Maya Angelou

An inspiring woman on many levels. I met her once...

It was September of 1979, and I was on my one and only East Coast Grateful Dead tour. In a week's time, I saw shows in Glens Falls, N.Y., Rochester, N.Y., Augusta, ME., and then 3 nights at Madison Square Garden. (Ah, youth!)

My friends and I had just seen the final MSG concert. We had been staying with a deadhead friend in Manhattan. He wanted to drag us California kids to Greenwich Village for our first egg cream. We happily complied, and were soon chattering excitedly at a busy joint in the village. It had been lots of fun for all in the big apple, but we were ready to go home. As we verbalized our homesick thoughts, a woman in the booth next to us turned around and with the most beautiful smile said: "Oooh, I love San Francisco!" We then all conversed about the many things we loved about that city by the bay.

There were introductions at some point... And when she said her name was Maya Angelou, I was electrified-and not just because I had just seen my favorite psychedelic band kick ass at the Garden!

Being a big reader and wannabe poet, I immediately recognized her name. Not so sure whether the deadhead dudes I was with understood my giddiness or the prowess of this woman. I most certainly did! I've never forgotten her warm smile and kindred words. Thanks for inspiring, always, Ms. Angelou.

More than a decade later, I was at home in La Selva Beach with my 7-month old daughter, watching the inauguration of William Jefferson Clinton on t.v.  It was a celebratory time. I had worked for his campaign in my precinct, and life felt pretty damned hopeful. As I sat with my nursing daughter, watching Maya Angelou read her now-famous innaugural poem, tears of joy streamed down my face and onto my brand-new child. I will never forget that memory. The poem was published in small paperback form and I promptly purchased one for myself and one for my father, who also loved words and was hopeful about our newly-elected president. I still have mine, of course. Hoping to read the poem aloud to Glen later, when he is home from work. (He was forewarned, HA!)

Maya Angelou shares this date with my father. Today marks two years since he departed, leaving an emotional crevasse I am just beginning to understand. I mourn what was... And even more so, what was not.

Here's more about her San Francisco ties: 

http://blog.sfgate.com/stew/2014/05/28/maya-angelous-san-francisco-connections/

1,095 Days On

Three years ago today, we left the golden state, the state in which we both were born and bred, for our new home on the Big Island.

The desire to do so began in earnest in 2006, when we stayed with Glen's father and step mother in Papaikou, north of Hilo. Prior to that, I fell for this big rock when I spent a month with friends in Puna. That was 1984. A group of folks I knew at Lake Tahoe had relocated and I was eager to check it out.  While here, both Kilauea and Mauna Loa erupting at the same time. That was pretty cool. 

When Glen first found this place on the interwebs in 2010, I knew there would be no going back. He was a man possessed, and I believed in his dream. Even when it looked like we might not pull it off, he remained calm and patient. We invested damn near everything we had to buy this place. Leaving us less "leftover" than we had hoped, but also freeing us from a gigantic mortgage payment. (Ours is about $530.00 a month.) Which is crazy, since I was paying twice that for rent more than 20 years ago. 

We have saved many thousands of dollars in electric and water bills, since we are off-grid. Plentiful power and abundant, clean water. Never an issue or problem with our solar or catchment in 3 years. Our overhead is minimal, when compared to our former life in California.

I spend most days barefoot-all day. I wander these almost-4 acres, planting, weeding, cutting, pruning. There are never-ending tasks, so boredom is not an option. Glen has found some truly optimal employment opportunities in the last few months. So much so that he could work 7 days a week, were he so inclined. I won't lie-I am loving this lady of leisure stuff. I worked most of my life, both at paid jobs and then there were those 30 years of parenting, some of them as a single mother. This is new territory. My time is mine-time for reading, writing, working on projects, and I'm even learning the fine art of napping. I still take a shift subbing at the library, whenever I am asked. My caretaking job was a nice thing, but that wrapped up last summer, when the client got considerably better, which was the obvious goal. (She has Lyme disease.) Still, I am not scrambling to find something else, nor am I pressured or the least bit guilt-ridden about  it. 

