"My dog is worried about the economy because Alpo is up to 99 cents a can. That's almost $7.00 in dog money."
- Joe Weinstein
I live in a home where there are more dogs than people. I swear, it seems like dogs just multiply at my house. I moved in with two, and next thing I knew, a third one showed up on my doorstep. And when my friends come over, they bring their dogs, too. If I get with Cathy, she brings her three dogs. Add Anne, or Vickie, and that's another one each. And the list goes on and on. It all adds up to a lot more dogs than people crowded around the dinner table and, yes, competing for treats and couch space. One time, I had a party at my house, and there were eight of us, and we counted 14 dogs. I think we had a few extra strays from the "hood," too, which made it all the more interesting, to say the least. And of course, all of them shed (the dogs, I mean). Fortunately, I have a dog - proof house that just happens to be perfect for these "family" gatherings. I have rubber mats for rugs, wrought iron and tile coffee tables, duct-taped leather couches, sealed food containers on the countertops and - for the inevitable "accidents" - satillo tilefloors.
But as doggie-ready as my casa is, my bank account is another entirely. The cost of healthcare for my mutts would turn Suze Orman, the financial guru all over the TV as of late, on her perfectly-coifed blonde head. I can just see her now, blue eyes blazing, one hand on her chin and her other clicking her pencil against the top of her oak desk, while listening to me rattle off the expenditures my three dogs rack up per month. Just before she's ready to pop, she shouts, "You can't afford it! Girlfriend, you are crazy to have three dogs, with so little in savings, es-s-s-pecially while we're in a recession-n-n-n-!"
I respect her. And over the years, I, too, have questioned my judgment. But for every dollar I've spent on my mutts, I've more than doubled that in the joy they've brought me in return. And little does Suzy know that as I've watched my SEP account trickle to a stop these past several months, I've also been watching my overhead - so much, in fact, that as I type this, I'm in the dark, wearing three pairs of thermals watching the breath escape my mouth, turn to frost, and curl towards the one candle I have lit in order to see my way 'round the dark (so as not to trip over dogs). For dinner, I had last week's mashed potatoes. I'm using Simple Green for laundry detergent, and the roots around my hairline have grown out to the point that I look like I'm sporting a black headband. To save money, I'm forgoing a much- needed trip to the colorist this month and allocating the funds towards my black 11-year-old Schipperke- meets-who-knows-what mutt Jesse's insulin instead. That's right, he's diabetic. And in addition to his insulin, he also needs special, ultra-expensive food in order to keep on barking. Which he does with a whistle, since he's missing his front teeth.
Jesse's not the only one racking up the bills. I have another senior citizen, Carolynn, living with me, too. She's a redheaded 12-year-old mix between a Golden Retriever and Australian Shepherd. She has soft brown eyes rimmed so perfectly in black, it looks like she's wearing eyeliner. I adopted her from a shelter, "issues" and all. Her psychological problems are vast, as she came from a bad home with bad people. She's better now, but at one time, if you happened to be walking your dog without a leash in my neighborhood and had the misfortune of coming across Carolynn and I on our own daily walk, Carolynn - despite being on a leash resembling a straight jacket and muzzled up like Hannibal Lecter - would still eat your dog. I bear a scar on my right shoulder from one such incident, in which the Great Pyrenees was spared, but I got leash-burn while saving it. Carolynn's "issues" are less apparent now thanks to her sixty-dollar doggie Prozac. But even that won't keep her from gnawing on her leg, which she prefers to rawhide chews.
And then there's Buddy. He's the one who showed up one day and never left. He's a 5-year-old, wild-eyed Weimer-meets-Hades mix, who can, at any given moment, dig up a sock he's stolen and buried in my back yard. What's freaky about this is that every now and then he digs up socks that aren't even mine, don't belong to anyone I know, and are not even from this decade. His recent "discovery" was a tube sock from at least the '70s. I would know; when I ran track in middle school in the early '80s, I wore the exact same kind.
One time, Buddy even snatched a pair of my underwear from my laundry basket, bolted out the doggie door, and before I could catch him, swallowed them: whole. I immediately called Cathy (you know, the other nut with three dogs), our circle's guru on all things "Dog," and attempted to convince her of what happened so she could make me privy to the damages that consuming a pair of Hanes Her Way could inflict on my mutt's digestive system.
"No, he didn't swallow them whole," she cried into the phone, laughing.
"Yes, he did," I insisted, visualizing her holding her sides in a vain attempt to keep me from hearing her snorts. "Yes, he did. Didn't even chew 'em. Swallowed them. Whole!"
The next day, I dropped Buddy off at the vet, rubbed his head in worry, and repeated what I'd told Cathy to the staff at the clinic. They clucked their tongues behind the counter. Surely I was exaggerating; I mean honestly, what dog could swallow an entire pair of underwear in less than five seconds? Well, my dog. Sure enough, several hours later, I got word that Buddy had regurgitated my undies in their entirety in front of the entire veterinary staff. A few days later, when I picked Buddy up from the vet (I'd been on the road), I was greeted by a chorus of giggles. That's when I learned that, during his ordeal, my mutt's cage had proudly displayed a sign that read, "Please monitor Buddy for a large pair of Terri Hendrix's underwear."
I could go on and on about the stories my three mutts have racked up over the years. And yes, the memories they've given me have far exceeded their cost to my wallet. Maybe this "more dogs than people" trait is genetic: My parents once had up to (gasp!) 25 dogs. But at one time, they were down to just three. Sometimes, losing one makes it almost unbearable to get another. As was the case with my father and his dog, Eloy.
Several years ago, while running errands, my dad noticed what looked like a stray in the middle of the road. Fearing for the dog's safety, he pulled over, opened his car door, and, much to his surprise, the dog jumped into his arms. "Eloy!" Dad shouted, naming him on the spot.He dutifully listed the dog in the paper and notified all the local shelters, and only after nobody claimed it did this Jack Russel mix officially become my dad's constant companion. It seemed like from the moment that dog "found him," Eloy and Dad were inseparable. Waitresses at my father's favorite diners knew to pack a to-go box for Eloy without even being asked. That dog rode shotgun on cross-country drives, was snuck on to planes, trains and taxis, and stayed in all manner of hotels and motels. He supervised my dad at automobile auctions, put folks at ease on my dad's car lot and perhaps sold his own fair share of trucks, too. Where Dad was, so was Eloy.
So, when my father showed up at the bank last December, and the teller noticed Eloy wasn't around, she was full of questions. My dad teared up while reliving how Eloy had fallen ill and had to be put down. When he finished talking to the teller, he felt a tap on his shoulder. Turning, he looked into the eyes of a total stranger. "Sir, I work at a local shelter, and might be able to help you get another dog." "Nope, I'm not ready for another dog" my dad said bitterly. He tried to make a hasty exit, lest he broke down again, but the stranger stopped him. "Take my card," the man said, shoving it into his hand. "And let me have your number in case I find you a dog." Seeing that the teller not only knew this man, but was equally as enthusiastic at the idea of him getting another dog, my dad reluctantly obliged. But not without reiterating to both of them, with a firm shake of his head, "I'm not ready for another dog."
Well, Christmas came and went, and several weeks later, my dad was running errands again when his cell phone rang. Not recognizing the number, he almost didn't pick it up. Finally, with hesitation, he answered and had barely got out the word "Hello?" when he heard an excited voice on the other line: "Jim, I've found you a dog!" My dad was livid. Hadn't he made it adamantly clear that he didn't want another dog? But the man on the phone - the stranger from the bank - would not be silenced until my dad agreed to at least come to the shelter to take a peek. Miraculously, the exit to the shelter just happened to be right ahead, so my dad took it and, within a few minutes, was standing in a large room watching a pen full of mutts in all shapes and sizes, leaping and barking with excitement upon seeing a prospective owner walk into the room. My dad stood there, arms crossed, huffing mad and more than ready to let this stranger have an earful, when out of nowhere this little not-but-a-year- old Jack Russel mix came tearing up from the bottom of the pile towards the front of the pen. My father reached in and the dog jumped into his arms. A smile spread across Dad's face as the frozen tundra around his heart melted. "Eli!" he said, while thinking how he was going to explain the addition of a fourth dog to my mother.
So, if you somehow, like me, or like my family and friends, end up with more dogs (or even cats!) than people in your household, try and remember that sometimes you don't pick them. They pick you. And when asked why, given the state of the economy, you insist on having so many four-legged friends, you can justify your choices by answering, "Our pets are not our whole life - but they make our lives whole."
Happy Trails,
Terri Hendrix
THM Music Feb 2009 (C)(P)
Local Shelters
I got Jesse from Canyon Lake Animal Shelter, Carolynn from the Southern Animal Rescue Mission and I support my friend Sharri's regional PALS and spay/neuter/adoption program. My Dad got Eli from Converse Animal Care Shelter, the Maines family get their dogs from Blue Dog Rescue in Austin, and huge congrats to my friends, Gwen and Adam, who recently adopted their Bulldogs from an organization that rescues dogs from puppy mills in Pennsylvania.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
January 09 GoatNotes, Change and the Exploding Toilet
Change. I'm just not sure what that means anymore. We all know change is an ever-present fact of life; but lately, I’ve felt like the changes all around me have been more instantaneous in nature, and I’ve felt as frustrated as a mouse on a wheel, peddling with all my might but spinning in place. It’s been so hard trying to keep up with change that even the simplest daily routines I’ve always clung to have fallen by the wayside. You know, little luxuries, like writing, playing harmonica, reading, enjoying good coffee and making time to chat with friends. None of which I've been able to do since my toilet exploded in November.
But wait, I'm getting ahead of myself.
Change. Boy is it ever obvious in regards to the overall health of my parents. Not only in the way they walk — perhaps with a little more caution, and the rails they automatically reach for when taking stairs — but in the way they look, too. Smaller, bent over, with a little more grey at the temples, and a little less color in their eyes.
Take, for example, my mother. Sure, I'd noticed how she'd aged these past few years; but I was by no means prepared when, almost overnight, her health took a downward plummet towards the unthinkable. Back in early July, she was her usual self: a handful, yes, and slightly loopy in a way that “dog people” (she breeds and shows weenie dogs) tend to be. But overall, she was fine.
My mother's favorite topic of conversation was always about Lovey, her champion show dog. "Lovey needs that anal gland looked after and squeezed, Jim," my mother reminded my father as he swallowed a bite of steak last 4th of July weekend. I heard him choke and clear his throat. I wrinkled my nose at what she said, and in an attempt to ignore the general direction in which the conversation was heading, leaned towards my mother and said, "Potato salad?" She rolled her eyes. "Jim, it's oozing,” she said. “Under her tail is wet. And Jim, the smell!" "H-oooo-ney, quit," my dad pleaded. Ignoring him, my mother continued, "No, that anal glad is puffing up like a full-bellied tick … and that tumor might be back."
“Tumor?” I thought, my mind racing. “What tumor?” Lovey was the dachshund by which all of my mother’s other dogs were measured — and found wanting. The thought of that best-in-show weenie dog having her prize-winning butt whacked on to remove an unsightly tumor seemed unfathomable. I began to offer up questions, but was stopped before I could get a word in edgewise. "H-oooo-ney, she just got back from the vet, and he squeezed and sque-e-e-e-e-ezed and found nothing," my dad replied angrily. "But he sure did find a way to charge extra for that visit you claimed was an ‘emergency.’" My worry was replaced by the humor in the situation, and I suppressed a giggle; only at our dinner table would this conversation even be possible. My mom shook her head, making it obvious she didn't agree with him, picked up her fork and began to eat the potato salad I had snuck onto her plate. “Chew, please chew,” I thought. “Keep your mouth busy doing something, Mom — anything other than talking about Lovey's anus.”
Yep. Just another typical Hendrix family dinner; no “change” to fear there. But two months after that weekend in July, after hurricane Ike ripped up the coastline and made a beeline through Houston, my mother’s health declined to the point that late one afternoon, she was taken by ambulance to the ICU in New Braunfels. My sister, brother, and I clung to and held up our father, who'd recently been diagnosed with the return of his prostate cancer. Change, when it happens, happens quickly and sometimes all at once.
And, I have yet to even tell you about my exploding toilet.
