Author: barbarabeardsley

        It was Autumn, 2004. We were living in Sanibel, Florida, and had just come through one of the worst Hurricane Seasons on record. I was working as a Realtor at VIP Realty, where I had made friends with Diane Barr, a wonderful woman who loved animals as I do. Diane had attended a fund raiser event where lots of local animal charities exhibited. She came back to the office excited about the variety of charities, and told me that I simply must check out the website of the Siberian Husky Rescue of Florida. Who knew such a group even existed? Anyway, after much cajoling, Diane convinced me to at least take a look. I maintained that we would not be getting another dog at this time. I had solid reasons why that made good sense. I had no intention of adopting a Siberian, after the six I had previously owned. I was resolute.

Then I saw his face. There he was on the website in all his Black and White glory with those huge brown eyes. It was all over. My resistance melted away instantly.

I called the Rescue Group and the next thing I knew I was being interviewed by a member of the Siberian Husky Rescue of Florida in my own home. They were quite thorough, as they wanted to be sure the potential adoptive parents were aware of the requirements of (and I use this term loosely) “owning” a Siberian. Once I told them that this would be my SEVENTH Husky, things went much more smoothly. Soon we were given an address in St. Petersburg, Florida, where our new Husky boy was being cared for by foster parents. We drove to St. Petersburg on December 21, 2004, and found the address given to be a small house in a quiet neighborhood. When we entered the house, the kind foster Mom led us to the kitchen, where our Boy and another Husky Girl were waiting. Our new fellow, whom I had decided to name Mikhail Tretiakoff Beardsley, aka “Misha”, bounded across the tiny kitchen at my friend, Richie, who leaped aside in fear. This was a large Husky…about 1 and 1/2 times the size of a standard of the breed. Richie soon found himself being licked and hugged, by this sweet guy, so his fears were assuaged.

We loaded Misha into the car, which was a Volvo Station Wagon, and put him in the back cargo area behind my daughter Caroline, who was sitting in the back seat. The cargo area had a strong woven mesh net that you could lock onto the sides of the car to keep everything in the rear  from moving forward. Misha found the side where there was a several inch  opening; this was just wide enough to slip one’s hand through. Somehow, this 76 pound dog was able to squeeze himself through this small opening by forcing it to stretch beyond its limit, and made his way to the back seat to sit next to Caroline. We now had some idea of the strong character with which we were dealing!

From that day forward, Misha became the wonderful center of our household. He ran away constantly; we retrieved him. He dug out from under the fence constantly: we retrieived him. He ran through alligator-infested waters on Sanibel more than once; we retrieved him.

Sometimes late at night(like, 2 or 3 in the morning) he would dream deeply. During these cycles he would emit the most mournful cries imagineable; they were sustained for many seconds, which  would make your hair stand on end. You would think that he would have awakened himself, as he did the rest of the household.Yet, these eerie howls would last for maybe 6-8 seconds sometimes! Really scary if you happened to be in a deep sleep yourself!

Misha loved snacks, and was an excellent catcher. One could toss a Milk Bone biscuit ten feet or more, and he never missed! He also was a consummate begger; I mean, really professional. You could never eat anything without sharing some with him. He was just that good.

Tennis balls were objects of great delight to Misha. He could chew and puncture one from metal  can to “pop” in a matter of seconds. At Christmas he always knew which wrapped gifts were for him. If it had tennis balls inside, a sealed can held no surprise when his giant nostrils started sniffing!

Misha often appropriated furniture. Couches, chairs, wicker love seats….whatever was most comfortable. We always gave in and allowed him his choice. He also seemed to have a bizarre romance with one of the couch cushions; but, I really never wanted to fully know what that  was about. What goes on when I am out of the house…..let’s just say I am better off not knowing!

Misha travelled thousands of miles with us, as we went from Florida to Maine and back each Summer. He was the best traveler ever. He sat in too small a seat with a harness on and never complained a bit.

