(34th in a series of) Stepping Stones "Kudos"

Song: You Got the Silver

Album: Let It Bleed

Re-released:  April, 1969

Note: I do get to the Rolling Stones eventually here.

On the flight back home from Washington D.C. this past Tuesday after a Monday meeting at USGS Headquarters, I looked up from the book I was reading (“Born to Run” which I highly recommend to anyone, not just runners) and glanced outside the window as the plane began its descent into Boston from the South.  On a clear day, there is no better approach-view anywhere than that of coming at Logan Airport along the South Shore, and on this day it was a beautiful sunlit morning, blue sky and ocean all around, the numerous Harbor Islands on the near horizon ahead.   My newly focused attention out the window was just in time to spot the unmistakable Scituate shoreline and its four cliffs.  I counted each from North to South, zeroing in on a particular peninsula of interest which included the southern-most cliff:  The beach-front village of Humarock. 

Ahh, Humarock; the scene of many a fantastic time over my lifetime from the age of 14 on, thanks to the family McDermott, and particularly my close friend Mac.  The most recent of these visits had been just this past week, and as the flood of memories from it came pouring back over me, I honed in on the village to see if I could spot Mac’s cottage.  Quickly I scanned way down the peninsula from the 4^th cliff.  There was the small bridge spanning the North River; the body of water which separates Humarock from the mainland.  Further downstream was the larger bridge, crossed numerous times over the years to get to our destination.  Now up the main road from the bridge:  Batch of houses, then woods, and then….cove!  Yes, the cove.  It was unmistakable even from the air, having looked out at it and the sunset beyond so often from the deck.  OK, now back up the neighbors narrow driveway from the cove, and there it was; the cottage, and just in the nick of time, as Scituate began fading from view and the farther northern confines of Cohasset and Hull loomed up ahead. 

Humarock began a great adventure for me this past week, which culminated with a surprise 50^th birthday party in Maynard, hosted by my lovely wife, Nancy.  Bob had arrived there with his family from France on Monday night, Mac present as always; once again stepping to the plate as host and master of ceremonies.  And with the arrival of Pat and Sharon on Tuesday from Ottawa via a vacation trek to New York City, reunion was in the air.  Interspersed throughout the week was 1) a grand-entrance visit from Joe on Monday night resulting in some classic discourse into the wee hours; 2) the Wednesday evening arrival of Nancy, Charlotte and Peter leading to 3) the lot of us heading to Falmouth on Thursday for a day on a long-familiar beach with Fred, Kip, Kelley, Lilly, Mom and Dad.

On Saturday, back in Pepperell, as most of the Humarock crew from that week sat in the backyard by the fish/frog pond dining on a great lunch prepared by Nancy (how she did this on top of everything else I do not know), I was alerted to the fact that something was in store for the evening.  No details given (and none understood):  Just a simple heads up to get in the car - and soon.  The tipoff was directly from my wife, and the look in her eyes as she told me said it all:  Cool, calm and collected, mixed with happiness; for me.  Nancy, Charlotte, Peter and I then piled in the car.  And on the Nancy-insisted, self-imposed blind ride down to Maynard, I repeatedly asked myself the question: What was I was in for?

Reflecting here now, I can answer that question:  The highlights of my life.

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Half a century.  That’s how long the Blob Squad has terrorized this planet.  This loose-knit gang-of-eight ruffians that I am proudly a part of have been hanging out together now for a, long, long, long time: Sand box days; pick up ballgame days; fishing days; fire cracker days, bonfire days; hiking  days; double-dating days; skiing days; road trip days; camping days; family-gathering days; Humarock days.  A real-life ‘American Pie’ (to catch an observation made by Bob last week). You name it, I believe we have been through it. 

The Blobs introduction into this brave new world of 50 and beyond began in May with a surprise party for Pete F, hosted by his brother Paul, at Fenway Park, back when there was still a glimmer of hope in the Red Sox season (in actuality, we may have been witnessing the beginning of the end that day: An 8-2 whitewash/thrashing/whatever-you-want-to-call it at the hands of the Baltimore Orioles).  Anyhow, thinking back, I believe I have been to all 5 of Pete’s birthdays which are divisible by 10. 

The party continued in July, a double-barrel Phil/Dave appreciation in Dave’s backyard.  I guess I’d still be sitting by the fire if Bec didn’t impose her will on me to get to bed (in hindsight, a good thing).  On top of these connections were 1) a great visit to Pete’s hideout in Vermont, and 2) a quorum of us in Humorock back at the beginning of last week (pre Bob/Pat arrival).  From this perspective, the gathering in Maynard this past Saturday was a continuation of a year-long celebration, which will conclude when Mac turns the fateful corner next February. 

We continue to pace ourselves on this Blob-athon.  Pace? … something unheard of in our younger days, but, well…times are changing.  Let’s all keep the geezer inside at bay though, ehhh?

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OK, on to the Maynard bash.  First off, I had a blast.  To do this though, I had to first accept the fact that if you are going to leave yourself open for something like this (which I did) than you have to be willing to play the part.  And so, the Mad Hatter hat designed by Joe was plopped on my head where it remained for much of the evening (with the dead-center photo of me in my young-teen years with a sweater on that made me look like I was auditioning for an episode of “Lost in Space”).  The giant “50” pin, a gift from Nancy’s Aunt Carol, was then secured on my clothing, where it too, remained.  I turned to Dave upon his arrival and stated “this is what you avoided”.  He laughed and re-affirmed having made this point clear to Becca months earlier: NO BIG PARTY SURPRISES.  Others have done this as well over the past few years, including Dale and Nancy.  I decided to take the path chosen by Mom all those years ago:  Roll with whatever comes your way.

Besides the great setting, the first thing I noticed when we arrived at the site was a poster: Pete Townshend, circa 1971, wielding/pole axing his guitar in the direction of his microphone with the scribed words “Bloody Hell, I’m Missing Pete’s 50th!”.  Wow.  I loved it.  Creative and insightful.  Madeline and Jeff, the closest of friends to Nancy and I (Madeline being there when we met) had put their stamp on the evening in many other ways as well, including preparation of the invitation, shown to me later, with a caption at the top which read: “We tried not to age, but time had its rage”, from Townshend’s The Sea Refuses No River.  Madeline, how did you think of that?  All in all, very, very, nice guys:  Thank you. 

