Piano Man

We stopped at an old schoolhouse Saturday. This building was solid, made from poured cement. Interior looked pretty sad, but the exterior, other than broken windows, was still in good shape. Jacqui crawled halfway into a basement window to see what was down there. I nearly had heart failure. What if she fell in? Then what would we do? Cell service was poor to nonexistent.

“I see a piano,” she said.

A piano?

“Yes, a broken piano.”

That was interesting.

I have safety rules for junking. Rule No. 1: DO NOT walk down stairs. Who knows what might be in the basement/cellar/crawl space. I might find some dead creature or live ones that I’d prefer not to encounter. And who knows what condition those steps are in? I have no desire to take a bad fall.

But our nightly lows have fallen well below freezing. Snakes and skunks should be hibernating. She shined the flashlight around the room and saw nothing other than broken chairs and plaster. And the rest of building was in amazingly-good condition. Perhaps steps would be safe?

Staircase was partially covered by a wooden door, which looked intact. Steps were covered with fallen plaster, but maybe they were passable. When I pushed up the door, I saw a dead creature on top of it, mostly noticing a set of bared teeth. Jacqui followed me. I told her to push the door tightly against the rail unless she wanted to see the set of teeth.

Piano was in horrible condition. Keyboard was entirely gone. Hammers were broken. Front of piano had disappeared. But it still maintained a certain dignity. Someone had pride in its construction, even the places that would normally be invisible.

Apparently, the local people had used this basement for entertainment. Piano sat on a little platform. Remnants of theater seating were scattered around the rest of room.

I started singing, “…Son, can you play me a memory; I’m not really sure how it goes. But it’s sad and it’s sweet and I knew it complete when I wore a younger man’s clothes … Sing us a song; you’re the Piano Man. Sing us a song tonight! ‘Cause we’re all in the mood for a melody and you’ve got us feeling all right.…”

Singing in that forlorn basement was bittersweet. Acoustics were great, but seeing the remnants of what had been a vibrant community was very sad.

God Bless the USA!

Recently, we were privileged to enjoy the United States Army Field Band & Soldiers’ Chorus in concert. Anyone who watches those soldiers perform without feeling a surge of patriotism and gratitude toward those who serve us in the armed forces has a heart of rock and should be ashamed.

Concert opened with The Star-Spangled Banner. Chorus and band led audience in the national anthem. I love to sing our national song, but could hardly get the initial words out of my tightened throat. I thought of my friends and family who are currently serving or have family members currently serving. The Land of the Free would not be free without the service of the brave. Thank you so much!

As is customary with military bands, they closed the program with Armed Forces Salute, a medley of the military branches’ songs. Often, the conductor invites veterans of that service to stand during their branch music. This time, Conductor Col. Thomas Palmatier invited veterans and their families to stand during their branch music. Hubby had to leave for work before this selection, so I was very proud to stand for both Navy, my father-in-law’s branch, and and Air Force, my father’s branch. Being able to honor their service means a great deal to me.

The band’s encore was God Bless the USA. The crowd cheered and sang along. “… I’ll gladly stand up next to you and defend her still today, ‘cause there ain’t no doubt I love this land. God bless the USA!”

Don't Fear the Reaper

We were walking last Saturday evening when this gentleman started yelling, “Rescue me! Get me away from the Reaper!”

Since he was only half there, we figured he was a goner already. A person has to know which battles to fight! Anyone who’s in that bad of shape can’t be patched up very well.

Blue Öyster Cult may not fear the Grim Reaper, but I’d rather avoid him for as long as possible.

Eastern Hotel California

Years ago, my penchant for scary voices resulted in a permanent mark on my right hand.

In my first college semester, an acquaintance heard me do an impression of the Wicked Witch of the West. Her friend was looking for people to staff a haunted house for a night. Was I interested?

I was very interested.

The man in charge, Dave, had found an abandoned house in a valley. House was surrounded by creepy overgrown trees and weeds, a perfect setting for the night’s adventure. Some of the rooms were unsafe for entry, so no one was allowed to move without a guide carrying a flashlight.

I portrayed a demented prisoner who had escaped and been recaptured. A guard, armed with a (thankfully unloaded) shotgun, was posted to see that I would not escape. I was made up to look as if I had sustained a terrible beating during my recapture and I was wearing manacles and shackles. A belly chain was the only costume piece missing.

