Monthly Archives: April 2015

Down Vinyl Album Memory Lane

2015-04 PicI’m getting ready to do some major remodeling and redecorating of a couple of rooms in my house.  In order to prepare a staging area I’m working on cleaning out my ‘leave it’ room as in “I’ll leave it in there and do something with it later.”  Some of those items have been sitting in the same spot from when I moved in ten and a half years ago.  That includes my vinyl record album collection.

It’s not a huge collection.  Everything would fit into a milk crate which is where I think I stored it till I switched to a more fashionable silver mesh container.  There are 74 albums altogether with 23 actually belonging to my sister Kathy and another five that belong to my parents.  Yes, I said my parents.  That leaves 46 I purchased for myself.

Going through them has been a walk down memory lane.  Some of the albums still have stickers from where they were purchased.  I have albums with labels from Harmony House, Music Village, and Musicland – record stores that no longer exist.  I even have one labeled from ‘Hudson’s Record Dept.’  My fond memories for these vanished places are wrapped up with being a teenager at the time and getting excited about having enough cash to make a purchase.

With limited funds, I had a method for how I bought my albums.  It would have to contain at least three songs that had been played on the radio.  That made the value of purchasing an album better than buying each song as singles.  Rare was the artist that I liked so much that I would buy their albums with only one known hit song.  John Mellencamp made that list.  So did the Eurythmics and Styx.  Often I would wait for an artist or group to produce a greatest hits album.  That way I’d get the best songs and not have to deal with a bunch of substandard ‘B sides’.

Almost all of the ones from Kathy are movie and Broadway show soundtracks.  She has a penchant for show tunes and I enjoyed the songs and music as well.  With her being twelve years older than me, she had significantly more funds to purchase albums and I could browse and listen to her collection at will.  When I moved out, some of her albums came with me – probably with plans to record and then return them to her later.  That didn’t happen because around that time, CD technology arrived and started to take off.  Even an album proudly boasting ‘This record can be played on a stereo phonograph’ could not win against those glittering silver discs that reflected colors like bubbles.

Virtually indestructible, CD’s soon overtook the market from the more temperamental vinyl even though most aficionados thought the sound quality to be inferior.  For an opinion close to home, I asked my audiophile sister Camille what she thought.  She liked the CD’s but noticed that the same song on CD dropped the sound of delicate bells she could hear on the vinyl version.  My ears are not that attuned to such nuances, so I started buying CD’s and even bought CD copies of albums I already owned.

What to do with the vinyl albums now?

Certainly the ones that belong to Kathy or my parents will go back to them.  I don’t think I want to get rid of all of the ones I bought for myself.  Even if I purchased a CD copy, I think there are reasons to keep a vinyl version.  So I went through the list and picked ten that I think are most worthy of saving.  The first six were easy to pick.  The last four took some thought and consideration.  Which did I choose?  Here they are:

  1. Great Western Themes (United Artists Records): Whoever picked the songs for this two record collection really nailed it. From Elmer Bernstein’s “The Magnificent Seven” to Ennio Morricone’s “The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly” these themes celebrate the spirit of the movie and TV western golden age. I like this album so much that I went on Ebay to buy it when the family copy went missing. I’ve never been able to find an equivalent on CD so it’s an absolute essential to keep.
  2. The Beatles/1962-1966 (Capitol): If you’re going to have a vinyl album collection, it might be the law that it contains at least one from the Beatles.
  3. Rumours by Fleetwood Mac (Warner Bros. Records): This was the bestselling record of my teenage time. A local radio station had a contest where if you were the ‘nth caller’ you could pick any album as your prize. I started to hear the boredom in the voices of the DJ’s as winner after winner picked this album. If I had ever made it through, I would have picked this album.
  4. Live Bullet by Bob Seger & the Silver Bullet Band (Capitol): You couldn’t live in or near Detroit as a teenager without having this album. It is a classic rock double album and still one of my all-time favorites.
  5. Pieces of Eight by Styx (A&M Records): If everyone left me alone in the house, I cranked up the volume on the song “Renegade” and repeated it over and over again till they were due home.
  6. Charade the Original Movie Soundtrack (RCA Victor): This one belongs to Kathy, but I might have to accidentally not return it to her. The movie is one of my favorite romantic films and the score by Henry Mancini is one of his best.
  7. The Best of Glenn Miller (RCA): I bought this when I stayed in Poughkeepsie, NY, for a college internship at IBM and actually had some spare cash to spend. If you like swing/big band music, I think you should have some on vinyl in deference to the historic 78 rpm record era.
  8. Queen Greatest Hits (Elektra/Asylum/Nonesuch Records): Like the Beatles, Queen is one of those quintessential vinyl bands that everyone should own. This album doesn’t have the classic cover art like their News of the World album, but you can’t go wrong with a greatest hits collection.
  9. Moonlight Feels Right by Starbuck (Private Stock Records): I scratch my head over why I bought this one. All I can say is smooth pop is nice every once in a while. I remember listening often to the whole album, though now the only song I know is the album’s namesake and Starbuck’s one hit. Who can get rid of an album where the xylophone is used for a rock solo, or where the band members are dressed in platform shoes and bell-bottom pants?
  10. Songs from the Big Chair by Tears for Fears (Mercury): This is the last vinyl album I purchased and I include it simply for that fact. Keeping it is bittersweet, but isn’t that what makes a vintage record collection worth having?