Next thing spotted, the bad-haircut Pete lollipop photos at every table, the idea coming from Trish and her drummer-of-the-night husband Tony; good friends from home (and other than Carolyn, the only Pepperell invitees as Nancy's focus was on my longstanding connections).  Yow!  I remember those haircuts; slightly better than the ‘scuz’ cuts that preceded them at St. Mary’s, but still haplessly naive.   At the time I thought it was a fashion statement.  Now?  I still believe it was a fashion statement, but not in the same way I thought when I strutted my stuff way back when.  As for Tony, he and his band played the night away in classic 70’s fashion.  The sound was dead on, Joe joining in on a jam at one time, doing his best Clarence Clemons impersonation with one of the many blow-up saxophones scattered about.  Thank you Trish and Tony, and the band for a raucous evening.

I liked the fact that I got there early.  This allowed me to greet everyone as they arrived:  First Kay and Carol followed by Beth and Steve, then Pat, Ruth, and family, Jen, Dale, and then everyone else.  If I were arriving late, it would have been much harder to compose myself.  Getting there early gave me some time to get a bit on top of my game, so when, for example, Bruce arrived, I could harass him for having already turned the corner: “Your 50!” I laughed (his big day was 3 days earlier, mine not until this coming Saturday).  When the two Amy’s in my life (sister and niece) arrived at the same time, I could make note of the coincidence to both; when Bec and Dave arrived with Sara, I could point out to Sara that she was also there for my 40^th gathering in Humarock; when Mom and Dad arrived with the cake, I could enjoy the moment with them, looking at the photo of Dad and I almost 50 years earlier; and so on.

The cake:  Joe would get me to smash my face later in the night into one of the few slices remaining, a repeat of my bachelor party “Keith Moon” moment.  Not as funny or spontaneous this time around, but …. needed.  Before doing so, however, I secured the slice that had my baby face on it and worked my way around the face:  I could not bring myself to eat my former head.  And so, I left it on a table, wobbling like a bobble head doll.  Anyhow, seeing Mom and Dad walk in with the cake was the moment when I felt the party began, as is always the case when my parents arrive.  Later, Dad’s speech was the “icing”, a touching reminder of the strength of our family and the patriarch and matriarch at the center of it all (by the way, the only way I was going to get up on the stage that night was to thank Nancy and then apologize to Mom for turning 50, but I decided to save both for here). 

And then there was the memory box.  First, the box itself: Now I’ve seen well thought-out concepts in my lifetime (for example, “Steeves Trivia”, the Who’s ‘Live at Leeds’ original album extras of bogus bootleg material, The Knights who say “Ni”, GIS software, Quisp vs Quake, USGS topographic maps, DEVO), but this may just take the cake (not my cake, mind you).  It took multiple views to pick up on every nuance, though I’m not sure I’ve absorbed it all just yet.  Amy’s insights (with significant contributions from many of you) were, to say the least, brilliant.  Here’s a rundown, along with some explanation, of what I’ve observed thus far (you can skip the red text if you want to cut to the chase, but for those interested in details, I hope you find it worth your while):

Ø  The giant ‘Sniffinge’ hovering over everything (perfect print size - this creature of my youth. Pulled out of an Apple Jacks box sometime in the early 70s.  Sniffinge was one of a group of “Funny Fringes” { http://astronit.tripod.com/fringes.htm } of which I had most, but not all.   Believe it or not, I still have a handful of remains.  Who knew this guy was my favorite?  Was it Amy? Charlotte?)

Ø  “Fweep” (or for more accuracy sake “The Fweep”.  An unfortunate substitute teacher in high school who patrolled the library, often running head long into our verbal abuse – and taking it all good-naturedly)

Ø  Mamie (yes, the Bertone Mamie; a small, but heavy statue that sat outside that family’s home in the Little Italy section of Franklin for decades, yet occasionally would go missing.  Why?  Gaining notoriety in the Blob Squad after my having informed them that Dad occasionally serenaded him on my Sunday Paper Route {before I got my license, Dad trekked me around town on Sunday mornings}, we would heist him, set him up at the table for our poker games, then return him to the same spot the next morning before anyone noticed).

Ø  The Blob Squad (if I ever go to Grad School, I’m writing my thesis on this crew)

Ø  “Chapeau” (side by side with beer, the greatest Belgian contribution to mankind. Scary when played against seasoned veterans in the back alley haunts of Waterloo.  The term also reminds me of Mac’s favorite line when in French speaking regions: “Chapeau means hat, oeuf means egg”)

Ø  The Who (the band who rose Britain out of its “decadent ambient state” in the 60s and 70s)

Ø  “The Bootlegger” (with the only beer store within driving range locking its doors for the night right in front of our faces in Charlottetown, Prince Edward Island, Dale and I heeded the advice of a local, and followed him to an alternative source…. on the dark side of town)

Ø  “Smitty City” (I used to think the Smith family gatherings, which included more than 50 cousins, was normal.  A recent reunion at Rocky Woods Reservation found me a little more in the know)

Ø  Nicky (the term ‘old faithful’ had to be redefined after this dog showed what she was made of)

Ø  “Smile, Smile, Smile” (how many Dads would step out of their car every Sunday morning {on the aforementioned paper route} to sing this corny, yet weekly-played NPR song loudly and proudly?)

Ø  “Goldapalooza” (what you get when you unite the Steeves family for a week in Charlestown Rhode Island cottages to celebrate a 50^th wedding anniversary)

Ø  Block Island (Nancy as “Motorcycle Mama” on a rented moped, eight months pregnant with Charlotte.  Also, one of many places where I witnessed how cousins become friends for life)

Ø  St. Patty’s day at Kennedy’s (12 hours of Irish music, Dale, Captain Kangaroo, and St. Patrick himself!)

Ø  Eifel Tower (the look in her eyes said it all before any words came out)

Ø  USGS (an amazing history, impartial science, and the best job a guy could ever have)

Ø  “whale watching” (leviathans know more than we do)

Ø  “Canada” (my - other – home and native land)

Ø  Bobby Orr (a visit to Perry Sound Ontario with Nancy - and in the process meeting Orr’s shoe-selling big brother - reaffirmed for me the super-humble qualities of this man)

Ø  Celebrating the Rolling Stones 50^th (34 Stepping Stones and counting)

Ø   “Cake Face” (Again, my bachelor party: I’ve never seen Joe laugh harder)

Ø  “Bird Lady” (Amy and I took a Mac/Phil story about a trucker lady they used to listen to on the CB radio and ran with it…. much farther than any normal siblings would have taken it)

Ø  Jason (Joe, Dale and I took the image a psychopath with a goalie mask and chain saw and ran with it…. much farther than any normal siblings/in-laws would have taken it)

Ø  Cross Country (see Gem Music Video of the Week # 82)

Ø  The Beatles (see Gem Music Video of the Week # 89)

Ø  Lost in Space (beats Star Trek any day of the week….even the Carrot Man episode.  Moisture! Moisture!)