When I get busy or stressed, I like to be go about my business totally alone. And from July on, I distanced myself from friends, quit answering email, toured like never before, and wrapped up two records, "Left Over Alls" and "Christmas on Wilory Farm" — all the while secretly juggling my mother and my father's health, trying to understand their medications as well as the doctors that prescribed them. Figuring out their needs while figuring out how best to not interfere with their independence, was in short, like riding a roller coaster. All alone. I mean, I reached out to my sister and brother, but they couldn't help me come to grips with the fact that none of us had a clue what was going on or how best to proceed given the circumstances. "You, your sister, and your brother need to have a family meeting," a friend offered after I disclosed what I was going through. "Ha, yeah right," I snapped. We were a cluster of short fuses, with two sick parents, and we were more apt to burn one another rather than reach any helpful conclusions.
"Take deep breaths and think good healthy thoughts,” she chirped. And then, jabbing her finger at me, she demanded, “Oh, and you simply must get your father to agree to home health care!"
“Lady,” I thought. “Do you know how a little thing called ‘insurance’ works?” I bowed up like Medusa, swung around on her with snakes in tow, and hissed through clenched teeth, "My father's a retired Command Sergeant Major, and there are times that he thinks he's still in the Army. He recently told me, like I'm about to tell you, to z-z-z-zip it." End of conversation. Wounded, she left. I closed the door behind her and found myself, on the other side of it, alone.
After she left, I thought about how, as a kid, I had this nightmare that my father died. I was up in a tree, over his gravesite at the funeral, watching his white casket sink into the earth. I woke up with my heart in my throat. I was a child and by no means ready to lose my father. As an adult, like the tide, I had pulled in and out of my parents’ lives; as a family, we were what the self-help craze of the ’90s crowned "dysfunctional." But in the back of my mind, I had never forgotten the joy I felt as a kid upon waking up and realizing that my father was indeed, still alive. And, I had long since come to the conclusion that reality can be far worse than nightmares. Feeling like a kid again, and thinking how fragile my mom had looked in the ICU, quivering underneath her blankets, I teared up and felt myself crumble. I thought perhaps one is never ready to lose a parent. How could you be?
In spite of the hurricanes in the direct path of practically every date we had booked in September, and my parents’ health, when you do music for a living, the show, as a rule, must go on. Especially when you have put together two sold-out, back-to-back weekends of a workshop for which people are driving and flying in from all over the United States. So when I got the call from my father that my mother was yet again in another ambulance, this time in route to Brooke Army Medical Center (BAMC), a state of the art military hospital in San Antonio, I had a decision to make. We were already in Port Aransas, Texas, and less than two hours from kicking off the workshop. Catering had been ordered and the condos had been paid for and reserved. Lloyd and I huddled and we came up with a plan of which I ran by my father. Dad agreed to keep me in the loop on my mother's condition, and only if the situation were to make a turn for the worse was I to be pulled from the workshop and summoned to the hospital.
So, on pins and needles, with my cell phone armed and ready, we proceeded with the workshop as scheduled. It was tough, worrying about my mother while teaching and singing, but I put on a brave face and pulled through. I snuck away to call my sister the first night, and she assured me that my absence was for the time being was OK; the situation at the hospital, she said, was in “a holding pattern.”
We wrapped up the workshop a little early Sunday morning, and within what seemed like minutes were getting clearance at the entrance of BAMC to pull onto the premises. Visitation was limited to family, so Lloyd dropped me off and left. As I walked through the doors of the hospital, biting back tears, all I could think of was that I wasn't ready to lose my mother. How could I be?
For the most part, the next few days I camped at the hospital, anxiously waiting for updates on my mother’s status while marveling at the morale of the wounded soldiers all around me, looking out at the world from behind bandages. “Change” was everywhere I looked. Some of them had nothing left of their faces but their eyes, all other features burned off in Iraq or somewhere else while doing their service for our country. Others were missing limbs, slumped over in wheelchairs, or even chanting in unison and working out in little groups, despite being on crutches. Their struggles, I knew, were much worse than my own. But that didn’t make mine hurt any less.
When I could, I tried to distract myself at the hospital by peeking at the newspaper to catch up on the aftermath of the recent election. As usual, the election had yet again divided my family, since we all had staunch, heated, and very different opinions on the manner in which our government should operate. One of those nights, finally back at home, I saw the man my parents didn't like on television speak to a crowd of thousands. "Change!" he boomed to the audience. "It's here. It's now. Choose hope over fear. Change, yes we can!" My eyes filling with tears, my heart brimming with hope, I ventured into my office and began to clean the dust off my laptop. I needed to write. That's when I smelled it. Damn. What the hell? I got up and ran towards the back of the house. Following my nose, I flung open the door of the guest bathroom and discovered what looked like murky liquid bubbling up from the base of the toilet. And the smell, if I was to guess, was probably on par with Lovey's anus. The next day, I called a plumber.
"W-eeeeeell, looky likey yuoz gots yerthelf a misthry," the plumber concluded, wiping his hands on his jeans. "Say that again?" I asked with my checkbook clenched in my fist behind my back. "Don't know," he said. "I mean, YOU thaw it there, but now, it's a misthry. No sthinky wadder. Ain't none there now." Frustrated, I voiced my complaints, and he promised to come back free of charge if the "misthry" returned. I stomped my foot and gave him another earful while I wrote his check. Undaunted, he smiled — missing a tooth here and maybe there, but a genuine smile nonetheless — and as if to reassure me, followed it up with "I promise, iffin' ith comes back, I come back. For free."
The toilet remained a "misthry," as did my mother's health, but with the proper care, her condition began to stabalize. As to exactly what was going on with her medically, it was a combination of everything from drug interactions with her various prescriptions to the possibility of a stroke.
The minute BAMC downgraded her to CCU, I called Lloyd to confirm that yes, we could in fact make round two of the workshop we'd dubbed "Life's a Song," named after the tune penned by John Hadley. Singing John's lyrics with the students enforced my optimism: "Lately I’ve been countin' up all my days good and bad/I found that joy has more than doubled/all the trouble I've had." But when everyone joined in on the chorus, "Life's a song we're all singin'/life's a song that never ends, we pass it on to sons and daughters and it starts all over again," I couldn’t help but think about Thanksgiving and wonder how we, as a family, were going to be able to pull off a holiday meal given the precarious conditions of both my parents (on top of caring for my mother, my dad was still going through radiation for his cancer.) That's when I realized that, just like the song said, I could harvest what I'd been taught and use the recipes my mother had long since passed down to me, and I could do the cooking. It wouldn't be her cooking, it would be my own. Ah, change. In case you’re wondering, my brother helped too, and I’d grade our feast at least a B+, with a deduction for slightly burning the gravy.
After that weekend, my mom, having been discharged from BAMC and checked into a rehabilitation center in New Braunfels, was improving daily but giving me yet another earful of complaints about her surroundings. I didn't mind. She could whine all day — I was just happy she was alive to complain! "She snores, the lady next to me,” my mom said over the phone. “Sounds like a chainsaw. And rehab has me sore, all the exercising hurts my shoulders! Oh, my feet stay cold and my eyes itch. I need eye-drops … ”
On and on she continued, never stopping to take a breath. Meanwhile, on the other end of the line, I had my own problems: I noticed that the “mysthry” smell was suddenly back. "Yes, mom, I’m listening" I said, grabbing the plumber’s business card off its magnet on the fridge. "Okay," she sighed into the phone. "My hair needs to be washed, it's greasy. Can you find me some tweezers? I've got this hair on my chin. It must be at least an inch long. Hey, can you pick up the Estee Lauder face cream from the house on your way in 'cause my face sure is dry!"
She was picking up momentum while I made haste toward the guest bathroom. Just as she started on again about poor Lovey’s you-know-what, I turned into the hallway and almost slipped in … you-know-what!
"Terri?" my mom asked impatiently as I looked down in horror at my feet. "Mom," I said in a shaky voice. "Can I call you back?" She sighed in exasperation. "Terri, no one understands what I'm going through. No one! Fine. You don't have to listen to me either! You don't care, and that's fine!" And then click, the phone went dead. I sighed, my heart filled with love, and I slowly slid down the wall in the hallway, finally coming to rest in what could only be water with bits of fecal matter. I called her back. She picked up on the first ring and continued without missing a beat: "My teeth are dirty, I need floss, my breath stinks — smells fishy. And these sweatpants you bought me hurt my crotch. Everything is sooooo low waisted these days. And, they don't even come with pockets. Did I tell you about that hair on my chin? Drives me nuts! Will you pluck it?" As I listened, all I could do was laugh and laugh (of course, without her hearing me). When she exhausted herself, she bid me "Good-bye," and after hanging up, I immediately called the plumber, and asked for "Bob."
The next day, while Plumber Bob patiently waited on all fours with his nose squared bravely at the base of what I'd since dubbed a crime scene, my assistant Lori and I crawled on top of the toilet in the guest bathroom, and both hopped up and down while I occasionally flushed. Soon, the liquid gurgled from the base of the commode and spread up from the Satillo tiles and out towards the door. Plumber Bob looked up at us, smiled the most imperfect, yet beautiful smile and shouted, "Well ah'll be, looks like all yer gonna need ith a new thoilet! A'int no mysthry a-tall." After wiping his hands on his jeans, he shook my hand, and, as promised only billed me for the labor of installing my new porcelain throne. He left with a tip of his ballcap in my direction, a slight bow, and a “Thanks Ma’me.”
Okay, I know you're wondering, but here's where I can explain why my exploding toilet is the hindquarters of this whole story.
Using the hard-earned money I'd saved for Christmas gifts on a new toilet was a disappointment, and the fact that the new one sits so high it gives those who sit on altitude sickness (it was on sale, a close-out, and with good reason. Labeled as “irregular,” it sits at least two inches too high), is disheartening as well. But thinking back on that moment when, while standing in shit, I chose laughter over anger, love over fear, and resolve over crying, I realized that I'd changed. It was my nature, in times like that, to start "spinning off" or "freak out." But I had done neither.
I had changed.
Since then, I'd be lying if I said it hasn't been a struggle. I ended up clearing my calendar of all tour dates in January with good reason; sometimes, I've learned, the show can't go on. Thankfully, my dad's done with radiation now, and my mother is getting better as only people with her condition can get. My folks, like myself and the rest of the family, may be far from perfect, but each time I hear my mother complain or listen to my father fuss over her, I still feel the same joy I felt upon waking from that nightmare in my youth. And I think to myself, “I get another day with them.” Because in spite of the odds, they are still both here. We’re all still here.
No matter what lays in front of my family and me this year, I'll think of those soldiers I saw at BAMC. I'll hear their chants as I go about my gigs, and I'll strive to be half as brave as what I witnessed at that hospital: the courage of the soldiers; the resolve of my dad, undergoing radiation while visiting his sick wife; and the staunch commitment of all those in CCU that cared for my mother and nursed her back to life.
And when I think about courage, triumph and above all, hope, you better believe I’ll be thinking about our country, too. On Jan. 20, as Obama took his oath and millions watched, I saw a man who, with the worst middle name in America, with the most unlikely background, and with all odds stacked against him, forever change history, inspire a nation, and rise into the moment to become our new President. Change? I like it. Yes, we can. Yes, I will.
Terri Hendrix
THM Music (c)(P) 2009
But wait, I'm getting ahead of myself.
Change. Boy is it ever obvious in regards to the overall health of my parents. Not only in the way they walk — perhaps with a little more caution, and the rails they automatically reach for when taking stairs — but in the way they look, too. Smaller, bent over, with a little more grey at the temples, and a little less color in their eyes.
Take, for example, my mother. Sure, I'd noticed how she'd aged these past few years; but I was by no means prepared when, almost overnight, her health took a downward plummet towards the unthinkable. Back in early July, she was her usual self: a handful, yes, and slightly loopy in a way that “dog people” (she breeds and shows weenie dogs) tend to be. But overall, she was fine.
My mother's favorite topic of conversation was always about Lovey, her champion show dog. "Lovey needs that anal gland looked after and squeezed, Jim," my mother reminded my father as he swallowed a bite of steak last 4th of July weekend. I heard him choke and clear his throat. I wrinkled my nose at what she said, and in an attempt to ignore the general direction in which the conversation was heading, leaned towards my mother and said, "Potato salad?" She rolled her eyes. "Jim, it's oozing,” she said. “Under her tail is wet. And Jim, the smell!" "H-oooo-ney, quit," my dad pleaded. Ignoring him, my mother continued, "No, that anal glad is puffing up like a full-bellied tick … and that tumor might be back."