His name came from the Russian for Michael, which is Mikhail. His middle name I took from my former landlord back in San Francisco in the 1970’s. George Tretiakoff was one of my favorite characters, and he was from Siberia. So, I deemed it appropriate to take his surname for Misha’s middle name. “Misha” is the diminutive, or nickname, for Mikhail. Sort of like “Mike”.

Misha was part of so many of our adventures and memories. Once he got stuck under Caroline’s bed, as he used it for a den often. We actually had to move the bed to get him out! Another favorite memory involves his standing up on his hind legs, very soon after we brought him home, and devouring a fancy Xmas cake that was to be a gift. He also nailed a casserole on the stove and sent it shattering on the tile floor! We learned how to keep our food covered or watched!

Misha had a very sensitive and protective side. When one of us  was ill, he voluntarily chose to spend days outside the bedroom door. Never left.

When we were visiting my friend Nancy, who had injured her foot and was in a cast, Misha chose to stay by her side for two weeks. Never left.

When we brought home Teddy, an irrepressible and obnoxious puppy, 6 years ago, Misha started to toss him across the room. I yelled at him, and he never touched Teddy ever again. That was a big mistake on my part, but I thought I was protecting the puppy at the time. Teddy continued to harass and adore Misha for the next six years, but Misha never once put him in his place. He was remarkably smart.

He had the most peculiar sleep habit: he always seemed to need to wrap his big paws around a table leg or chair leg or perhaps put all four legs up on the wall! He looked uncomfortable to us, but he always slept in odd positions. Then, as he moved in his sleep, furniture would move around as well!

We loved this dog for over eleven years. We saw him go from remarkably strong and healthy, to old and weakened. We believe he had attained about 13-14 years, and was struggling to walk,stand up,  go out, and generally just get around.

His time to leave us came today. It was a bright and glorious June 1st. The sun was high in the cornflower blue sky when the Veterinarian came to help Misha cross over. We all cried a lot and tried our best to be brave for each other, and for Misha. In the end, He, of course, showed us all up by being the brave one. He didn’t  cry, or moan; he took the first shot, which was meant to sedate him, without  even wincing. The final shot, according to my daughter, Caroline, who held him through until the end of his life, acted quickly, and his Spirit passed away. She told me she could feel it leaving him. As his life force left his body, she patted and kissed him goodbye. He was loved and cared for until he breathed his last breath.

I am truly heartbroken. I cannot even begin to imagine how my heart will ever heal. I miss him so much already.

As I said goodbye to my darling Boy, I told him to wait for me. And I told him to run as fast and as far as he could.

No more pain.

May offers up many opportunities. The strong breezes of Springtime presented a metaphor outside my window yesterday: a child flying a kite. There is much to be said of kite-flying, and I immediately see its relationship to creative living.

The little boy is Ilya, my neighbor, who is seven years old. He has the wisdom and training to manage this business all on his own; I applaud his ability, and watch him with some measure of amazement. How sage is this little one to not only get this contraption off the ground, but to keep it flying successfully for quite some time!

If you hold on to the string too tightly and try too hard to control the kite’s movement, it will surely fall to the ground. You must have a flexible hand, and the ability to trust in the wind. You have to allow the wind to take your kite where it will. You can guide it ever so gently, but you cannot force your desires upon it.

You must remain alert and involved. You need to keep your eyes on the sky, yet not lose your footing. You have to hang onto the connection, but let the string move in and out of your hands as the prevailing wind dictates.

Yes, this kite-flying business is complicated. Not for the faint of heart. Not for the closed minded. Not for the egocentric who see the kite as an extension of themselves.

The lyrics from a Mary Poppins song by Richard and Robert Sherman comes to mind:

“Let’s go fly a kite, Up to the highest height,

Let’s go fly a kite, and send it soaring,

Up through the atmosphere,

Up where the air is clear,

Oh, let’s go fly a Kite”.

