Sojourn to the Berkshires 3, Last Day (kind of)

 Okee dokee. At the moment I am in a beautiful hotel room in Missoula, Montana, having hugged my son and daughter-not-in-law-but-so-for-real for the first time in a year. My lovely soul-mate is sleeping in the king-sized bed behind me, and I am up after being comatose for nearly 12 hours to (begin to) get caught up after a challenging mess of a set of flights home from Albany.

What happened, you may ask.

I may answer.

Friday morning Jimmy came by the Fairfield Inn and we took the Purple Charger to breakfast. Or we took ourselves to breakfast. A skip and a jump up the highway to the Rio Café we went. It's a cute little place with a back lawn hosting well spaced picnic tables and we took one, chatted about the play and life and family, just enjoying one another's company. It had been 7 years since we had been geolocated and it felt so, so good to be with him. And it had been around 42 or 3 years since we had met as young men in Alaska, becoming fast friends who have stayed in touch along our meandering paths through lives. I love him and trust him completely. 

After a tasty breakfast, I took a selfie. This is us, together and happy. 

Two old friends at Rio Cafe

We hugged goodbye a couple times in the motel parking lot, bid each other see-ya-later, and he drove away to his next rehearsal. I had already checked out and minutes later I was on the road northwest to Albany. I called Lee Ann and chatted a few minutes. She was elated to hear that Seamus was home from the hospital, beginning to recuperate after his two latest brain surgeries and The Virus (that's all I'll say but it was a challenging few days for my brother). I told her that since I had several hours before the flights home (an optimistic assessment), I was thinking about spending one of them at the Turn Park sculpture garden, an attraction along the way. but as we spoke I encountered a sign that said "Berkshire Botanical Garden" and quickly came up on it, turning into the entrance. That's my favorite way to travel, friends, making it up as I go. Like life, you know.

I took a number of photos during the hour I enjoyed strolling through the gardens, but I'm going to save some blog-time here by sending you to the Garden website photos, which are generally mo' better than mine. I do like this pano though, so click on it to view it larger and scroll it, then click here to see the official pics. 

Berkshire Botanical Garden

I was sweaty enough after an hour or so enjoying this beautiful set of gardens so I returned to Purple and hit the road. In Albany, I returned him and got inside through security uneventfully. I figured I would have a beer or two over the next few hours and grab a salad. 

I found my parking spot before flying home!

I spent a couple hours working on my previous post and ate a bad salad with undercooked chicken which I scraped toward the side of the plastic go container, along with two 20 oz. local draft beers, and headed to my gate at the appointed time. On the way, my phone vibrated.

What? 

In a nutshell:  Look here, there's a message from American Airlines that my flight has been cancelled. I rushed to the gate counter and sure enough, it had. No line before me, I approached the harried but really helpful service counter attendant and after some discussion of alternatives was booked on a new flight to Nashville, not through connecting flight to Chicago, but to Charlotte, North Carolina. And not arriving that night, but flying out at in an hour or so and out of Charlotte at early AM the next morning. I grabbed my phone and found a room at the Hampton Inn at a sale rate (what a deal--not subsidized by AA and costing me 250 dollars and tips for shuttles and grabbing me oh about 4 hours sleep before grabbing a Lyft another unexpected expense, at 5 a.m. to get boarded for home. The flight to Charlotte was half hour late but hit the sky, in an hour or so hitting storm turbulence that elicited at least one scream from a passenger. Perfect. 

I called the motel upon landing and barely caught the last shuttle, got into a weird suite at my ersatz bargain rate, hit the 7-11 next door for a turkey sandwich, a breakfast sandwich to micronuke the next "morning," (it already WAS morning by then), wolfed down the first, drank a canned margarita and half a liter of water, laid down on the giant bed, and did not move until my 4 a.m. alarms went off. I showered, dressed, inhaled my bad microwaved 7-11 breakfast sandwich, and raced down to my Lyft, which got me to the church on time. I had no bags to check and things went well at the airport so up in the air I was.

Let me hold forth a bit about COVID-19. I am quad-vaxed. I wore a KN-95 mask on my trip anytime I was anywhere in close proximity to strangers. I was never harassed about it, only got a few demeaning looks from others, and hated the claustrophobic feeling of the hot breath for hours at a time. In airports, I was in the fairly small minority of folks doing that, but I did not give a hoot. I'm pretty sure I do not have COVID. Enough said.

Lee Ann picked me up and home we went. I went straight to bed because we were flying at 5 something the next morning, bound for Montana. 