“Tumor?” I thought, my mind racing. “What tumor?” Lovey was the dachshund by which all of my mother’s other dogs were measured — and found wanting. The thought of that best-in-show weenie dog having her prize-winning butt whacked on to remove an unsightly tumor seemed unfathomable. I began to offer up questions, but was stopped before I could get a word in edgewise. "H-oooo-ney, she just got back from the vet, and he squeezed and sque-e-e-e-e-ezed and found nothing," my dad replied angrily. "But he sure did find a way to charge extra for that visit you claimed was an ‘emergency.’" My worry was replaced by the humor in the situation, and I suppressed a giggle; only at our dinner table would this conversation even be possible. My mom shook her head, making it obvious she didn't agree with him, picked up her fork and began to eat the potato salad I had snuck onto her plate. “Chew, please chew,” I thought. “Keep your mouth busy doing something, Mom — anything other than talking about Lovey's anus.”
Yep. Just another typical Hendrix family dinner; no “change” to fear there. But two months after that weekend in July, after hurricane Ike ripped up the coastline and made a beeline through Houston, my mother’s health declined to the point that late one afternoon, she was taken by ambulance to the ICU in New Braunfels. My sister, brother, and I clung to and held up our father, who'd recently been diagnosed with the return of his prostate cancer. Change, when it happens, happens quickly and sometimes all at once.
And, I have yet to even tell you about my exploding toilet.
When I get busy or stressed, I like to be go about my business totally alone. And from July on, I distanced myself from friends, quit answering email, toured like never before, and wrapped up two records, "Left Over Alls" and "Christmas on Wilory Farm" — all the while secretly juggling my mother and my father's health, trying to understand their medications as well as the doctors that prescribed them. Figuring out their needs while figuring out how best to not interfere with their independence, was in short, like riding a roller coaster. All alone. I mean, I reached out to my sister and brother, but they couldn't help me come to grips with the fact that none of us had a clue what was going on or how best to proceed given the circumstances. "You, your sister, and your brother need to have a family meeting," a friend offered after I disclosed what I was going through. "Ha, yeah right," I snapped. We were a cluster of short fuses, with two sick parents, and we were more apt to burn one another rather than reach any helpful conclusions.
"Take deep breaths and think good healthy thoughts,” she chirped. And then, jabbing her finger at me, she demanded, “Oh, and you simply must get your father to agree to home health care!"
“Lady,” I thought. “Do you know how a little thing called ‘insurance’ works?” I bowed up like Medusa, swung around on her with snakes in tow, and hissed through clenched teeth, "My father's a retired Command Sergeant Major, and there are times that he thinks he's still in the Army. He recently told me, like I'm about to tell you, to z-z-z-zip it." End of conversation. Wounded, she left. I closed the door behind her and found myself, on the other side of it, alone.
After she left, I thought about how, as a kid, I had this nightmare that my father died. I was up in a tree, over his gravesite at the funeral, watching his white casket sink into the earth. I woke up with my heart in my throat. I was a child and by no means ready to lose my father. As an adult, like the tide, I had pulled in and out of my parents’ lives; as a family, we were what the self-help craze of the ’90s crowned "dysfunctional." But in the back of my mind, I had never forgotten the joy I felt as a kid upon waking up and realizing that my father was indeed, still alive. And, I had long since come to the conclusion that reality can be far worse than nightmares. Feeling like a kid again, and thinking how fragile my mom had looked in the ICU, quivering underneath her blankets, I teared up and felt myself crumble. I thought perhaps one is never ready to lose a parent. How could you be?
In spite of the hurricanes in the direct path of practically every date we had booked in September, and my parents’ health, when you do music for a living, the show, as a rule, must go on. Especially when you have put together two sold-out, back-to-back weekends of a workshop for which people are driving and flying in from all over the United States. So when I got the call from my father that my mother was yet again in another ambulance, this time in route to Brooke Army Medical Center (BAMC), a state of the art military hospital in San Antonio, I had a decision to make. We were already in Port Aransas, Texas, and less than two hours from kicking off the workshop. Catering had been ordered and the condos had been paid for and reserved. Lloyd and I huddled and we came up with a plan of which I ran by my father. Dad agreed to keep me in the loop on my mother's condition, and only if the situation were to make a turn for the worse was I to be pulled from the workshop and summoned to the hospital.
So, on pins and needles, with my cell phone armed and ready, we proceeded with the workshop as scheduled. It was tough, worrying about my mother while teaching and singing, but I put on a brave face and pulled through. I snuck away to call my sister the first night, and she assured me that my absence was for the time being was OK; the situation at the hospital, she said, was in “a holding pattern.”
We wrapped up the workshop a little early Sunday morning, and within what seemed like minutes were getting clearance at the entrance of BAMC to pull onto the premises. Visitation was limited to family, so Lloyd dropped me off and left. As I walked through the doors of the hospital, biting back tears, all I could think of was that I wasn't ready to lose my mother. How could I be?
For the most part, the next few days I camped at the hospital, anxiously waiting for updates on my mother’s status while marveling at the morale of the wounded soldiers all around me, looking out at the world from behind bandages. “Change” was everywhere I looked. Some of them had nothing left of their faces but their eyes, all other features burned off in Iraq or somewhere else while doing their service for our country. Others were missing limbs, slumped over in wheelchairs, or even chanting in unison and working out in little groups, despite being on crutches. Their struggles, I knew, were much worse than my own. But that didn’t make mine hurt any less.
When I could, I tried to distract myself at the hospital by peeking at the newspaper to catch up on the aftermath of the recent election. As usual, the election had yet again divided my family, since we all had staunch, heated, and very different opinions on the manner in which our government should operate. One of those nights, finally back at home, I saw the man my parents didn't like on television speak to a crowd of thousands. "Change!" he boomed to the audience. "It's here. It's now. Choose hope over fear. Change, yes we can!" My eyes filling with tears, my heart brimming with hope, I ventured into my office and began to clean the dust off my laptop. I needed to write. That's when I smelled it. Damn. What the hell? I got up and ran towards the back of the house. Following my nose, I flung open the door of the guest bathroom and discovered what looked like murky liquid bubbling up from the base of the toilet. And the smell, if I was to guess, was probably on par with Lovey's anus. The next day, I called a plumber.
"W-eeeeeell, looky likey yuoz gots yerthelf a misthry," the plumber concluded, wiping his hands on his jeans. "Say that again?" I asked with my checkbook clenched in my fist behind my back. "Don't know," he said. "I mean, YOU thaw it there, but now, it's a misthry. No sthinky wadder. Ain't none there now." Frustrated, I voiced my complaints, and he promised to come back free of charge if the "misthry" returned. I stomped my foot and gave him another earful while I wrote his check. Undaunted, he smiled — missing a tooth here and maybe there, but a genuine smile nonetheless — and as if to reassure me, followed it up with "I promise, iffin' ith comes back, I come back. For free."
The toilet remained a "misthry," as did my mother's health, but with the proper care, her condition began to stabalize. As to exactly what was going on with her medically, it was a combination of everything from drug interactions with her various prescriptions to the possibility of a stroke.
The minute BAMC downgraded her to CCU, I called Lloyd to confirm that yes, we could in fact make round two of the workshop we'd dubbed "Life's a Song," named after the tune penned by John Hadley. Singing John's lyrics with the students enforced my optimism: "Lately I’ve been countin' up all my days good and bad/I found that joy has more than doubled/all the trouble I've had." But when everyone joined in on the chorus, "Life's a song we're all singin'/life's a song that never ends, we pass it on to sons and daughters and it starts all over again," I couldn’t help but think about Thanksgiving and wonder how we, as a family, were going to be able to pull off a holiday meal given the precarious conditions of both my parents (on top of caring for my mother, my dad was still going through radiation for his cancer.) That's when I realized that, just like the song said, I could harvest what I'd been taught and use the recipes my mother had long since passed down to me, and I could do the cooking. It wouldn't be her cooking, it would be my own. Ah, change. In case you’re wondering, my brother helped too, and I’d grade our feast at least a B+, with a deduction for slightly burning the gravy.
After that weekend, my mom, having been discharged from BAMC and checked into a rehabilitation center in New Braunfels, was improving daily but giving me yet another earful of complaints about her surroundings. I didn't mind. She could whine all day — I was just happy she was alive to complain! "She snores, the lady next to me,” my mom said over the phone. “Sounds like a chainsaw. And rehab has me sore, all the exercising hurts my shoulders! Oh, my feet stay cold and my eyes itch. I need eye-drops … ”
On and on she continued, never stopping to take a breath. Meanwhile, on the other end of the line, I had my own problems: I noticed that the “mysthry” smell was suddenly back. "Yes, mom, I’m listening" I said, grabbing the plumber’s business card off its magnet on the fridge. "Okay," she sighed into the phone. "My hair needs to be washed, it's greasy. Can you find me some tweezers? I've got this hair on my chin. It must be at least an inch long. Hey, can you pick up the Estee Lauder face cream from the house on your way in 'cause my face sure is dry!"
She was picking up momentum while I made haste toward the guest bathroom. Just as she started on again about poor Lovey’s you-know-what, I turned into the hallway and almost slipped in … you-know-what!
"Terri?" my mom asked impatiently as I looked down in horror at my feet. "Mom," I said in a shaky voice. "Can I call you back?" She sighed in exasperation. "Terri, no one understands what I'm going through. No one! Fine. You don't have to listen to me either! You don't care, and that's fine!" And then click, the phone went dead. I sighed, my heart filled with love, and I slowly slid down the wall in the hallway, finally coming to rest in what could only be water with bits of fecal matter. I called her back. She picked up on the first ring and continued without missing a beat: "My teeth are dirty, I need floss, my breath stinks — smells fishy. And these sweatpants you bought me hurt my crotch. Everything is sooooo low waisted these days. And, they don't even come with pockets. Did I tell you about that hair on my chin? Drives me nuts! Will you pluck it?" As I listened, all I could do was laugh and laugh (of course, without her hearing me). When she exhausted herself, she bid me "Good-bye," and after hanging up, I immediately called the plumber, and asked for "Bob."
The next day, while Plumber Bob patiently waited on all fours with his nose squared bravely at the base of what I'd since dubbed a crime scene, my assistant Lori and I crawled on top of the toilet in the guest bathroom, and both hopped up and down while I occasionally flushed. Soon, the liquid gurgled from the base of the commode and spread up from the Satillo tiles and out towards the door. Plumber Bob looked up at us, smiled the most imperfect, yet beautiful smile and shouted, "Well ah'll be, looks like all yer gonna need ith a new thoilet! A'int no mysthry a-tall." After wiping his hands on his jeans, he shook my hand, and, as promised only billed me for the labor of installing my new porcelain throne. He left with a tip of his ballcap in my direction, a slight bow, and a “Thanks Ma’me.”
Okay, I know you're wondering, but here's where I can explain why my exploding toilet is the hindquarters of this whole story.
Using the hard-earned money I'd saved for Christmas gifts on a new toilet was a disappointment, and the fact that the new one sits so high it gives those who sit on altitude sickness (it was on sale, a close-out, and with good reason. Labeled as “irregular,” it sits at least two inches too high), is disheartening as well. But thinking back on that moment when, while standing in shit, I chose laughter over anger, love over fear, and resolve over crying, I realized that I'd changed. It was my nature, in times like that, to start "spinning off" or "freak out." But I had done neither.
I had changed.
Since then, I'd be lying if I said it hasn't been a struggle. I ended up clearing my calendar of all tour dates in January with good reason; sometimes, I've learned, the show can't go on. Thankfully, my dad's done with radiation now, and my mother is getting better as only people with her condition can get. My folks, like myself and the rest of the family, may be far from perfect, but each time I hear my mother complain or listen to my father fuss over her, I still feel the same joy I felt upon waking from that nightmare in my youth. And I think to myself, “I get another day with them.” Because in spite of the odds, they are still both here. We’re all still here.
No matter what lays in front of my family and me this year, I'll think of those soldiers I saw at BAMC. I'll hear their chants as I go about my gigs, and I'll strive to be half as brave as what I witnessed at that hospital: the courage of the soldiers; the resolve of my dad, undergoing radiation while visiting his sick wife; and the staunch commitment of all those in CCU that cared for my mother and nursed her back to life.