Ø  The Blizzard of ’78 (how do you get out of shoveling out of the worst snow storm of all time?  Break your leg)

Ø  “Sucker!” (Dad’s refusal to partake in a Christmas-lights Lee Campground tradition in the middle of August lead to a very funny exchange with a trailer neighbor.  How do you beat the Milky Way for a light show?  Sucker couldn’t think of one)

Ø  Pepperell (for those who made it to the ‘Covered Bridge Party’, life will never be the same again)

Ø  Comic Books (“Flame On”, “It’s Clobberin Time”, Defenders, Avengers, and X-Men.  Most older brothers read Dr. Seuss to their young siblings.  I took a different tact)

Ø  BOMGA, or ‘Benevolent Order of Maloon the Goon Antagonists’ (When Dad came up with this acronym for a Dean Junior College campus police harassing early incarnation of the Blob Squad -to round out my high school sample resume - we latched onto it like flies on doo doo.)

Ø  Ma Betti (freshman year spent off campus playing cribbage with my 85 year-old elderly landlady.  What more could a first-year college student ask for?)

Ø  Sister Mary Elephant (cousin Jack had this entire Cheech and Chong skit memorized in 3 days)

Ø  Wacky Packs ( ‘Bazooka Bubble Gum’, ‘Chock Full of Nuts and Bolts’, ‘Blunder Bread’, ‘Crust Toothpaste’ and a mind transformed from the world of baseball cards to ….. this)

Ø  VW Bus (days of driving with 7 of us on a handful of family vacations brought the crazy side out of Joe:  From punching bag to comedy sensation, virtually overnight).

Ø  Lady’s undergarments (a Bob submission I am sure, but not what you might think!  The guys in our Carleton suite started a tradition of tacking old underwear to our living-room ceiling.  After a time, we were being invaded by female night marauders, who tacked up many-a fancy ones of their own, making our ceiling much more pleasing to the eye by years end).

Ø  Double jointed (musical jaw, stiffened fingers, I had it all)

There’s more, but I have to stop there.  Needless to say, Amy’s creation is a masterpiece and a treasure; it will likely find a resting place on our new fireplace mantle within a month or two.  What was equally humbling however, were all the great notes inside the memory box.  A few snippets that hit me include:

Niece Grace: “It takes skill to host seven kids in one house for a night”

Niece Molly: “Raw pooah, with a touch of slaw” (funny memories referring to, what else?... farts)

Brother Joe: “When I copied you (when we were kids), it wasn’t that I wanted to annoy you.  I wanted to be you”

Bec and Dave: “Best Man.  Pete’s Tours”

Niece Abbey and her: “memories from day 1!”

Nephew Joe referenced the ‘Shroud’ stories I used to tell the cousins during their “Best Day Ever” gatherings.  Shroud was an evil manipulator with a mysterious dark cape; the cousins all had their own super powers, and found ways to defeat him, story after story after story.  Nephew Jack referenced our nature hikes, as did Madeline and Jen.  Bob connected me back with many Europe memories.  There were touching notes from Amy and Sharon. There was Sister-in-law Kathy’s note about the nasty bell bruise on my leg several Christmas’ ago (I believe what she was saying was “there’s more to this guy than meets the in-law eye”).

Fred cornered me late in the evening.  He stated that he had a speech to give in front of the crowd, but had changed his mind given the somewhat scattered atmosphere.  Instead he told me one on one, but first asked if I had a preference between Bob Dylan’s Forever Young and Neil Young’s Long May You Run.  I told him, yes I did, and that it was the latter; but only recently had I felt this way, primarily due to Young’s performance of the song at the Winter Olympic Games in Vancouver 2 years ago.  Anyhow, Fred’s paraphrased speech was awesome; weaving many of his thoughts through the meaning of Neil Young’s brilliant song (we were on the same page).  Several days later, he would forward me an amateur video of Neil’s performance of the song in Vancouver ( http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vfHKnBD1BhA ). 

The night played out perfectly.  Pete F took his customary spot as sentry, just outside of the light.  The kids played ‘Kick the Can’ and ‘Flashlight Tag’ up in the parking lot area.  Several fellow USGS employees represented the office with class.  A few surprise guests made their way onto the scene, including old friend Dana, and Bec & Dave’s Sara.  It was also great to see Kelley and Lilly; they’ve got a full extra-curricular plate these days I am sure:  Yet they chose to spend the night at the Maynard Rod and Gun Club with their old, appreciative uncle.  

As for the gifts, there was Pat’s masterful graphic-art painting quoting the Who (“See Me, Feel Me, Touch Me, Heal Me”) and Bruce’s signed ‘Mountain’ rock (see Stepping Stone # 9 for details).  The Bremner’s gave me an incredible bird house made from a selection of Maine tree breeds.  There was Fred’s framed photo of the two of us in the Canadian Rockies; there was Joe’s “50 years, 50 artists” homemade cd set; The Who tickets from half the family will be put to good use; Bro-in-Law Paul pointing out the primo location of the seats.  There were generous checks and gift certificates from Kay, John and Jean, Madeline and Jeff, Beth and Steve, Freddie and Kathy, and Nancy’s Aunt Carol.

Planning and overseeing it all was Nancy, and this took a lot of planning and oversight to pull off; emails, phone calls, location logistics, reservations, summer plans, invitations, band schedules, Bob’s schedule, cake, menus.  And all done in clandestine fashion.  It was truly above and beyond, and I’ll never forget it.  One of the most amazing things about Nancy is just how deeply she has woven herself into my life, including all the pieces that were in place before her arrival.  And so, she knows Bruce has a sister in Maynard (who was ill) who could have added an additional Bruce-centric element to the gathering; and she reaches out to faces that do not cross our paths on a regular basis (Kernell, Kurt, Steve V., Jeff S., Jeff, D., and Saiping, all who had summer-related conflicts or were too far to make it); and she knows Amy’s got the goods on my varied past; and at extended-family gatherings, she connects with my Mom’s sisters (Marge, Marg, Bonnie) and sister-in-laws (Pat, Shirley), and Dad’s sisters (Ann, Nineen) in ways I’m still trying to do;  You can only do all this with zero superficiality in your life:  Strip out all the baggage and you’ve got my wife of 21 years.

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You Got the Silver ( http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h2h3TlHcLY0&feature=fvwrel ) is a tender song, the only tune to come even close to that sentiment on 1969's 'Let it Bleed'.  It took eight Rolling Stones studio albums for Keith Richards to make his foray into solo lead singing.  From that point on though, Keef would add a solo lead-vocal touch or two (or even three) to virtually every Stones album.  Richards will never be remembered for his singing, and does not raise the bar by any measure of the term, but he does have what it takes.  You could say that, with You Got the Silver, he stepped his potential as a musician up a notch, reflecting the following symboloc meaning of the precious metal in the songs title:

Silver: This is symbolic of a subtle strength.  The message here is that we ourselves can be flexible enough to be molded into something better – but strong enough to keep our core integrity intact.

