Howdy my friends,

Despite my long silence, I really have been thinking about writing to you. I've wondered if you ever got around to tossing out that crispy Christmas tree and if you're going to take down the outside lights or just leave Œem up Œtil next year. I think it looks real classy to leave those icicle lights collecting mildew and drooping off the porch roof all through the summertime, don't you?

Personally, I didn't decorate at all this year. Well, that's not entirely true, I did tie a big wreath on my little dawg and teach her to bark Jingle Bells on command. It was jolly as shit around here Œtil she ate the wreath and processed it on the couch. I sure wish I'd have seen it in time, but hey, what’s a folkslinger like myself doing wearing thousand-dollar slacks anyway?

I’ve been thinking about the strange, chaotic state of the world lately and trying to figure out an appropriate way to start the New Year. Having just watched the evening news, I decided it would be most fitting to celebrate by having various of my teeth drilled by a dentist - but perhaps just a few of them by my own self with a dremel tool. (you know how hard it is to get in to see a good dentist).

Handy Tip: if you ever yearn for that sweet drilling sensation but cannot get in to see your favorite dentist, simply put a piece of rebar in your electric drill and chomp down on it. Now turn it on High! Whee! I’m telling you, if you can bite hard enough to keep that puppy from turning, you either have jaws like vice grips or you bought your drill at the Dollar Store. Either way, I’m saluting you for that torque, podna. Here’s to yer jaw muscles.

I was just about to get started but fortunately, at the last second, my left hand had a change of heart and forced my right to veer and miss my molars. Whew! What was I thinking!? No matter what insanity is going on in the world, it suddenly seemed foolish for me to be wasting good enamel like that. I put away my dremel tool and decided instead to write you this letter.

All winter I've been taking long walks almost everyday. I drive to different parts of Seattle, park my truck, and walk four or five miles, wandering through neighborhoods, getting lost in cul-de-sacs, taking however long it requires to find my way back to my vehicle. My little dawg, Bungee, enjoys these long walks as long as I am willing to carry her each and every time she requests it. The way she does this is to suddenly run toward me from behind, touching her cold, wet nose to the back of my calf. This signifies that it is now time to pick up the little Princess dog and give her the royal treatment. She is so small that I can carry her on my wrist, tucked up under her belly and my fingers cupped forward around her front legs and chest. Her four legs hang down on either side of my wrist and forearm. We make quite a sight, a six-foot man and a seven pound dog touring the neighborhoods this way.

These walks have been a blessing for me. As I mentioned, I’ve thought a lot about the troubles in our world lately, people jobless, the little care that we provide poor folks being taken away in many states, and more than anything, the possibility of war. Sometimes it feels that there is nothing that I can do about any of it - nothing that any of us can do. Then I am given the grace to remember that finding peace and love in my own life is the greatest thing I can do to promote it in the world. Whether I understand how this works or not is irrelevant, I guess that's what faith is for. As I wander the streets and sidewalks, enjoying yards and houses, stopping to talk to strangers and of course, carrying on a steady discourse with my dog, I usually start to feel more hopeful. I see toys in a front yard and flowers budding even in this early time of year. The sun cuts through the clouds for a few minutes and bathes Seattle in an amber winter light. It’s a hopeful light and it reminds me that there are always miracles at work here.

Two days ago I was at the post office mailing some CD orders. I was in a quiet, introspective mood, feeling kind of sad, actually. As I often do, I stood in line wondering why we tax payers have paid for post office counter positions that never seem to contain a clerk. It’s bad enough that we wasted our money building the empty counter positions, did we actually pay for those damn “Next position, please” signs, too? I contemplated this in the same way I have for years, reminding myself to breathe deeply, trying not to let post office rage get a foothold in me. I maintained quite well even as one clerk stood off to the side doing nothing, refusing to acknowledge those of us in the long line, and looking at her watch to make sure every last drop of her break was officially spent before opening her register.

I got so involved watching this potential-clerk keeping time that I didn’t notice when another clerk was free and ready for me. She called out in a loud voice, “Next!” as if I was being commanded to step forward and receive my caning. When I got to the counter she turned out to be surprisingly friendly - for a postal clerk. Which means that she didn't frown and roll her eyes when I answered that no, all five packages were not the same. I have learned over the years that postal clerks much prefer it if you bring uniform packages, exactly the same in weight and size. Ideally, they should all be going to the same address, as well. This is difficult for me because people from all over the world order my CDs. How would you like it if you received a bunch of other people’s orders with your own, and a note asking you to please deliver the others to the correct addresses? I don't know, perhaps if you weren't busy you wouldn't mind.