I miss my kids and a few close friends, but I could not live in California again. It's sad, but at least I got to appreciate it while it was more affordable and much less populated. I think I can safely say that my kids won't last there too much longer. None of them work in tech or own start-ups, and they are being squeezed out by those who do. This makes for a hamster-in-a-wheel existence. Whenever they're ready, this is their home too.

Tonight, we celebrate our perseverance and three years in this beautiful place. And we'll toast the guy who helped make it possible, Glen's father. He would most certainly be proud of what we have done here so far.

Wordless Wednesday

My father on the Petaluma River/Spring 1971

"So Much Things to Say"

Really.  My trip to California and life in general have provided endless tales to tell, but little is shared here.

When I started Cozy Shack blog in 2005, everything was different.  Especially me.

I have noticed that I remain hesitant to be truthful/real here, because some readers may not appreciate my opinions and rants.  I am always a wimp about that sort of thing-heaven forbid that someone won't like me.

That's changing, thankfully.  Being a people pleaser all of my life has grown tiresome. I've done it here on the blog as well, hesitant to be honest

about topics that could potentially piss someone off.  Now that my dad is gone, I don't need to worry about his opinions anymore.  However, several other family members read here.  As do some old friends.  That can be tricky.  I am realizing more and more that if I truly want to write, I have to let go of my lifelong fears about what others may think.  Basically not give a fuck.

Maybe some day, I will have the courage to speak my truths here. And everywhere. 

So Long, Joe...

          Mendocino, California~2009

(Yours truly with Joe, Barb, and their sweet grandchildren.)

Saddened to learn that my blog pal Joe Spado has shuffled off this mortal coil... That seems impossible, since he was a strong and courageous survivor for most of his 64 years..

His heart was permanently damaged from exposure to agent orange when he was a very young man, serving in Vietnam.  He spoke out for veteran's rights for the rest of his life and was against the Bush wars and what they're doing to yet another generation of soldiers.

He lived life in ways most of us never do.  

Crossed the United States countless times by motorcycle.  Cycling was his passion, and it saddened him to stop riding recently.  But he took things in stride, always sharing his love and light with those he came in contact with.  And he knew a LOT of people!

In 2009, he took his wife, daughter, and grandchildren on a cross country road trip.  He wanted to share some of what he had seen with the young ones, especially.  They had an amazing journey and on their way up the North Coast, they stopped to say hello.  We walked to the little park at the Mendocino Recreation Center and hung out while the kids played.  Then they hit the road again for Humboldt.

I had previously visited with Joe in 2007.  He passed through Mendo on his way to San Francisco.  He was meeting his wife there and they were driving back to the Midwest together. Theirs was one of those unions you hear of, but rarely witness. Together since 1971-through changes many marriages could never have endured. Like losing a child, for instance. Life partners in every sense.

He made fine traditional dream catchers in his retirement--like none I've ever seen.  He sent me one about six years ago and recently repaired it. He also made beautiful snowshoes. 

Joe was a true Renaissance man, and a kind human. So long, Spadoman.  (His blog, Round Circle can be found in my blog list, over there on the right.)

9/9/94

Today would have been my Father's 19th

wedding anniversary.  I guess it still is, technically.

He married his true love about eight years after they started dating, both wanting to be sure that they had "staying power."  They were quite the match.

Their wedding ceremony and reception took place at The City Club in San Francisco on a warm autumn evening.  My brother was best man, I was maid of honor.  It was a dressy affair.  There was music and merriment.  

Everyone had a lovely time, of course. My children and then-husband and I stayed in the city that night, at the Hotel Canterbury on Sutter.  Owned by an old friend from Galileo High School.  (RIP, Jon J. Lehr.)

Late that same night, my then-husband left our hotel room in a crazed state, and disappeared into the belly of the beast (The Tenderloin area) until the next morning.  The writing was on the wall, and yet it would be another five years until I escaped my doomed union.  I'm a slow learner.

The photo is another from Stillwater Cove 

on the Jenner coast, where some of my father's ashes were scattered back in June.

