"Never In A Million Years"

This post will be a bit of whimsy and nostalgia. I'm placing it here as the first post so that people will be curious and log onto the blog and see the post about Leo and his rescue organization which is directly after this one :)

This post will require a bit of imaging. Most people who are acquainted with me know that my childhood and youth (well, most of my life) was in music performance at venues of many descriptions. My mother was a very active "stage mom"  :) When I was 19 years old and had left my home of origin (actually, had been run off by my sibling who was not a nice person), my mom saw an ad in the newspaper about a vocal group looking for an additional singer who can do harmonies. She renewed her interest in being backstage and insisted that I inquire and I found myself with three guys who were going to sing and one additional guy who was a talented piano player. The building was very old and in the center of New Haven (CT), about two or three floors up in an old building. The floors were that nice, worn-looking kind of wood. I didn't really want to be doing this kind of music... I was 19 and these guys were in their mid-thirties (old) and the piano player, Tony, must have been in his 50s. They called what we were doing "progressive jazz"; of course I was much more enthused about rock and roll. Well, we practiced there and at each other's houses for a while, then added our own instruments ... me on piano, Charlie on guitar, and Geno on bass ... or sometimes Charlie would play the bass and Geno would play some kind of hand rhythm instrument ... later Ray entered the scene and played drums. By this time I was really enjoying the harmonies ... very close jazz chords on some terrific old (at that time) songs ... and Tony kept saying "Rock won't last, it won't last!" This is all leading up to what I want to tell you :)

One night while we were in the old building, we heard footsteps coming up the stairs.  It was a  smiling middle-age man of stocky build and I think he was carrying in his own huge stand-up bass. The guys knew him and asked him if he'd like to do a song and in a split second he responded by saying "Sure" and I heard my very first vocal and bass solo as he launched into a spell-binding rendition of "Never In A Million Years". I'd never heard the song before.  It was mesmerizing to me and at that moment, the bass became a much-loved instrument to me. I later realized that the bass sound is very important to me when I play piano or my split keyboard (which has a bass function). As a matter of fact, a saxophone player who came to my house five or six years ago, jubilantly exclaimed "A keyboard player with a left hand!"  

The song "Never In A Million Years" has stayed alive somewhere in the background of my mind and, recently, I looked for the lyrics on the Internet.  I made myself a lead sheet and have added the song to my repertoire :)    

Memories Of Santa ...

Christmastime, for me, brings many memories of  childhood Christmases.   It was celebrated in our  home in a cultural, rather than religious way, although I was always asked by neighborhood churches to play piano at their holiday programs.  At our house -- full of hustle and bustle -- there were family members from both my parents' families, who would come by to visit and bring me gifts.  My mother, always the gracious hostess, would manage to serve a bountiful dinner to any and all who showed up.  I remember my great-aunts; they were ladies on my father's side who were elegantly dressed and coiffed; they almost always brought me coloring books.  My great uncles were scarcer and, when they were in attendance, were on the quiet side. My "regular" aunts and uncles, though, were quite lively and interesting ... they were from my mother's side. One such uncle, I clearly recall, was the bad boy of the family and brought with him an air of scary excitement when he appeared at the door.  Sometimes I would hide when he visited.  

As I grew up and into my teens, my own friends and their families became most of my Christmas and holidays weren't celebrated much anymore in my own home, due to family problems.  Later, I was married and holidays revolved around children.  So the essence of my own, personal Christmastime nostalgia centers on the magical years during which I was from about age seven through nine.  And the "event" that stands out in my memory and makes me smile was brought about by my father.

Daddy, though very personable and well-liked, was not a warm and fuzzy person; my relationship with him was one I'd describe as an aloof friendship; he would occasionally buy me a treat or spend a few minutes talking with me.  So I was greatly surprised and touched by the playfulness of his Christmas spirit, which appeared two Christmases in a row back then.  