As I was watching the clerk weigh my packages, a woman in her sixties, with reddish, upswept hair walked past and spoke to her. They were apparently friends.

”What is your daddy going to do with his birds when he moves?” she asked the clerk. This is how I deduced that they knew each other, because most people would not know that her daddy was moving, or particularly, that he had birds of any kind, I certainly didn’t. She must know this clerk and her daddy very well, indeed. But on the other hand, if she knew her daddy that well, why couldn't she just up and ask him herself what he was doing with his birds. Maybe that is considered uncouth in bird-owner circles, I have no idea. I thought how tough it must be, moving with birdies. Having a small dog, I myself was familiar with the hassles of finding a home to rent that would allow pets. How much more difficult it must be for a man with, well, I don't know him, so I really cannot say what his bird situation is.

The surprisingly cordial clerk replied, “Oh, he got rid of most of them a while back. The parrots are a problem, though. He hasn't told me what he¹s going to do.”

Well that explains it, if his own daughter couldn't ask him outright about his parrots, he must be mighty damn sensitive about whatever it is he's doing with those birds. This was starting to concern me but I said nothing, staring intently at the remaining envelopes yet to be weighed.

As I stood at the counter minding my own bidnis, they spoke of birds for a few more minutes and then the sixtyish woman with the reddish hair surprised me to no end by deliberately including me in the conversation, looking at me and addressing me personally. This caught me off guard, I hadn't been paying close attention, my eyes glued as they were to the clerk, prepared to stop her if she attempted in any way to fold, spindle or mutilate. The lady even reached over to make a point and laid her hand on mine for a long second, and said something about cockatiels and how these particular birds had such hilarious personalities. Though I hadn’t retained every word, I had gleaned that her father had dedicated the entire garage to his birds, screened it in and given them the run of a space normally dedicated to two cars and a mower. I thought of my garage at home and wondered if I should put my convertible outside under a tarp and invite the pigeons inside for the winter.

What astounded me about being included in this conversation was the unabashed openness of a person I didn’t know reaching out to touch me and speak to me at length. How strange that we live in a society where you are amazed to be physically touched by another person.

After she walked away it left me in a bit of a daze, thinking about it. It sounds silly to say, but something about her genuineness and trust surprised and moved me. When I walked outside she was just leaving the outer door, having stopped at her personal mail box for a moment. I held the door for her and she continued talking about birds and again lightly touched my arm. I don't know why this moved me so much, but something about her trust surprised me. I tried not to get too lost in my inner thinking and said that I'd never had a bird but that I feed all the birds and squirrels in my neighborhood everyday.

”Oh, those darn crows! she said. “They just take over everything.”

I didn’t comment because I love the crows and make sure to feed them plenty of peanuts so that there is something left after the squirrels are through. She talked a bit more about crows and told me that she had two that were “resident” crows. I had never seen a crow that spent the night - if that’s what she meant - and was surprised hear it. Where I live in Seattle, the crows from miles around fly to the Arboretum every night, thousands and thousands of them, to sleep in the trees like hordes of black Christmas ornaments.

She talked some more and probably wondered why I was looking so intently into her eyes. It had occurred to me that she wasn’t concerned in the least about crows or birds - at least in that moment - but was there to share some spiritual message with me, some reminder of something I had forgotten. Maybe it was simply love, compassion for a neighbor, another human being. It seemed to me that she had picked me out to touch and share some human compassion with. Maybe when she had passed behind me inside the post office, something in her was awakened by a need in me to be touched, to be spoken to with genuineness and trust.

As we parted on the sidewalk she said, “I enjoyed our conversation” and walked away. I watched her leaving, then turned toward my truck, thinking of the times in my life when a stranger has turned to me as if I was family and how it has always moved me and surprised me. What had so touched me was that in this time of so much crime and war and predation, she had instinctively felt trusting toward me. It doesn’t happen much in our world anymore - that a woman touches a man she doesn’t know, especially when it’s not a flirtatious thing, but just a human expression of love. It made me aware of several things - mostly of my own true kindness and trustworthiness. But even more beautiful was that she was simply a trusting soul, a loving person who did not see people she didn’t know as strangers. She probably had no idea how much hope she gave me with that simple touch of her hand on my hand, and how much she made me want to turn to others and share that gentle, genuine gesture with you.