First two groups came through our room without incident. In between the second and third groups, I decided that clawing the wall would look very scary and demented. So I tried it.

Not only did clawing the wall look demented, it was demented. I scratched off some wallpaper one time before I caught my palm on a nail. I jerked it off and continued my act, although I avoided any more contact with the wall.

Once that group was gone, I sat down in the dark and gingerly assessed my injury. I could feel a big hunk of hand protruding out the hole and a trickle of blood oozing out of it.

I told the “guard” that she had better get some help. She panicked, but at last got word to someone to help us.

When Dave showed up, he shone flashlight on my hand. I am not particularly queasy, but the sight of that big protrusion unsettled my stomach. Dave was quite unsettled as well.

We had to climb over a barbed-wire fence to reach his van and, of course, my pant leg got caught. We had an awful time getting me unhooked. Since I only had use of one hand, I was little help in extricating myself.

He was near panic by the time he got me into his van.

Once we arrived hospital, Dave left and returned to haunted house.

The town was very small and the hospital had no doctor present. My makeup was too convincing. While I waited, the nurse kept trying to treat my facial cuts and bruises. I kept repeating that my hand was injured, not my face. She would not believe me; she seemed to think that I was delirious. She said I had to have been in a motorcycle accident. I must have suffered a head injury, because I obviously didn’t know what I was talking about.

By this time, my hand was seriously throbbing and hurting. Nurse insisted upon washing off my makeup, but did nothing to treat my hand. No painkillers, no cleaning of the wound, nothing. Once the makeup was removed, she stopped insisting that I was a motorcycle accident victim. At least we were making some progress.

Finally, the doctor showed up. He looked at my hand and shook his head. “What did you do that for?” he asked.

How was I supposed to answer that?

“We’ve got to stitch this,” he said. “A couple stitches is no big deal; you don’t need any painkiller for this.”

Obviously he wasn’t working on his own hand.

The stitches weren’t particularly painful, but the feeling of thread going through flesh was indescribably disgusting. At least I didn’t look so much like a freak with the blob now reduced to relative smoothness.

He ordered the nurse to give me a tetanus shot, then left. I think Nurse missed the nursing school lesson on how to give shots. I asked her to inject my injured right arm. I wanted to have just one hurting arm instead of two. She refused. “Our protocol says we must inject the left arm.”

I said, “I’ll never tell if you inject my right arm!”

She gave me a very dirty look, then proceeded to stick me several times with the same needle in my left deltoid. She didn’t even swab injection site with alcohol. I couldn’t understand why she didn’t just get it over with. Instead, she poked me repeatedly before finally driving home the needle.

A few minutes later, the rest of the haunted house staff arrived. We were 1½ hours from home and were all quite ready to leave. Unfortunately, I had no way to heat the injection site or cool the nail print site. Hospital gave me no painkillers or antibiotics.

By the time we arrived home, after one of the longest trips of my life, I was feverish and had little use of either arm. Both my right hand and my left shoulder were inflamed and infected. I couldn’t lift my left arm or close my right hand without extreme pain. I spent the next two days on my back in the campus infirmary while they pumped antibiotics into my system and tried to reduce the inflammation.

That haunted house continues to haunt me. Nearly 30 years later, the scar I received there still aches, usually for no apparent reason.

Apparently, that building was an eastern version of The Hotel California, where “you can check out any time you like, but you can never leave.”

Survival of the '70s

A few days ago, some of my students came to class in Kiss and Led Zeppelin T-shirts. I could not believe my eyes. Another one showed up Wednesday wearing an Alice Cooper T-shirt.

Kiss? Led Zeppelin? Alice Cooper?

I was never much for metal, but my friend Cathy was a big metalhead, as were my best friend Jean’s brothers. Kiss and Led Zeppelin were high on their list of favorites, although they never cracked mine. Metal was never my choice of music. “Beth” was the only Kiss song I ever liked. Alice Cooper grossed out all my friends.

I can’t imagine wearing Pat Boone T-shirts when I was a high school kid. Maybe an Elvis shirt, but nothing else from any time period other than the 1970s. Those oldies were total has beens.

