Jammin'

Last night I had the opportunity to sit in with a group of men who were 'jammin'. It was a relatively new experience for me, having done this only one other time with this type of music, years ago on the West Coast. I've been at a lot of 'jam sessions' through the years, with a teenage boyfriend's band, my brother's group, and others. But, this was what seems to be the 'signature' music of the South...Bluegrass.

In a previous blog, I talked about my love of all sorts of music. Bluegrass is one that I've not been very exposed to, but I do like it, and want to know more about it.

So far, every soloist in our new country church, sings their special music selection in a Bluegrass Gospel style. My style is quite different, and I kind of 'stick out like a sore thumb', though I am well received all the same. I want to add the Southern style of singing, so that I can be more diversified.

The men last night sang a lot of familiar music, old hymns with a different rhythm. I was invited to sing with the group of nine guitarists and mandolin players. Fortunately, most of the music was played in a comfortable key for my soprano voice. I enjoyed adding that to the men's tenor and baritone voices. I look forward to doing more of this in the future. Since this group is a 'throw together' bunch on a regular Thursday night basis, I can go whenever my schedule allows, as the others do.

Life is always adding little blessings and enjoyable moments. I'm happy to say that this was one of them.

Hair...

My daughter tells me that it's time for me to have a more up-dated hair-do. Why? Because my head has worn the same style for twenty years or so, with little change? If I might defend that statement, my 'do' has been similar for all that time because that's the way my hair naturally wants to lay.

Oh, I could fight it with a curling iron or rollers or any one of a number of other tools. But that's too much work. Why fight what nature offers? I could let it grow again, as I did for a few years in the mid-90's, but I think at this age, I don't need that long hair weighing me down. I don't need to look like some hippie with grey-streaked mop. I want light and easy, carefree.

That brings me to hair color. My girls have all, at one time or another, done something to change their hair color. The only time I ever did anything was the summer a million years ago when I sprayed a "Sun-In" product in it. My intention was to have natural looking sun streaks, but what I got was a brassy blonde. Never again, especially after the year I spent in Cosmetology class, using chemicals and treatments on other women. The whole process and the time it took taught me that I didn't want to be bothered with it for myself. So, I am a dark brunette, with silver threads.

My hair is not as shiny as it used to be, and the grey is getting more abundant. That's alright with me. I like grey hair, and especially the silvery-grey that mine appears to have. At this age of sixty-one years, I am quite comfortable with myself in my own skin. I'd like to lose a few pounds, but I don't want to change my hair...not color, not style, not length. I'll just make it look the best I can, and enjoy the freedom of not having to deal much with it. Like it or not, Kids... this is Mom's look.

A True Story of Our Shipwrecked Ancestor

My GrGrandmother was a Nantucket native. She had a half-brother, by the name of Owen Chase.

In 1819, at the age of 22 years, Owen became the first mate on a crew of 21 men on the Whaleship Essex. The ship sailed out of Nantucket Harbor for the waters of the South Pacific, prepared for a trip that would take an estimated two and a half years.

Four hours out, a storm blew up, the ship tossed and battled with the sea. The captain of the ship wanted to turn back. First mate Chase convinced him that the crew of novice sailors would abandon the effort, should they return to Nantucket, so the ship sailed on their voyage. After a year at sea, they had butchered a number of whales, but knew that they would need to continue hunting if they were to make a profit. They continued around Cape Horn.

On November 20, 1820, they farmed in the 'whale grounds' , 2000 miles off the west coast of South America. One of the three small whaleboats, which contained Owen's crew of 8 men, was found to need repair. The men returned to the Essex in order to make the needed repairs. As they worked, a large male sperm whale, with a length nearly as long as the 87 ft. vessel, was seen to be approaching the whaleship, about 50 feet from the side. With little warning, the whale rammed the side of the boat. Dazed, the monster rested beside the ship until he regained his normalcy. Then he turned, swimming away from the ship. Suddenly, as if with extreme intent, the whale turned again to swim with purpose toward the Essex. Again, and with a great fury, the huge fish rammed the ship, this time at the bow. With great strength, he pushed the Essex backward, and as he did, the 20 year old vessel, with ribs built in sections which were pegged together, weakened under the pressure. As the ship began to drink in the sea water, Chase's crew loaded their small whaleboat with enough food and water to last 60 days.