Happy Anniversary, dearest dad.  Glad we both found real love in our lifetimes, eventually.

I'm Way Deep Into Nothing Special

This is one of those rare times when the world and life in general have rendered me semi-mute. (Don't laugh!)

No specific reason for it.  All is "fine."  I'm in an excellent place, physically and mentally.  Transform or die, right?

Time is creeping up on the one year anniversary of my father's demise.  Grief has taken me on quite a ride these last 12 months.  I'm adapting to the emotional sinkhole that exists in his absence.  Oh sure, he stepped on my heart many times in the 54 years I knew him. No pedestal required.  Still, I miss that keen insight and wicked wit.  He was SO smart.  About most things.  I look forward to having some sort of ritual for my father when a daughter arrives next month.  Maybe we will paddle a kayak out into Hilo Bay and toss some of his ashes and lots of fragrant Hawaiian flowers.  Or plant a new fruit tree here and scatter them around it.  The surprising thing about his death is that I felt like I was prepared for it.  He was sick for 4 years.  I guess you can't prepare for what you haven't experienced before.  

Over the course of the last decade, I've noticed a trend I could not possibly have predicted and yet it now feels eerily inevitable.

The trend involves friends-- or more accurately friends from another time.  Folks I saw lots of music with.  Mostly one particular band, which strikes me as frighteningly myopic at this point.  Good old hindsight.  Don't get me wrong;  I wouldn't change it and I don't have buyer's remorse. (Well, maybe a little.)

The majority of us former deadheads have parted ways, or communicate very little.  I still have a handful of longtime friends that I met that way, and we have seen each other through the decades.  One of them arrives for a visit in a few weeks, but she is a rarity.  All of them began as friendships based on the unswerving love of that particular music.  When the music stopped, I began to find I had little or nothing in common with people I always figured I would know for a long time.  

Some who resisted any type of lifestyle change are either dead or invisible now. Then there are those who swung to the right in ways that scare the shit out of me.  Especially when one considers where their heads were 30-plus years ago. Or where I assumed their heads were.  Every once in a while, one of those folks from the old days pops up somewhere and I am often floored by their tightly-closed minds.

Maybe we got different things from our days of youthful abandon.  I don't know, but I have been wondering what the hell happened to almost everyone.  

Now and Zen

Blogging feels different now. One reason could be that I started into it almost 8 years ago. Shit happens in 8 years.

Back then, I lived in a tiny homesteader's cabin surrounded by a ring of redwoods and Monterey pines in Mendocino. It was a funky little place, but the setting was serene and lovely. We made it our own and called it the cozy shack. Hence the name.

I worked full-time as a receptionist and administrative assistant at Thanksgiving Coffee Company. Older daughter was just finishing her freshman year at Sonoma State. Younger daughter was in middle school. My son had been living and working in Santa Cruz, but came to stay with us for a few months that summer, pulling espresso shots at the local bakery. The man was head bottler at North Coast Brewing Company back then, home of Rasputin and Red Seal ales. We worked hard to keep our little family going. We were blue collar workers with decent vocabularies.


I sometimes wrote about crazy stuff. It was an intense time and there was plenty of intensity at home then, too. My seemingly-angelic youngest child became an adolescent and did some serious boundary-pushing, which coincided perfectly with that magical time we call menopause. I lucked into a much improved job with the school district. Which was good, since it had been a very long 5 years with the coffee people. The man stopped bottling beer and began making gorgeous handmade doors at Mendocino Doors. Older daughter decided she would not return to college after her second year. Younger daughter was floundering at high school. Neither of which we could have predicted. So much for predictions/expectations.

The man's father died rather suddenly in 2009. And less than a year later, we were pursuing this place. It has now been 2 years since we left the mainland.

We make less money, but have far more satisfaction in our life here than we have known in our 50-plus years. The kids are resilient and self-sufficient, despite the fact that they live where life is ridiculously overpriced. When they grow weary of struggling in Babylon, we'll be here. Plenty of room for expansion on this property.

I'm not writing as much as I'd like, but will persevere. I feel braver about sharing the stories and observations I once considered cringe-worthy. There is something freeing about losing one's second parent, when it comes to the telling of tales.