Recently I heard a music professor on the radio. He said that music stopped improving in 1974, that nothing good had been published since then. That position is a bit extreme for me. I like/d disco. I thought it was fun music and I still do.

I enjoyed a lot of the ’80s music as well, but, looking back, it had a sameness to it that ’70s music didn’t have. Hubby heard a program several years ago where the DJ played numerous ’80s tunes to the same beat. And they all fit.

’90s music and the new stuff the students play today seem like a vast wasteland. Is there nothing original?

The appearance of classic metal bands seems to validate my opinion.

What's Love Got to Do with It?

When I was in college, my social life was pretty lame. I had lots of “brothers”, but hardly any boyfriends. I had some men ask me out, but they were not generally men I wanted to date. I worked in sports information and spent most of my weekends on the sideline at some game. I didn’t enjoy the privilege of going out with some good-looking man afterward. No guy stood at the press box door waiting for me.

My friend Laura shared the same problem, except she didn’t have games to occupy her weekends. One day, we were bemoaning our single, dateless state when she began talking about what her wedding would be like.

“If I ever get married,” she said, “I think I’ll walk down the aisle to Tina Turner singing, ‘What’s Love Got to Do with It?’ I think I’ll dress in black, too. After all, it seems that I’ll have to pay someone to marry me!”

“That would be funny,” I said. “Let’s do it! That would be better than walking down the aisle to the traditional ‘Wedding March’. I have no desire to have everyone in church thinking ‘Here comes the bride, big, fat and wide. Where is the groom? Hiding in a room!’”

I lost touch with Laura after she graduated and have no idea if she ever married or not.

During our engagement, I told Hubby this story. “What do you think of this idea?” I asked. He wouldn’t let me use Tina Turner’s song, but I didn’t walk down the aisle to the traditional wedding march, either.

After all, when I married him, love had everything to do with it.

Rockin' Robin

“Rockin’ Robin” was a golden oldie when I was in high school oh, so many years ago.

Friday morning I taught junior high vocal music. I popped in a performance CD of “Rockin’ Robin” and my mind went back to my high school days.

We didn’t sing “Rockin’ Robin” in choir, but the pep band often played it at games. In those not-so-far-off days, we had no CD player. Eight-track tapes, then cassette tapes, were in vogue when I sat where those kids were sitting. I don’t think we’d ever heard of performance tracks in those days.

How technology has changed.

Unlike technology, great music never dies.

A girl named Robin with flaming red hair was in the class ahead of me. As the students sang “Rockin’ Robin”, I could see her in my mind’s eye. When our band would play “Rockin’ Robin”, she’d get up and dance. She was our personal “Rockin’ Robin” and did she ever rock.

“Go, ‘Rockin’ Robin’, ‘cause we’re really gonna rock tonight!”

Sunflowers at sunrise

No light is better than that shining at sunrise. No crop is more beautiful than sunflowers. Put them together for wonderful pictures.

I arose early Monday morning, even though it was a holiday, to take sunflower pictures. I marveled at the glory and provision of God to make these beautiful creations to feed his creatures and for the wisdom He has granted us to improve their yield.

I thought of the song “When Morning Gilds the Skies”.

When morning gilds the skies my heart awaking cries:
May Jesus Christ be praised!
Alike at work and prayer, to Jesus I repair:
May Jesus Christ be praised!

When you begin the day, O never fail to say,
May Jesus Christ be praised!
And at your work rejoice, to sing with heart and voice,
May Jesus Christ be praised!

To God, the Word, on high, the host of angels cry,
May Jesus Christ be praised!
Let mortals, too, upraise their voice in hymns of praise,
May Jesus Christ be praised!

The night becomes as day when from the heart we say:
May Jesus Christ be praised!
The powers of darkness fear when this sweet chant they hear:
May Jesus Christ be praised!

Be this, while life is mine, my canticle divine:
May Jesus Christ be praised!
Sing this eternal song through all the ages long:
May Jesus Christ be praised!

Sweet Home Alabama

I didn’t truly discover Southern rock until after I was out of high school. Bands like CCR and Lynyrd Skynryrd were not in my music collection, although I could certainly sing many of the lyrics.