I can tell you that there is real joy when your kite goes soaring above the treetops.

Forty Six years ago today I was in my dorm room at Boston University, with my roommate, Cynthia Hillmann. It was another Spring day in Boston, and we had come back from classes and had lunch. We got the news that there had been shootings on the Kent State campus in Ohio. Somehow we borrowed a television set and started watching. What I saw shocked and frightened me. I was nineteen years old, and I was watching kids my age being shot by the Ohio National Guard.

By now, I had attended lots of rallies, Peace Marches, and anti-war events. I had run from tear gas, seen kids marching next to me hauled off by the Boston Police force, and witnessed all types of protest. But this was different; these were kids, and they had been killed for standing up against the War.

Things escalated quickly. People all over America started actively protesting the shootings by rioting and looting. It felt like the end of the world. Honestly. I was absolutely terrified. I started thinking that no place would be safe anymore; if students could get shot while attending a rally on their campus, what next? It seemed to me that none of us were going to be able to  feel safe voicing our opinions ever again. Our Government had turned a corner and was now supporting execution of dissidents. What was going on? How could anyone justify killing students?

It was a complicated series of events that led to the Ohio killings. It was horrible, tragic, and a waste of young lives. But the Kent State killings galvanized a huge number of us into a stronger and more dedicated protest movement. Soon after what came to be known as “Kent State Day”, one hundred and twenty-five students and faculty members took over the top three floors of a dorm at 700 Commonwealth Avenue. I was one of those students.

Our intention was to create something positive out of this chaos. At first it was day and night long meetings and discussions with other activists who came from all over the Country to talk to us. We had to figure out how to feed everyone, clean the common areas,  and keep everyone working and focused. We were all exhausted from  the strain, emotion, and lack of sleep.I am sure there were some who tagged along in this venture for the ride; they may not have been too productive or honest in their motives. But there were some very bright, very dedicated young people who really wanted to change our society and end the Vietnam War. I saw this from the inside. I saw what it took on a teeny, tiny scale to  stand up for what you believe in and make some small contribution to change.

Several good and positive things came out of the “occupation” of May, 1970. There was a series of free classes , called the “Communiversity”, offered to the public. There was a heightened awareness that non-violent protest could affect change. And for those of us who held tight on the top three floors of that dorm, there was a camaraderie and connection unlike anything any of us had ever known before. It was intense and thrilling and awful, all at the same time.

I still remember the feelings of May 4, 1970. They are always with me.

It was a really bad day.

I can tell that Spring is here because Yard Sales are blooming all over. It is the surest sign that warmer weather has arrived: people are willing to clean out their garages and basements and once again try to unload their junk on the first available sucker….er, buyer. This business has its rituals, and some folks take them very seriously. I started pursuing yard sales years ago, and quickly learned the ropes. Here are some things I have learned.

• The Early Bird gets the worm. Antique Dealers, and every other kind of weirdo who can resell anything, slither out from under their rocks very early to be the first ones at these sales. Some of them will literally knock you down when the doors open. Beware of the ones who muscle their way into the front…they mean business and they will take you down. I don’t go early anymore…..being first isn’t that important to me now.
• Don’t ask to come in early if the sellers are still setting up. People HATE to have you messing around when they are still disorganized, so be patient. You will get a better deal if the sellers don’t hate you.
• Bring a large tote bag or something you can put the stuff in that you find. Grab the things you think you might like, and decide later. If you don’t, someone else will grab them and you’ll be S.O.L.
• Wear a fanny pack. I know this is ridiculously gauche, but it frees up your arms and hands to grab stuff( and that is the whole point, isn’t it?).If you aren’t worried about your money/pocketbook, you will be free to grab and stuff your treasures into your tote bag.
• Bring a beverage and snack in your car. This way, if you get involved longer than planned, you won’t have to take a break to find sustenance.