And when I think about courage, triumph and above all, hope, you better believe I’ll be thinking about our country, too. On Jan. 20, as Obama took his oath and millions watched, I saw a man who, with the worst middle name in America, with the most unlikely background, and with all odds stacked against him, forever change history, inspire a nation, and rise into the moment to become our new President. Change? I like it. Yes, we can. Yes, I will.
Terri Hendrix
THM Music (c)(P) 2009
Monday, April 10, 2006
April 06, The Red Dixie Cup
NEWSLETTERS
************************************************
"If I's to change this life I lead
I'd be Johnny Tomato Seed
`Cause I know what this country needs
Homegrown tomatoes in every yard you see
When I die don't bury me
In a box in a cemetery
Out in the garden would be much better
I could be pushin' up homegrown tomatoes."
"Home Grown Tomatoes" — Guy Clark
************************************************
Greetings from San Marcos, Texas!
www.terrihendrix.com
Whew! Winter's gone and summer's here! And with it ... tomatoes. Well, that was until I squirted my plants with a spray to kill the fungus on their leaves. On the bottle, in big red letters, this spray touted "Gr-r-r-reat for tomatoes!" I should have asked the salesclerk, "Tomatoes with fungus?" Now, all of the little yellow buds from which my tomatoes were supposed to pop out of have turned brown, recoiling into their leaves in disgust. And out of the three "Big Boy" brand tomato plants I purchased, only two have a couple of small tomatoes. I must say, they look like my mutt Jessie's ... well, before he was neutered.
************************************************
Several years ago, while performing in Terlingua, Texas, at La Kiva (a cave-like restaurant that's built into the side of a creek), a leather-skinned local approached me after my gig and handed me a gift folded up in dirty paper towel. I thanked him, but before I could unwrap his present, he startled me by clamping my hands shut and firmly telling me, in a liquored breath whisper, to open it outside. Having grown curious, I stepped out onto the patio and into the cool desert night. The sun had just settled over the Chisos Mountains, a silver slice of moon was on the rise, and a soft breeze whistled through someone's wind chimes on a well-lit porch opposite the creek bank.
Alone, I delicately unraveled the paper towel and there in between the folds of my outstretched palms was a plant. A puckered-up plant. In a red Dixie cup. Now, how was I supposed to transport a plant safely back to San Marcos in my pick-up truck that had little if no air conditioning? I sighed, and with plant tucked under one arm, went back inside, visited with the remaining tourists, bid farewell to the local sheriff, got my food to go, grabbed my guitar, and finally made my way towards the front door. Once outside, I was greeted by a chorus of musicians all gathering for a late night jam. There amongst them was my newfound, plant-giving friend.
"Wha-ju think-uv mu-gift?" he asked eagerly, slurring his words. "I appreciate it, but I don't know what it is," I replied. "And how much water does it need?" He hooted out a scream in response, doubled over in laughter, and in doing so aroused the curiosity of all who'd gathered around my truck's headlights to get a glimpse of my plant. Suddenly, one of my long-time friends exclaimed, in an excited whisper, "It's Peyote!" "What's PEYOTE?" I happily hollered out, joyous that my little plant had garnered so much attention. He hurriedly shoved it back into my hands and said, "Shhhh ... it's a drug!" Having never embarked on that trail, my face turned hot and red. I got so scared (I had just moments before shaken hands with the sheriff!), I pitched my "plant" like a fast ball at the World Series into the bushes alongside the restaurant. With heart-in-throat, I then jumped in my truck, shouted a good-bye toward everyone's startled faces, and made a hasty exit out of the parking lot. As I drove away, I looked in my rear view mirror and saw the whole lot of them, with butts in air, diving into the bushes after my "plant."
Okay, fast forward to last year. East of Interstate 37, on the dusty back roads nestled in between leaning telephone poles and out-of-business burger joints, there's a quirky, utterly cool station in Victoria, Texas called KTXN. I had just wrapped up a live on-air there in front of a studio audience, when a couple approached me and handed me a plant. In a red Dixie cup. Sensing deja-vu, I thanked them regardless. Once outside the building, Lloyd (having been told about my other "plant" episode) and myself set it on the ground and cautiously circled it. I picked it up. I sniffed it. I set it down and circled it some more. I finally decided that it didn't look like something we could do time for, so I convinced Lloyd to let me keep it. Once home, I forgot about it. That was until I noticed it had outgrown its Dixie cup and spilled out and over onto my window sill. I promptly decided this "it" was a "she" and named her "Victoria." I then replanted her in the only pot I had, which was way too big for her. But Victoria soon outgrew her spacious new digs and had to be replanted again. But when the time came to lift her out, the stubborn gal wouldn't budge, and her terra cotta residence was just too heavy to tip over. So ... I compromised and gave her a trim.
Upon returning from a lengthy tour, I discovered that in my absence, Victoria had wilted into a slimy brown puddle inside her pot. The haircut I'd given her, along with the heat, had killed her. I tried everything I could to bring her back to life, but Victoria was reduced to a mere hollow stalk in a matter of days. In her place, I reluctantly planted a cactus, and though I missed her, set my sights on growing "Big Boy" brand tomatoes.
A few weeks back, I was pulling some weeds from around my rose bushes when I noticed some green leaves shooting out of the cracks along my back porch. I stopped what I was doing, plucked them out of the concrete, and upon closer inspection, screeched in delight. Victoria was back! She had faced all odds: Almost being annihilated outside the KXTN studios before she was given a chance; the elements of winter and Texas summer heat; no home; no water; no soil; and a real bad hair cut. And yet, in spite of it all ... she had still grown. Right out of the concrete and into the sun.
If you're wondering what the moral of this story is, well, I'm still trying to figure that out for myself. I'm fairly certain it's got something to do with stubborn determination. You know — survival, the power of will ... all that kind of stuff. Maybe, if I reach hard enough, it somehow all goes back to the kids record I've been having so much fun working on — the one that's all about celebrating life and diversity (don't judge a plant by it's Dixie cup, etc.). Or ... maybe I'm just thinking out loud about whether I should try replanting my limp, not-so-big "Big Boy" tomato plants in one of the cracks in my back porch.
What I DO know, at long last, is exactly what Victoria, the miraculous mystery plant formerly known as "It," is: She's an Inspiration. In fact, as I write this, she's sitting right in front of me on my desk, looking real good — and still growing — in her new red Dixie cup.
Happy Trails,
Terri Hendrix
(C)(P) THM Music April 2006
* Feel free to share my GoatNotes. Spread the joy.
* Subscribe to once a month GoatNotes
* Additions and deletions - www.terrihendrix.com
************************************************
"If I's to change this life I lead
I'd be Johnny Tomato Seed
`Cause I know what this country needs
Homegrown tomatoes in every yard you see
When I die don't bury me
In a box in a cemetery
Out in the garden would be much better
I could be pushin' up homegrown tomatoes."
"Home Grown Tomatoes" — Guy Clark
************************************************
Greetings from San Marcos, Texas!
www.terrihendrix.com
Whew! Winter's gone and summer's here! And with it ... tomatoes. Well, that was until I squirted my plants with a spray to kill the fungus on their leaves. On the bottle, in big red letters, this spray touted "Gr-r-r-reat for tomatoes!" I should have asked the salesclerk, "Tomatoes with fungus?" Now, all of the little yellow buds from which my tomatoes were supposed to pop out of have turned brown, recoiling into their leaves in disgust. And out of the three "Big Boy" brand tomato plants I purchased, only two have a couple of small tomatoes. I must say, they look like my mutt Jessie's ... well, before he was neutered.
************************************************
Several years ago, while performing in Terlingua, Texas, at La Kiva (a cave-like restaurant that's built into the side of a creek), a leather-skinned local approached me after my gig and handed me a gift folded up in dirty paper towel. I thanked him, but before I could unwrap his present, he startled me by clamping my hands shut and firmly telling me, in a liquored breath whisper, to open it outside. Having grown curious, I stepped out onto the patio and into the cool desert night. The sun had just settled over the Chisos Mountains, a silver slice of moon was on the rise, and a soft breeze whistled through someone's wind chimes on a well-lit porch opposite the creek bank.
Alone, I delicately unraveled the paper towel and there in between the folds of my outstretched palms was a plant. A puckered-up plant. In a red Dixie cup. Now, how was I supposed to transport a plant safely back to San Marcos in my pick-up truck that had little if no air conditioning? I sighed, and with plant tucked under one arm, went back inside, visited with the remaining tourists, bid farewell to the local sheriff, got my food to go, grabbed my guitar, and finally made my way towards the front door. Once outside, I was greeted by a chorus of musicians all gathering for a late night jam. There amongst them was my newfound, plant-giving friend.
"Wha-ju think-uv mu-gift?" he asked eagerly, slurring his words. "I appreciate it, but I don't know what it is," I replied. "And how much water does it need?" He hooted out a scream in response, doubled over in laughter, and in doing so aroused the curiosity of all who'd gathered around my truck's headlights to get a glimpse of my plant. Suddenly, one of my long-time friends exclaimed, in an excited whisper, "It's Peyote!" "What's PEYOTE?" I happily hollered out, joyous that my little plant had garnered so much attention. He hurriedly shoved it back into my hands and said, "Shhhh ... it's a drug!" Having never embarked on that trail, my face turned hot and red. I got so scared (I had just moments before shaken hands with the sheriff!), I pitched my "plant" like a fast ball at the World Series into the bushes alongside the restaurant. With heart-in-throat, I then jumped in my truck, shouted a good-bye toward everyone's startled faces, and made a hasty exit out of the parking lot. As I drove away, I looked in my rear view mirror and saw the whole lot of them, with butts in air, diving into the bushes after my "plant."
Okay, fast forward to last year. East of Interstate 37, on the dusty back roads nestled in between leaning telephone poles and out-of-business burger joints, there's a quirky, utterly cool station in Victoria, Texas called KTXN. I had just wrapped up a live on-air there in front of a studio audience, when a couple approached me and handed me a plant. In a red Dixie cup. Sensing deja-vu, I thanked them regardless. Once outside the building, Lloyd (having been told about my other "plant" episode) and myself set it on the ground and cautiously circled it. I picked it up. I sniffed it. I set it down and circled it some more. I finally decided that it didn't look like something we could do time for, so I convinced Lloyd to let me keep it. Once home, I forgot about it. That was until I noticed it had outgrown its Dixie cup and spilled out and over onto my window sill. I promptly decided this "it" was a "she" and named her "Victoria." I then replanted her in the only pot I had, which was way too big for her. But Victoria soon outgrew her spacious new digs and had to be replanted again. But when the time came to lift her out, the stubborn gal wouldn't budge, and her terra cotta residence was just too heavy to tip over. So ... I compromised and gave her a trim.
Upon returning from a lengthy tour, I discovered that in my absence, Victoria had wilted into a slimy brown puddle inside her pot. The haircut I'd given her, along with the heat, had killed her. I tried everything I could to bring her back to life, but Victoria was reduced to a mere hollow stalk in a matter of days. In her place, I reluctantly planted a cactus, and though I missed her, set my sights on growing "Big Boy" brand tomatoes.
A few weeks back, I was pulling some weeds from around my rose bushes when I noticed some green leaves shooting out of the cracks along my back porch. I stopped what I was doing, plucked them out of the concrete, and upon closer inspection, screeched in delight. Victoria was back! She had faced all odds: Almost being annihilated outside the KXTN studios before she was given a chance; the elements of winter and Texas summer heat; no home; no water; no soil; and a real bad hair cut. And yet, in spite of it all ... she had still grown. Right out of the concrete and into the sun.
If you're wondering what the moral of this story is, well, I'm still trying to figure that out for myself. I'm fairly certain it's got something to do with stubborn determination. You know — survival, the power of will ... all that kind of stuff. Maybe, if I reach hard enough, it somehow all goes back to the kids record I've been having so much fun working on — the one that's all about celebrating life and diversity (don't judge a plant by it's Dixie cup, etc.). Or ... maybe I'm just thinking out loud about whether I should try replanting my limp, not-so-big "Big Boy" tomato plants in one of the cracks in my back porch.
What I DO know, at long last, is exactly what Victoria, the miraculous mystery plant formerly known as "It," is: She's an Inspiration. In fact, as I write this, she's sitting right in front of me on my desk, looking real good — and still growing — in her new red Dixie cup.