Headache vs. Heartache

Headache. The name says it all. Tell a stranger you have a headache and he knows exactly what ails you. He might even have a good recommendation to cure it. Like, take a pill. Tell a stranger you have a heartache and he has no idea what to say next. There is no simple recommendation, no pill.

Headaches are always in your head; heartaches are never in your heart, not the organ, anyway. You have no control for the onset of a headache, but you can forestall heartaches with just strong will.

A headache creates a sharp pain that is impossible to ignore. It can be unbearable, but most headaches are short lived and you make a full recovery. The pain a heartache causes can’t be measured on such a simple scale as sharp or dull. Like the tide, heartaches ebb and flow over time, but the ocean is always present. The pill you take comes in the form of your next deep breath. Usher in a new thought wave.

Headaches are real. You can see the suffering all over a person’s face. Heartaches are real, too, but the suffering rarely shows itself to the world. With both aches, your world closes around you and life becomes impossibly small. It’s easy to understand the one ache, impossible to understand the other. And with both, you can only wait away the pain.

You never relive the same headache, each is stingingly different. You always relive the same haunting heartache.

Time heals all wounds they say, and that’s true enough. If we’re lucky, we outlive all of our headaches and our heartaches. It takes a while, but eventually we realize that neither ache leaves a scar.

These aching thoughts have been weighing heavily on me now that Knock Softly has come to a conclusion. There are a lot of aches at the end of my story; head, heart and otherwise. Correctly tying these internal pains together with their actors on the printed page is causing migraines in this author’s head.

And I have a heavy heart at this point in the story. I know I’m leaving now and I won’t be returning. This is the point the author has to say goodbye. Like good friends, I’ve become fond of my characters. Unlike good friends, I’ll never hear from these actors again. Like a heartache, this goodbye is final but never really over.

But I can’t let my own aches and pains get in the way. It’s only fair that the reader has a taste of these main characters’ futures. After a sumptuous main course, I can’t let a lousy dessert spoil the meal. I’m serving up Bittersweets for dessert in Knock Softly. Bon appetit!

Why Travel?

Why Travel? by Claire Murray @ClaireAAMI

Why do people travel? Why do I travel? I’ve thought about this a lot, especially the first night when I’m back home from a trip. I’m warm and comfy in my own bed. As I snuggle in I think, it’s so good to be back home.

But, the next day or week or month, there I am: Thinking about our next trip. There is so much to see, to do.

A week ago Michael and I left cold Ann Arbor for sunny Florida. We had signed up for a Road Scholar in St. Augustine. What a change in scenery and weather!

As the driver took us from the airport in Jacksonville to the hotel in St. Augustine, we drove down a smooth, new expressway. I looked carefully: no potholes, not one. Tall trees with green branches lined up neatly on either side of the expressway for miles. It was very different from the rough and tumble of California where you have redwood forests on one side of the highway and the ocean on the other. Everything was so neat in Florida. I almost wondered if someone had come out that morning and swept the road.

The driver kept talking about how cold it was: 55 degrees going up to 72. I kept thinking: How wonderful! 55 degrees and the sun is shinning. I don’t need a parka or gloves or a scarf. This is heaven!

After we checked into the hotel, we grabbed our dark glasses and walked down to the beach. Things had warmed up a little by then. I could feel the sun’s heat. I felt like I’d been wrapped in a warm blanket.

The hotel was directly in front of the Atlantic Ocean and had a swimming beach but it was a long straight walk to the water’s edge. Apparently in Florida, no one is allowed to build on the beach or back just a little. The closest you can build is about a block or more from the ocean.