Lying in my bed on Christmas Eve, I wanted to believe Santa Claus was coming, even though the logistics didn't make sense to me.  My mother would tell me to go to bed because she thought she had heard Santa's bells and she didn't want him to skip our house.  I would lie there with my own version of sugar plums dancing in my head :)  And this I was doing.  I had heard my parents' voices talking in muted tones in the kitchen.  All at once, I heard the sound of bells jingling outside.  They sounded very clear and sharp in the cold New England night air, especially as there was snow on the ground.  I listened --  the bells paused -- and then began jingling again, this time under my window and then moving toward our backyard.  How exciting! Could it be Santa?  But I resisted the urge to sit up in my bed, let alone look out the window.  I didn't want to break the spell!  I realized in those moments, that my serious, aloof father was playing Santa because his own inner child wanted to bring me Christmas delight :)  I was thrilled and so happy.  He repeated the performance the following year, running (my father was athletic) across our land jingling the bells  :)         

Now, many years later, the family scene has completely changed, and with it Christmas.   Now it's mostly a quiet time.  My dog, in her twelfth year, prances in her red sweater.  I dress Fiona, my ficus tree, in colored lights. We play some holiday music.  I make a quiche that has become traditional for me over the last 20 or more years.  I enjoy exchanging holiday greetings with friends and strangers.  But in the distant past lies that spark ... my memories of Santa, that warms the magic of Christmas Eve for me.    

Comfort Zone –

Lately I’ve found myself occasionally visiting the nearby Shoney’s. In years past, the Shoney Restaurant on the other side of town was where my mother liked to go for our weekly dinner date. She had a favorite server and thoroughly enjoyed dining there. Daughter Shara and I often went there for breakfast, even during her rebellious teen years; having breakfast there was a shared experience we both enjoyed. Maybe those memories now send me to the nearby Shoney’s, in order to reminisce. I don’t mean for this to sound like a Shoney’s commercial. Actually, the veggie bar isn’t as good as it used to be (when it was strictly a veggie bar); also, the number of meal choices has diminished.

But, it is still "homey". Last week I went in and sat down and a woman across the aisle looked at me and exclaimed "Great tat!", referring to the wolf tattoo I have on my left arm. She then proudly revealed her own tattoo (of a unicorn) just above her chest cleavage. The parade of people is varied and fun to observe!

Christmas Card Of The Mind --

Yesterday, for a little while, I took the nostalgia trip down the lane of Christmas Past. When I was very young, my paternal grandmother played a prominent role in things festive. She was a wonderful pal and playmate and really enjoyed talking and drawing and glueing and cutting out paper shapes at the kitchen table. She had a nice smile that made her eyes twinkle. Her eyes were kind of almond-shaped (like mine are). Living in Connecticut, we usually had snow for the holidays; in fact, we often had a lot of snow ... and in Connecticut, it can hang around into mid-April, in layers of old, crusty re-frozen, and new snow. Anyway, my mother had a great sense of humor when it came to what Santa would put in the "stockings hung by the (pretend) chimney (we didn’t have a fireplace) with care". Every Christmas, there would be an apple, an orange, a "book" of Lifesaver candies, and a tube of toothpaste, among other little trinkets! Sometimes on Christmas Eve, my father would walk around the outside of the house, jingling bells, especially as he passed my bedroom window. He did it mostly to have fun, though it was under the guise of cautioning me that Santa was approaching and all should be quiet in the house. So I would always comment, the next day, that I’d heard Santa, and I know my father was delighted. My mother would cook a big dinner on Christmas. Actually, I remember thinking of the season that ran from Thanksgiving to Christmas to New Year’s Day as "The Big Three" in terms of her dinners. We always stayed home for these holidays and our house was like a train station – with friends and relatives trudging up the hill by foot or, occasionally, driving up the hill if there wasn’t fresh snow or ice on it. It was a different time then, unhurried, and not very commercial in those days preceding malls and discount stores. Memories of Christmas Past bring a mix of feelings, especially as we recall the people, things, ways, that have exited – and smile at those that now grace ... our lives. It all makes a colorful, picturesque, and mindful holiday card.