The men in all three whaleboats were adrift on the sea, thousands of miles from solid ground, with too little to sustain them all. Each of the small crews suffered horrible experiences of hunger, thirst, vitamin deficiencies, exposure, hallucinations, and death among them. They buried some at sea, as was their custom of the day, but some were cannibalized, as a last resort to survival for the others. At the end of 84 harrowing days, the survivors numbered eight. The Captain, George Pollard, was one of them, Owen Chase was another.

During the next year, 1821, Owen Chase wrote and published his account of the shipwreck, entitled "A Narrative of the Most Extraordinary and Distressing Shipwreck of the Whaleship Essex." Eventually, Chase returned to the sea, as a successful captain on a number of whaling voyages. Twenty years later, a sailor named Hermann Melville boarded the ship, Acushnet. He'd read Chase's book, and was excited to meet Chase's son, William, who lent him a copy of the account. In 1851, Melville published his famous book, Moby Dick, which was based upon Owen Chase's narrative.

My search has left me with more wonder than information of his life. I have found that, over the years, he'd been married four times. I've read, too, that he was haunted by the recurring memories of the horrors he'd suffered on the Essex. In his later years, he was found to be hoarding food in the attic of his Orange St. home on Nantucket, and some writings deem him 'insane'. He died in 1869, at the age of 70 years on the island of his birth.

What a sad life I see in this man. He chose the sea, as so many did on Nantucket. It was a lucrative business in those days. It may have been his love for the water, it may have been a love of money. It may have been for reasons that I'll never know. What I do know is that from

his return to Nantucket until his death, he seems to have suffered in many ways. I search, still, for more on the life of Capt. Chase. I want to discover some small shard of information from the days before he boarded the ill-fated Essex or after his return that will show me that he had some happiness in his life. I continue to hope so.

Thoughts on Tattoos

Call me old-fashioned. I'm not enthralled with the current fad of tattoos. My impression of those whose bodies are covered with tattoo-bearing flesh has always been that of 'roughians', tough bikers, gangsters of some kind. I've had to change that idea over the last few years, with even the tiniest women of meek manner adding ink art to their bodies. I've seen some work that I can admit that I thought was well done and even beautiful.

But, that being said, still I don't care for the idea of permanently stamping one's body parts with art. (If your argument is that it can be removed, why not get a peel and stick one, instead of one done with an electric pen and ink. It would be far less painful, and less expensive, to boot!) I've seen brides in sleeveless or strapless white gowns, bearing huge 'tats' on their forearms or shoulders or chests. I don't find that very attractive.

When one of my daughters got her first tattoo, it was small and located over her heart. I remember telling her that she'd look pretty weird as an old woman, with a sagging chest and a tattoo that was being dragged down with gravity as well. Her answer was, "no, I won't, Mom, because everyone else will have them too." She had a point.

I suppose I could live with the idea of ONE bit of artwork on a body, the way men used to do. These days, however, most people don't stop at one. They've become 'walking art galleries'. I don't have even one and am not likely to get one now... or ever. If I'm ever tempted, which I wouldn't count on if I were you, I will make my way to the nearest dollar store and I'll buy myself a wash-off type that the little kids wear.

I will admit that there is ONE good thing that might come about by the wearing of a tattoo, or several. That is it would make body identification easier, should the need arise.

I prefer to remain a 'blank canvas'. Tats are just not my style. Take that for what it's worth. Consider, too, while you're at it, that my hair-do has been pretty much the same for twenty years or more. Like I said, call me old-fashioned.

Music

Music has always moved me. No...not moved me, as in 'dancing', but more precisely, emotionally.

My earliest recollection of music was that which I heard in Sunday school at the East Hampton Presbyterian Church. I'm sure that someone must have sung something to me as an infant, or that I heard a radio somewhere, but my earliest memory is of Sunday school. I heard those same hymns when my parents would sing together on our Sunday afternoon drives. Daddy sang lead, with his baritone voice, and Mom sang harmony with her alto voice. I can remember 'feeling good' when I heard them singing those familiar words.

Later, in school, my art teacher put music on to inspire 'moods' while we created masterpieces with paint brushes and clay. Mr. Stowell, my music teacher, played classical music for us, to introduce us to the sounds of Bach, Beethoven,Brahms and the other classical composers. It was something I enjoyed, but my love of some of the 'long hair' pieces came when I was older. Rock music was what I liked most then, and was encouraged even more by the on and off boyfriend I had throughout high school. He had a guitar and he'd formed a band. How could I not be encouraging?