The sand was smooth and the waves made it squishy under out feet. It was tan and glistened in the wet and heat of the afternoon.

The Atlantic Ocean here is so different from the Pacific, which I’m more used to. The Atlantic is much quieter and calmer near the shore. It’s a darker blue and extends way out with very few waves. It was a very calm, peaceful experience. I was glad we had come and we hadn’t even started our Road Scholar program yet!

Coming from cold and snowy Michigan, I felt like I was entering a whole new world. The climate, setting, and ambiance were so different.

I think that’s why people travel. It’s an opportunity to experience a whole new world for a short time. Then it’s nice to go home. That’s why I travel.

How do you choose a writing journal?

Just like magic wands, a journal must choose you.

As a child, I expressed my deepest thoughts, heartbreak and angst in various hardcover journals, college-ruled notebooks and at least one Dear Diary with a metal lock. Did you pour your heart out in a journal? I still journal, but not as much as I used to. I wish I could say that’s because I have no adult angst, but I can’t lie. To make sure I carve the time out to reflect on myself, “journaling more often” is one of my New Year’s Non-Resolutions I committed to with my writers group.

My old journal ended today after five months of use. In my younger days, I could’ve blown through that purse-size, 4”x6” journal in less than two months. And in my younger days, I would never have used such a small book. Regardless, I need a new journal.

I have a collection of journals ready for words waiting for me on my bookshelf upstairs. Too many, one might say, but I hold an emotional attachment. Besides, can you ever have enough journals, whatever the style?

Dancing space sheep swirl around me, complete with glitter and memories.

Dancing space sheep swirl around me, complete with glitter and memories.

As I slide my hand down the row, examining each spine and shape, I think about reducing my stack. Here’s an opportunity to donate old journals I no longer enjoy writing in, either by size or style, and toss out ones with bad karma. I’m thinking of a specific one given to me by an ex-boyfriend’s mother, but I may have used it already. I don’t recall what it looks like when a bright purple spine pops out at me. Friendly bubble letters beckon me with one word: Journal. I pull it off the shelf and cradle it in my hand, staring at the cover. At least 30 seconds pass before I figure out that the abstract glittery shapes are sheep floating in space. It’s rather trippy.

Each white, lined page of the 5×7″ book is bordered with a quilt-like pattern of muted mauve hearts and stars. Sometimes I prefer pages with lines to keep my sentences straight and even, and other times, wide-open blank pages inspire me. Sometimes I like to write on bright white to show a pen’s true color, while other times my eyes want a muted tan or yellow page. This portable, lined, white-page journal in my hands seems fine to me. The psychedelic cover makes me weirdly happy. Now to flip to the inside cover and see if I made any notes about the journal’s date or where it came from.

Karma’s a bitch.

This journal was a birthday gift 15 years ago from a friend I no longer talk to, mailed to me at a previous job that was absolutely vile.

This is the kind of karma I was talking about, so I set it aside, not even putting it back on the shelf. There are plenty of other journals here. A leather dragon-covered book is too heavy. One large notebook has a handmade cover with buttons on it, a good memory of the person who made it for me, but a bit awkward for my needs right now. I don’t want this other one with a wooden cover. That blue Moleskine is too small. The ring binding on another is too big. Nothing fits my mood except the funky sheep journal.

This empty journal is scrawled with memories. I taped the original mailing label inside the front cover, which is why I know from where it was mailed. Just seeing the company name brings back stomach-churning memories of the underpaid job with the stuffy upstairs office where I worked. I remember the two sloppy mistakes I made that make me feel uncomfortable and stupid to this day, and the disrespectful ex-boyfriend I worked with who constantly yelled insults at me.

During that time, I had my friend, that lovely woman who knew me well enough to know I’d enjoy a fun-looking journal, perhaps a dollar store find, and mail it to me at work to brighten my day. Even today, I recognize her thick, curvy handwriting from the numerous letters we mailed each other. We met during one of my most unique summer jobs. And for reasons I don’t recall now, we immediately became friends. I took my first trip to Walt Disney World with her and a friend. She and I took a road trip to Salem, Massachusetts one Halloween weekend. The last good memory I have with her is bouncing on her friend’s outdoor trampoline on the afternoon my boyfriend-now-husband called to tell me he bought a new car, the car we still drive today.

