bugling noises and the snapping of trampled sticks as they "sneak" down our property line to cross into a neighbor's open field. A couple of times we have been able to see them as they furtively move in single file through brush and trees. Once beyond the trees and across the street, they spread out and fearlessly graze under the watchful protection of an impressively antlered male.


Did You Know?

The Roosevelt elk we have on the Olympic Peninsula are the largest variety elk. A full grown male can reach a height of 5 feet at the shoulder, weighing as much as 1200 pounds.







Brian and Andi's "summer camp"



 






The elusive Bigfoot???

Tuesday, April 11, 2017

April 2017


 A selfie with our friend the Joshua tree in the Mojave desert
Greetings!
There is always a point in our travels when we reverse our trajectory and aim Sierra's wheels toward the sunset, retracing our passage through the time zones and gaining hours as we move west. This moment occurred a few days ago when in an unprecedented marathon of driving (for us) we journeyed well over 600 miles in a single day, trekking from El Morro National Monument in New Mexico to Edwards Air Force Base in the Mojave Desert of California. Our wrist watches now show the same time as the clocks waiting for us in Talent, Oregon. We anticipate joyful reunions with the folks back home who braved the winter without fleeing to southern climes. Sending virtual hugs to all, whether we are soon to squeeze you in person or we simply carry you with us in our hearts. ~  Brian and Andi

Wish You Were Here

Our alarm clock went off at 5:30 am but we had both been lying awake for an hour. Without stopping to make breakfast, we drove through dark, quiet streets to the very downtown core of Albuquerque for a brand new adventure. We were going to take the Rail Runner passenger train to Santa Fe for the day. We shared a first cup of coffee in the station, then found our way to the platform and awaited the cute train with the bright red roadrunner on the engine. The train arrived from points south, about 4 cars in length.
Inside the seats were lightly cushioned and a cheery red, arranged in foursomes facing each other. With a quartet of seat to ourselves, we slid through suburbs, small towns and ancient pueblo lands, pausing every two to eighteen minutes to take on new passengers. Each time the doors closed, a warning sounded with the distinctive "meep -meep, meep - meep" of the tv cartoon roadrunner. In an hour and a half we were at the northern end of the line and began our walking adventure in Santa Fe.
This was not our first visit to Santa Fe, so for us the journey was more about the train ride, which we thought was a bargain at $10 round trip and free for seniors on Wednesdays this spring.
 Before catching an afternoon train back to Albuquerque, we had a delightful coffee stop for breakfast, browsed in a few art galleries, dodged in and out of gift shops, perused the Native jewelry outside the historic Palace of Governors, tipped some worthy street musicians and lunched outdoors at Cowgirl BBQ and Smokehouse. After a full day under perfect blue skies, we walked back to the train station and joined a large crowd of tourists, locals and commuters who also appreciated the charm and convenience of the Rail Runner.


 
RC Gorman Navajo Gallery


Life on the Road

When in Rome, eat like the Romans, and when on the road, experiment with cooking local-style cuisine. We have been doing this for years, crafting dishes with okra and black-eyed peas in the south, seafood along the Gulf Coast, wild berries in the northwest, and chilis in New Mexico. Lately we have paid tribute to the Mexican and Native American influences in Albuquerque by making meals with tortillas, beans, posole, peppers, onions, cumin, avocados, tomatoes and queso. Our mornings feature spicy huevos and at dinner time we have found that almost any ingredients rolled in a soft tortilla make a tasty burrito. This culinary challenge keeps us creative, helps us appreciate our surroundings, and has resulted in some terrific triumphs by Chef Brian. İBuen provecho!

Did You Know?

We were delighted to find an 18-hole disc golf course on Edwards Air Force Base. Upon acquiring a course map at the Fitness Center, we were told it is called Mojave Greens, a laughing nod to the desert reptiles found in this region. It turns out that a "Mojave green" is a rattlesnake with a bite considered to be 10 times more toxic than other rattlesnakes! Its appearance is similar to the Western Diamondback but we don't intend to get near enough to any snake to tell the difference. Let's just say we looked twice before retrieving our golf discs from desert bushes and rock piles.

Coffee Chat

Located about two hours west of Albuquerque, El Morro National Monument preserves a sandstone promontory with historical inscriptions at the base and ancient pueblo ruins on top. Our several enjoyable visits to this site inspired a tune we recently placed as track number one on our new Native American flute and percussion CD. Upon mentioning this to the NPS employees at the El Morro visitor center, they requested a copy, which we emailed along with kind words about their provocative monument. They replied enthusiastically with high praise and gratitude for the music inspired by the peaceful and majestic El Morro National Monument.

Now Hear This!

View from Collected Works Bookstore and Coffeehouse
A blissful coffee shop interlude in Santa Fe was due in part to the gentle but modern music lilting in the background. Before leaving, we asked about the source of the tunes. It turned out to be a Pandora station called "Junip" and we have been streaming it ourselves whenever we want to be taken back to that special moment. In case you are wondering, Junip is the name of a Swedish folk rock band whose style defines this station.

 
Good times at the whimsical
Brent Baca Memorial Disc Golf Course
in Albuquerque

 
Brent was an avid local disc golfer who died too young.