I'll consider this the end of my Berkshires trip, and a memorable one it was. Will I continue this blogfest with descriptions of my week-long trip to Montana? Maybe. We'll see. 

Sojourn to the Berkshires Day 2 -- some walks, a dinner, and a play

 OKAY! I'm in the Albany NY Airport, and I've found a perch at the terminal walkway bar table  counter, on a stool with a nice draft local hazy IPA beside my laptop. I have 3 1/2 hours before my flight to DC boards, but I did save a little $ on Bruno the Purple Charger by getting it in a bit earlier than the reservation. 

Yesterday morning I slept in until around 7, grabbed a decent and filling "free" breakfast in the motel lobby, then drove out to the theater to make sure I knew where I was going when I had a curtain time to honor. It's a good thing, because pulling out of the parking lot I went rogue on Waze directions and found a shortcut that bypassed all of the roadwork that slowed down my drive there. I made a note to go out without cell phone directions and to turn on Tacatonic Road to get there that evening. That night, after the play, I drove out at waning dusk onto the road bordered by fields of high wild grasses and lit by more fireflies than I have ever seen in one place. I almost pulled over to video, but decided to save the image in my old brain instead. 

As I have shared before, my mantra is "I am good, I am well, I am healthy I am Happy I am whole." Yesterday I changed this to "Healing Seamus Seamus Healing" and will continue utilizing that for the immediate future. He is healing and he is home from the hospital as of last night, but I figure anything I can do, you know, on the spiritual plane... The benefit of this tack, as opposed to praying, is that no deity, no higher power, needs to hear and respond. I am certain it is at least as effective. After all, if there is one God, she must be checking those mantras, right?

Okay, I'm getting all non-linear again. Jimmy and I talked about that at breakfast this morning. He cam to the hotel and we took Bruno ("because your car is cooler") up less than a mile up the road and ate outside at the Rio Cafe. Really good stuffThanks for breakfast, buddy, if you're reading this. Who is linear anyway? "Oh, there's a dandilion. Oh, that thing I did in high school." Right? But. That discussion was today, and we were talking about yesterday.

Let's pop in a picture to break things up, shall we?

After breakfast see ya later hug at the Rio Cafe

Okay then. After leaving the theater on my scouting mission, I hit downtown again, and found a place to park at an entry point to River Walk, an attraction that came up early in my searches. It was attractive enough, and everyone needs to see it, but it turned out to be only maybe a city block long. I took some video along the way, and a couple pics--note the two of a dark barn with a bright little something in its darkest region, then the close up. Class, folks, that's class. I wish I'd got a pic of the road-facing wall of the building. It's just an old barn with two big doors and nothing else, but I can imagine families starting here, on a cool fall night with the disco ball fracking the room.

I walked the little downtown, saw some cute shops, refrained from buying art at some really inspirational studios, took a pano from a corner, and noted the location of The Well, a restaurant and bar I had my sights set on for the next night's preshow dinner. 

Okay again. First little thing after my scouting and my Riverwalk aside was to head up to Housatonic Flats. I pulled into the parking lot with only one more car there. It's been quiet in GB during my stay. Jimmy says they are getting big weekend tourist hits, but luckily my stay was Wed-Fri. Here's Bruno at the trailhead. I was hoping it was a bit longer than a city block. But, it calmed me down nicely. 

Bruno the Purple Charger at the trailhead

I checked my shoelaces and hit the trail. 

Trailhead at Housatonic Flats

Flats sign with explanation. It's a buffer, ya'll.

Trailhead sign closer and clearer

First bench stop with an aside trail to the river

Two dandelions

Pano at the river, click to enlarge-o

I just liked the color here and think it might be fun to paint

And a video... Ducks, ya'll...

It was a quiet, wonderful walk. The trees are taller, older, up here, I think. And the tall wildflowers grow taller before they dry and turn to seed, as they are doing in Tennessee as I type. I just cut mine down in my little back "yard," though I really enjoyed the Queen Ann's Lace and the tall clover that I let run out its time in my "meadow," as I like to call it.

I drove back to the motel and after an hour in the pool with an intervening hot tub soak (excellent power in those jets, Fairfield Inn by Marriot). I took a nap. I got into my nap by meditating on my new mantra, "Healing Seamus Seamus healing." With the help of a phone alarm (I left my iWatch charging at home. I hope it's good for it) I got up, showered, dressed, and drove.