“Sweet Home Alabama” is a highly topical song with dated references to Alabama Gov. George Wallace, a noted segregationist, and Watergate, as well as mystifying references to musician Neil Young. But the song is still very popular.



The song has a lot more to it than it first appears. Wikipedia says:

“Sweet Home Alabama” was written as an answer to two songs, “Southern Man” and “Alabama” by Neil Young, which dealt with themes of racism and slavery in the American South. “We thought Neil was shooting all the ducks in order to kill one or two,” said [Singer/songwriter] Ronnie Van Zant at the time. Van Zant’s musical response, however, was also controversial, with references to Alabama Gov. George Wallace (a noted supporter of segregation) and the Watergate scandal:

In Birmingham, they love the governor (boo boo boo)
Now we all did what we could do
Now Watergate does not bother me
Does your conscience bother you?
Tell the truth

In 1975, Van Zant said: “The lyrics about the governor of Alabama were misunderstood. The general public didn’t notice the words ’Boo! Boo! Boo!’ after that particular line, and the media picked up only on the reference to the people loving the governor.”

“The line ’We all did what we could do’ is sort of ambiguous,” [Producer Al] Kooper notes. “’We tried to get Wallace out of there’ is how I always thought of it.”

Journalist John Swenson argues that the song is more complex than it is sometimes given credit for, suggesting that it only looks like an endorsement of Wallace.

“Wallace and I have very little in common,” Van Zant himself said, “I don’t like what he says about colored people.”

Oddly enough, none of the band members were originally from Alabama.

Bad Moon Rising

The staying power of classic rock is truly amazing. As I was mowing a few days ago, Finance Director Lori drove in. She was rocking out to some tune. She rolled down the window so I could share what she was enjoying: “Bad Moon Rising”.

I looked up Creedence Clearwater Revival’s discography. Their “Green River” album came out in 1969, the year my brother was born. Lori would have been born around the same time. Even though CCR had been relegated to Golden Oldie status by the time she would have been appreciating music, CCR is still appealing.


I first remember CCR in late-night commercials. At first I thought the last line of the chorus

Don’t go around tonight,
Well, it’s bound to take your life,
There’s a bad moon on the rise.

was “There’s a bathroom on the right.”

Whenever we hear that song, Hubby and I laugh and loudly sing the misheard lyrics.

We were stayin' alive

Monday we visited a new flea market. I thumbed through a large book of CDs and found several of the music I so loved in high school.

Music is amazingly evocative. Listening to “Saturday Night Fever” soundtrack took me straight back to McDonald’s, where I worked when I was a high school junior. The movie had debuted the year before, but its soundtrack was then the biggest-selling album of all time. “Fever” stayed on top of the album charts for six months. And we loved it.

As soon as customers emptied the dining room after closing, we turned off the detested Muzak and plugged in our music into the stereo system, cranking the volume as high as we dared.

Closing time was “Disco Grill” time. We danced while we worked.

We sang:

“Burn, baby, burn!
McDonald’s inferno!
We are on fire
100 stories high…”.

I was often assigned to close “dive”, which meant washing dishes. The combination of a high-pressure hose and disco made for a very enjoyable evening. The hose became my dance partner and I slid and glided across the wet floor, while singing loudly.

The rest of the crew was doing the same at their posts, although the grill cleaner was sliding on grease instead of soapy water.

How we laughed!

“We were a dancin’ crew
And we just couldn’t lose
We knew it’s all right, it’s OK;
The manager looked the other way.
He could surely understand the music’s affect on man.
Yes, we were younger and they sure were older
But we were stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive
We could feel the windows shakin’ as the speakers were breakin’
And we were stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive…

Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive.
Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin’ alive.”

Brian's song

I can never think of or hear Chicago’s “If You Leave Me Now” without remembering my friend Brian.

He was in high school and I was in my late 20s when we met. I thought he was one of the funniest people I’d ever met. He made me laugh nearly every time I saw him. He was always doing some antic or saying something that would make me double over with laughter.

And he was so sweet. When I would feel discouraged, he always had some kind word to say.

I loved him and thought of him as a little brother.

I attended his class Project Graduation, an all-night party the night of graduation. Someone starting lip synching (karaoke hadn’t been invented) and others followed suit. I found Brian and “sang” “If You Leave Me Now” to him. Once song was done, I kissed his cheek.