If Keith Richards, or anyone for that matter, measures up to this meaning of silver, it’s because of all those who play a positive role in our lives.  I was surrounded by those positive influences myself this past Saturday night in Maynard.  I left there a better person for it.

Thanks again to one and all. 

I’ll close out this week’s Stepping Stone with a few lyrics from three songs I heard this week.  There easily could be numerous other snippets from many other songs if I put my mind to it.  But this brain is about cooked at the moment, so I’ll take that as a hint that these lyrics below collectively just about sum it all up:

 “Long may you run, long may you run

Although these changes have come”

-          From Neil Young: Long May You Run

“The memories of a man in his old age

Are the deeds of a man in his prime”

-          From Pink Floyd: Free Four

“Hey Babe, you got my soul

You got the silver, you got the gold”

-          From the Rolling Stones: You Got the Silver

-          Pete

(33rd in a series of) Stepping Stones "Photographic Memory"

Song: Plundered My Soul

Album: The re-release of Exile on Main St (with bonus tracks)

Re-released:  April, 2010

Back when I was writing up the 100 Gem Music Video of the Week (GMVW) series over a two year period from 2008-09 (all entries preserved on this blog), a major focus of mine was the quality of the selected video.  As much as the songs themselves, the videos were a driving force; an inspiration.  Several times I actually skipped over a great song choice because I could not find a suitable video.  Many of the clips were from an official MTV-type release.  Others were of a live concert.  Every time it was a factor; and it remained a pledge of mine throughout to stay focused on that angle on a consistent basis.  This time around, with the Stepping Stones (and hopefully beyond), I realized early that to dig deeper into an individual band’s vault of songs, I could not keep the same pledge.  The songs have in turn become the sole driver, and the videos have been attached simply as a reference. 

That was until this week.  

This week I had several songs in mind, but nothing significant was stirring up in regards to what to write about any of them.  Then I started searching out video entries on YouTube for each and the eventual winner, Plundered My Soul, a bonus track on the 2010 re-release of ‘Exile on Main Street’ had a video made for it that was astounding; one of the best I’d ever seen. The video ( http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u6ZnmXrRUIQ )is a pictograph of the Rolling Stones in the ’72 period when they were at their creative best.  And not only does it show an amazing array of rare photos, it’s a virtual diorama, and done in an extremely insightful and thoughtful way. 

In watching it over and over, I knew there was something there that would inspire an idea, which finally came to me over the weekend, with the help of a convergence of sorts:  The arrival from France of old friend - and shutterbug extraordinaire - Bob.

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They say a picture is worth a thousand words.  If this is the case, then Bob has compiled a voluminous masterpiece, preserving a life of memorable moments in a way that few have.  As the years have rolled on, Bob’s old photographs have become more and more invaluable to his many friends.  His collage is often the first thing we track down when we visit him, as it all brings back memories of incredible moments in our lives.  In hindsight, Bob’s fascination with capturing the moment has been a great service to us all.

For me, the preserved memories are many; a broad brush stroke of great times had:

·         There’s the classic album cover-like photo of Steve, Tom and I at the entry way to Central Park after a ‘homeless’ evening in the Big Apple (see GMVW # 36):  A three-tiered snapshot, with me having climbed to the top of the upper stone wall, sitting there, Tom standing on the mid-level wall, and Steve sitting at the bottom. 

·         There’s the photo of me at the top of a mountain in the Swiss Alps, my feet just above a set of clouds, making it look like I’m floating on air. 

·         There’s the snapshot of a crowd of us outside of the Gladstone home in Ottawa, all ready to head over to the Panda Bowl; Bec and Dave’s earliest memory together. 

·         There’s Bob’s brother, Dave, in a canoe, which is barely discernible due to the improbable amount of firewood he had piled up into it to help stoke a campfire in the Adirondacks. 

·         There’s the picturesque view of Flam, Norway’s fjord, capturing the memory of a day trek to the top, and the mountain goat with the look in his eyes telling me I was crazy for likely being the only human that had ever come across his cliffy mountain home.

·         There’s the set of photos from Nancy and my wedding; much better than anything the official photographer was able to pull off that day.

·         There’s the magnificent warm-weather December day on Cape Cod, part of a road trip for the ages.

·         There’s the ‘stairs shot’ at the Waterloo memorial, Bob’s old hometown in Belgium: Nancy, Mac, Dave, Ed, Bob and I: Another one of these album-cover like photos.

·         There’s the group shot earlier that same week at a café in Montmatre, Paris, on the day I would ask for Nancy’s hand in marriage.

·         There’s the Humarock pictures from the many-a classic times had there.

·         And on it goes….

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How was Plundered My Soul, along with a handful of other songs on the 2010 re-release, left off the original album?  This number is up there with some of the Stones all-time best.  Oh yeah…. this was ‘Exile on Main St.’, produced during an extremely prolific period for the band: The collage of photos in the video bares this out.  ‘Exile’ was already a double album, but the re-release tells me that it could have easily been a triple.  Back in February of 2009, I wrote a Gem Video (GMVW # 60) about deep cuts and how they define a great album, perhaps even more so than the hits.  I also mentioned that you can go a step farther:  What was left off the album?  I used to think Bob Dylan and Pete Townshend had a corner on the market in this regard. 

Not anymore. 

The pictures tell the story. 

Thanks to Bob, I know the feeling. 

-          Pete

(32nd in a series of) Stepping Stones "Dispensing the Notion of Indispensability"

Song: I Go Wild

Album: Voodoo Lounge

Released:  July, 1994

By the mid-90s the Rolling Stones were not even in the least bit competing for air time on my various music players.  In fact, if the Beatles were left in the dust (which was pretty much where they were in those days for me) the Stones were in their dust.  I had moved on, now listening to a whole variety of other stuff, including a lot of R.E.M., some Joan Baez, Richard Thompson, Randy Newman, Leonard Cohen and Iris Dement, the Counting Crows, the Crash Test Dummies, plenty of Bob Dylan, and as always the Who and solo Pete Townshend.  There were other musicians competing as well, seeing as Charlotte was born in 1994.  In turn, the sounds coming out of our cd player got a bit gentler by including the likes of Raffi, John McCutcheon and traditional Bolivian music (though I can proudly state that Charlotte also got a good dose of Rock n’ Roll in her earliest years).  And so like Puff the Magic Dragon, the trailblazing bands of my high school and college years slipped into their cave; which is analogical speak for the back of my record bin.