Having said all this, it occurs to me that some of my readers may not be interested in yard sales. It seems rather sacrilegious to me, but I guess it is possible that there are people who don’t find driving around searching for other people’s junk all that compelling. You people can stop reading if you want, and go do whatever it is that you find interesting.

For the rest of us, I want to examine WHY we are willing to do this. Why do we get up early on a day when it isn’t necessary, drag ourselves out no matter what the weather is like, and expend so much energy(and gasoline) in this pursuit? It seems that it must be more than just getting a bargain; because if you do the math, the cost of finding these pieces of trash/treasure usually outweighs any real savings. It must have something to do with the primordial needs of the human species. Although we don’t have to be hunter-gatherers anymore, we must be wired for this activity. I shall lay the blame for my obsession with yard sales, flea markets, garage sales, and barn sales on my DNA.

So, if you find yourself scouring Craigslist for garage sales, or reading the local papers and keeping circled sections ready for the weekend mornings, take comfort in knowing you are not alone. This passion is shared by many who are not dealers or re-sellers. Look at the gigantic number of people who frequent the 400, 600, and even 800 mile yard sales held annually in the USA. These become events that people plan a year ahead to attend. These are the Meccas of yard sale aficionados. They are the stuff that pack rat dreams are made of!

Now, we have learned that there is a fine line between collecting and hoarding. I am gradually erasing that line.

Today is Trash Day. This happens every week, so it really isn’t newsworthy; but I started to look at it from another perspective today.

In this era of so much volatility and dissension, here is something we can ALL agree on; the Trash must be put out on the designated day. In homes all over my small city, and everywhere else in America, people know when their Trash pick-up is scheduled, and dutifully put out their cans and bags at the curbside. In our locale, the Recycled materials are picked up every other week in their special blue tubs. (We have a schedule hung on the refrigerator door so that we don’t miss Recycle week.) So what, you ask?

Well, here’s what I have noticed. You can tell a lot about a person/family by the way in which they put out their trash;there are as many different approaches, as there are personalities. The Extreme Recyclers, for example, who live nearby, shame us all by their miniscule amounts of trash. Sometimes they don’t even have one full bag! Then there are the Reclusive/Hoarders; they put out only what must be thrown away. Their bags are full of used food wrappers and real leftover garbage. You rarely see anything in their Recycling except old cardboard boxes and newspapers. Another type on our block is the Anal Retentive Neatniks: their garbage is organized, very neatly wrapped, and stacked perfectly in rows and bins. Felix Unger would be proud of them! There are also the Very Confused/Perplexed people who never seem to have it together….sort of living life without borders and boundaries.These folks may have no garbage one week, and tons the next.It is usually scattered about and there are often crows feeding on the ripped open bags. All of these neighbors and many other types are in our ‘hood. We like them all, and do not discriminate on the basis of Garbage Etiquette.

At our house we are somewhat organized about Trash Day. We do recycle everything we can, and always try hard to minimize what will go into the landfill. There is a lot of creative activity going on in our home; with two people so involved in Music, Writing, Film, Art, and Crafts, lots of STUFF  is being moved about constantly. When I look at the photo  above of our trash, I wonder how much we reveal to our neighbors; I think we might be a combination of each of the categories I have mentioned.

It makes me happy that there are no arguments over getting rid of trash. It is something we all have to do, and it requires no political party affiliation. I am grateful to live in a country where we are free to express our trashy ways.

Last week I was thinking about Sister Corita Kent, and her bold graphic work during the 1960’s and 1970’s. I had a poster of the work above in my dorm room  in 1969. She remains one of my favorite graphic artists for her consistently brave creative choices in making statements against War and Hatred.

The Power of Words is sometimes obvious to us, and other times seems to go undetected as we hurtle through space on our daily trips. When someone uses hurtful words, the old reptilian brain seems to hold onto those for a long time; we remember abuse and keep it close to our hearts when we wish we could let it go. Fortunately we remember praise and loving words that come our way as well. Do you remember when a revered teacher praised your work in High School? I do. It meant so very much to me that I still parade that moment around in my head once in a while. Perhaps you can remember the first time your partner/spouse said “I love you”. Those are very powerful words. Right? Changed your life?