I appreciate that you check in on me now and then. That too, is a kind gesture and I like to send you away with a chuckle or two and a reminder that there is much in the world that is good. We can breathe our way through this time on earth, listening to our hearts, speaking honestly and compassionately and sharing what we feel with each other. In fact, I think that is why we’re here: to make something loving out of what seems to be falling apart around us. I am grateful that you’re out there. Thanks for visiting me.

Yer ol’ fren,
~Michael Tomlinson

PS, I have concerts coming up in Colorado and California, the Pacific Northwest and maybe a few other places. Check back now and then and I'll have notice up on my site.

As for my book, I work on it several days a week and it’s actually coming along in a form I’m pleased with. Thanks for your patience, especially the 300 or so who have bought it in advance. I promise you it will be worth the wait.

Howdy my friends,

It's hard to believe that Groundhog Day came and went already, I look forward all year to my favorite holiday and then snap!, there it goes and I'm all sad and let down, counting the days until the next one.

Perhaps you think it strange that I put so much emphasis on a holiday that many people don't even notice - and the ones that do mostly make fun of. Well, it goes back to my childhood, spent mostly in a cave among small mammals.

Well, I didn't actually live in a cave, but I had a predilection for small, cozy spaces and could frequently be found hiding in the wheel wells of trucks, underneath porches and despite severe warnings from my folks, inside abandoned refrigerators. ( I know my way in and out of all the mid-model Frigidaires) In those halcyon days where it was much more common for folks to toss old appliances out on the side of the road, I found no end of contraptions to lock myself inside of, spending hours in blissful seclusion, away from the hordes of little children who, though they seldom noticed me at the time, would someday be stalking me, tracking me down and begging for autographs. I don't know how I knew this at such an early age.

It was along about this time that I first heard of the ancient religious holiday called Ground Hog Day. Living on the Texas plains, I immediately translated it in my mind to mean Prairie Dog Day, because prairie dogs were numerous in the Texas Panhandle and I'd never seen a ground hog. There was a place called Prairie Dog Town at the Amarillo Zoo. It had to have been the cheapest zoo display ever created. No fake rocks or plaster trees. Just a large round enclosure on the plains with short brick walls that apparently went down a couple of feet below the ground so the doggies could not dig out. There were thousands of prairie dogs yukking it up out there on their mounds, yet none outside the enclosure. I wasn't yet aware of the rampant little-mammal-sex-drive in those days (other than my own) but I did wonder why they played jump-frog constantly when we were there. Who taught 'em that? I wondered why they didn't try the Hokey Pokey.

Watching their poor attempts at jump-frog, I thought they were just not very good jumpers and that once they got into position they couldn't get their little hind legs to propel them up and over. So they kept trying over and over again real fast. I'm embarrassed now, recalling that I used to stand there in my little striped tee-shirt, the sun burning my scalp through my crew cut, and holler out "Come on! Try harder, prairie dogs! Yall can do it!" Adults all around the enclosure would snicker and nudge each other knowingly. This is something that I don't understand to this day. Oh, not the part about the rodent sex, of course I get that. I just don't understand why someone didn't explain to me that those prairie dogs had no intention of hopping over anybody.

There's more to the story but then someone might read my site and send some men in a truck to get me, so I believe I'll leave the rest to your imagination and just say that I really do love Ground Hog Day and all that it stands for.

It's been mighty foggy here in Seattle the last week or two. Every morning starts the same, first it's dark outside, then it looks like the sun on the horizon is promising a lovely, sunny day, then when it actually comes over the rise it hits the cool air and turns the atmosphere to dense fog. I'm not complaining, I actually like stumbling around my yard looking for my little dawg. I refuse to put a bell on any animal and so I must walk around like Frankenstein, lunging in the white-out, grasping at every little sound in hopes of capturing the little Bungee Dawg. Many a time I've grabbed an angry raccoon and wished I hadn't. As wonderful as they are to look at, you just don't want to cuddle a mad one. You'll see what I mean if you come out to my next show. I'm healing up pretty good, though.