He whooped in delight.

I never saw him again. I moved away shortly thereafter. That fall, 16 years ago, he was killed in a one-car accident. I still miss him.

This is for you, Brian.

Bargain bin music

Growing older has one big advantage. We can afford to buy more of the music we loved growing up because it’s been thrown into the bargain bin.

The music I love[d] — tunes from the Bee Gees, Boston, The Cars, Chicago, ELO, Foreigner and Billy Joel — have been out of Billboard’s Top 40 for many years now. But hearing the intro to “More Than a Feeling”, my favorite rock song, still soothes my soul. I can still “lose myself in [that] familiar song; I close my eyes and I slip away. I slip away, away…“

I want to ask Billy to “play me a melody; I’m not really sure how it goes, but it’s sad and it’s sweet and I knew it complete when I wore a younger [wo]man’s clothes …”

Chicago is hardly “the biggest part of me”, but “If You Leave Me Now” is still my favorite pop song.

When I was in high school, I didn’t think I could be “Stayin’ Alive” if I wasn’t listening to my music. If the day went badly, my music would start me “sailin’ away on the crest of a wave. It’s like magic.” Magic that was “Just What I Needed”, that put me “Back Where [I] Belong[ed]”.

Finding treasures in the bargain bin is pure pleasure. They take me back to the days before Walkmans and iPods, to the days where I had a black tape recorder with horrible audio quality and didn’t know what I was missing.

Now that my mental jukebox is cranked, I’ll get some “Peace of Mind” as I slip away, away!

Power Tools Are a Girl's Best Friend

I disagree with Marilyn Monroe in “Gentlemen Prefer Blondes”. Power tools are a girl’s best friend. What can you do with a diamond? Now I love my wedding ring’s rock, but otherwise,

“Power Tools Are a Girl's Best Friend”!

The French were bred to die for love
They delight in giving jewels
But I prefer a man who lives
And gives expensive tools
A kiss on the hand may be quite continental
But power tools are a girl's best friend
A drill is grand because it helps you fix your rental
Or when the tire's flat, or just to kill a sewer rat
Men grow cold as girls grow old
And we all lose our charms in the end
But table saw or miter saw
These tools don't lose their value
Power tools are a girl's best friend

DeWalt and Cooper Tools
Talk to me, Black & Decker, tell me all about it
There may come a time when a lass needs a lawyer
But power tools are a girl's best friend

There may come a time when a hard boiled employer
Thinks you're awful nice
But get that vise or else no dice
He's your guy when stocks are high
But beware when the start to descend
It's then that those louses go back to their spouses
Power tools are a girl's best friend
I've heard of affairs that are strictly platonic
But power tools are a girl's best friend
And I think affairs that you must keep liaisonic
Are better bets if little pets get a nice saw set
Time rolls on and youth is gone
And you can't straighten up when you bend
But stiff back or stiff knees
You stand straight at Mr. Stanley's

Power tools
Power tools
I don't mean cheap ones
Yes, Power Tools
Are A Girl's Best Friend

Mother and the bird

I have never met anyone who had more presence of mind than my mother. If I had to pick one person to be at my side in an emergency, I’d pick her.

One scorching Sunday night, she was playing the piano for our church service. Building lacked air conditioning, so we had opened every possible door and window to catch whatever breeze might appear, including the big double doors at the main entrance.

While we were singing, a large black bird swooped in. It flew strafing runs over the congregation. We ducked and bobbed to escape the bird. The lady next to me was very afraid of birds. When the bird swooped right over our heads, she screamed and dove under the pew in front of us. She wasn't the only one taking shelter.

In spite of the commotion, Mother continued to play and the songleader tried to lead. After some minutes, the bird landed on the block at the bass end of the keyboard. Her left hand whipped out from the keyboard and grabbed the bird. She did not miss a note.

The bird was not amused and cawed loudly. It kept right on cawing and she kept right on playing. The songleader had stopped trying to lead singing. His mouth silently opened and closed right in time to the bird’s cries. He looked rather like a bird himself, like a baby bird opening its mouth for food.