Sometimes a very few words can cut through us to our core. About 12 years ago,when I lived in Sanibel, Florida, I got a phone call from the local hardware store. It seems that a piece of my mail had been put in their post office box. I assumed it was an advertisement, so I asked them to read it to me, thus saving me a trip there to pick it up. The person started reading:” The family of Virginia Osbourne requests your presence at a MEMORIAL Service………..”. I didn’t hear the rest. My dear friend, Bette, had passed away suddenly. We hadn’t spoken for about 8 weeks, and her son couldn’t find my updated phone number. He mailed me an invitation to her service, and it had gotten placed in the wrong mailbox. I must have thanked the person on the phone, and hung up. I can only remember sitting on the floor of my home office rocking back and forth with a pain in my stomach like I had been punched hard. These are words we never want to hear.

A few weeks ago I Googled an old boyfriend whom I had not seen in years. I was curious about how his life had developed, and wanted to “friend-request” him on Facebook. As I typed in his name, it was followed by the word “OBITUARY”. Stunned, I read the brief description of his recent death, and was shaken by sadness and regret. Why hadn’t I gotten in touch sooner? What kind of fear or vanity kept me from reconnecting before it was too late? The force of that one word pointed out the importance of doing things NOW instead of LATER.

Perhaps the most powerful word that exists is: YES. There is the story of John and Yoko from the 1960’s which involves John going to an art installation of Yoko’s; supposedly one had to climb a ladder and reach a note attached to the ceiling. When John climbed up, the note had a single word: “YES”.He said if that word had been “No”, things would have been very different. I understand.

Think of all the times you have been told YES. When you applied for a job. When you got a mortgage. When you asked someone to marry you. When you asked if your new baby was healthy. How mighty were those words? What paths did you take because of “YES”?

One of my most indelible memories is of the 1990 Amnesty International General Meeting, which was held in Boston at my alma mater, Boston University. I had been involved with my local chapter in Yarmouth, Maine for over three years at that time, having accepted the position of Case Coordinator. At the Meeting the Executive Director of AI, Jack Healey was scheduled to speak. I remember thinking a lot about how Maine was not on the radar for the superstars of AI. (Sting and the Boss never did a  fundraiser concert in Portland!) So, I began to think of asking Mr. Healey to come and speak. Now, this seemed a bit ludicrous at the outset. Why would Mr. Healey devote his time to us, when he could be speaking to much larger crowds and get more media coverage in Boston, New York, or Philadelphia? Nonetheless, the Loyalist in my genes won over my reservations, and I decided to ask him. After his speech, I summoned my courage and went down to the front of the auditorium where he stood talking to individual members. When it was my turn, I politely asked if he would consider coming to Maine to speak……and he said “YES”. The word fairly thundered in my ears. I was overcome with emotions of surprise, elation, and pride. I had asked for what I deemed likely impossible, and was rewarded with “YES”. I remember I went to the ladies’ room and got inside a stall (the only place for immediate privacy) and danced my happy dance. It was a very, very empowering moment!

Words. They have always fascinated me, from every standpoint and in every language. I enjoy studying their origins. I enjoy learning about their delicate nuances. I believe they have power to heal and to encourage and to delight. Say “YES” to someone you love today.

Spring is coming. Eventually. It always takes longer than we hope it will, but it will be here soon. When Spring comes to Maine, possibilities open up. Now we can venture forth and garden, clean the yard and the garage, and prepare for staying outdoors longer each day.

When I was a child, Spring also meant Bicycles. For those of us growing up in the 1950’s and 1960’s, our bicycles represented many things to us; but foremost, they meant Freedom. Children in that time were far less aware of their rights and far less entitled. We saw the privilege of riding our bikes as a window of opportunity to take control of our time and choices. This Freedom meant we could ride away from the scrutiny of our parents, and be unimpeded in our important affairs.Granted, my freedom only extended to my block; still, it was independence. Sweet, gratifying autonomy.