Some of my recent posts may come off as melancholy or too personal. Not trying to bum anyone out, nor do I seek sympathy or commiseration. Just attempting to shed light on some of my dark corners.


I have noticed, this time around, that blogging is still prone to the same sort of thing that plagues Facebook and the Internet in general. Herd mentality and all of that rot. I admit to appreciating interaction here, but am not courting followers as I did when as a newbie.. Expectation and attachment are a couple of things I am forever working on.

Things have quieted down in blog land over the last 8 years. Many former readers have moved along. A few from the early days are still around. And some readers are actual friends I know and in some cases love. I find that comforting, in a world where cyber friends often outnumber the flesh and blood variety. I've always been tactile.

I do enjoy visiting blogs, but will admit that I don't always comment if it is too much work signing in, using Captcha, etc. Especially on this damn cell phone. I do understand why bloggers use these safeguards. Just keepin' it real.

Daybreak

Although I am thankful that I got to know my father better over the course of the last 25 years than I did in the 25 years before it, there was not nearly enough time. Not when life as his child began with a cavernous deficit.

A sweet memory of us on Leavenworth Street. Little brother and me, standing on his feet, holding on to his legs, all of us laughing like mad. More recollections.... His white piano, and ice cream cones from Swenson's on Hyde and Union after washing the car. One night, bathing with brother while the parents yelled at each other down the hallway. That bathwater was pretty cold when they remembered us. Eventually, there was the trip to SFO in summer 1965. I sat behind him, watching his hands steer us along the Bayshore Freeway. Away from all I knew. I loved to watch my father drive, even when he dropped the occasional F-bomb. Nobody annunciated like he did, even when the words were less than savory.

I don't remember saying goodbye at the airport or anything about our flight to Chicago, then Milwaukee, where we were picked up and whisked away for a month at Lake Winnebago with my mother and her family.

All I remember about our last day as a family is watching my father's hands on that big steering wheel.

Word-Filled Wednesday

From "My Education", by William S. Burroughs:
"An experience most deeply felt is the most difficult to convey in words. Remembering things brings the emptiness, the acutely painful awareness of irreparable loss.
From my window, I can see the marble slab over Ruski's grave... Ruski, my first and always special cat, a Russian Blue from the woods of East Kansas. Every time I see the grave, I get that empty feeling where something was, and isn't anymore, and will never be again."







http://www.dccc.org/page/s/2013-marriage-equality-mob?source=auto_reply_email_2013_marriage_equality

March 26th, 1996

Cozy Shack: The Damage Done

That links to a post I wrote four years ago, exactly. I wrote it to honor my pal Tim, gone 17 years today. Life goes on... but I remember.

My GEM

Today in history, one of my BFF's was born. We met on a gondola at Squaw Valley in January of 1977... When we were ski lift operators. A long, long time ago! She teaches fifth grade in the Pacific Northwest, where she has lived for more than twenty years.

When I went to San Francisco for my dad's memorial last year, she flew down to be with me. Which was great, since my beloved had to stay here on the island and tend to the homestead. Her presence helped me get through that sad, intense time.

Here she is at Gino and Carlo's in North Beach. One of my dad's favorite haunts, going back to his younger days. We stopped in there the day after the aforementioned memorial. I am ever-thankful for her love and friendship. She is a shiny gem, no doubt about it! Coincidentally, that's what her initials spell.

Wordless Wednesday

The Perfect Day

Russian Gulch ~November 14th, 2009

Lots has happened. The man I love lost his dad just about six months ago. A power-packed loss.
Youngest child is about to graduate. By the skin of her teeth. This kid has turned me inside- out and managed to crush my heart a few times. I guess the up side is I am better prepared to embrace the empty nest thing when it happens.

Off To Babylon By The Bay

Long story. Adios to Jon J. Lehr. Here's an oldie that reminds me of him forever. After a while, crocodiles.