She and I lived about seven hours away. I only saw her when I drove home to see my parents, and even then, I didn’t always have the time for the extra 2-hour drive. This one weekend, however, I was home for a long weekend and my Sunday was completely open. We could meet halfway and catch up in person, so I called her.

“I can’t,” she said. “I watch football with my boyfriend on Sundays.”

I never knew her to be a sports fan, but I was a far-away friend in town for the day. “What’s it going to hurt, taking one afternoon off?” I asked.

“I can’t. We watch football on Sundays.”

I understood that sports aspect with guys; my boyfriend-now-husband watched college football on Saturdays. He liked it when I watched the games with him, but if I wasn’t there one weekend–like this weekend I was currently away for–his life didn’t end and we didn’t break up. I’ll be there to watch games with him weekend, but I will not be within driving distance of my friend next weekend.

“Not just this one Sunday?” I asked her, hearing my voice rise in a pleading tone.

“We watch the game together,” she replied.

I never met her boyfriend, but I got the sense he was a demanding man.

Maybe it was just my imagination, but my friend was always independent. If she hadn’t been dating him, I was sure she’d make the time to see me. I told her how hurt I was, how I thought he might be controlling and I was saying that because I was looking out for her, as a friend should, but in the end, I lost the argument. We spoke once or twice on the phone after that, but she stopped returning my calls. I lost my friend.

I was surprised to receive a sympathy card from her when my dad died. She must have been on the overall distribution list when I emailed the news out. That was a nice gesture, really touching, but I didn’t know what to say, where to begin again. I don’t recall mailing a reply to her.

Now this journal calls me. I don’t know why. Does the journal want me to fill it with good memories, turning something positive out of a bad memory? Is its purpose to just fill the pages and “git ‘er done” and out of my life? Does my journal want some closure for me? Some reminder of better times, or is it a nudge to do something more?

All I know is that the two floating cosmic sheep make me smile, and I have to choose this as my next journal. Maybe with a wave of a metaphysical wand, I’ll figure this out by the end of the journal. Or maybe the last page will be just a last page.

The Kingdom Belongs to Children

Max crouched down, squished himself in between two other six-year olds and waited eagerly, like a compressed spring about to uncoil, for his turn.  He looked up at his older cousin, Alexandra, and whispered, “What’s a sin?”

He was a little embarrassed and hoped no one other than Alexandra had heard him. She had seen what was going on between him and the other boy. She would understand that it wasn’t Max’s fault he hadn’t been completely listening to Miss Becca, his vacation Bible school teacher.

He thought it was nice that some of the married teachers, including Miss Becca, didn’t always want to be called Mrs. So-and-So. Miss Becca let you call her by her first name, as long as you added “Miss” beforehand. Max first met Miss Becca in church. She sat next to him a couple times during worship service, and every now and then she taught his Sunday school class. Max liked the way she paid attention to him when he talked with her. She looked him right in the eyes and didn’t seem bothered by any of his questions.

Today, she asked that everyone call her Lady Becca. All the lady teachers, the girls, and she were strolling around like royalty, with their chins up and heads high. When she spoke, she didn’t pronounce words like she normally did. Everything she said seemed more proper and formal, and to top that off, she taught the boys how to bow and the girls how to curtsy.

“Too bad for them,” Max thought. Bowing was so much better. It didn’t require practice like the girls were doing. Boys were way more cool. They could pretend to be brave knights defending a kingdom. He was glad that his mom knew about the medieval theme and let him take a toy sword to the summer program. Swords weren’t normally allowed at church. Max figured this week would be fun.

When Lady Becca had explained what a sin was, Max was distracted by his new friend, Aidan, who kept trying to take Max’s sword away from him. “Just for a minute,” Aidan had pleaded, but Max knew better than to give up his plastic weapon. He might never get it back! It was no wonder he missed some of what his teacher had said. He was lucky just to have caught the most important part: only one person in all of history has never sinned. “But what exactly are my sins?” he silently worried.

Without hesitating, Alexandra simultaneously answered the question he asked out loud and the one he was thinking. She said, “A sin is anything you do that’s wrong.”

“Thanks, Alex,” he softly replied.

Alexandra preferred to be called “Alex.” That’s what her mom called her, what her dad called her, and what Max called her, usually. Alex was pretty smart…and she paid attention. Or, she paid attention…and was pretty smart. One way or another, she seemed to know about God’s son who came down from heaven to be with people. Alex was fourteen and old enough to be Lady Becca’s youth helper. All the teachers had at least one of the older kids to help teach the younger children about the stories in the Bible.