At the Great Barrington Community Theater, Bard College Daniels Cultural Center (say that three times really fast), I parked and moseyed inside, where my ticket was awaiting me. I jacked into the play, which I thoroughly enjoyed and believe is going places, but will not review here. No photos were allowed after I took this one 

of a couple audience members (Sandy and friend, as I found out later) awaited the dimming of the lights. Turns out it was a preview performance with opening night tonight (as I write from the airport). There were only about 20 of us in the small theater audience. That's all good. It was spectacular, and intimate, and I enjoyed emersion in the world I only peripherally experienced. Jimmy called me the day of the diagnosis. I remember it so clearly--I was helping a kindergarten teacher, Mary McCullough, set up her classroom printer and begged off that to go to a corner of her bright, welcoming, kindergarten classroom to talk and to weep a bit. I do that, and it was certainly all right to do that day. From my perspective as a retired human person, I now know that the right thing to do was to fly out there. I did not. I wish I had. Jimmy and I have talked over the years, and I didn't get far from Seamus's recovery, but neither did I really get close to it. Regrets. And healing, which this trip generated, at least a little.

"Leave your Fears Here" is  a "Rememberer" play, a Father play, and a play everyone should experience. I got to meet both Robert Egan and Michael O'Keefe, sat next to Michael for the preview performance. More on all that later. 

That's freakin' it! I'm ready to fly om the morning. I am ready to be home. I love you, Jimmy. Keep plugging into that impressive piece of writing you've created and bringing it alive. You are going to awaken a whole new audience to this kind of journey and its kaleidoscopic complexities and contradictions, and to your beautiful son, to your beautiful soul mate, and to your beautiful self. I love you.

Poetiscape with Rich Ferguson featuring James Morrison!

I really really enjoyed listening to this one-hour podcast by Rich Ferguson, with whom I had the privilege and joy of playing musical accompaniment for a yoga class one fine Saturday afternoon in Los Angeles several years ago. I have also enjoyed Rich's recently published poetry collection, 8th and Agony, which I purchased as an ebook a week or two ago. I have followed Rich's work since that day we met, friending him on Facebook and enjoying his regular sharings of his talented work there.

The yoga class was being taught by my dear friend James Morrison, whom I know as "Jimmy." I was in L.A. visiting him after riding up the coast on a double-decker train from a conference in San Diego, visiting him and his son, Seamus, and the beautiful woman of the family, Riad. Rich's guest on this interview podcast? Jimmy!

If you ever watched "24," you will recognize the voice of Bill Buchanan. Just listen:

New Books Podcasts with rarebirdradio on BlogTalkRadio

And you'd be well served to purchase the DVD version of the film they talk about in the beginning of the podcast, "Showing Up," now available on iTunes. Rather listen to the boy's music? Get "I Broke Free" from Son to the Boy and "Son to the Boy" from James Paige Morrison.

You're welcome.

Undercurrent of Blessings

It's Sunday morning as I prepare to re-enter the workaday world after a fine ISTE conference, a relaxing weekend fishing with my brother Ed, then a week at home catching up with writing, hanging out with family, and prepping a cubic yard of cables and archaic tech gear for next weekend's yard sale. I'm ready for it.

Kind of surprisingly, I miss my team at MNPS Virtual School and I am very much looking forward to the hard work ahead as we address the closure of Summer Success 2013 and the beginning of the 2013-14 academic school year.

As I prep for re-entry, I've been listening to some of my dear brother (from another mother) James Morrison's music on YouTube, as well as his "Son to the Boy" CD, and in doing so I stumbled across a lovely little interview he did a couple years ago for  a YouTube series called "The New Media Artist." It's worth a watch, both because it's Jimmy, and because his musings remind us of some important things. Watch

Son to the Boy Interview

My dear brother-from-another-mother Jimmy Morrison (he's one of the only people left who call me Scotty), mostly known as James, was featured in an interview at LA Canvas blog, and I think you should read it. The last line is something that goes a long way toward explaining why artists make art:

Interviewer Jacob Rohn asked him:

"JR:  What is your ultimate goal?

 He answered:

"JM:  Any kind of music has to be supported by playing live.  I’m working to put a band together and play a few shows.  But ultimately, music lives inside you, it’s up to you, the artist, the make sure that it doesn’t die inside you, cause just like anything else you can’t take it with you."

My dear departed daddy used to sum it up this way:

"Ain't no pockets in them shrouds." 