Happy Trails,
Terri Hendrix
(C)(P) THM Music April 2006
* Feel free to share my GoatNotes. Spread the joy.
* Subscribe to once a month GoatNotes
* Additions and deletions - www.terrihendrix.com
Monday, December 5, 2005
Dec. 05, Christmas and Songwriting
NEWSLETTERS
************************************************
Hendrix December 05 GoatNotes
"But this boy, he's the real poet, because when he tries to put on paper what he's seen with his heart, he will believe deep down there are no good words for it, no words can do it, and at that moment he will have begun to write poetry."
- Cynthia Rylant
View her entire piece at www.terrihendrix.com/poetry.html
************************************************
As a kid, I was always the first one up on Christmas morning. With the lights from the Christmas tree illuminating a path through the dark, I'd gingerly make my way towards my brother and sister's stockings, reach inside them, and steal most of their chocolate candy. I'd eat some right then and there, and stash the rest in my own stocking — after taking the candy I *didn't* like out of it and "regifting" it into my brother and sister's stockings. When finished, I'd fluff their stockings back up, making sure they were in the exact place on their hooks in which I'd found them. Having grown full from all the sweets, I'd burp (quietly!), make my way back to my room, hide a few chocolates under my pillow, and then go back to sleep.
It's really no surprise, then, that the first guitar I ever "owned" was in fact one that I stole from my sister, shortly after Christmas. I "borrowed" it, with green ribbon still tied around the handle of its shiny new case, from underneath her bed. Soon after, I was immersed in a Mel Bay songbook (found in her case), with the verses and guitar chords to tunes like "Row, Row, Row Your Boat" and "Skip to My Lou." My father soon joined in on the fun, and we'd howl through the chorus of "Little Brown Jug" with me hacking away at the chords. A few months later, at the age of 8 and after mastering the morbid classic "Tom Dooley," I played my first bar — well, barre chord, that is. As my fingers tried to strrrrrrretch into the F position, I created a shortcut instead (to spare the life of my index finger), and within another month turned myself into a three-chord wonder.
A few years later, I discovered it was easier to make up my own songs than remember the words to Willie Nelson's "Crazy" or John Denver's "Leaving on a Jet Plane." And that's how I ventured into songwriting. I'd take their guitar chords and substitute my words for theirs. My newfound "original" music sounded like theirs, but with our family dog Tiger as my sole audience, who was gonna notice? I dubbed my first self-perceived masterpiece "Bob-tailed Cat." There was an episode with a gun in it. That song raised eyebrows, but what really got the ol' family fired up was "Female Dog," which I wrote in my sister's honor. Upon its discovery, I soon found my lips wrapped around a bar of soap, my mother standing over me with her hands on her hips and a scowl on her face.
After that — my first bad review — I quit writing songs that could easily be found by others. With one arm draped protectively over my work, I began writing my musings down on multiple slips of paper. And then I stopped writing anything at all. Perhaps it was the insecurity of adolescence that did it, or the lack of an original melody, but that sudden beam of creativity which had turned my imagination to liquid and made words seem to pour out of my mind like a waterfall ... it went off like a light. In the dark, the words drew to a trickle and then to a complete stop. Having worn my eraser to a nub on the final lyrics of a chorus, one afternoon I cleaned up my wads of paper, closed my mind and my guitar case, and for the most part, wouldn't open either again until I was in my early 20s.
I was doing absolutely nothing when the creative juices started flowing again. In retrospect, maybe that's why they did. I'd become too busy to write. I began to edit myself, and before long, I no longer made the time to agonize over the rhyme. The child-like wonder of the whole process had been replaced with ... self-doubt.
When I'm involved in teaching a creative workshop, I often encounter other folks who wonder if their songs are any good, or who worry about how their songs compare with other people's songs. Sometimes they're just plain stuck. I remind them that every writer I've ever known that was brave enough to pick up a pen and/or a guitar has felt the same way. Writing takes practice, and whatever we bring to the table is unique unto us, but every writer at some point wrestles with self-doubt. And it's self-doubt (and over-confidence, too) that seeds the weeds that prevent songs from ever reaching sunshine. For me, I've found that the best way to cut through those weeds and find my way back to the light is to quit worrying about writing as an adult and approach it like I did as a kid, perched over my sister's guitar with stolen chocolate on my fingertips.
When you write like a kid, there's always something new to discover. There are ideas for songs everywhere. When I catch one, I call my cell phone and leave myself a message so I don't forget. To this day, largely due to the "Female Dog" incident of my childhood, I can't write an entire song on just one sheet of paper, so I don't even try. I write my thoughts on Post It's, napkins, airline barfbags (really), and if in a crunch, toilet paper. But I never throw any of my lyrics away, even if they don't seem any good at the time. If I get hung up on a line, I put parenthesis around it and move on. And on the days when I can't think of a melody, I still write to someone else's music. Upon the song's completion, I'll revisit the melody and come up with my own chords. They're all shortcuts that help me finish a song, just like the shortcuts I came up with as a kid when I was learning to make an F chord.
Sometimes songs get stuck (or I get stuck in songs) not for lack of creativity or other mental blocks, but simply because the songs aren't ready to be songs yet. Sometimes songs sit unfinished for years. But if a song's *meant* to be a song, sooner or later (sometimes *much* later), it all falls into place. Within time, whatever kinks there may be (like lines not folding within the measures correctly) turn the sand within the oyster into a pearl, or ... an appetizer for what's to come. I often round up my most stubborn unfinished tunes and marry them to each other. I make them live together for awhile, and if they get along, vows are exchanged. Sometimes the union produces kids, and that's when I'll get a theme for a record started.
As for subject matter, for me, I like M&M's with my popcorn. It's a mixture of the Yin and Yang, light and dark, bitter (or salty) and sweet — and anything that reads well, speaks personal truth, or that could be framed within a portrait that makes a song speak to me.
"Is there magic to it?" I've been asked. I guess the answer would be yes. It's a lot like the holidays. Songs wave hello and good-bye like the season. They come as gifts and open up our hearts to see things we only felt in our souls. Some twinkle like Christmas lights. Some ring out like carols for all to sing along too. And yes, some stink up the house like burnt sugar cookies, or are received with as much enthusiasm as socks or fruitcakes. But the wonder of it all is that there's an endless supply of them, waiting in each of our hearts to be written.
Happy Trails,
Terri Hendrix
(C)(P) THM Music December 2005
www.terrihendrix.com
Terri Hendrix
Wilory Records
PO BOX 2340
San Marcos, TX 78667
phone 512-353-2536
fax 512-353-0994
Subscribe to once a month GoatNotes
www.terrihendrix.com
************************************************
Hendrix December 05 GoatNotes
"But this boy, he's the real poet, because when he tries to put on paper what he's seen with his heart, he will believe deep down there are no good words for it, no words can do it, and at that moment he will have begun to write poetry."
- Cynthia Rylant
View her entire piece at www.terrihendrix.com/poetry.html
************************************************
As a kid, I was always the first one up on Christmas morning. With the lights from the Christmas tree illuminating a path through the dark, I'd gingerly make my way towards my brother and sister's stockings, reach inside them, and steal most of their chocolate candy. I'd eat some right then and there, and stash the rest in my own stocking — after taking the candy I *didn't* like out of it and "regifting" it into my brother and sister's stockings. When finished, I'd fluff their stockings back up, making sure they were in the exact place on their hooks in which I'd found them. Having grown full from all the sweets, I'd burp (quietly!), make my way back to my room, hide a few chocolates under my pillow, and then go back to sleep.
It's really no surprise, then, that the first guitar I ever "owned" was in fact one that I stole from my sister, shortly after Christmas. I "borrowed" it, with green ribbon still tied around the handle of its shiny new case, from underneath her bed. Soon after, I was immersed in a Mel Bay songbook (found in her case), with the verses and guitar chords to tunes like "Row, Row, Row Your Boat" and "Skip to My Lou." My father soon joined in on the fun, and we'd howl through the chorus of "Little Brown Jug" with me hacking away at the chords. A few months later, at the age of 8 and after mastering the morbid classic "Tom Dooley," I played my first bar — well, barre chord, that is. As my fingers tried to strrrrrrretch into the F position, I created a shortcut instead (to spare the life of my index finger), and within another month turned myself into a three-chord wonder.
A few years later, I discovered it was easier to make up my own songs than remember the words to Willie Nelson's "Crazy" or John Denver's "Leaving on a Jet Plane." And that's how I ventured into songwriting. I'd take their guitar chords and substitute my words for theirs. My newfound "original" music sounded like theirs, but with our family dog Tiger as my sole audience, who was gonna notice? I dubbed my first self-perceived masterpiece "Bob-tailed Cat." There was an episode with a gun in it. That song raised eyebrows, but what really got the ol' family fired up was "Female Dog," which I wrote in my sister's honor. Upon its discovery, I soon found my lips wrapped around a bar of soap, my mother standing over me with her hands on her hips and a scowl on her face.
After that — my first bad review — I quit writing songs that could easily be found by others. With one arm draped protectively over my work, I began writing my musings down on multiple slips of paper. And then I stopped writing anything at all. Perhaps it was the insecurity of adolescence that did it, or the lack of an original melody, but that sudden beam of creativity which had turned my imagination to liquid and made words seem to pour out of my mind like a waterfall ... it went off like a light. In the dark, the words drew to a trickle and then to a complete stop. Having worn my eraser to a nub on the final lyrics of a chorus, one afternoon I cleaned up my wads of paper, closed my mind and my guitar case, and for the most part, wouldn't open either again until I was in my early 20s.
I was doing absolutely nothing when the creative juices started flowing again. In retrospect, maybe that's why they did. I'd become too busy to write. I began to edit myself, and before long, I no longer made the time to agonize over the rhyme. The child-like wonder of the whole process had been replaced with ... self-doubt.
When I'm involved in teaching a creative workshop, I often encounter other folks who wonder if their songs are any good, or who worry about how their songs compare with other people's songs. Sometimes they're just plain stuck. I remind them that every writer I've ever known that was brave enough to pick up a pen and/or a guitar has felt the same way. Writing takes practice, and whatever we bring to the table is unique unto us, but every writer at some point wrestles with self-doubt. And it's self-doubt (and over-confidence, too) that seeds the weeds that prevent songs from ever reaching sunshine. For me, I've found that the best way to cut through those weeds and find my way back to the light is to quit worrying about writing as an adult and approach it like I did as a kid, perched over my sister's guitar with stolen chocolate on my fingertips.
When you write like a kid, there's always something new to discover. There are ideas for songs everywhere. When I catch one, I call my cell phone and leave myself a message so I don't forget. To this day, largely due to the "Female Dog" incident of my childhood, I can't write an entire song on just one sheet of paper, so I don't even try. I write my thoughts on Post It's, napkins, airline barfbags (really), and if in a crunch, toilet paper. But I never throw any of my lyrics away, even if they don't seem any good at the time. If I get hung up on a line, I put parenthesis around it and move on. And on the days when I can't think of a melody, I still write to someone else's music. Upon the song's completion, I'll revisit the melody and come up with my own chords. They're all shortcuts that help me finish a song, just like the shortcuts I came up with as a kid when I was learning to make an F chord.
Sometimes songs get stuck (or I get stuck in songs) not for lack of creativity or other mental blocks, but simply because the songs aren't ready to be songs yet. Sometimes songs sit unfinished for years. But if a song's *meant* to be a song, sooner or later (sometimes *much* later), it all falls into place. Within time, whatever kinks there may be (like lines not folding within the measures correctly) turn the sand within the oyster into a pearl, or ... an appetizer for what's to come. I often round up my most stubborn unfinished tunes and marry them to each other. I make them live together for awhile, and if they get along, vows are exchanged. Sometimes the union produces kids, and that's when I'll get a theme for a record started.
As for subject matter, for me, I like M&M's with my popcorn. It's a mixture of the Yin and Yang, light and dark, bitter (or salty) and sweet — and anything that reads well, speaks personal truth, or that could be framed within a portrait that makes a song speak to me.
"Is there magic to it?" I've been asked. I guess the answer would be yes. It's a lot like the holidays. Songs wave hello and good-bye like the season. They come as gifts and open up our hearts to see things we only felt in our souls. Some twinkle like Christmas lights. Some ring out like carols for all to sing along too. And yes, some stink up the house like burnt sugar cookies, or are received with as much enthusiasm as socks or fruitcakes. But the wonder of it all is that there's an endless supply of them, waiting in each of our hearts to be written.