Lady Becca described Jesus as both God and man but a man like no other. She gave examples: He had never lied; never cheated; and never hit his brother, not even once. She said, “Lots of people liked Jesus because he was good at fixing things. Many people hated him because they didn’t know him very well.”

For even the Son of Man did not come to be served, but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many." Jesus' words as recorded in Mark 11:45 (NIV).    Photo by Kelly Bixby

“For even the Son of Man did not come to be served, but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many.” Jesus’ words as recorded in Mark 11:45 (NIV). Photo by Kelly Bixby

Alex added, “Other people had no feelings whatsoever about him, because they had never heard of him.”

Max took the piece of paper that Lady Becca held out to him. He noticed that it was shaped like a hand, so he held the paper up and compared it to his own. His palm fit inside the paper’s edges almost perfectly. It was as if Max had spread his fingers wide, plopped them upon a single sheet of paper, pencilled up and down, around and around, and then cut along all the lines to end up with the paper he was now holding. Max followed Lady Becca’s instructions and wrote his name in crayon on the front of it.

Lady Becca’s red velvet gown swept the floor as she continued moving about the room, passing from person to person, with the goal of giving everyone their own hand-shaped sheet of paper. She wore a stretchy silver fabric band around her head. It had one lone ruby-colored jewel in the center and wasn’t meant to look like a more elaborate, richly adorned crown. After all, she wasn’t “Queen Becca.” But she was dressed like someone who belonged in a castle.

When Lady Becca walked towards Lily, the tallest girl in the class, Max could see Lily’s eyes widen in anticipation. He didn’t think it was the paper she was excited about, however. He saw that she longingly eyed the bejeweled, golden scepter in Lady Becca’s left hand. The decorative staff was just slightly taller than Lily herself, who was about four-feet tall. Purple and gold ribbons streamed from the top of it to halfway down. Max guessed that each girl in the class was hoping for the opportunity to run around waving the fancy stick in the air and making the ribbons fly.

“Get rid of all the frilly stuff, and that stick just might come in handy,” Max muttered to himself. Then he heard the girls collectively sigh when their teacher tucked the prop under one arm so she could finish passing out sheets of paper.

Lady Becca said that everybody except Jesus sins. Max thought that didn’t make sense, because everybody knows the only things babies do are eat, sleep, cry and poop. Sometimes they smile too, but that’s just when they have gas. (He had heard that from Alex, who was too polite to say, “fart.”) How could they do anything wrong? They’re babies. Maybe Lady Becca didn’t know what she was talking about.

After thinking more about it, though, Max realized that Alex couldn’t be completely right either. Max was able to make Alex’s baby brother, Theo, smile just about any time Max tried. All he had to do was look Theo right in the eyes and make a big and wide smile first. A lot of times, he also made Theo giggle by doing that. There wasn’t gas at all.

It was nearly Max’s turn to stick his sheet of paper onto the Styrofoam cross that leaned against a makeshift wall inside the classroom. The paper was meant to represent one of Max’s sins, and the cross represented the real, wooden one Jesus died on. Around the top hung a crown of thorns similar to the one Roman soldiers had used to jab into Jesus’ head to torture him and make fun of him. This was serious.

Over 2,000 years ago, Jesus sacrificed himself so that people’s sins could be forgiven. Couldn’t God just change the rules? God can do anything He wants! Why did God want Jesus to die? Max was beginning to see how little he understood sin.

Max wasn’t quite certain if he was wrong by not sharing his sword with Aiden. “He should have brought his own. This one’s mine, and that kid might ruin it,” Max reasoned. Yet somehow, deep inside, he didn’t feel very good.

Max thought Aiden looked kind of sad. He remembered feeling that way himself just last week when Alex rode her bike over to visit. She brought an ice-cream sandwich. It was Max’s favorite and she knew it. She hadn’t given him even a tiny bite and ate the whole thing in front of him!

Lady Becca encouraged the class to study the Bible whenever they had questions about how God wants them to behave. She assured them that God wants what is best for them. She said, “God wrote a really long love note and sent his Word for all people. Sometimes it might seem confusing, but the more you read the Bible, the more you’ll come to understand how God wants you to live.”

Max thought, “Alex should take a look at what the Bible says about sharing.”

A moment later, Max surprised Aiden by lending him his sword. Then, the brave-hearted knight, Sir Max, approached the cross and let Jesus take away his sin.