We rode with our friends down the street and, perhaps, around the block if we were really feeling adventurous. We had plastic streamers in bright colors attached to our bike handles. If we were lucky, we had a horn to blow. Our bicycles gave us status, and we took pride in them. You probably did not get a new one for many years, so you were very careful to take care of your bike. It was, after all, your “ride”.

There was a feeling of taking part in the World in a different way, when you were on your bike. Suddenly, you could direct your travel and choose your Path; these were big concepts when almost all of your choices were made by your parents and teachers. On your bike you were in charge. Should we go to the corner store and buy penny candy with our grubby nickels and dimes? Should we ride by the house of the cute boy who sat next to us in school? Maybe we should pretend we are riding the range on our trusty horses? All of these momentous decisions could be made by us; no older siblings or parents involved. We were humans weighing our options.

Bicycles taught us many things that we would need to go a bit further on our Path.

1. If you fall down, dust yourself off and get back up on the bike again.
2. If someone gets hurt, carry them home on your bike.
3. If you take care of your bike, it will last a long time.
4. If you ride too far from Home, you might have trouble finding your way back.

They say that once you learn something, you never really forget it. It’s like riding a bike.

Every weekday morning I pause to look across the street as the School Bus comes to pick up my young neighbor, Ilya, who is in the first grade this year. His Dad, Michael, stands with him waiting until he is safely ensconced on the bus; the bus goes down our dead end street, turns around, and comes back by our houses on its way to deliver the precious cargo to school. Michael waits, waves as it goes by, and then retreats into his home. I watch in silent complicity from my window. I have done this. In fact, I did it for 8 years, when Caroline, my daughter, was attending the Sanibel School.

I remember the first trip we made to Sanibel, while Caroline was in Kindergarten. As we drove through neighborhoods on the Island in the morning, we would see the groups of parents and kids waiting at the appointed bus stop locations. I recall that it impressed me to see how happy they all were, standing there in the warm Florida mornings, chatting and smiling. It seemed ideal, compared to the bundled, freezing folks waiting in Maine.

When I moved to Sanibel in 2000, I became one of those cheerful Moms at the Bus Stop every morning. So, for the succeeding 8 years, every morning, there we were; making sure our kids got on the bus and reminding them of the day’s requirements. The bus stop morning ritual introduced me to new friends and established a bond with other parents. You might be asked to pick up and deliver someone’s child at the end of the day, or maybe bring them to your house for a few hours. We all helped each other out: it takes a village.

It was a good way to start the day. After I left the Bus Stop, I would go to the office and spend my day working selling Real Estate. When school got out in the afternoon, I was back at the Bus Stop, waiting. The reward for the wait is picking up your child, and hearing all the events of their day. Book fairs. Lunch trades. Unfair teachers. Crushes on little red-haired boys. Great quiz scores. Cheerleading routines. Volleyball games. Club activities. So much great stuff hot off the press!

Time passes so very quickly when children are growing. Almost overnight they are grown up and you are not required to drop them off or pick them up; and they certainly don’t want to be seen talking to you or dealing with you while they are in junior high or high school. They are now autonomous beings (or so they think), and you no longer wait at the bus stop.

I miss those days. There was a clarity of purpose and a sense of strong community with the other parents. We seemed to all be in this together, and there were parameters guiding our daily activities. Empty nesters lose all that. We lose the comfort of the rituals.

Rituals are important. Showing up every day and being counted on teaches your kids what it takes to honor a commitment, and what it means to be reliable. Perhaps my neighbor doesn’t know it yet, but he is teaching his son something important while he shivers waiting for the bus with him. This is part of the small window of opportunity we have, as parents, to model behavior for our children. One day, soon enough, Michael will join the rest of us who are retired from Bus Stop duty.