Happy Trails,
Terri Hendrix
(C)(P) THM Music December 2005
www.terrihendrix.com
Terri Hendrix
Wilory Records
PO BOX 2340
San Marcos, TX 78667
phone 512-353-2536
fax 512-353-0994
Subscribe to once a month GoatNotes
www.terrihendrix.com
Monday, August 1, 2005
August 05, Altitude Sickness
NEWSLETTERS
Hendrix August 05 GoatNotes
80 percent of luck is showing up." — Woody Allen
"Depend on the rabbit's foot if you will, but remember it didn't work for the rabbit." — R.E. Shay
In late June, at 4:00 in the morning, I sleepily shuffled about my bedroom packing for my upcoming tour to Colorado and New Mexico. Keeping me company at that ungodly hour were my two beloved mutts, Jesse and Caroline, who joyfully pranced around my feet, thrilled that I was up and no doubt hoping to go out and play. But the moment I picked up my guitar case, they stopped in mid-jump — knowing all too well that the guitar case meant that wherever I was going, they wouldn't be coming along. As I backed out of my driveway and into the dark, I caught one last glimpse of their sad faces peering at me through the chain link fence; I knew that the moment I'd locked the front door and set the alarm, they'd boogie out the doggie door into the back yard to shoot me one more hopeful glance. I've seen them do that hundreds of times, and it never gets any easier. But the flip side is, when I come home, I'm always amazed to see their two heads right where I saw them last — almost like a portrait — waiting for me.
The flight to Albuquerque was smooth, but by the time Lloyd and I fetched our rental car and made the drive towards Silverton, CO, I was in agony. You see, on the plane, I'd drunk a gallon of water. Because the last time I'd played in Silverton, my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth, cotton balls formed on both sides of my lips, and my eyeballs dried out and rolled inward, all due to the high altitude. "Drink lots of water," the natives there told me. So this trip, I'd heeded their advice. The only problem was, not only was there no restroom in sight, it's one spooky, hilly, bumpy drive on the way to Silverton, with creepy zillion-foot drop-offs and no guardrails. The moment our tires touched the curb of the Historic Grand Hotel, I leapt out of the car, checked in, snatched my room key, and sprinted up four flights of stairs, barely making it to my room with bladder (and breath) in tact. After my cramps ceased from my latest exercise in extreme bladder control, I flipped the television on in my room to watch the final game between the San Antonio Spurs and the Detroit Pistons for the 2005 NBA championship. Being a San Antonio native, the Spurs are as much a part of my life as enchiladas, queso, and pico de gallo. But as luck (bad luck) would have it, I could get every channel but 20, which was the one the game was on. Dagnabit! Lloyd's room didn't have a TV at all, but after some serious pleading on my part, he helped me rig my television with duct tape and two strategically placed volume peddles. Luckily, by the third quarter, though the screen was more snow than picture, we were able to watch the Spurs capture the title.
As soon as the sun hit the San Juan Mountains overlooking Silverton, we were off to play our set at the Jubilee Festival and later that night, a workshop on songwriting. Over the course of the festival, we enjoyed performances by Hot Strings, Fruit, and Donny Morales. It was sunny but chilly outside, but luckily, I'd brought my well-worn WKZE sweatshirt (my equivalent to Linus's blanket) to keep me warm. On Sunday, we headed to Taos, NM, by way of Interstate 64. On the other side of the thunderstorms (and the semi doing 30 mph), we were lucky to witness a full spectrum rainbow stretched between our road and the Sangre de Cristo mountains surrounding us. After a diet of truck stop junk food consisting solely of "Grandma's Oatmeal Raisin Cookies" we arrived at our friend Mike Yacino's restaurant, the Old Blinking Light,where we enjoyed hamburgers, the fresh smell of rain on the Sage bushes, and a night's stay at his infamous slaughterhouse (with ceiling hooks in tact) which had been converted to a guest house. (I know what you're thinking — "Ei! Ei! Ei!" But seriously, it's like Martha Stewart and Pottery Barn teamed up and turned that slaughterhouse into the cutest, cleanest, and most charming guest house you ever did see. And I thought I pulled off a miracle fixing up my house!)
The next day, I unexpectedly (talk about luck) met one of my musical heroes, Emily Sailers of the Indigo Girls, before our set at KTAO's Solar Fest (both the festival and the station are powered by pure solar energy). We were playing right before the Indigo Girls, which in itself was a huge deal to me. As I gulped yet another pint of water, Emily asked, "You wanna join us on 'Closer to Fine'?" Have you ever seen a deer in headlights? That was me. I squeaked, "No thanks ... I don't know it well enough." Emily just laughed, shook my hand, and walked away. I watched her go and then slowly turned and looked at Lloyd, blushed and whispered, "D'oh! I meant to say YES!"
Our next stop after Taos was a concert in Nederland, followed by one in Florissant for our good friends Russ and LaVanna at the Thunderbird, a quirky juke-joint with great food. A brilliant foot-stompin' dancin' musician named Bruce Hayes did sound and a blazing set during our intermission. After that evening's performance, we made our way to Colorado Springs where, unbeknownst to me, the very next day I was going to violate my long-standing "one dog for each arm" rule. For as I was walking into Circuit City to get a computer cable, the PETsMART right next door was having dog adoptions. I immediately put my hands over my eyes so as not to succumb to the temptation to look, fearing that if I did, I'd end up adopting one. But as I heard all the cooing over all those puppies, I did the unthinkable. I peeped. The first thing I saw was a lone black dog stretched out in a cage in the distance. Since everyone else was crowded around the puppies, I felt sorry for it. So I walked over, just to pet it. He looked up at me with brown hopeless eyes through the wires of his cage, and, well ... I broke my rule. I adopted him.
The new addition to my family was a year-old black lab mix. His name? Lucky Holyfield. Lloyd, being a dog owner himself, promptly came up with the "Lucky" part; I came up with Holyfield (after Evander), due to "Lucky" missing half an ear and having numerous other battle scars from his year spent in the pen (shelter). It was love at first sight. But how in the heck was I gonna get Lucky Holyfield back home to Texas? That question was weighing heavily on my mind when got to our next gig, at Orly's — we arrived just in time to see my friend Mana Salazar, from Kyle, Texas, hop out of her white pick-up truck. Mana and her friend Verlon had taken a spur-of-the-moment vacation to Colorado to catch the last half our tour. And as luck would have it, Mana readily offered to give Lucky a lift back to Texas for me. I was one happy puppy after that, free to enjoy the music of our opening act, Redraw the Farm.
Having driven to Gold Hill the night prior, the following afternoon, luck was still with us when we hit the musical jack-pot by stumbling across The Stairwell Sisters, a buck-dancing, all-gal old-time string band from San Francisco (with a dobro and two clawhammer frailing banjo players), jamming on a streetside in downtown Boulder. And just when we thought we couldn't get any luckier, that night our stomachs nearly popped from the gourmet meal we were treated to by the proprietors of the Gold Hill Inn, who'd made a name for themselves through their famed historic Bluebird Lodge (which, to the best of my knowledge, was never a slaughterhouse).
After our afternoon performance at Gold Hill Inn's annual Fourth of July festival, Mana and Verlon helped us make a speedy getaway so Lloyd and I could catch our flight out of Denver that evening. Although I misread our Yahoo Map, thus getting us lost on the way the airport, we still made our flight back to Texas. Thankful for our safe return, and road-worn from my travels (and the 14th consecutive day in the same WKZE sweatshirt), I drove home and thought of Lucky, wondering how he would adapt to his new family in Texas. I also thought about a Persian proverb I've heard which states, "Go and wake up your luck." I found it somehow fitting for the entire tour from which I'd just returned. I didn't have to go out looking for luck, because luck (like Lucky) finds me, just when I need it most. Sure enough, as I pulled into my driveway and turned off the engine, I looked up and was greeted and humbled by the two heads right where I saw them last, like a portrait, looking expectantly out the chain link fence, waiting for me.
Thanks for your support and for reading my musings!
Happy Trails,
Terri Hendrix
P.S. Dear powers that be at WKZE in Sharon, Connecticut:
I have worn the large blue hooded sweatshirt with your red WKZE logo on the front you so graciously gave me (it's my Linus) to shreds.
Can I have another?
www.terrihendrix.com
©(P) THM Music May 2005
* Feel free to share my GoatNotes. Spread the joy.
* Subscribe to once a month GoatNotes
* Additions and deletions - terri@terrihendrix.com
Hendrix August 05 GoatNotes
80 percent of luck is showing up." — Woody Allen
"Depend on the rabbit's foot if you will, but remember it didn't work for the rabbit." — R.E. Shay
In late June, at 4:00 in the morning, I sleepily shuffled about my bedroom packing for my upcoming tour to Colorado and New Mexico. Keeping me company at that ungodly hour were my two beloved mutts, Jesse and Caroline, who joyfully pranced around my feet, thrilled that I was up and no doubt hoping to go out and play. But the moment I picked up my guitar case, they stopped in mid-jump — knowing all too well that the guitar case meant that wherever I was going, they wouldn't be coming along. As I backed out of my driveway and into the dark, I caught one last glimpse of their sad faces peering at me through the chain link fence; I knew that the moment I'd locked the front door and set the alarm, they'd boogie out the doggie door into the back yard to shoot me one more hopeful glance. I've seen them do that hundreds of times, and it never gets any easier. But the flip side is, when I come home, I'm always amazed to see their two heads right where I saw them last — almost like a portrait — waiting for me.
The flight to Albuquerque was smooth, but by the time Lloyd and I fetched our rental car and made the drive towards Silverton, CO, I was in agony. You see, on the plane, I'd drunk a gallon of water. Because the last time I'd played in Silverton, my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth, cotton balls formed on both sides of my lips, and my eyeballs dried out and rolled inward, all due to the high altitude. "Drink lots of water," the natives there told me. So this trip, I'd heeded their advice. The only problem was, not only was there no restroom in sight, it's one spooky, hilly, bumpy drive on the way to Silverton, with creepy zillion-foot drop-offs and no guardrails. The moment our tires touched the curb of the Historic Grand Hotel, I leapt out of the car, checked in, snatched my room key, and sprinted up four flights of stairs, barely making it to my room with bladder (and breath) in tact. After my cramps ceased from my latest exercise in extreme bladder control, I flipped the television on in my room to watch the final game between the San Antonio Spurs and the Detroit Pistons for the 2005 NBA championship. Being a San Antonio native, the Spurs are as much a part of my life as enchiladas, queso, and pico de gallo. But as luck (bad luck) would have it, I could get every channel but 20, which was the one the game was on. Dagnabit! Lloyd's room didn't have a TV at all, but after some serious pleading on my part, he helped me rig my television with duct tape and two strategically placed volume peddles. Luckily, by the third quarter, though the screen was more snow than picture, we were able to watch the Spurs capture the title.
As soon as the sun hit the San Juan Mountains overlooking Silverton, we were off to play our set at the Jubilee Festival and later that night, a workshop on songwriting. Over the course of the festival, we enjoyed performances by Hot Strings, Fruit, and Donny Morales. It was sunny but chilly outside, but luckily, I'd brought my well-worn WKZE sweatshirt (my equivalent to Linus's blanket) to keep me warm. On Sunday, we headed to Taos, NM, by way of Interstate 64. On the other side of the thunderstorms (and the semi doing 30 mph), we were lucky to witness a full spectrum rainbow stretched between our road and the Sangre de Cristo mountains surrounding us. After a diet of truck stop junk food consisting solely of "Grandma's Oatmeal Raisin Cookies" we arrived at our friend Mike Yacino's restaurant, the Old Blinking Light,where we enjoyed hamburgers, the fresh smell of rain on the Sage bushes, and a night's stay at his infamous slaughterhouse (with ceiling hooks in tact) which had been converted to a guest house. (I know what you're thinking — "Ei! Ei! Ei!" But seriously, it's like Martha Stewart and Pottery Barn teamed up and turned that slaughterhouse into the cutest, cleanest, and most charming guest house you ever did see. And I thought I pulled off a miracle fixing up my house!)