...although I must say he was talking more about his inability to save money and his great talent at spending it, whether it be on his family or his mistress of 20 years, than about creating art. But that's another story. This one, especially the public statement of my godson Seamus's victory over brain cancer, is well worth a read, and the music it describes is indescribably beautiful. Of course I'm most fond of "Lifeguard Girl," with the airy and mellifluous addition of my lovely daughter Miranda's voice weaving through its wry lyric so perfectly that Jimmy ended his recording with an instrumental version of the song as respite, replete with Miranda's voice as instrument. Go get it all at CDBaby or iTunes. Now.

My Gift Vacation, Journal Conclusion

My Gift Vacation, 2

May 24, on the plane ride home:

Wow.

I leave Hollywood not a star, but with memories of events and sights that have renewed my spirit's shining.

First and foremost: Seamus. The boy is a gem. He is holy. He is of course affected by the events of the past year, the appropriation by cancer of the 10th year of his life and likely much of the 11th. The tumor, the surgery, the long pull back from the resultant loss of speech and control of his right arm and leg, the healing, and then the repetitive series of chemotherapy and recuperation--serial attacks and recovery--bombarding his physical being. Jimmy showed me a picture of Seamus before his most recent round of chemo and since due to low blood numbers he had gone four weeks between treatments his hair was coming back in and he looked content and untroubled, and Jimmy said he was getting his voice and his walking gait back and then...the drugs were administered again and the voice returned to its little boyness, the gait again a little uncertain, hesitant, uneven. His first step out of the door on Friday morning, I watched him favor that leg and foot, thinking hard, being careful. That carefulness will serve him well in the months to come. His final chemotherapy takes place in August and then, all things equal, the real recovery can begin. I watch for it filled with the words on the rubber bracelet Jimmy gave me that says "SEAMUS MORRISON 24 LOVE*HOPE*FAITH."

Seamus is at times almost otherworldly, though of his parents deeply. Deep in a way that is sometimes uncanny, and in a way that reflects his father's introspective nature but can actually surpass it. Jimmy's mental muscles are informed by events, beliefs, relationships of his past. Seamus has far less of the world to draw upon but also far less of the world to get in the way. He thinks about and comments upon the essences of things. I am glad he is with us--discovered by the kind of people who make martyrs of golden souls, he might have been taken and capitalized upon. As it is, he is surrounded in his recovery by a rich community of creative, thoughtful, centered, and caring people (the adjectives could go on and go on) who will form the crucial scaffold that will enable his recovery. This awareness of his support system is the most valuable gift I bring home.

Here's a few of the pics I took over the weekend:

This year has taken its toll on my much-loved brother-from-another-mother and his much-loved wife. Only now are they getting back to the amazing vital work of their film, "Showing Up: A Documentary About The Audition." I know "The" shouldn't be capitalized, but for this project I submit it should be. Mark my words: This movie will be an award winner. You can get a taste of the intensity of the work at showingupmovie.com.

I left off the last post with the comment that I would be going to a recording studio on Friday night. Words can't really describe how much fun that experience was. I met Jonathan Baker, the charismatic producer and an artist in his own right, who welcomed us to his home right off Sunset Boulevard, shepherding us to the carriage house out back, where his tidy and fully packed recording studio, replete with grand piano, "just tuned today" sat awaiting the fingertips of Alan Okuye; and where Jimmy's record , as he put it later, was to be raised up to the next level. Jimmy's introspective and spot-on myopic (surprise) examinations of the human condition, originally accompanied only by clean and masterfully performed solo acoustic guitar, had already been stepped up into something else by drums and bass provided by Rich Mangicaro and Larry Taylor, respectively, of Don Henley and Canned Heat experience, respectively, and Jimmy was not sure just what he wanted, only that he wanted Alan. That proved fortuitous.

Suffice it to say that the session lasted from around 6:30 pm to straight up 2 in the morning, and that every minute was time well spent. Alan comes most recently from playing tour dates with former Men at Work front man Colin Hay. He's a quiet, unassuming, self-confident keyboard genius. And Jonathan, oh, Jonathan, is a bundle of creativity in his own right. Headsetted, bouncing barefoot in his office chair, he played ProTools like a virtuoso, asking for retakes, revisions, and re-imaginings that he will remix into magic by the time the project is complete. At some point, it is Jimmy and Jonathan who will decide that: The project is complete. Jimmy's record title may be "Your Name Cannot Be Blank" and it may be something else, but if you are thoughtful and appreciate brilliant musicianship--which is the "next level" Jimmy did not imagine but to which his music has now been taken--you will love it.