Babylon - Jo Jo Gunne

The Damage Done

Today marks 13 years since our pal Tim died. He's gotten plenty of press here-with good reason. Here is a picture of his name, engraved in the Circle Of Friends in Golden Gate Park.

The Needle and the Damage Done [Live] - Neil Young

Short But Sweet For Certain

Beautiful photograph. Nothing to report here. Life and (death) trudge onward.

.

Two Step - Dave Matthews Band

Mother

November 20th is one heavy day to hold. And yet, I hold on. My mother died on this date twenty-seven years ago. She has now been dead longer than she was my very own living, breathing mother. She missed everything important in my life. Like her three grandkids. Never held a-one. The closest she got to it was the knowledge that I was pregnant with my son. She was excited about that, but missed his birth by about five months.

I know she didn't want to leave me. But she did and it feels like I was robbed of something vital to my existence. That becomes more obvious to me all the time. It changed me, and not necessarily for the better. I have done lots of work around this monumental loss. Therapy? Check.

Now I am a mother of two children in their twenties. Like I was when she died.The thought of leaving this life-and my kids-fills me with a fear that is beyond any nightmare you can imagine. Is that how she felt leaving me? I will never know because she never said so. Not her style to share such emotional things. That never posed a problem for yours truly. I share too much. A fatal flaw. One that I pay for on a daily basis. I want her here today, and needed to share that with the big and sometimes wicked universe.

Oh, and this song.

I've Gained Some Recognition But I've Lost My Appetite

(10-24) 16:44 PDT SAN FRANCISCO -- Keyboardist Merl Saunders, the gentle lion of the San Francisco music scene best known as co-captain of guitarist Jerry Garcia's solo excursions outside the Grateful Dead, died Friday at Kaiser Permanente Medical Center, after fighting infections.

The 74-year-old musician suffered a debilitating stroke six-and-a-half years ago and, although he lost the ability to speak, he made numerous sentimental guest appearances at shows over those years playing with one hand.

"I never met anybody so happy who had a stroke," said Grateful Dead drummer Mickey Hart. "In the end, the only thing that lit him up was the music. Sometimes he'd cry, but I've never seen anybody so happy in the realm of music."

The native San Franciscan attended Polytechnic High School with singer Johnny Mathis.

After serving in the Army from 1953 to 1957, he played jazz organ on the same circuit as Jimmy Smith and Brother Jack McDuff. He worked as musical director of the Billy Williams Revue and served in a similar capacity in Oscar Brown Jr.'s off-Broadway show, "Big Time Buck White." He backed up Dinah Washington and jammed with Miles Davis. Mr. Saunders, who was rarely seen in public without his trademark aviator shades and black leather fisherman's cap, started playing with Garcia in 1971 at a small Fillmore Street nightclub called the Matrix, where the Grateful Dead guitarist liked to hold informal jam sessions on Dead nights off. Within months, the loose-knit band was playing to packed houses at small local clubs like the Keystone Korner in North Beach every weekend the Dead wasn't working. Members sometimes included former Creedence Clearwater rhythm guitarist Tom Fogerty and former Journey rhythm guitarist George Tickner.

The Saunders-Garcia Band, as the group came to be called, backed Mr. Saunders on his 1971 solo album, "Heavy Turbulence," and recorded two albums for Berkeley's Fantasy Records.

"Merl was an ensemble guy, a groupist," said Hart, who played with Mr. Saunders in his early '80s solo group, High Noon. "He brought those sensibilities to the Garcia band. He let Jerry have his flights of fancy."

Mr. Saunders told The Chronicle in 1972 that playing with Garcia offered them both an opportunity to experiment and explore different forms of music. "We do it just for fun," he said.

With the addition of saxophonist Martin Fierro in 1974, the group transformed into the Legion of Mary and disbanded the following year. Mr. Saunders also played in Reconstruction with Garcia from 1979 to 1980. Garcia appeared on the 1990 Mr. solo album and video, "Blues In the Rainforest," a surprise hit on the New Age music charts.

After Garcia fell into a diabetic coma in 1986 and lost some of his basic motor skills, Mr. Saunders spent hours daily with the stricken guitarist running scales, working him out on jazz standards such as "My Funny Valentine."