And, speaking of long hair, I was a teenager during the 1960's when the term had a new meaning. During those years, musical groups were letting their locks grow long. The look was quite different from the Doo-Wop groups of the fifties and the early sixties. The music had gone from rock to Motown's soul sounds to the British Invasion. I loved it all!

As I evolved into the 70's, folk rock was big on my list. Everybody had a message about something...war, peace, love, rebellion. I seemed to be inspired by the messages and the music,

the soft, acoustic sounds. When disco made it's arrival, that sound got my feet going! I added that to my list of affections.

From that day until now, I've been carried along by the waves of various styles that were the current rage. There are favorites, of course, in every type of sounds. I'm still partial to the softer sounds, rather than hard rock or heavy metal. (I can't bring myself to call those music.) What I find myself singing these days, more often than anything else, are the old hymns. The sounds I remember from my childhood days echo in my mind. Those sweet, time-aged words that reach so far down into the soul are the most precious sounds to me. I sing them to myself, to my grandchildren, in church.

They say you can never go home again, but as far as music goes, I have come home to my roots.

RANDOM THOUGHTS ON COFFEE

Coffee: I love coffee. I wake each morning and, after a compulsory trip to the bathroom, I stumble to the kitchen counter to make a pot of the stuff. I can barely wait as the strong brew follows its path from the funnel to the carafe below. Sometimes I can't wait, and pour a mugful before the entire pot has finished filling.

It took me a many years to find out that I liked coffee. I'd always been a tea drinker. When I went to work at a realty/insurance office, there was a never-ending pot of coffee going, and that's when I began this habit. I created my cup with a lot of sugar and a great deal of dry creamer. In time I discovered that half and half was my additive of choice, and I drink my java with no sugar at all now, if I make it at home. I will admit, though, that I have to order 'sugar on the side' when I get a take-out cup of coffee, and often add something to sweeten a cup when made by friends. Everyone's recipe for a pot of coffee is different, and different brands of coffee tend to need adjustment to match up to the taste of your normal cup.

Motel rooms often provide a two cup pot and pre-packaged coffee and dry fixings, so that when their customers rise, they will be able to have their first cup of their morning drink. I appreciate their efforts, but I prefer to dress and go to a coffee counter somewhere, for something that resembles my version of a cup of joe.

Coffee has long been a companion to women when they meet together for a short social time. Many business people have a coffee cup on the desk or in the vehicle while traveling. My husband actually carries his large travel mug everywhere, drinking coffee all day long. (His buddy and former workmate always kids him about his 'Magic Tea Pot') I limit mine to two cups a day, but rarely drink that much, considering that my coffee cup is really two cups in size.

I wake to a mild headache which is chased off with that first mug of hot coffee. It seems I'm mildly addicted to the stuff. I'd better go drink that waiting cup while it's still hot.

Four Day Party

After a good little vacation from blogging, I'm back and rarin' to go. My few days away from here have been fantastic, rewarding, and successful....and a little tiring. A big celebration went on for four days, with a houseful of daughters a son in law and grandkids here for Mom's birthday.

We had such fun, as we generally do when we're together. As with every family, there are occasional sibling disagreements, and we did have one of those, but all in all, it went well. Peter brought the Karaoke, and we took turns performing. The cameras were clicking, so the memories are recorded for all time. All this will be put into our scrapbooks. I can only imagine what future generations will comment about when we're long gone!

After cooking marathons, feeding frenzies and snack attacks, the bunch of us needed the dancing and Zumba we did nearly every night. I'm sure that even with that exercise, a few extra pounds stuck. I guess I'll go on a diet of 'rabbit food' for awhile, and continue the Zumba moves. I've got a doctor's appointment in April, and I don't feel like getting any grief.

Gram was in and out, according to how much of the mass confusion she could handle. She seemed to enjoy it when she was here, but sometimes the noise of so many people is a little much for someone who lives alone. She's a trooper, though, and was thrilled with the idea that her grandchildren thought so much of her that they would take time off and travel as many as 900 miles to join her on her birthday.

We gathered for photos of all of us in our sweaters, as planned...and Gram wore one of her own, as I knew she would. It was fun to see us all in one place wearing her handiwork.

I enjoyed having the gang here, and I hope that we'll have many more celebrations together in the future. Yes, I was tired, but staying up until 1:30 AM for a few nights will never kill me, and I'll soon return to my habit of falling asleep in front of the TV.

Now I've got work to do. I've got to shop for diet food and and to get moving, to start my walking again, adding dancing, and recording every calorie I eat. It's almost time for swimsuits, and I'm not ready for them! I'll let you know how things work out.