I got up Saturday and took a jog, just as I had on Friday morning. Those of you who know me know that I've been step-machining nearly ever day since a physical about two years ago told me I needed intentional cardio, and since that little sucker is heavy, I could not pack it, so I decided to try running whilst in Hollywood. Well, not running. My knees and back are not in favor of running. Jogging. I know I look foolish, bouncing along with tiny stride, Nashville School of the Arts ball cap backwards on my head, headphones in (I listened to Rush the first morning, then to no one the second morning, then to our yoga lesson band--more on that in a bit--Monday morning, took a break on Sunday). After showering, I joined the Morrisons for an omelet and company.

At around 11:30 we packed up a bag of Jimmy's percussion instruments, my mandolin, and we took off for Yogaworks, where I would join Soul Katuu, his regular accompanists, for an hour and a half of the funnest improvisation it's been my pleasure to share in years. Jimmy teaches regular weekly classes there. I got barefoot, made my way through the large studio packed with students (the count was 54 in the class that day) to the far front corner, where Butch, Kalani, Noelle, and Rich were already stationed, drums and instruments sprawled about them. I introduced myself and thanked them for sharing the opportunity with me, then set up my own little station. I set out my old Dell Axim to record. Unfortunately it flaked out and stopped recording after only 36 minutes, but I did manage to pull out three pieces of the maybe 8 or 10 we improvised that morning. I plan to upload them to my scottmerrick.net webspace and share them soon. It's really nice stuff, and I am honored to have been accepted to play, though since as Kalani said, "Oh, you're James's brother," it may not have been possible for them to refuse the Master's request. In order from left to right, nearest to me to farthest away, I'll describe them briefly.

Butch Norton (you MUST see this youtube video) is drummer for one of the sexiest Americana singers on the planet, Lucinda Williams. He's burly and beautiful, cowboy hatted and bearded, and he is a master of beat. My favorite memory of the day is when I picked up a little percussive phrase he was laying down and pre-echoed it, repeatedly, and looked up to see him smiling and nodding. Jimmy recently quoted Neil Young as saying that he most enjoyed playing music with players who didn't care if other people thought they couldn't play, they just played anyway because they love to do it. I guess I'm one of those. Listening back, I realize that I missed the beat at times, and there's one horrible moment (in a piece I didn't render to .mp3) where I'm trying to figure out how a cobalt blue metal tube works. Turns out what I thought was a clapper is really a mallet. Go figure. But the noises I produced were not actually what you might call "musical" as I hung it out and let the mallet handle strike it. I'm a musical buffoon, but I am not afraid.

Kalani was gracious and at one point indicated from across the way that he'd like to see the blue tube, hence removing the offending tool from the hands of the stumbling apprentice. His work on ukelele forms the foundation for the string piece that I will always be proud of, where I played some beneath-the-bridge tinkly mandolin and found some nice little single string phrases that helped the momentum and color. I was playing single string only, and very tentatively, in part because one of my strings was slightly out of tune and so I favored the in tune ones. Kalani's wife Noelle, a beautiful brunette with a MacNally strumstick (I have one at home:), various percussive instruments, and the voice of an angel, sat next to him and they often vocalized enchanting harmonies that imparted a smooth spirtual vibe to the music.

Rich Ferguson sat on a stool farthest away with congas, and he played them sensitively and right out front, obviously comfortable with the little band and perceptive about the needs Master James harbored at various stages in the session. Rich is a Spoken Word artist with a vibrant career and also performs as a 5th grade teacher, known to his students as "Fergie," in the LA public school system.

We drove home, hung out a bit, saw some more of Riad's masterful cuts on Showing Up, then drove up to Sunset Boulevard to Amoeba, a huge record store, the Walmart of used vinyl and disk. We went back again on Sunday for a bit, since I hadn't gotten upstairs. To give some background, I have a modest vinyl record collection, a "complete" Beatles section and a couple hundred or so choice records that have informed the musical soundtrack of my my life. I truly think some of my Twitter followers are there not for my educator's credentials and track record, but in order to see what I'll be listening to next as I move through the unordered vinyl in my workout station day to day. I may listen to Madonna "I Can Dance" on Wednesday and be pumping cardio to Steve Goodman's "Unfinished Business" on Thursday. This collection is rejuvenated when I travel, as I make it a habit to visit used vinyl meccas in my travels. Last year in D.C., for example, I hit upon a rare Beatles vinyl issue of their Hollywood Bowl live performance, pressed in Japan, at Smash Records and added that to my collection. At Amoeba, I struck gold in a French issue of The Beatles, in a clear jacket with "Les Beatles" cover emblazoned on the record itself, and the album track info and credits likewise on the B side. I don't know that I'll even take that one out of its sleeve! The Fab Four on the cover are horseback, in a completely counter-intuitive and oddly unsettling depiction of English riding, something that may have seemed like just the right thing for the French record designers but which just freaks me out. Fun! I picked up an Aztec Two-Step record that I used to have but have lost or misplaced in my moving about and a couple Amoeba tee-shirts, one for Colin and one for me. I also got a fun Jethro Tull I haven't seen elsewhere.