Despite the fog, it has been an inspiring time for one main reason - The Days are Longer! Yes! It doesn't get dark until nearly 6 pm now. It's like a whole new life opens up when darkness doesn't fall at precisely 4:30pm. To celebrate, I've been standing on my porch and hollering out "Five-forty-seven and all is well! - Five-forty-eight and all is still well!" etc., etc.  I can't tell if my neighbors are happy about it or not. I have noticed when returning home, they duck more quickly than usual from the car to the house. I doubt its me, I think maybe they just need a drink after a tough day.

Howdy my friends,

I'm just sitting here in a coffee shop on a rainy Seattle afternoon and wondering what I might write you about. As you can surely tell from my previous ramblings, I almost never know what it will be. Not even a clue until my fingers happen to type out something that makes me laugh or touches me in some way. Let's see how long it takes.

This place sits only a block from where I used to spend many hours of my life, back a decade or so ago. The Honey Bear Bakery used to reside a block from here, churning out pumpkin muffins to die for. People would line up out the door every Sunday morning, driving from Bellevue and Kirkland to eat a muffin or piece of cake and have a hot cup o' coffee. Now they're putting in a brewhouse in the Bear's spot. I guess I'm glad to hear it. Not sure if I'll ever make it by for a brew but I like the idea of a small pub with lots of laughing people carrying on in the space left by the ol' Honey Bear. So many old landmarks get destroyed that you hope, if they have to tear it down, that they'll at least put up something that keeps people chuckling and getting together in a neighborly fashion.

I'll have to drive by some night this summer and take a look at it all full of folks. People will have no idea they're quaffing beer precisely in the spot where I once placed a fresh slice of marionberry pie in the chair of one of my friends. I'm serious. Can you believe I wasted such a tasty thing? It was still steaming and I guarantee would have been dee-lish. But the result was so worth it. Have you ever seen a man with marionberry pie smeared across his ass, walking around town, in and out of stores for hours before he realizes he has a chunk o' berry pie stuck to his hind quarters? I couldn't believe he didn't feel it, his butt must have lost all sensitivity at some point in the past. (I wondered if you could stick it with a nail and get any response but I wouldn't allow myself.) Anyway, it was truly a gem of an experience and I highly recommend that you run out and get yourself a slice of some type of seasonal berry pie and give it a try with one of your dearest friends.

The older I get, the less likely I am to go in search of some old landmark that I used to love. They're mostly gone or not much like I remember them anyway. I just hate to spoil the memory and so I generally try not to mess with it.

I feel the same way about my concerts. Many times over the years I've been presented with tapes of my shows that I didn't know existed, surreptitiously recorded without my knowing. After a time the culprit gets nervy, thinking I won't be upset over such an ancient infringement, and wants to know if I will autograph the thing and send it back to him. This type of thing actually does happen to me and people come up with the strangest excuses for how they ended up with the recordings. It's wacky. Well, I guess I lost my focus. It must be this Ling Chung green tea. The sign says, "Special Grade" and I'm starting to wonder if there's something more than tea in it. (should my keyboard be grinning at me like this?) What I was about to say is that I don't like to watch videotapes of my shows or hear recordings of my concerts because it spoils the version I recall so dearly.

It's very rare that I don't enjoy one of my concerts, yet I have an entirely different perspective from where I stand. You may think the show sucked and at the same time, I will think, "Boy Howdy! That was some fine singin'!" My point is that when you like how something has settled in your memory, the shape and feel of an experience, why the heck would you want to mess with it? Generally speaking, I'm not even a picture-taking person for the very same reason. I'll just stick with my own version of reality, thank you.

Now that I've been writing a book these last two years I've discovered more clearly than ever how malleable memory is. Just wait 'til my friends find out all the shit they did that they don't recall. Actually, one of my friends, who has read a few chapters, commented that my friends all come off as "adorable." (obviously, this is a woman who said this. I don't think I've ever in my life had a male friend who calls people that) Still, when I'm re-creating a conversation around a campfire from ten years ago, it's all guess work. Who can possibly recall just what was said and who said it from so long ago? So I make up dialogue to fit the spirit of our experiences. It was only this last week that I sheepishly realized that I'd been giving myself all the witty lines and clever comebacks. (Dang it! I was starting to believe I really was that sharp-witted fellow.) Now I have to go back and take a few of the better phrases out of my mouth and give them to my buddies. This is difficult because I'll have to think of other ways now to write myself as a super-human being. Perhaps I'll write about the cars I've lifted off of families pinned beneath and near death. Or that time I rerouted a river (just a small one) when a dam broke and threatened to take out a quaint Cascade town.