The next day, I unexpectedly (talk about luck) met one of my musical heroes, Emily Sailers of the Indigo Girls, before our set at KTAO's Solar Fest (both the festival and the station are powered by pure solar energy). We were playing right before the Indigo Girls, which in itself was a huge deal to me. As I gulped yet another pint of water, Emily asked, "You wanna join us on 'Closer to Fine'?" Have you ever seen a deer in headlights? That was me. I squeaked, "No thanks ... I don't know it well enough." Emily just laughed, shook my hand, and walked away. I watched her go and then slowly turned and looked at Lloyd, blushed and whispered, "D'oh! I meant to say YES!"
Our next stop after Taos was a concert in Nederland, followed by one in Florissant for our good friends Russ and LaVanna at the Thunderbird, a quirky juke-joint with great food. A brilliant foot-stompin' dancin' musician named Bruce Hayes did sound and a blazing set during our intermission. After that evening's performance, we made our way to Colorado Springs where, unbeknownst to me, the very next day I was going to violate my long-standing "one dog for each arm" rule. For as I was walking into Circuit City to get a computer cable, the PETsMART right next door was having dog adoptions. I immediately put my hands over my eyes so as not to succumb to the temptation to look, fearing that if I did, I'd end up adopting one. But as I heard all the cooing over all those puppies, I did the unthinkable. I peeped. The first thing I saw was a lone black dog stretched out in a cage in the distance. Since everyone else was crowded around the puppies, I felt sorry for it. So I walked over, just to pet it. He looked up at me with brown hopeless eyes through the wires of his cage, and, well ... I broke my rule. I adopted him.
The new addition to my family was a year-old black lab mix. His name? Lucky Holyfield. Lloyd, being a dog owner himself, promptly came up with the "Lucky" part; I came up with Holyfield (after Evander), due to "Lucky" missing half an ear and having numerous other battle scars from his year spent in the pen (shelter). It was love at first sight. But how in the heck was I gonna get Lucky Holyfield back home to Texas? That question was weighing heavily on my mind when got to our next gig, at Orly's — we arrived just in time to see my friend Mana Salazar, from Kyle, Texas, hop out of her white pick-up truck. Mana and her friend Verlon had taken a spur-of-the-moment vacation to Colorado to catch the last half our tour. And as luck would have it, Mana readily offered to give Lucky a lift back to Texas for me. I was one happy puppy after that, free to enjoy the music of our opening act, Redraw the Farm.
Having driven to Gold Hill the night prior, the following afternoon, luck was still with us when we hit the musical jack-pot by stumbling across The Stairwell Sisters, a buck-dancing, all-gal old-time string band from San Francisco (with a dobro and two clawhammer frailing banjo players), jamming on a streetside in downtown Boulder. And just when we thought we couldn't get any luckier, that night our stomachs nearly popped from the gourmet meal we were treated to by the proprietors of the Gold Hill Inn, who'd made a name for themselves through their famed historic Bluebird Lodge (which, to the best of my knowledge, was never a slaughterhouse).
After our afternoon performance at Gold Hill Inn's annual Fourth of July festival, Mana and Verlon helped us make a speedy getaway so Lloyd and I could catch our flight out of Denver that evening. Although I misread our Yahoo Map, thus getting us lost on the way the airport, we still made our flight back to Texas. Thankful for our safe return, and road-worn from my travels (and the 14th consecutive day in the same WKZE sweatshirt), I drove home and thought of Lucky, wondering how he would adapt to his new family in Texas. I also thought about a Persian proverb I've heard which states, "Go and wake up your luck." I found it somehow fitting for the entire tour from which I'd just returned. I didn't have to go out looking for luck, because luck (like Lucky) finds me, just when I need it most. Sure enough, as I pulled into my driveway and turned off the engine, I looked up and was greeted and humbled by the two heads right where I saw them last, like a portrait, looking expectantly out the chain link fence, waiting for me.
Thanks for your support and for reading my musings!
Happy Trails,
Terri Hendrix
P.S. Dear powers that be at WKZE in Sharon, Connecticut:
I have worn the large blue hooded sweatshirt with your red WKZE logo on the front you so graciously gave me (it's my Linus) to shreds.
Can I have another?
www.terrihendrix.com
©(P) THM Music May 2005
* Feel free to share my GoatNotes. Spread the joy.
* Subscribe to once a month GoatNotes
* Additions and deletions - terri@terrihendrix.com
Wednesday, November 10, 2004
Nov 04 Thanksgiving and Squanto
NEWSLETTERS
November 2004
"I miss the spice, in the melting pot of our lives / it all goes down easy but it sure ain't got no soul."
"Monopoly" - Terri Hendrix
"We could learn a lot from crayons: some are sharp, some are pretty, some are dull, some have weird names, and all are different but they all have to live in the same box."
Unknown
The Pilgrims landed in America in November 1620. Many of them had come to the New World for strictly religious reasons — namely, to get away from the Church of England, whose views they strongly disagreed with. But along with those seeking religious freedom were other colonists who were just looking for a new beginning; among them were merchants, soldiers, craftsman, and a few orphans, and what religious views they individually had didn't necessarily line up with the first bunch. The pollsters broke it down like this: 44 Separatist Puritans, who called themselves "Saints," and 66 non-Separatists, whom the "Saints" called "Strangers." (Those numbers actually vary in different accounts; polls back then weren't any more exact than they are today.) Who knows what these two very different groups of people talked about while they were all crammed together aboard the Mayflower on that cold, wet journey across the Atlantic to Plymouth Rock. My guess is they probably talked a lot about the weather.
The minute their toes touched land, discord between the two groups bubbled to the surface. But just when the tension was reaching a boiling point, peace came by way of the Mayflower Compact, which sewed the seams of the spiritually divided lot, guaranteed equality, and unified the "Saints" and "Strangers." As one, they renamed themselves "Pilgrims," meaning those who journey into foreign lands. In fact, the land was so foreign, less than half survived their first winter in Plymouth. But their luck improved the following spring, when they met an Indian named Squanto — and when I say luck, I mean LUCK: Squanto not only spoke English, but had actually been to England himself. After befriending the Pilgrims — perhaps over small talk about the English weather — Squanto began teaching them how to separate medicinal plants from those that were poisonous, and introduced them to Maple sap. In time, he helped them turn the soil into crops which would later yield fruits and vegetables just in time for harvest. Wanting to celebrate the achievement of having food stockpiled for the upcoming winter, the Pilgrim's Governor, William Bradford, proclaimed a day of thanksgiving to be shared by the colonists, Squanto and their other Indian neighbors. As diverse a group to ever gather, they converged in peace for a three-day feast in spite of their racial and religious differences.
I'm thinking about Pilgrims (and feasting, preferably on pumpkin pie) not just because Thanksgiving is just a few autumn leaves away, but because it's just too timely a story for me not to repeat. Timely, because this month, with the click of a mouse, those of us that voted have been catapulted into hard drives and blogged into the blogosphere where we've since resurfaced in a map of the United States lazily colored into two groups: Red and Blue. Or dare I say, "Saints" and "Strangers" (or is it "Sinners"?) But I'm not about to let someone perched over a laptop, who launches political propaganda via a mousepad for a living, determine what color I am. In elementary school, I ground my first set of colored pencils down to nubs filling in a map of the United States. I think Alabama had zebra stripes, New York was purple, and Texas was — brace yourself — pink. One thing for sure, had my box that boasted "Crayola" on the front cover come with just two choices, I would have cried on my coloring project. Being geographically challenged, I recently bought a giant map for my office to prevent me from booking a show in the D.C. area one night and a show the next night in Seattle. While at the store, I noticed with relief that none of the maps were available in just red and blue; the one I chose was colored in bright pastels.
My question is this: If our cell phones alone can do just about everything but give us a back massage, then why can't we be as smart as the Pilgrims were given their limited resources? They knew their survival depended on putting their fear, skin tones, and spiritual differences aside. In doing so, they launched the melting pot that we are now in danger of ruining by ponying up to a cookbook filled with recipes grounded in fear, hate, and "us" against "them" philosophies. I have staunch beliefs that I won't budge on. So do my friends. We are as diverse a group that has ever come together (in this century), but we cherish all that makes us different. Of course, my opinions are right and theirs are wrong (just joking), but we agree to disagree. And beyond our good taste in friendship, we have one very big thing in common. As taxpayers, we are tired of those that run our government in their red and blue suits remaining oblivious to the needs of those that put them in office.
There is much for me to be thankful for in my life. As I think on this and gorge on pumpkin pie, I'll also be saluting the Pilgrims for creating something that is indeed cause to celebrate. Peace. Maybe we "Saints" and "Strangers" will rise from the red and blue states the bloggers deemed appropriate for us and, as fellow Pilgrims, learn to follow their example. And maybe, if we're lucky, someday our own Squanto will come along. It could happen again, just like it did in 1620. And should this come to pass, maybe we'll set aside our differences so we can elect this individual into office to reveal the wonders of the land to us.
Happy trails,
Terri Hendrix
P.S.Feel free to pass GoatNotes to others!
Email additions and deletions: terri@terrihendrix.com
back
November 2004
"I miss the spice, in the melting pot of our lives / it all goes down easy but it sure ain't got no soul."
"Monopoly" - Terri Hendrix
"We could learn a lot from crayons: some are sharp, some are pretty, some are dull, some have weird names, and all are different but they all have to live in the same box."
Unknown
The Pilgrims landed in America in November 1620. Many of them had come to the New World for strictly religious reasons — namely, to get away from the Church of England, whose views they strongly disagreed with. But along with those seeking religious freedom were other colonists who were just looking for a new beginning; among them were merchants, soldiers, craftsman, and a few orphans, and what religious views they individually had didn't necessarily line up with the first bunch. The pollsters broke it down like this: 44 Separatist Puritans, who called themselves "Saints," and 66 non-Separatists, whom the "Saints" called "Strangers." (Those numbers actually vary in different accounts; polls back then weren't any more exact than they are today.) Who knows what these two very different groups of people talked about while they were all crammed together aboard the Mayflower on that cold, wet journey across the Atlantic to Plymouth Rock. My guess is they probably talked a lot about the weather.
The minute their toes touched land, discord between the two groups bubbled to the surface. But just when the tension was reaching a boiling point, peace came by way of the Mayflower Compact, which sewed the seams of the spiritually divided lot, guaranteed equality, and unified the "Saints" and "Strangers." As one, they renamed themselves "Pilgrims," meaning those who journey into foreign lands. In fact, the land was so foreign, less than half survived their first winter in Plymouth. But their luck improved the following spring, when they met an Indian named Squanto — and when I say luck, I mean LUCK: Squanto not only spoke English, but had actually been to England himself. After befriending the Pilgrims — perhaps over small talk about the English weather — Squanto began teaching them how to separate medicinal plants from those that were poisonous, and introduced them to Maple sap. In time, he helped them turn the soil into crops which would later yield fruits and vegetables just in time for harvest. Wanting to celebrate the achievement of having food stockpiled for the upcoming winter, the Pilgrim's Governor, William Bradford, proclaimed a day of thanksgiving to be shared by the colonists, Squanto and their other Indian neighbors. As diverse a group to ever gather, they converged in peace for a three-day feast in spite of their racial and religious differences.
I'm thinking about Pilgrims (and feasting, preferably on pumpkin pie) not just because Thanksgiving is just a few autumn leaves away, but because it's just too timely a story for me not to repeat. Timely, because this month, with the click of a mouse, those of us that voted have been catapulted into hard drives and blogged into the blogosphere where we've since resurfaced in a map of the United States lazily colored into two groups: Red and Blue. Or dare I say, "Saints" and "Strangers" (or is it "Sinners"?) But I'm not about to let someone perched over a laptop, who launches political propaganda via a mousepad for a living, determine what color I am. In elementary school, I ground my first set of colored pencils down to nubs filling in a map of the United States. I think Alabama had zebra stripes, New York was purple, and Texas was — brace yourself — pink. One thing for sure, had my box that boasted "Crayola" on the front cover come with just two choices, I would have cried on my coloring project. Being geographically challenged, I recently bought a giant map for my office to prevent me from booking a show in the D.C. area one night and a show the next night in Seattle. While at the store, I noticed with relief that none of the maps were available in just red and blue; the one I chose was colored in bright pastels.