We went out to dinner Saturday night to a local Greek place, le petit Greek, and the food was great, though the company was better. Seamus was charming and hungry, two of our favorite things for him, and his mirthful laughter as I insisted on calling his Orangina "Georgina" left me beaming with the pride of accomplishment.

Frozen yogurt after (laughter about the odd way the dark chocolate mint flavor issued constipatedly out of the self-serve pump), home, then cigars on the back porch. Jimmy and I dug deep, in a conversation that may have left an onlooker either confused or disdainful of our pretensions to understanding the meaning(s) of life. Good thing there were no onlookers. I had intended to get to bed early, but it was around 2 o'clock again when I finally turned off the light in the casita. I slept like a baby, just days before I was scheduled to leave my 50's and enter my 60's. Sheesh, time flies.

On Sunday morning I slept in until 8 or so and decided to give me old bod a break. No jogging today. My legs were sore from the repetition of impact running, even jogging, inflicts upon them. Nothing strained or broken, though, so I consider my jogging a success, as well as proof that I can follow that regime in Denver every morning before taking off on public transit to the ISTE Conference. I moseyed into the house to find Rich Ferguson at table with the biggest muffin I ever saw. He was there to tutor Seamus in academic skills. The boy has missed a bunch of school, and his parents are keenly aware that he needs help and finding the best support they can find to provide it. Seamus played "Blackbird" for us on the piano, and I made myself scarce to let the academic work proceed.

Later, after I had taken a righteous hour alone in their high-infrared sauna, we played Wii Beatles Rock Band. What FUN! I know what's going on my Christmas list. How cool to challenge yourself in fine motor response while immersing yourself in laughter and the Beatles' music. I was the weak link, of course, picking the "Easy" level every time, whether playing guitar or drums (didn't do vocals, because I was enjoying Seamus's renditions too much to even consider asking for a turn). I think our whole family could play that. After all there are 4 Merricks!

We went back up to Amoeba for a bit, then ordered and picked up pizza from Mario Batali's fabulous Mozza2go and brought it back home to eat. Jimmy had a script to begin reading so Seamus and I cuddled up on the oversized chair he bought for that very purpose and watched America's Funniest Home Videos before retiring. Jimmy and I sat on the back porch again, and I passed on another cigar, having had three this visit, a record for me. To bed, to sleep, to wake, to run again, to pack, to fly, to home. Lots of memories. Good ones.

I'm now 40 minutes out of Nashville, so I'll call this writing to an end. This vacation, a gift indeed, is one I'll remember with utmost fondness. Thanks to Lee Ann, and to Lee Ann's step-mom, Annemarie for her contribution/funding.

Among this trip's many rewards lay the fact that I chose not to drink beer or other alcohol since having a beer on the plane to L.A. I could've, but I chose not to. I'm such a creature of habit at home and sometimes I fear that this habit is one that I may be more or less addicted to. After three days I never once found myself on the floor in fetal position screaming for a drink. That feels good. I pronounce myself "less addicted." I enjoyed tea, water, and juice over the weekend, and I feel all the better for it.

Captain says we're 30 minutes out. Thanks for hearing me out, and hold dear to your loved ones. They're what we've got to help us through this, "whatever 'this' is."

4 pm Nashville time, Monday, May 24, 2010, my last day in my 50's.

My Gift Vacation, Back to Basics

My very first blog post was about my invigorating trip to Japan in 2004. My next few will pick up on that precedent and put down some thoughts during my trip to Hollywood, California to mark the end of my 60th year on this fine globe. I'm sharing it here to reflect upon it while it's happening. Feel free to give these posts a pass if rambling reflection isn't your cup of tea. I'll be back to thinking about education and change soon enough. Right now I'm into the present and the personal, a gift from my extraordinarily loving wife. Thank you, my love.