The only thing that kept the Rolling Stones even remotely on my radar at that time was their live shows, which I attended whenever they made their way through town.  As stated before, the Stones rarely, if ever, tour without releasing a new album and with an itch to get back on the road the band hit the studio in early 1994 to produce ‘Voodoo Lounge’.  I purchased it right off and gave it a few weeks of intense listening, but after the tour hit the area, I back-shelved it into the same zone of the bin where their other albums were already collecting cobwebs.  I don’t believe ‘Voodoo Lounge’ saw the light of day more than once or twice until very recently. The re-listen, however, had me recalling what I liked about the album at the time of its release.  Heck, it won a Grammy that year for Best Rock Album.  It was a comeback of sorts, and the new producer, Don Was, had added a nice new touch to their sound.  In hindsight I just did not give it the time it deserved:  Again, too much competition in those days. 

The biggest reason for my ambivalence though was personnel related.  Just before ‘Voodoo Lounge’, Bill Wyman decided to quit the band after 30 years (siting an ever growing fear of flying and a downgrade in band creativity) and I became immediately jaded about the Rolling Stones without him.  For me, the karma was gone.  Membership stability, a Stones staple, was suddenly out the door, and this bothered me.  I know it bothered Keith Richards too.  But what could he do, end it all simply because his longtime bass man was leaving?  I pondered this some back then, and also recall thinking; what if it was Ronnie or Mick or Charlie or a combination of several that was packing it in on Keith instead of Bill?  Where was that tipping point at which the essential nature of the band could no longer exist? 

I had been challenged with this concept before on a number of occasions.  Now it was the idea of “what makes or breaks the meaning of ‘The Rolling Stones’ ” that I had to contemplate.  In other words, was anyone in this band indispensable?  For that matter, what is it that makes an individual in any group effort indispensable?

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I suppose I’ve always been a traditionalist when it comes to band lineups.  For example, years ago I refused to see “Pink Floyd” without Roger Waters.  At the time I shared Waters’ disdain for David Gilmour, Richard Wright and Nick Mason in their use of the band name without him.  Later, I’d also find myself blowing off ELO without Jeff Lynne and the Cars without Ric Ocasek.  How could these bands reunite without such immense key cogs involved?  To me it was like Crosby, Stills and Nash touring without one of the three of them, and keeping the band/brand name!  Sure I’d break my stance here and there, attending several Band concerts without Robbie Robertson and Richard Manuel, as well as the Allman Brothers without Duane Allman, the Grateful Dead without Jerry Garcia, and even a brief reunion of the Byrds without Gene Clark.  But in all these cases, the lost ingredient(s) was always in the back of my mind, leaving me to wonder during the shows what the given show would have been like if these founders, these true movers and shakers, were still there.

It took Zak Starkey to correct my jaded-view bias in 1996.   Up to that point, I’d seen the Who a handful of times without their legendary drummer, Keith Moon.  First there was Kenny Jones, and then Simon Phillips, each proficient in his own right, but neither matching the intensity or style of “Moon the Loon”.  I knew I was watching a tainted version of the band for years, and questioned their use of the name in the same way as I did all those others.  The difference with the Who, however (and maybe the Band) was that every original member was equally as incredible in their musical talent as the other.  Was this the boundary for me between someone being indispensable and another replaceable; the idea that if each and every individual brings an equal talent to the whole, they clear some type of hurdle when losing a part, allowing the band name to endure?  Was this the difference between the Who losing Keith Moon and the Rolling Stones losing Bill Wyman?

Back to Zak Starkey.  In 1996, Nancy and I headed to Madison Square Garden with Bec, Dave, Kurt, Mac and others to see the Who perform the entire ‘Quadrophenia’ (see GMVW # 22 for details).  This was the ultimate test for the tainted Who, as ‘Quadrophenia’ remains the standard-bearer instrument album for this band.  The drums are truly exceptional on the album, tapping into a prior unknown musical ability, along with the bass and vocals.  To me, the remaining lineup was now going way out on a limb to resurrect this sound down in the Big Apple.  There was no way they could meet our expectations without Keith Moon, was there?  At the same time, I was impressed that the Who were willing to give it a go, and so off we went to see for ourselves.

In a nutshell (since this is currently a Rolling Stone forum and not a Who forum) we were not disappointed.  On the contrary, I was blown away with the show, and the key to it all was Zak.  Ringo’s son had channeled his inner Keith Moon, something I thought impossible.  And he was not only able to do that, but was at the same time able to add his own touch as well.  The Who were incredibly the Who again.  I did not expect this.  This band would be thrown another curve ball in 2002 when John Entwistle died, but they were already able to do what I had never seen before:  Get away with losing what I determined to be an indispensable element.  The Who got me to reevaluating my belief system.  They got me thinking in a different way yet again, as they had done so many times in years gone by.   

And they got me thinking:  Is it possible for a band to carry on beyond all of its founding members?

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Darryl Jones was a suitable replacement for Bill Wyman; certainly not the same, but with Wyman and the Stones, this is much harder to feel out than the case I explained above with the Who.  The Stones are far more visceral; so much harder to pinpoint what makes them exceptional (I hope I’m doing some of the explaining this year, though).   Anyhow, the Rolling Stones got away with the transition to a degree.  They were able to endure, to release three more studio albums (to this date) and to launch out on a handful of mega tours.  The band was diminished in my mind, but still relevant, and justified in carrying their name and lips-logo forward.  For new fans, none of this seemed to matter all that much:  People from former Eastern Bloc countries were seeing the Stones come to their countries for the first time in the 90s and jumping on the band wagon.  The Stones were still the Stones in their mind (I experienced this myself just this weekend when I went to see Gandalf Murphy and the Slambovian Circus of Dreams at the Bull Run with Nancy and good friend, Jeff.  It was my first time going and what I was witnessing was a tight-knit band.  For Jeff, however, the loss of their longtime drummer was having an effect as the new percussionist was not quite up-to snuff).

Could there be such a thing as a never-ending band lineup?  Why not?  If a band plans correctly, it could overlap new members forever, much like what has been happening for decades now with the Allman Brothers Band.  The concept exists in other realms too.  The New York Yankees have endured as an iconic institution, with just enough overlap in their superstars to “pass the torch”:  Ruth to Gehrig to DiMaggio to Mantle, and so on.  On Saturday Night Live, it was John Belushi passing the torch to Bill Murray who passed it to Eddie Murphy and on to Mike Myers then Will Ferrell, Tina Fey and Kristen Wig.  This concept can happen in great bands, yes?  I’m surprised none of them have publically connected with this thought: The idea of an enduring legacy. 