My question is this: If our cell phones alone can do just about everything but give us a back massage, then why can't we be as smart as the Pilgrims were given their limited resources? They knew their survival depended on putting their fear, skin tones, and spiritual differences aside. In doing so, they launched the melting pot that we are now in danger of ruining by ponying up to a cookbook filled with recipes grounded in fear, hate, and "us" against "them" philosophies. I have staunch beliefs that I won't budge on. So do my friends. We are as diverse a group that has ever come together (in this century), but we cherish all that makes us different. Of course, my opinions are right and theirs are wrong (just joking), but we agree to disagree. And beyond our good taste in friendship, we have one very big thing in common. As taxpayers, we are tired of those that run our government in their red and blue suits remaining oblivious to the needs of those that put them in office.
There is much for me to be thankful for in my life. As I think on this and gorge on pumpkin pie, I'll also be saluting the Pilgrims for creating something that is indeed cause to celebrate. Peace. Maybe we "Saints" and "Strangers" will rise from the red and blue states the bloggers deemed appropriate for us and, as fellow Pilgrims, learn to follow their example. And maybe, if we're lucky, someday our own Squanto will come along. It could happen again, just like it did in 1620. And should this come to pass, maybe we'll set aside our differences so we can elect this individual into office to reveal the wonders of the land to us.
Happy trails,
Terri Hendrix
P.S.Feel free to pass GoatNotes to others!
Email additions and deletions: terri@terrihendrix.com
back
Sunday, October 10, 2004
Oct 04 Confidence
NEWSLETTERS
October 04 GoatNotes
I'm somewhere just outside of Austin, Texas, at a rock & roll show. As the band crescendos into their final number, I fold my hands around my sides and squeeze my eyes shut. The cymbals crash as the kick drum thumps in time to the bass. Unfortunately for me, the concert's not taking place in an arena. It's coming to a deafening conclusion in my head and stomach. "Peanuts?" the flight attendant chirps. She unfolds her hand, and I take the microscopic snack while graciously thanking her for what I'm certain will be my lunch. Eyeing the barf bag, I choke back the breakfast burrito I gobbled down at the airport prior to my flight, clutch my peanuts, and roll back and forth with the turbulence.
"Confidence," I remind myself, in hope of taking my mind off my discomfort. That's one of the topics I plan on addressing at the Old No. 9 Workshop I'll be teaching this month in Waring, Texas. And right now, I can say with *confidence* that I'll feel better when my road-weary size 10's touch ground again. Just three days ago ? three *long* days ago ? Lloyd and myself flew from Austin, switched planes in El Paso, landed in Albuquerque, rented a car, and then drove to El Prado, New Mexico. Once there, we visited the kind folks at KTAO, the only solar powered radio station in existence, and then performed at fellow songwriter Michael Hearne's (www.michaelhearnemusic.com ) annual Barndance Weekend. The next day, we drove back to Albuquerque, turned in the rental car, hopped on another flight, switched planes in Chicago, landed in Detroit, rented a car, drove to and performed in Ann Arbor, Michigan, at the Ark, and then drove to Bowling Green, Ohio, for the Black Swamp Arts Festival (www.blackswamparts.org ), the next day. After a much needed nights sleep, we played for our good friends there, and enjoyed a dinner of hot gyros, Milky Way bars and Nutter-Butters. And today, sunburned from yesterday's afternoon performance, we drove back to Detroit, returned the rental car, flew to Nashville, changed planes for the last time and are now headed towards ? I can finally say with confidence ? home. If I can only survive the current turbulence.
"Confidence." In between Sprite burps, I write that word on the cover of In Flight magazine and try to focus on it. How fitting it be for me to be pontificating on the virtues of confidence when, (A) I have to struggle to preserve it and, (B) what guts I do have are currently being regurgitated along with the meals or lack there of I've consumed in the last 24 hours.
Confidence. That word's the living, breathing, core of my livelihood. Occasionally, Confidence ? I use a capital "C" because I think of "Confidence" as a person ? opts out of my performance, choosing instead to shyly peak at me through the curtains, behind the stage. And sometimes this precocious waif blocks my path or hides in the folds of my thoughts and twists my ego into a shapeless waxen puddle void of all reality. In short, Confidence is an unreliable employee that's created a niche in my small world, ensuring her tenure by convincing me that I *need* her in order to continue on my journey. Because when this character's been a no-show, I've forced my size 10's into size eights, changed from jeans to overalls and overalls to jeans ?till I pulled a hamstring, and tugged my fried hair (going from blonde to platinum to brunette to orange ? by accident ? and then back to blonde will do this) into a ponytail just to jerk it out to wear it down so many times I got a migraine. I've also turned opportunities into quicksand, lacked ability to make or stand up for my own decisions, suffered from a chip on my shoulder, plucked my feathers and garbled like a chicken in interviews, played my instruments like I've never picked one up before, and thrown lyrics in the trash that I'd once found refreshing.
But remarkably, for all the times Confidence has left me high and dry, I've survived. And though sometimes I don't always feel strong at the time, it's the times I've squeaked by the seat of my pants *without* Confidence that have really made me stronger, made me who I am. Don't get me wrong ? Confidence is nice to have around in a pinch. But sometimes I think I overrate her importance in the whole operation. From choices on my appearance, to my business decisions to, most importantly, all the songs I write, don't write, perform or don't perform ... I've *got* confidence, but she most definitely does *not* have *me.* And that's the secret ? having confidence in yourself even when "Confidence" herself is nowhere to be found. Knowing that is what will give me the, well, confidence to talk about Confidence at my Old No. 9 Workshop. Perhaps I'll always cruise down life's highway on wheels that wobble, but it's *me* behind the wheel, and inside I've got a better engine. And I built it without confidence! Because ... my heart seeks art. So, with 3/4 faith and 1/4 hope, I created a solar-powered, peanut-and-burrito-eatin' (runs on garbage), environmentally friendly vehicle that I'll get a ticket for sure in if I don't watch the speed signs. Confidence be damned! With the time I've got left on this planet, you'll find me chasing after the muse. I've got a lust for words, a purpose and a message I hope to convey through my music. So these days, when confidence bows out on me, I wave good-bye, chart my course (with or without the help of Yahoo maps), gun my engine and proceed anyway. And sure enough, the minute I turn around, there's Confidence, twirling a lock of her hair through her fingers, smiling at me from the backseat, enjoying the ride ... in spite of the unpleasant sensations coming from underneath the hood caused by what I've crammed into the fuel tank due to my hectic schedule!
P.S.
After finishing my October GoatNotes, I played the Austin City Limits Music Festival. I'm proud of my show there and the way we, as a band, performed. I was able to communicate (with confidence!), through music, to several thousand people. The next night, I communicated just as effectively at a private function ... for a group of fifty. It's not the quantity of folks in an audience that gets my goat happy. It's not the quantity of folks I play for that inspires me. It's the opportunity to perform for an enthusiastic audience. Quality, not quantity. It's not the venue, it's what's inside me.
Happy Trails,
Terri Hendrix
(C) (P) October 2004 THM Music
Additions and deletions for my GoatNotes terri@terrihendrix.com
www.terrihendrix.com
October 04 GoatNotes
I'm somewhere just outside of Austin, Texas, at a rock & roll show. As the band crescendos into their final number, I fold my hands around my sides and squeeze my eyes shut. The cymbals crash as the kick drum thumps in time to the bass. Unfortunately for me, the concert's not taking place in an arena. It's coming to a deafening conclusion in my head and stomach. "Peanuts?" the flight attendant chirps. She unfolds her hand, and I take the microscopic snack while graciously thanking her for what I'm certain will be my lunch. Eyeing the barf bag, I choke back the breakfast burrito I gobbled down at the airport prior to my flight, clutch my peanuts, and roll back and forth with the turbulence.
"Confidence," I remind myself, in hope of taking my mind off my discomfort. That's one of the topics I plan on addressing at the Old No. 9 Workshop I'll be teaching this month in Waring, Texas. And right now, I can say with *confidence* that I'll feel better when my road-weary size 10's touch ground again. Just three days ago ? three *long* days ago ? Lloyd and myself flew from Austin, switched planes in El Paso, landed in Albuquerque, rented a car, and then drove to El Prado, New Mexico. Once there, we visited the kind folks at KTAO, the only solar powered radio station in existence, and then performed at fellow songwriter Michael Hearne's (www.michaelhearnemusic.com ) annual Barndance Weekend. The next day, we drove back to Albuquerque, turned in the rental car, hopped on another flight, switched planes in Chicago, landed in Detroit, rented a car, drove to and performed in Ann Arbor, Michigan, at the Ark, and then drove to Bowling Green, Ohio, for the Black Swamp Arts Festival (www.blackswamparts.org ), the next day. After a much needed nights sleep, we played for our good friends there, and enjoyed a dinner of hot gyros, Milky Way bars and Nutter-Butters. And today, sunburned from yesterday's afternoon performance, we drove back to Detroit, returned the rental car, flew to Nashville, changed planes for the last time and are now headed towards ? I can finally say with confidence ? home. If I can only survive the current turbulence.
"Confidence." In between Sprite burps, I write that word on the cover of In Flight magazine and try to focus on it. How fitting it be for me to be pontificating on the virtues of confidence when, (A) I have to struggle to preserve it and, (B) what guts I do have are currently being regurgitated along with the meals or lack there of I've consumed in the last 24 hours.
Confidence. That word's the living, breathing, core of my livelihood. Occasionally, Confidence ? I use a capital "C" because I think of "Confidence" as a person ? opts out of my performance, choosing instead to shyly peak at me through the curtains, behind the stage. And sometimes this precocious waif blocks my path or hides in the folds of my thoughts and twists my ego into a shapeless waxen puddle void of all reality. In short, Confidence is an unreliable employee that's created a niche in my small world, ensuring her tenure by convincing me that I *need* her in order to continue on my journey. Because when this character's been a no-show, I've forced my size 10's into size eights, changed from jeans to overalls and overalls to jeans ?till I pulled a hamstring, and tugged my fried hair (going from blonde to platinum to brunette to orange ? by accident ? and then back to blonde will do this) into a ponytail just to jerk it out to wear it down so many times I got a migraine. I've also turned opportunities into quicksand, lacked ability to make or stand up for my own decisions, suffered from a chip on my shoulder, plucked my feathers and garbled like a chicken in interviews, played my instruments like I've never picked one up before, and thrown lyrics in the trash that I'd once found refreshing.
But remarkably, for all the times Confidence has left me high and dry, I've survived. And though sometimes I don't always feel strong at the time, it's the times I've squeaked by the seat of my pants *without* Confidence that have really made me stronger, made me who I am. Don't get me wrong ? Confidence is nice to have around in a pinch. But sometimes I think I overrate her importance in the whole operation. From choices on my appearance, to my business decisions to, most importantly, all the songs I write, don't write, perform or don't perform ... I've *got* confidence, but she most definitely does *not* have *me.* And that's the secret ? having confidence in yourself even when "Confidence" herself is nowhere to be found. Knowing that is what will give me the, well, confidence to talk about Confidence at my Old No. 9 Workshop. Perhaps I'll always cruise down life's highway on wheels that wobble, but it's *me* behind the wheel, and inside I've got a better engine. And I built it without confidence! Because ... my heart seeks art. So, with 3/4 faith and 1/4 hope, I created a solar-powered, peanut-and-burrito-eatin' (runs on garbage), environmentally friendly vehicle that I'll get a ticket for sure in if I don't watch the speed signs. Confidence be damned! With the time I've got left on this planet, you'll find me chasing after the muse. I've got a lust for words, a purpose and a message I hope to convey through my music. So these days, when confidence bows out on me, I wave good-bye, chart my course (with or without the help of Yahoo maps), gun my engine and proceed anyway. And sure enough, the minute I turn around, there's Confidence, twirling a lock of her hair through her fingers, smiling at me from the backseat, enjoying the ride ... in spite of the unpleasant sensations coming from underneath the hood caused by what I've crammed into the fuel tank due to my hectic schedule!
P.S.
After finishing my October GoatNotes, I played the Austin City Limits Music Festival. I'm proud of my show there and the way we, as a band, performed. I was able to communicate (with confidence!), through music, to several thousand people. The next night, I communicated just as effectively at a private function ... for a group of fifty. It's not the quantity of folks in an audience that gets my goat happy. It's not the quantity of folks I play for that inspires me. It's the opportunity to perform for an enthusiastic audience. Quality, not quantity. It's not the venue, it's what's inside me.
Happy Trails,
Terri Hendrix
(C) (P) October 2004 THM Music
Additions and deletions for my GoatNotes terri@terrihendrix.com
www.terrihendrix.com
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