My Gift Vacation, 1

So at work on Thursday, May 20, I opened my gmail and there was an email from American Airlines with the subject: Your flight is ready for check-in, or some such flag. I really did think to myself, referencing the shared MUVErs LLC email that forwards to my gmail, "Well, I wonder where Cathy's going now?" and so I clicked to see. Imagine my amazement to read that my flight that evening to Los Angeles, California was confirmed and that I could check in. Dutifully, I checked in, only to be told "You are already checked in for this flight."

I knew what this meant, of course. My adored wife Lee Ann had conspired to book me passage to visit my "bfam" (brother from another mother) and my godson and the lovely prime mover of their household, Riad. My godson, Seamus, just turned 11, has also just finished up another in his series of chemotherapies for a brain tumor he contracted last summer. He's doing very well, thank you, and you'll likely hear more about that as we go. My bfam (I really have never seen that before--did I coin it?) Jimmy, known to the world as James Paige Morrison, is a yoga master and actor, having just wrapped the season of "Hawthorn" in which he had a recurring role. Also wrapping this season, "Private Practice" and "24," the latter in which he did not appear this season, but which he co-starred for I think 5 seasons as the unflappable Bill Buchanon, head of the Counter Terrorist Unit Jack Bauer so continuously made interesting. "Interesting" in the context of the Chinese curse, "May you live in interesting times."

Anyway, Lee Ann was outraged that the airlines had given away that secret, held by nearly everyone who knows me since it manifested itself in March. I'm sure someone at American Airlines has a smoking ear from the first call she made. The error had unintended good consequences, though; it let me weep my tears of joy in private rather than surrounded by family and colleagues at the end of the day. I retain my manly pride.

Thursday: Lee Ann and Colin got me to the airport right after school. My bag was packed with clothes and necessities, I had my backpack with laptop and such, and at the airport I picked up a pre-wrapped deli sandwich to keep me fed. A fine long flight, around 4 hours, got me to the City of Angels. I texted Jimmy "landed" and he replied "Parking" to which I replied "isn't that a movie?" Following the lemmings off the plane to the baggage claim area I eased down the final escalator to see him standing at the foot of it, surrounded by a sea of humanity, an island of smile. Long hug (I didn't cry, though it was touch and go for a moment), bag fetch, to the car, and home. The beautiful stucco cottage on June was dark and we sat up jabbering on his back porch, clear skies above past 80 foot palm trees, cigars blazing, minds sparking over topics such as life, its meaning, and something we agreed could be called "dogmatic scepticism." Don't ask. I got to sleep around midnight, retiring relaxed, content, and centered in a way I haven't felt centered in a long long time. I slept, awoke around 6, went back to sleep, then awoke just enough to plug in my iPod and dial up the audiobook "Five Classic Meditations" by Shinzen Young, working my way through the first mantra meditation, laying down in the amazingly comfy fold-out bed in the backyard cabana. Up after, I dressed to run, then proceeded to jog all the way south on June Street and back. Not a run, mind you--my knees don't like that anymore, but a good solid 50 minute jog. Back here, no one's about but the lawn maintenance folks, and I'm now cooled down from the exercise. I'll have wireless later on this XPS and I'll start uploading my little journal. Writing helps me think, like thinking helps me write. I hope to share some of the discussion we had last night. It really was about the meaning of life.

Like that's ever going to happen.

Tonight I get to sit in on a recording session of one of Jimmy's new tracks. He's compiling original songs for release "when they're cooked." Tomorrow I'll help a group of musicians provide accompaniment for his large yoga class, 40 or 50 folks, and I don't know what else. I hope to spend a great deal of time with Seamus and to hear him play Blackbird on the piano. 11 months after surgery which left him without a lot of things, including the use of his right hand and his ability to speak, this alone will be worth the cost of admission. Thanks, honey, and thanks Annemarie, for the flight ticket. It was a little bumpy getting out of Nashville, but smooth sailing after that, and I predict more of the same. Later.

The rest of Friday: Showered and dressed in jeans and tee-shirt I opened the cabana door to signal I was up, then sat to start writing this. When I was finished, I looked up and Seamus was making his way through the house's back door to me. Barefoot, bald, and beautiful, he said "Happy Birthday, Scotty." I held back tears and said in my silly shaky Johnny Cash voice, "Seaaaaaaaaaamus" and hugged him. He presented me with a beautiful handmade birthday card,
It has colored puffballs on it and a single white feather. Inside, handwritted with purple marker on the shiny black paper, it says, "Happy Birthday, I hope your Birthday is the Best Ever." I hugged him for along time, a little awkwardly. I realized then how little I really know this little guy. I resolve to work on that.