While still continuing to play and hold on to the bird, Mother looked around for someone to take away the bird. Everyone was frozen. For a long moment, the only sounds were the bird’s cries and the piano.

Finally, a man came down the center aisle from the back of the church and took the bird. Mother continued playing, but no human uttered a sound. The only sounds were the bird, the piano and the man’s footsteps.

We heard it cry, “CAAAAW, CAAAAW, CAAAAW, CAAAAW, CAAAAW, CAA–”, then silence. Mother's rescuer had twisted off the bird's head.

He walked back into the church and sat down as if nothing had happened. She continued to play, but no one said a word for some time.

Then the entire congregation burst out laughing and cheering.

Even years later, people would retell the story. Most of them ended by saying, “Who else could catch a bird on the piano and not miss a note”

Bells will be ringing

When I [Marilyn] was little, my mother’s father rang the bell in our old country church every Sunday morning. How I loved hearing that big old bell ring, beckoning all within hearing distance to come and worship! Back in those days, a rope was attached to the bell, as it hung way up high in the belfry. The reverberation caused by pulling that rope would make a slight vibration in the building. I always shivered pleasantly when I felt it. As a small child, the ringing of the huge bell made a lasting impression on me. I was always amazed at how loud the bell sounded!

Listening to the church bell ring gave me a lifelong appreciation for bells and chimes. I love them. I have wind chimes hanging all around my yard in the summer time. As the High Plains winds blow, as they so often do, I can stand in almost any spot in my yard and hear wind chimes in the background.

Some churches still ring their stately bells, announcing the start of their services. As I work in my yard on a Saturday evening, I can hear the bell ringing in the middle of town at our local Catholic church. That sound can wing me away instantly to a time long ago as I stood watching my beloved grandpa pull that bell’s rope.

My yard without wind chimes would be like a church’s bell tower without a bell. Empty. Soundless. Lost. Sad.

As my wind chimes gently jingle and sway in the breeze, peace enters my heart. Precious memories from days gone by and loved ones passed on surround my soul in love and peace.

Don't Fence Me In!

Marilyn's post yesterday reminded me of the truck farm my brother and I worked when we were at home. (This picture was taken in 1994, after we were both married. Truck farm was much smaller by then.) We didn't live on a farm, but my mother had grown up on the farm. She was still a farm girl at heart. She could not and would not abide laziness. She had the world's longest to-do list and she intended for it to be completed.

We had plenty of chores, including lots of garden ones. After baking in the hot sun while doing tasks I hated, I decided I would NEVER have a garden when I grew up. No way. Not going to do it.

Never say never.

My mother was very frugal, partly from necessity and partly from preference. She hated waste and unnecessary spending. So she had a huge garden full of all kinds of vegetables. Being hyper organized, she kept a meticulous garden book, noting where she had planted each crop and what varieties she used. I prize that book now, but I don't keep one.

Her garden rows seemed infinite when we were pulling weeds or other boring tasks under the beating sun. And she could always find weeds that we never saw. I learned to love mulching because it suppressed those horrible weeds.

Late summer and early fall was canning/freezing time. She ran a regular factory in the basement, but putting up our produce was the reward for nasty tasks like weeding. I entered into food preservation whole-heartedly. Looking at neat rows of produce-filled jars was always a pleasurable experience. Eating them was even better!

How I miss eating her frozen corn recipe, which will appear tomorrow, and her very labor-intensive red hot pickle recipe, which will appear the next day.

When I lived in Virginia, a friend from upstate New York invited me to her house for Thanksgiving. I continually longed for farm country and she said we would pass through lots of farm country.

Our ideas of what farm country meant were diametrically opposed. We drove roads that were lined with houses. Their lots were long and narrow. Their houses sat next to the road with large gardens behind them. She said those were farms. What farms?

My idea of a farm is acres of corn, wheat, milo and/or sunflowers. Anything else is a just a repeat of my mother's garden. In my idea of farm country, the neighbors can't look into each other's windows just as they could in suburbia!

I thought of the Roy Rogers song "Don't Fence Me In".

"... Let me ride through the wide open country that I love,
Don't fence me in.
Let me be by myself in the evenin' breeze
And listen to the murmur of the cottonwood trees
Send me off forever but I ask you please,
Don't fence me in..."