Believe it or not, I actually have a real and honest story to tell you about something that just happened to me last weekend. Brace yerself.

On Saturday night I played a concert in Southern California at The CoachHouse in San Juan Capistrano. Where the swallows supposedly return to every year - thought I haven't seen one in the fifteen years I've been playing there. That doesn't mean they don't exist, but I've got a pretty good eye for birds and I ain't seen any, is all I'm saying. I love playing The CoachHouse, the management and staff always care about the experience of both the artists and the audience, making my time there pleasant and professional. The folks who come out to listen always bring new people and make me feel like I'm family. Many of them have been coming to my concerts all the years I've performed in California.

In the weeks building up to it, the concert was on my mind, an undercurrent that I was aware of but not thinking too directly about. Since I am not much of a rehearser, it was not a thing that I was preparing for by practicing my songs so much as it was something I was thinking about in the way of what I could offer in the way of peace and comfort in these troubling times we are living in. In recent months I've been taking the time most days to sit and breathe deeply, sometimes meditating, sometimes praying. I also do a yoga-like series of exercises called Tibetan Rites, and since I'd been doing these I've experienced a beautiful current of peace moving through me, leaving me more calm and loving that I've felt in some time. It's not that I haven't been troubled by personal and world events - I have been, but I also have felt a calmness at the core of me that has nurtured a sense of purpose in my life and music, a feeling that if I can share whatever peace and hope comes to me, then maybe others will feel calmer and the experience with ripple out to friends and neighbors and passersby.

I've been working on many new songs and was refining some of them in hopes of playing them at The CoachHouse. I always fit in a few new songs at every concert, but I was feeling drawn, called from within somehow, to play more of my new and recent material rather than the range of songs that I almost always play. I had one real problem with this: If I play a broad mix of songs, some from each album, I sell considerably more CDs. At this time in my life, it would make a huge difference for me to make more money. Still, I kept feeling that I was getting the message to play this newer group of songs. So I ignored the part of me that said "Hey, wait a minute. You've got rent to pay, you'd better play the songs that will sell some CDs," and went with my heart.

The afternoon of my concert I sat in my hotel room and made a songlist that felt good to me. It is the first time in my life that I've done a concert and played only one song from my earlier albums. I explained to the audience what I was doing and why and then played my new songs and really loved the feeling in the room, the sense that folks were receptive to me and enjoying my choices. But sure enough, during intermission I sold only about 1/3 of the cds I'd normally sell there. My business manager, Michael Munniks, was selling my CDs and later told me we'd sold only $60-$700 worth..At the time all that I knew was that I wasn't signing nearly as many CDs as normal at intermission. No problem, I hardly gave it a thought. What was happening felt right. I got to talk with lots of people and enjoy some hugs and hand shakes and laughter.

I went back onstage and played my last set, reading from one of the chapters of my book. I ended with the song One Breath, and felt truly pleased at the healing feeling that seemed to radiate in the room. Afterwards, I said goodbye to several folks and was about to pack up my guitar when Munniks called me over to the CD table. He looked rather odd, as if something unusual was going on. When I got there he explained that the gentleman at the table would like to offer me a proposition. If I would record one of my new songs for him, one he'd really loved, called, The River in Your Eyes, he would buy all the CDs I had left at the table. Obviously, this surprised me, yet in some way it didn't. I said, "Of course, if you want to do that, I'll record the song for you this week." The man then pulled out his credit card, and to Munnik's astonishment, bought every one of the one-hundred-and-sixty-nine CDs on my table. Nearly $3000 worth.

As I packed up my guitar I couldn't help but think of the choice I'd made, opting to play the songs that I knew would make me much less money, the songs that my heart had called to me to share. And then this generous and benevolent man had been moved to buy every CD I'd brought with me. Can you imagine a more beautiful affirmation for following my heart?

I share this with you humbly, as a story of something beautiful that happened, at least in part, it feels, because a message came through my heart and I trusted it and followed it. I don't always do that but I'm getting better at it. Of course, it took a good hearted person to reach out and respond with great love and generosity. But that is the exactly the kind of thing that can happen when we are trusting and filled with a sense of wonder and gratitude. I hope this inspires you to listen to what your heart is saying to you, even if you cannot imagine how to do it. If your heart calls, there is a way.