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This weeks’ Stepping Stone I Go Wild ( http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3wdVdS8CmsQ ), is one of the best songs on the ‘Voodoo Lounge’ album.  Listening to it over the past week, I was thinking that Mick Jagger sounds like he really enjoyed singing it, as he takes the song to that next level that all great musicians seem to be able to do on occasion.  Later I read he very much did enjoy singing it. 

Yes, Jagger and the remaining Stones all sound almost indispensable when you listen….but ever since I watched Zak Starkey fill in for Keith Moon, I’ve known better.

-          Pete

(31st in a series of) Stepping Stones "The Homeless Lady, the Padre, and the Desert Cowboy"

Song: Dead Flowers

Album: Sticky Fingers

Released:  April, 1971

Joshua Tree National Park is a site to behold.  The massive area in the remote interior of Southern California includes the convergence zone of 2 of the USA's 4 desert types:  The high-desert Mohave and the low-desert Colorado.  Driving the 60 or so miles from North to South, finds you descending 4000 feet in elevation from one to the other, and in the process witnessing a complete transition in plant life:  Joshua Trees and smaller yucca dominate the landscape in the Mohave; cholla cactus and ocotillo thrive in the Colorado.  

Joshua Tree NP also includes a countless number of rocky outcrops, which are all-encompassing as you weave your way through the upper section of the park.  The outcrops come in a variety shapes and size, inspiring nicknames over the centuries, including Skull Rock, Cap Rock, and Jumbo.  These rock heaps and the park in general, have attracted people from far and wide.  Interestingly enough, a large number of the visitors come from other countries, as for whatever reason Americans are not as enamored as foreigners are with this national treasure.  One of these foreigners was Keith Richards, who got the inside scoop from one of his best buddies, Gram Parsons, back in the early 70s. 

Both of their presence was felt by me this past Monday as I toured the region with the family.  At one point, looking at Skull Rock and thinking about Richards’ skull ring, I looked over at Nancy and stated “I believe I have my idea for this week’s Stepping Stone”.

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Gram Parsons, a fascinating American musician who I’ve written about on a handful of occasions, including a Gem of his own (GMVW # 66) connected with Keith Richards on a number of levels.  One, unfortunately, was heroin addiction, which would ultimately cut short his life at the age of 27.  Richards would eventually get over his own addiction (a classic line in his book, ‘Life’ has him stating “I believe it gave up on me”), but he was in the throes of it for about a decade, likely starting around the period when the Stones produced the songs for ‘Sticky Fingers’ in 1971.  And the song on the album that most reflects this aspect of his life at the time is this week’s Stepping Stone, Dead Flowers ( http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BXlVpAPHdNs ).

Don’t let the upbeat sound of this song fool you:  Dead Flowers is heavy, possibly inspired by Richards’ darker memories at the time with Parsons.  The lyrics are a loose yet effective contrast between two worlds:  The highbrow society interests of an unnamed woman friend and the basement dwelling needle and spoon lifestyle of the songwriter himself.  This was what I was thinking about when I turned to Nancy in front of Skull Rock, and this was what had me thinking about my own world of contrast in the days leading up to our visit to Joshua Tree National Park.  The contrast of my world to a handful of others whose lives temporarily overlapped my own ended up rounding itself out even more over the ensuing hours, down in the remote – and unusually rainy during our drive through - Mexican border region of the Salton Sea.

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San Diego has something for everyone.  I’ve had the fortune of having visited now on four occasions, the most recent taking place over 10 days ending just this past Tuesday.  The first part of the trip was work related, attending the - at times overwhelming - ESRI Users Conference at the Convention Center downtown (17,000 people scurrying about from one session to another can do that to you).  The work aspect of my trip overlapped the play with the arrival of Peter, Charlotte, and Nancy on Wednesday afternoon.  They were able to join me at ESRI family nite that evening; Charlotte getting a good dose of GIS, a field she is showing interest in as she prepares for college in another year.  The next seven days played out wondrously: Sea lions on the rocks and in the caves in La Jolla; the orangutan against the glass in the San Diego Zoo along with the California condors perched high on their stand and many other amazing animals; the Spanish band in the secluded balcony in Balboa Park; a night on a yacht with Nancy’s longtime friend in the harbor; Old Town dining; Palm Springs; Coronado; Torrey Pines, and of course the aforementioned Joshua Tree NP.

Along with all this, however, were a few poignant moments of reflection after observing and connecting with several of the locals.  The first of them was a homeless lady. I stayed in Old Town just about the entire visit, and spent some time touring the streets in the evening and early morning. I kept on running into her, mostly before the family arrived.  She had a hard-times look about her; hunched, thin, unkempt, confused, and likely years older looking than her true age.  She was a reminder of my good fortune, and I made sure I connected with her, tried to understand her daily existence.  Beyond these encounters, however, I did not put much more thought into our brief moments of intersection …. that was until listening to the priest during Sunday Mass at Old Town’s Immaculate Conception. 

This past week’s gospel reading was the miracle of the 5 loaves and 2 Fishes.  I could have caught it anywhere, but something tells me I was meant to catch this particular sermon.  The padre, having only overseen the Old Town congregation for less than a month, was young, fiery, and intense.  We caught him at a good time and for the perfect reading.  After the gospel he paused for thought before beginning his homily.  He started by asking the congregation if any of us had ever dreamed of hamburgers.  After a mood-lightening moment relating to Wimpy of Popeye fame, he stated that there was a time in his life when he dreamed of hamburgers quite often.  The reason?  He was for many years a homeless person himself.  Wow.  Having pondered the thought of what this must be like over the days prior to this moment had this all connecting strongly with me.  The padre then continued by mentioning the homeless guy he talks with across the street from the church every day and another person who has stood on a corner in the same general area for years (he emphasized the word “years”), raising money for the poor.  He wrapped up his sermon in ways only a priest can, connecting back with the miracle of the loaves and fishes and the nourishment of faith.

The homeless lady.  The priest.  Worlds apart I was with both, but interconnected during my personal forays in a way that stuck, maybe even deeper than the work and play parts of the week.   Keith Richards explained contrast with another soul in song.  This tied in as well, giving me a template to work with.  There was one more unexpected piece of the puzzle, however:  The desert cowboy.

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Back to the Salton Sea > yes, it was actually raining there, this otherwise dry and desolate region. Heading back west on the only road (Rte. 78 to Julian) for many miles toward the mountain passes ahead we came across a rare event:  A series of flash floods cutting across the highway.  I’d never seen this and pointed it out to the kids.  One was still flowing over the road, a few feet deep.  We made it through and continued on another mile or so.  The next one though had left a 3 foot mound of mud in its wake.  This one was impossible to drive across.  There were at least 8 cars stopped dead in their tracks ahead of us, folks milling about and wondering what to do.  The mountain pass was just up ahead and tempting me:  Just another few miles to get out of the flats, the tumble weeds, cactus, and the ocotillo plants and into the conifer-dominated forest of the high slopes.  But now we were facing at least 3 hours of additional driving taking us first backward and then due South to the Mexican border (with no guarantee that we would not run into another flash flood).  I glanced to the right: A tow truck was stuck in the mud in an area just off the road as he had tried in vain to go around the mud.  A tow truck!  This was not a good sign.  Border patrol police were advising folks to turn around. 