Dust Bowl Blues

Hubby and I watched American Experience: Surviving the Dust Bowl a few nights ago. Grandma's stories of life in the Dust Bowl years returned vividly to mind, made more real by the footage of that time.

Many people fled the Dust Bowl conditions, packing their belongings into whatever motorized transportation they had, then driving off with their house door standing open.
They were "Dust Bowl Refugees".

But many stayed, including my grandparents.

Dust filtered into everything. People caulked their windows with rags. They hung wet sheets in front of their doors. And still the dust filtered in.

Grandma reminisced about hanging wet towels above my aunts' beds to keep dust out of their lungs. They still coughed black phlegm.

When she served meals, she covered each plate and serving dish with wet towels, but they still had to eat grit with their food.

My grandparents' hired men did not get cash wages, just room and board. That was enough in those days. At least they had a roof over their heads and food in their stomachs. Many did not.

My great uncle was caught in one of the terrible dust storms and died of dust pneumonia. Pneumonia was epidemic during those years. Aunt Betty never remarried.

No wonder Woody Guthrie recorded "Dust Bowl Blues".

We read "The Grapes of Wrath" in high school, about a family who fled Dust Bowl conditions for "the promised land" of California.

I asked Grandma once why they stayed on the land.

"Why didn't you flee?"

"This is our home," she said.

The Sound of Music

My brain is just too retentive.

This morning, I sprayed Roundup on the last stubborn bit of bindweed. That particular plant looked pretty sickly, so this dose should finish it off. Then I sprayed the weeds growing between our patio's flagstones.

Gene Autry's "Heading for the Last Roundup" began playing in my mental jukebox.

"I'm heading for the last roundup. Gonna saddle Old Paint for the last time and ride. So long, old pal, it's time your tears are dried. I'm heading for the last roundup...."

This tune kept playing in my head until I got on the riding mower several hours later.


Then I thought how the mower is my own private place and the The Beach Boys began playing.

"There's a room where I can go and tell my secrets to. In this world I lock out all my worries and my fears. In my room, in my room, in my room, in my room. Do my dreaming and my scheming. Lie awake and pray. Do my crying and my sighing. Laugh at yesterday...."

These two tunes kept alternating, sometimes as a counterpoint to my thoughts and sometimes overriding them.

Then I saw a lady named Jean.

I suppose that could have triggered "Cheer up, sleepy Jean; oh, what can it mean to a daydream believer and a homecoming queen."

But I'm a bit too young for the Monkees.

Instead, Michael Jackson's Billie Jean popped up in the mental jukebox: "Billie Jean is not my lover. She's just a girl who claims that I am the one, but the kid is not my son. She says I am the one, but the kid is not my son."

So now I had three songs running through my head on some kind of endless loop.

Or is that Endless Love?

"I know I've found in you my endless love."

Yes, my brain is definitely too retentive.

All I Ask of You

Hubby and I recently listened to a new karaoke CD of "The Phantom of the Opera". The CD's most fun songs to sing are the title track and "Music of the Night".

But neither of those songs fit Hubby's baritone range. The one that does, "All I Ask of You", is a beautiful duet between Christine and her lover Raoul.

Its lyrics are so appropriate for the man I love.

I am so blessed.

It Ain't Gonna Rain No More

My grandparents (at the right of this family photo from the period) lived on the outskirts of the Dust Bowl, but they still experienced the drought and dust.

One night during a prolonged dry spell, my grandmother sat down at the piano and began to play, "It Ain't Gonna Rain No More, No More".

This is the chorus:

It ain't gonna rain no more, no more
It ain't gonna rain no more
How in the heck can I wash my neck
If it ain't gonna rain no more?

As she was playing and singing, the sky suddenly darkened and lightning struck the house. All the nails were blackened on that side.

My grandparents' hired men lived with them. One had been napping in the upstairs bedroom on that side. He came down the stairs so fast that he didn't seem to have touched the stairs at all.

"Don't play that song again!" he said. "That song called down the lightning on my head!"

She never again played "It Ain't Gonna Rain No More."

During dry spells, I often teased Grandma that she should break the drought by playing that song. She pursed her lips and shook her head each time.

Several versions of this song exist, and I have no idea which verses she was singing. She would never say.