I guess I'll end this thang and get back out to my truck where my faithful seven pound dawg awaits my return, wondering why the heck I was gone for so long. She must think I'm seriously hooked on caffeine.

Thanks for visiting me, my friends. I wish you well and leave you with the lyrics to my song, One Breath, from my Watching the Storm Roll In album. Just a friendly reminder to take some deep breaths in these troubling times and follow the song your heart sings. Thanks for visiting.
              
 Yer ol' fren,   
     ~Michael Tomlinson

One Breath © 2001 Michael Tomlinson

Over night a lot can change
You can go from cloudy grey
To the morning brilliant blue, it's all for you
The purest part of the sky and the ocean, too
There you are, there it is
Everything that Life has to give

I'm not talking about a dream,
And I'm not singing of something that lives in a fantasy
There are wonders in our lives, worlds we don't even know
Eventually, even all these will be revealed

Here, sing these words and feel
All this pain and fear fall apart at last
When we take one breath and we just forgive again

Breathing out and breathing in
Mystery secrets of the wind
Blowing in and out our lives, breeze in a sail
To bring us closer to Love with each inhale
Every wind, every breeze
Every single breath that we breathe

Over night a lot can change
You can go from cloudy grey
To the morning brilliant blue, it's all for you
The purest part of the sky and the ocean, too
There you are, there it is
Everything that Life has to give

Here, sing these words and feel
All this pain and fear fall apart at last
When we take one breath and we just forgive - ourselves

Unfortunately, all she had in her purse were some bitter Fisherman's coughdrops. I had to have something, so while she was still looking at the clouds, pointing out cute little lambeys and shit, I settled for a tube of lip gloss and took a quick bite out of it. Not as sweet as it smelled but it would get me by. Chewing on cherry lip gloss and gazing up into the spring sky, I thought of the countless, lazy times in childhood when I'd dreamed away an entire afternoon with my mind adrift in the wild blue yonder. How amazingly long ago it seems. When you're a kid you cannot imagine that there will ever come a time when you do not commonly lie on the grass and stare up at the sky, but I guess it happens to the best of us.

The sun bathed the towering cumuli in such a bold and brilliant way that the shapes seemed rendered in blown glass rather than accumulations of moisture. I spotted two images in particular that were just delightful as all git-out. One was directly above me and appeared to be the most deeply moving, incredibly poignant sack of money you ever saw. Surely it was an omen and I could expect to be deluged with wealth any day now. The second vision I saw was even more fantastic. So wonderful it bordered on the spiritual. Molded into the shape of those fluffy clouds was a flock of Victoria's Secret models, precise in every imaginable detail. I swear, I'm serious as a Texan outa bullets, there was a whole bevy of 'em struttin' around and puckerin' up. I started hollering and flailing away wildly with both arms and legs and well, with other stuff too, so my friend wouldn't miss this astonishing sky show. Inexplicably, she claimed to be unable to discern them. I couldn't believe she could be that blind and frantically tried to point them out, directing her insistently to the one that seemed most clearly interested in me. I know that sounds stupid but hey, I'm just being vulnerable and honest here. I leaned over to her bench so she could follow the line of my arm to the goddess above me.

"Right there, see? The gorgeous brunette leaning forward and about to kiss me?" I felt self-conscious and amended my phrasing. "I mean, about to kiss someone. See? She's wearing the little turquois teddy?" Man, when I'm envisioning something, I go for the details. I was certain that she'd see her now and be happy for me.

"Michael, I'm staring at the same cloud you are my friend, and I can't make out anything but your wishful thinking."

Oh well, I guess it is possible that I just got hold of some bad lip gloss.

~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~

Today she pointed at some dandelions on her lovely lawn and frowned slightly as she pretended to whisper from the second floor window all the way down to me on the street. She claimed in her loud whisper that two of her neighbors just don't take care of their dandelions and the result is her tremendous heartache at being forced to watch her own lovely yard go to hell, bursting into as many as three or four nasty yellow blossoms at once. To her, it is as if someone has tossed empty Jack Daniels bottles onto her lawn.

This sweet lady is 89 years young, (three years older than me) spry, happy, filled with the need to engage people in conversation. So I happily stand below her like a six foot tall ear and listen for fifteen minutes every time she catches me striding by. Often, I am laughing not at the things she thinks I am, but at her sheer energy, her hilarious repetitions and the great burst of heart and humanness she exudes from her perch above the neighborhood.