Close to admitting defeat, I began talking with a gentleman, a local, driving with his wife:  Cowboy hat, cowboy boots; the whole nine yards.  He was yet another person a world apart from me, as there are not many more contrasting of landscapes and cultures in the country than Pepperell Massachusetts and the Salton Sea region.  He was willing to guide us along a dirt-road bypass, which cut off the main road about a mile back.  But his truck was a 4-wheel drive and ours a compact rental.  No guarantees.  We drove in about 100 yards, but it was soon clear neither of us were going farther when we encountered a large pooling of water.  We talked a bit.  I thanked him for trying to help us, and we turned around back up to the road.  Before heading backward, I gave the mud pile one last look.  2 cars were now completely engulfed in it; foolhardy drivers, but understandably desperate to make it through. 

Then I watched the desert cowboy cut just off the road back behind us and drive onto an adjacent dirt path down in the gully, flooring it as he went past us.  He made it through!  Yet it appeared he had a ways to go as we were told by the driver of a vehicle on the other side of the mud pile that there was another wash out up ahead.  We all watched the desert cowboy.  It was not until another 200 yards and several minutes later that we saw him bounce back up onto the highway.  He was on his way home.

Stubbornness set upon me.  I decided to go for it, try the same thing he did (with vehement verbal coaching from Peter and moral support from Nancy and Charlotte).  A few places, I got out of the car and cased out the situation.  It must have been similar to how the prairie travelers felt in their covered wagons 200 years earlier, crossing rivers and mud without bridges.  We got to the point where the 3-foot mud pile covered the road above, but now we were down in the gully.  Seeing that I was not to be denied, a border patrol officer called out and advised that I move through slowly, not follow the same fast-moving approach as the desert cowboy with the 4-wheel drive.  I agreed, tapping into my blizzard-driving sensibilities from years of driving back east. We plodded ahead… and made it! 

The hardest part was yet to come, though.  After passing the 2^nd washout in a relatively painless manner, we had to get back up on the road:  Straight ahead was a completely flooded area and there was no way of going through that.  I surveyed the immediate area, again on foot, and figured I had to ease onto the road at a gradual pace:  If I went straight over the hump we would bottom out.  There was no going back now.  I cleared out a few boulders in our way and then got back in the car.  A short prayer, and away we went.  Up, up, ….. and on!  Home free!  I’m guessing the crowd around the cars in my rearview mirror was clapping…..or maybe they were cursing.

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Dead Flowers was such a great song to see played in concert back in 1989.  On record, the song is about as close to singing in harmony as one will ever hear from the Glimmer Twins, and Jagger/Richards were somehow able to replicate their notes once more all those years later. Listening again to the song this week I was reminded of Kris Kristofferson in Sunday Morning Coming Down (“Well I woke up Sunday morning with no way to hold my head that didn’t hurt”):  Another song about contrasting worlds.  For Richards it was the contrast of the basement dweller and the socialite; for Kristofferson, the man with the Sunday hangover (he, himself) and the church goers. 

Yet are these worlds really all that contrasting?  In my case not so much.  I was able to relate to the folks I connected with last week in one way or another: The Homeless Lady, the Padre, and the Desert Cowboy.  We are all entwined: Human, living out our lives as best we can.  With a little effort, one can make connections with just about anybody.  The locals of Southern California were a strong reminder of this fact.

-          Pete

(30th in a series of) Stepping Stones "Alot for the Fey of Heart"

Song: I Am Waiting

Album: Aftermath

Released:  April, 1966

A few months back, Nancy, Peter and I watched ‘Rushmore’, a 1998 movie about the adventures of Max, an eccentric 15-year old, attending a private academy for teenagers.  Now when it comes to movies, I’m not all that easily pleased:  If I were a popular movie critic, I would have probably been knocked off by a producer’s hired gun at one time or another because I tend to put my thumbs down far more frequently than the Roger Ebert’s of the world.  But I liked this movie.  It was quirky, yet it captured some things very well, including the strong will of the main character.  More importantly it captured a unique spin on the innocence of youth which I am sure is hard to do for someone who is many years beyond that point in their lives (in this case, director Wes Anderson). 

‘Rushmore’ also has an incredible soundtrack, which frankly blindsided me; including the Kinks "Nothin' in the World Can Stop Me Worryin' 'Bout That Girl", the Faces "Ooh La La", and the live The Kids are Alright version of "A Quick One" (I couldn’t believe that one).  But what really caught my attention was a Rolling Stones song that I must admit I had not recalled hearing before.  The song was played in its entirety during a very well thought out and poignant sequence in the movie, which I will get to in a moment.  Clearly it was an early-years’ Stones song.  I loved it right off, and immediately thought it a perfect Stepping Stone.  I set the thought aside though, after determining that I had more investigation to do; not the least of which being that of tracking the title of the song and its place in Stones history. 

Last week I finally initiated that bit of research by first going to the ‘Rushmore’ web page and reviewing the soundtrack list to the movie. The song turned out to be I Am Waiting, which I soon discovered was on the 1966 ‘Aftermath’ album.  From there, I turned back to a trusted source during this now half-year process, that being a special 148 page edition of ‘Uncut’ about the Rolling Stones, published last year.  Among other articles, the publication includes re-reviews of each of the band’s 22 British-released studio albums.  The ‘Aftermath’ article, written by rock critic Rob Young, was a mixed review.  In it, Young points out that the Stones were still at that time releasing albums that included a few fillers, something the Beatles would never do. I’d have to agree with this key point, but having listened to the album now for a solid week, I can at the same time see that the Stones were beginning to distinguish themselves from the crowd in 1966 with well written and well performed hits, such as Paint it Black and Under My Thumb, as well as a few solid deep cuts such as Think and Goin’ Home. 

Young makes reference a few times in his article to this week’s Stepping Stone, I Am Waiting.  One point he makes is in his use of the term ‘feyness’ to describe it, while at the same time stating that the Stones would rarely if ever delve into this uniquely atmospheric sound again.  With this re-read of Young’s article under the belt, a few dots were beginning to connect in my mind.  From here I went on to You Tube, typed in “Movie Rushmore, I am Waiting”, and up popped the portion of the movie that unfolded during the playing of this song on the soundtrack ( http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WCKKSeNWkJQ ).   Since the sequence was so well done both musically and visually, a wave of my own youthful flashbacks hit me.  Rob Young had gotten it precisely right:  This song indeed has feyness.  It’s a mid-60s sound that not too many bands’ I enjoy have achieved.  Leonard Cohen is an exception, having pulled it off quite often, most notably in his song So Long Marianne.  The Who actually did it a decade later on Who Are You, which can be heard in the bridge to the song.  And the Rolling Stones pull it off here.  It’s the sound of nostalgia.  It’s the sound of youthful innocence.  It’s an otherworldly sound.