I hope when my daughter thinks of the School Bus, she remembers me waiting. I do. Perhaps that is why I stop each morning when I hear the bus, and look across the way.

Thinking about Spring in the 1950’s  makes me realize how very different our society has become in my lifetime. I notice it everyday, but reflecting on Spring brought back some specific memories that are undeniably in stark contrast to this new Millennium.

For example, the Spring Outfit. When I was a kid, there were 4 distinct Seasons, and the clothes you wore belonged to them. In the photo above, I am dressed up for Sunday Mass in a Spring Outfit. Each year I got a Spring coat, hat, gloves, dresses, shoes, and maybe a little patent leather pocketbook. These items were specifically used only during March, April, and May. Once Summer came, they were put away in the closet. By next Spring, my Mom would probably pass them on to a younger cousin, since they most likely did not fit anymore. There were clothing RULES. (I am not sure if there were Fashion Police then, but the RULES were adhered to, or else!)

There were Spring games, too. Finally we could play Hopscotch in the driveway  with our newly acquired chalk, and make mud pies. I had these little aluminum cake pans, teapots, and plastic dishes for my dolls; my friends and I would take them outside and create meals with mud. Ah, the beginnings of my love of baking!

Bikes were big  in Springtime. I got my first bike for Easter from the Easter Bunny. Unfortunately, the Bunny didn’t get the size right. It was too big, and I started to cry because the Bunny had gone, and I was stuck with a bicycle I couldn’t ride. Since my parents were not very good at improvisation, they broke down and told me the TRUTH about the Easter Bunny, so they could return the bike and get the correct size. I miss the Easter Bunny.

There seemed to be an order to daily life. Things had rituals and reasons. “To everything there is a Season”. I believe there was, and is, a great deal of comfort in ritual. We seem to have very little of it left these days. For expediency and convenience we have traded our long-held conventions. The rites of Spring barely exist anymore. It doesn’t matter to the current crop of young people what they wear or when they wear it. No one waits for anything now. Immediate gratification is the order of the day, so Seasons have little say in most matters.

I guess Gardeners still have to pay attention to Seasons. I look forward to receiving the beautiful seed and plant catalogs that arrive this time of year; while it is still cold outside, you can peruse the abundance of flowering plants on the catalog’s pages, and dream of warmer and brighter days. Planting flowers is such an optimistic labor. There is an old poem that I love, which says:

“Who plants a seed beneath the Sod, and waits to see, believes in God”.

That element of  waiting to see is the piece that I love. It shows the ability to delay gratification and anticipate. There is not a lot of anticipation these days. I miss that.

He was an imposing figure, at age 25. Paul stood about 6’2″ tall, and had a mane of dark brown hair, a full beard and mustache, and generous facial features.

When he strode onto a stage with his  Strat, he reminded his audience more of a  guerrilla commando than a musician. The instrument was strapped to him like a weapon: it seemed an appendage of his human form. He had full command of the guitar, and wielded it, more than played it. This control came from serious focus; he was an intense man with a mission. His ability to coax his instrument into melodic magic was hard-won.

Sometimes he closed his eyes, and seemed to be in  another place where his Muse must have led him. He was a consummate professional, and the music flowed like fine wine.

Out of the arena, when the show was over, Paul was a gentle and self-effacing man. His talent was irrefutable, but there was no arrogance or egotism. A true gentleman with manners to match.

I watched him play many times. He was charismatic, charming, and endearing. I became friends with the members of his band, the Hometown Rockers, and found them grateful recipients of my home-baked goodies whenever they returned to play in Portland. Paul called me “the Cookie Monster”.

I just learned that Paul passed away in January of this year. I feel lucky to have known him. I am sure he would have been surprised to know that he affected me as much as he did. It was not his way to assume. I have not seen him in many years, but I remember the electricity of his performances as if it were yesterday. Go with God, Paul. As they said in the movie: “You had me at Hello”.