Even on days like today, when I looked over my shoulder and saw that the sun was swiftly being obscured by heavy rain clouds approaching to drown me miles from my home, I just stood there listening. It's easy really, I need not say a thing to keep the conversation going because everything she says reminds her of something else and there she goes, sailing on in a new direction. I am enthralled by her conversational dexterity. Without taking any obvious breaths, she can go from dandelions to vinyl siding, her deceased husband, his remarkable work ethic, her daughter and adopted grandchildren, rototillers, little dogs, my obvious good fortune in life (not sure why it is obvious unless it's just that I still have all my limbs) and finally, just as I was feeling the first icy drops of rain, the impending storm. "You should get that little dog out of the rain, young man!" (Young man! Now you know why I hang out there so patiently.)

I looked around startled, pretending that I'd never even thought to leave that spot ever again. "Yes maam, you're right. I'd better get going."

I waved goodbye to her and continued on my walk. As I walked past the tall hedge at the border of her yard, her neighbors were bent over laughing in delight at my having been held captive for once instead of them. It was pretty funny to see them hiding there, laughing quietly at the one-sided conversation they themselves were usually ensnared in. I'm sure if you lived next door it might be inconvenient to be stopped every time you step outside, but since I'm only there once a week, hey, I'm quite happy to be her audience for a few minutes.

Actually, it's not me doing anything for her, I feel like I'm her student; she's lived a full live and is passing on some of the good parts. She's showing me what it is to live long and still be vital and passionate and truly alive. It's quite a lovely gift to offer someone - even if it gets them soaked with spring rain.

I hope you've got someone in your neighborhood to remind you how good it is to be alive.

~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~

May 31, 2003

Howdy my friends,

What a beautiful Memorial Day Weekend it was here in Seattle. Today was a sparkling sunny day, bejeweled with every color of blossom imaginable. Seattle is at it's prime this month with spring blossoms and foliage and I walked several miles through winding neighborhood streets, listening to folks laughing and talking in front yards. It seemed like there was a picnic or cookout going on at nearly every house. I kept thinking that if I could find a family reunion large enough I could slip in unnoticed with my little dawg and have some tater salad or at least a tofu-dog. (Don't put 'em right in the flame, they blister like the dickens!) Anyway, I could have found something to eat, I'm sure. I was tempted to try out my party crashing talents but I'm rusty. Many years ago I conceived of the brilliant idea of stepping boldly up to some large family reunion at a park and simply picking up a plate and digging in. If anybody noticed me I could simply wave in a big friendly way, look out past my interrogator and holler "Hey, Uncle Bob!", then waltz over and eat my fill, no one ever the wiser. If the questioner was to still persist I could claim I was a second cousin to "Li'l Ricky", who couldn't make it this year 'cause of the measles. What large family reunion doesn't have an Uncle Bob or a Cousin Ricky with the measles?

I spent all of Memorial Day proper in a garage in Snoqualmie. Now some people might think they'd rather be having a picnic or flying a kite or something but no, not me. I'd rather be helping my friends Rick and Ruth clean out years of accumulated crap that they should have thrown out a long time ago. But that's just me. About every three months they find their garage so overwhelmingly stuffed with boxes and bicycles and camping gear, baby buggies and power tools that they frantically seek my assistance in gutting the place so that they can start immediately collecting more shit. They know I operate with tough love when it comes to gettin' stuff done. I'm the king of sarcasm as I hold up various ridiculous items for approval to go into the trash bin.

"Rick, how 'bout this table with three broken legs that you told me seven years ago you were going to fix? Are you on the verge of getting to it or can I finally burn this thang?"

Rick looks on, his mind a veritable salad spinner of ideas as to the many ways a man could possibly use a broken table. To my utter shock he said, "Oh, okay. Toss it." That's how effective I am. I've only tried to get him to see the light about five or six times over seven years and suddenly, he was my man. Next I had to try to convince Ruth to toss out a chair she brought home from Africa twelve years ago. It's ugly. It's uncomfortable. It's large and in the way. But most of all, it's been stuck in that garage for many years.

"Ruth, about this chair that people in Africa to this very day are laughing about having managed to sell you, can we toss it?"