Riad cooked us some luscious buckweat pancakes (I need a package of that from Whole Foods for home!) and I topped mine with the sweetened syrupy strawberries she had prepared for that purpose. Seamus sat with us, a bit tired and sad over the fact that his playdate a little later is to be cut short by his friend William's commitment to a ballet class. Riad later explained that much of his emotional turmoil is chemo driven. That and his struggling gait when walking and more can be attributed to the powerful array of drugs he's taken to ensure the cancer has left his little body. Just before this round of chemo, Jimmy told me later, he was becoming more himself, his hair beginning to return, his voice less shaky, and his moods stronger. Then here we went all over again, his body forced to fight against drugs that are geared to kill everything they come in contact with, including cells and muscles and nerves repairing from the trauma of the surgery that removed his brain tumor 11 months ago. Twice more he must undergo that cycle before, the battle called, he can look forward to healing on a trajectory that will bring back himself, the recovered Seamus. If things go on schedule, he'll be done in August, get his clean bill of health, and begin that trajectory. That'll be the day. That'll be the day.

After breakfast, I was treated to 45 minutes or so of the work my favorite married couple is just now picking up after the medical crises of the past year, their film "Showing Up: A Documentary about The Audition." You can get a taste of what this is about at http://showingupmovie.com, where they've parked their work whilst the digital cutting room floor fills up with digital clips and the film takes shape under Riad's talented FinalCut Pro direction. 60 actors told their stories in 10 or 20 separate film clips apiece, filmed professionally face-on in locations from LA to New York to North Carolina. It's absolutely amazing, and to watch portions of it coming together on their huge Mac monitor was a treat. Once finished, it will be a gift to the world, to people who have not ever auditioned, because it offers eloquent insights into the practice; and to people who have, because it will help them know that they are not alone. Its viewing will be required assignment in acting classes and film classes for decades to come. That's my prediction and I'm sticking to it.

They were funny through the morning, excitedly pulling me into the office to see the latest segment that had been pulled together from clips in the 6 or so thematic groups they've identified. "You sure you can stand to watch some more?," they'd ask? I could have watched the segments I'd just watched over and over again: It's that good.

Seamus's friend William came and they played on the Wii, the boys laughing and shouting in the living room as their digital characters careened over the terrain until crashing into digital waters to end a player's turn. Later they would break out more Legos. When Jimmy and I left to work out at Gold's Gym, they were sitting at the coffee table eating mac and cheese, surrounded by Lego constructions.

We worked out, Jimmy on an elliptical and me on a stationery bike, Rush on the iPod, Guitar Magazine on the rack in front of me, for 40 minutes before heading back home, where I checked email and caught up, more or less, with my ISTE work. I'm detached from it here. I like that feeling but I also look so forward to the conference in Denver that I see this break as a godsend respite.

Around six o'clock we headed out to the car and to Jonathan Baker's studio, 10 minutes away in the detached garage of his home off Sunset Boulevard. That's what I'll write about next, after getting to sleep at 3 this morning (Saturday), awakening at 7, uploading pics to the laptop from digicam and FlipVideo, and then taking a jog, which I'm doing just as soon as I dress and stretch. This time I'll take the real camera so I can grab some of those California spring flowers. More later...

How I (Seamus) Spent My Summer Vacation

My dear godson Seamus Morrison, son of my brother-from-another-mother James, spent his summer in a very unique way. I'm pleased to share that he's taken up his piano lessons again, that he attends his wonderful independent school half-day or more as he's taking up the rest of his therapy, and that he is a hero of mine. We can all learn from the powerpoint he created to share...

Find more videos like this on seamusupdates (Note: Seamusupdates is a private ning, so that unless you are a family member or an extended family member, clicking on that link will likely be to no avail.)

The Cost of War

My dear friend James Morrison sent me an email this morning that directed me to the Quaker's American Friends Service Committee website, where one may download .jpg or .pdf versions of images that relate the terrible economic cost of the war in Iraq in comparative terms. Eveready for the learning moment, I fired up Adobe Fireworks and noodled with turning these into an animated gif, something I have only limited experience doing. Here's the result. Once you have absorbed the message, click on over to the Friends site and sign the letter to congress imploring them to defund the war. It's killing us.