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A number of years ago, walking with Charlotte and Peter through my old Franklin neighborhood during a visit to my parents’ home, I challenged the kids to point anywhere and I would share a memory of my youth of that very spot with them.  And so they took me up on it, and over time we touched on a number of my younger-day experiences.  Below is an approximation of several of our many exchanges:

Charlotte:  “How about there, Dad” (pointing at an area just out front of a Dean College building)

Me: “In that corner, we used to make our way up on the roof to retrieve golf balls that we would hit onto the higher roof from the field beyond.  See how the higher roof is connected to the lower one by a steel rung ladder?  When we did this we had to keep a look out for the Dean Police, who did not want us up there.  On a few occasions they spotted us, and a mad scramble ensued.”

Peter: “Over there?”

Me: “That’s the Fitzpatrick home. I delivered there on my first paper route.  I used to keep a checklist of the dogs that accompanied me on that route, including my most frequent companions, my dog Nicky, and Phil’s dog Whiskers, who routinely met Nicky and I at a rendezvous location at the start of my route from his home 2 blocks away (with an impeccable sense of timing I might add).  One Thursday, collection day, Mrs. Fitzpatrick opened her door in response to my knocking, looked out on her lawn and saw 15 dogs behind me.  I recall her reaction being one of utter disbelief.  She insisted I stay put, ran back into her home, and took a photo of the group of us. No, I’ve never seen the photo.”

Peter (again):  “How about that barn back there?”

Me: “One summer, Bruce and I came up with the unusual idea of seeing how many barns we could sneak into and investigate.  There were so many large, unused old barns in the neighborhood, and it was often easy to crawl into a back open window.   It was scary but fascinating. That particular barn had a few old deer head mounts in a corner on the upper level.”

Charlotte: “Over there?”

Me:  “I remember when a significant part of downtown Franklin, that included Puritan Drug Store, went up in an inferno of flames.  My friends and I were hanging out on ‘The Wall’ when we heard the commotion from a distance.  I was on crutches at the time, having broken my leg a month earlier (another memorable story).  Everyone sprinted ahead of me, and so my hope that the crew meet at a common location when we got there quickly faded.  But good-friend Pete was a bit slower than the rest, so I was able to keep an eye on him, just catching a glance each time he went around the next bend (I was getting pretty good on crutches by then).  I remember going around that corner you pointed at early on in the sprint to downtown, seeing Pete, and just somehow knowing that I’d be keeping a bead on him for the remainder of the trek (which was the case).”

Peter and Charlotte:  “There?”

Me:  “That’s Mac’s yard.  I got pretty good at croquet there, but what I mostly remember is the kick-the-can nights.  Right there, a very large oak tree would cast a night shadow across the spotlighted field.  When you stayed completely in the shadow, you were practically invisible to the person who was ‘it’.  This was the surest way to make your way from the front to the back, which was a great area to launch an attack from.  Also, looking further back into the back field….the trees behind it had an amazing labyrinth of vines interconnecting them at the top.  Sitting up there on top of those vines was awesome:  A veritable super-sized crow’s nest for kids.”

Peter: “Up there?”

Me: “Those are the water towers.  You see the components of the towers broken up from top to bottom by connected steel drums?  We used to compete to see who could hit the highest drum in the chain with a rock or a chunk of asphalt.  The rocks would make a higher pitched tone the farther up you hit the water tower due to the level of water inside.  One day we were tossing rocks up there when we noticed, for lack of a better term, a local madman, shooting at us with a bee-bee-like pump gun from his 2^nd floor deck below the towers.  I was actually hit in the shoe.  We ran home to tell our parents.  I’m not sure how it all played out, but one of the results was us promising not to throw rocks at the towers ever again.  I guess the madman accomplished his goal.”

To this day Charlotte and Peter still take me up on that initial challenge, and occasionally I challenge myself.  Rarely am I stumped, and not just in the immediate neighborhood, but other parts of town.  For example, when taking the King Street route to Amy’s, I usually spot the former home of one R. Shores, who never once tipped me for the first handful of months during my Sunday driving paper route.  Early in this job, I did not have my license and so Dad would selflessly do the driving.  Picking up on the lack of a tip, Dad had me write notes attached to the newspaper stating things like “A penny saved is a penny earned”.  Before long, I was getting generous tips from Mr. Shores. 

And then there was the location on the Dean Field where we would play pickup baseball games:  Frequently short on fielders, Phil’s aforementioned dog, Whiskers, would occasionally fill in at shortstop, making amazing stabs of line drives with his mouth.  There were the train-track hiking discoveries with Dad: giant praying mantis, walking sticks, salamanders, lady slippers, and the like.  Dad again, hosting pickup football games, punting the ball and stating things to Mr. Bonolo like “That’s about as high as a kick as you would have seen from Harvey Shmeltzsticker”.  At Dean Junior College alone there were so many memories: There was the circus in the field; the Houdini character in the gym; the parachutist miscue, also in the field; the Mickey Mouse masked female streakers slicing a path between Phil and I as we cut across the campus one early evening; there was the fight with a bully (3 year’s older than me) not far from that same spot several years later.  Downtown also, so many memories: Vargin’s Market, Newberry’s, Kearney’s Drug Store, Jimmies Penny Candy Store, and the News Store.  Each location host to a flurry of thoughts: Wacky Packages, Slush Puppies, Fribbles, comic books, coin collection exchanges, lime ricki’s, creaky wooden floors, pinball, Fat Albert miniatures, sneaking into the loft areas and roof tops of vacant buildings, making friends with the employees, Big Butch, Joe Yoder.

And the list goes on.

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This all brings me back to that poignant sequence in ‘Rushmore’ with the otherworldly sounds of I Am Waiting playing in the background (by the way, can anyone explain the scene at the beginning of the attached clip when the tree collapses with Bill Murray’s character watching?  I have a few theories but welcome input).  Feyness can probably be related to many things, but ‘Rushmore’ really captures the essence of it here.  The days of your youth can feel millions of light years away at times.  Life’s experiences can separate you from it, not simply in terms of time, but also in terms of state of mind.  There is no going back, unfortunately.

But this week, I got as close as I am likely ever going to get again.

-          Pete