She laughed and said, "Oh, I know it's ugly, but maybe I'll use it someday. Oh, what the heck, let's get rid of it."

I couldn't have been more stunned. This is exactly what six years of marriage and two kids will do to a couple. They lose their sense of values. Nearly a dozen times they'd fought me on these very items, now they were like putty in my hands. I was tempted to see if I could talk them into the title on their house but then I remembered, "oh yeah, they're my friends."

As satisfying as it was to see boxes organized and labeled, set neatly on shelves and room to walk in and out of the garage, I didn't get too excited. From my past experience I'm certain that after I left at least half the garbage pile was reconsidered and loaded back into the garage. I did the best I could.

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I've been traveling a bit lately. I played a concert in a lovely little venue near Denver in Evergreen. It's called The Red Barn and sits just off a scenic mountain road near a large pond with, as near as I could count, about 50,000 frogs habitating it. They accompanied me for most of my performance until I went totally berserk and flung my guitar stand into the pond to shut 'em up. Man! What's a guy got to do to get a little peace and quiet out in nature? The audience seemed surprised that I would be so irate at a few thousand frogs while singing a romantic ditty about ladybugs and slugs. All I can say is that I'm a complex fellow.

After a few days in Evergreen I flew down to Dallas to rent a car and drove to Tyler to visit my mom. I hadn't seen her since my father's funeral last fall and I was a much welcomed visitor. It's been a year of so much change in both our lives, she lost the love of her life and her partner of over 50 years, and I lost my father. One of the tremendous gifts he left us with was a healing of our relationship, both the one between my mother and I and the one between her and my brother. You just never know the miracles that can happen in this life, do you? There was a time when neither of us could have imagined the peace and goodwill and love that is beginning to flow between us and we're both very grateful for it.

After several days with my mom I came back home to Seattle and then took the ferry over to Whidbey Island to spend a few days at a friend's family vacation cabin on the beach. Often, a large group of us go up there but I was alone with my little dawg for several days this time, wandering the beach and taking hikes. I spent one afternoon replanting the garden in the rowboat that sits in the front yard. I'm hoping my wild flowers grow insanely profuse and beautiful this summer so I can sit on the deck drinking margaritas with my friends and take personal credit for the natural beauty of the place.

That Friday morning just after sunrise, I paddled a kayak up to Fox Spit Point. The water was so perfectly still it was almost hypnotic. I've kayaked in some wonderful places, Glacier Bay, Alaska, Parau Bay, New Zealand, various bays and lakes in and around Seattle and in Puget Sound. But last Friday morning the waters off Whidbey Island were about as beautiful as any place I've ever paddled. Fortunately, the fact that the kayak had a leak in it and I was crotch-deep in icy ocean water within two miles, didn't lessen my experience at all. In fact, it was oddly stimulating. I don't mean sexually, more like if you settled your crotch into a jug of iced tea, that kind of stimulating. I had to pull the boat out of the water and turn it upside down on the shore or it would have been like paddling a bathtub all the way back to the house.

Now I'm home and it's the end of May and I'm kind of grieving the end of spring. Since we've had a cool one it will last a little longer, but I live for these colorful, blustery spring days and wish they could last a few weeks longer. After my long walk this afternoon I got out one of the many camp chairs I keep in my truck (when you own a little fuzzy purse of a dawg you never know when a crowd will form - I try to keep plenty o' chairs with me at all times) and I'm sitting here now at a park under a chestnut tree full of new leaves. I thought I'd work on my book awhile but decided I felt more like writing a new rambling for my website. I know quite a few folks check in every few weeks and I thought for once that I'd have something new up by the first of the month.

I've got several ideas rolling around in my mind concerning my next CD, a raffle you can enter to win a concert in your very home, and some songwriting workshops and classes. I haven't sent a real paper newsletter in nearly three years and I'm thinking of taking ads from folks on my mail list in order to be able to send one out. If you're interested that or any of the events I mentioned, you can scroll on down and read more about them. Thanks for checking in on me now and then, I get the most amazing messages, letters and emails from folks around the world and it means a lot to me that you have let me know that my music is a good part of your life. My next batch of songs is almost ready to record, knowing you're out there listening makes me more excited about getting started.

Thanks for listening. Don't forget to take some deep breaths and keep your heart open. We all need each other's help.

Yer ol' fren,
    ~Michael

e-mail: mt@michaeltomlinson.com