Mr. Saunders' music appeared on such soundtracks as "Fritz the Cat" and "Steelyard Blues." He worked on the TV series "Nash Bridges" and, as musical director of the 1985 TV series, "The New Twilight Zone," inveigled the Grateful Dead into a new recording of the classic theme song.

He recorded numerous albums, toured constantly and earned a welcome spot in the post-Dead jam band scene. Mr. Saunders headlined the Haight Street Music Fair for 24 consecutive years.

After his stroke, Mr. Saunders' musician son, Tony Saunders, completed his final solo album, "Still Groovin'." The album featured duets with Bonnie Raitt and Mavis Staples. Huey Lewis stepped up with a lead vocal after Mr. Saunders was disabled.

In his first public appearance following the stroke, Mr. Saunders attended the September 2004 CD release party at the Great American Music Hall, and played a handful of notes on the keyboard.

Mr. Saunders cheated death twice before. On Sept. 11, 2001, he was booked to return to San Francisco on United Flight 93 out of Newark, but decided to take an earlier flight so he could get home in time to watch the 49ers on Monday Night Football. In 2002, he underwent surgery for cancer, only weeks before his stroke.

He is survived by his longtime companion, Deborah Hall; his sons, Tony of Martinez and Merl Saunders Jr. of Novato; daughter Susan Mora of Oakland; six grandchildren; and one great-grandchild.

A memorial service will be held at 11 a.m. Wednesday at First AME Zion Church, 2159 Golden Gate Ave.

Joel Selvin

Mountain Aire 1987

The frog's expression in this artwork has always bothered me. Can't exactly say why. The frog on the steal your face lily pad was in reference to an age-old Angel's Camp tradition, the yearly Calaveras Frog Jump.

Needless to say, we weren't there for the frog jump. The weather was blazing hot, especially coming from climate-controlled Santa Cruz county. Many fine friends were in attendance. My first husband and I took a little family road trip, with our two small kids in tow. Checked into our air-co hotel in Sonora the day before and off we all went to the show on Saturday.

We headed straight for the shady spot, where lots of families were hanging out. It was a mellow afternoon for my little family. Because the rules were always different when the kids were along. This meant shade, water, and kiddie earplugs, among other things. My boy had already been to about 5 shows, so he was easily acclimated. Baby girl needed to be held and danced-with. A lot. I happily obliged her.

The line-up was cool. The Grateful Dead did not typically have opening acts on the west coast. 'Mister Dave' Lindley and El Rayo X were a blast. Carlos tore it up(of course)-then played a few songs with The Dead. 'Midnight Hour' cooks. The Dead's setlist from that day follows this blathering, and I embedded the set below that. Chills, listening to it. Nothing new there.

So, back to 1987... We headed back to our hotel and lay low for the night. Apparently, we missed the big excitement in Angel's Camp. A lost deadhead girl climbed through someone's cabin window and went to sleep. The cabin owners came home and found her there. Like some trippin' Goldilocks. That summer was the beginning of the end of our excellent scene. The secret was out. Drunken frat dudes had arrived. I had already noticed the difference at Laguna Seca and the Greek that summer. Our little subculture was heading for extinction. It sure was good while it lasted though.

A year later, my husband and I were headed for a divorce. It too was good while it lasted. I've mentioned before that I always had a far easier time being a mother than a wife.

Grateful Dead~August 22, 1987

1:Touch of Gray>Little Red Rooster, Tons Of Steel, Friend of the Devil, Brother Esau, Tennessee Jed,When I Paint My Masterpiece, Bird Song, Good Morning Little Schoolgirl*, Midnight Hour* 2: Hell in a Bucket, When Push Comes To Shove,Estimated Prophet> Eyes of the World> Drumz>The Other One> GDTRFB> Throwing Stones> Lovelight Encore: U. S. Blues

*with Carlos Santana last "Schoolgirl": 09-19-70-David Lindley & El Rayo-X, then Santana opened.



Grateful Dead/Calaveras County Fairgrounds/Saturday, August 22nd, 1987