Bid on two tickets for Bruce Springsteen's Fall 2005 U.S. tour and support two great causes!

Musicians On Call (MOC) and The Kristen Ann Carr Fund (KACF) have secured a pair of great tickets for all 17 new shows on Springsteen's Fall 2005 U.S. Tour and this is your chance to win them! All seats are in the first five rows. Most nights these seats will be in the front row but we won't know which nights. This is your chance to bid on and win a pair of tickets. All winning bids will be tax deductible above the face value of the tickets.

This is a continuation of Bruce Springsteen’s tour to celebrate the release of his nineteenth album, "Devils and Dust.” This is his first solo tour since the 1996-1997 "Ghost of Tom Joad" tour. Many thanks to all of you who have bought tickets during the Spring and Summer U.S. and European Tours and supported two great causes while seeing a great show and artist!

In order to bid on these tickets, please click here: http://musiciansoncall.org/newauction.htm and contact: Bruce.Bids@musiciansoncall.org .

We will do our best to keep the current bids up to date throughout the day. Please state the Date, City and Bid Amt in the Subject Line. When bidding, please be sure to send:

Your full name
Your daytime phone number
Your bid amount
Which concert (Date and City)

The bidding starts at $500 per pair and the bidding will increase in increments of $50. Tickets will be at the "Will Call" window the evening of the concert.

About the Charities: Musicians On Call ( www.musiciansoncall.org ) brings live and recorded to the bedsides of patients in healthcare facilities through bedside performances and CD Pharmacies. To date, MOC volunteer musicians have played for over 50,000 patients, their families and caregivers.

The Kristen Ann Carr Fund ( www.sarcoma.com ) provides grants for cancer research and seeks to improve all aspects of a cancer patient’s life, with an emphasis on adolescents and young adults.

GuitarGirl's Excellent Scrabble Adventure

I can't imagine recreating the wheel when I have chicken soup on the stove and an impossible lace pattern on the needles already driving me crazy (not to mention Miriam is out of school and Yona has half a day), so I will update you on this past weekend's excellent Scrabble adventure simply by cutting and pasting portions of an e-mail which I had written to my Scrabble brother, Seth Lipkin. More on him later.

Background: This weekend was the Nor'Easter Scrabble tournament in Lake George, New York, where I was able to meet and mingle with roughly 100 Scrabblers from all over northeastern Canada and the US for several orgiastically magnificent days of unabashed board game play.

There is no way I could possibly top Stefan Fatsis's accurate, colourful depiction of this fascinating scene in his best-selling book, Word Freak, so instead I will suggest that you go to your local book seller and pick up a copy and also a highlighter. Within the first few pages you will find yourself making lists of the juicy words so that you can be ready for the next tournament.

And who knows? One day you might find yourself -- as I have -- in the midst of this borderless, family-like scene. There are English-language Scrabble clubs throughout the world, including the world's largest club, which is in Jerusalem, and was modeled after Toronto's hugeous club. Of course, if you are a Scrabbler, you can contact me and tell me on which list you might find the word HUGEOUS.

Without further ado, here is a selection of my e-mail to Seth Lipkin. If you don't know about Seth's accomplishments, I urge you to check out his Scrabble stats website at http://www.cross-tables.com/ for a real treat. I'm in there, too. Hey, you could be, too. :)

*************************************

Division 5 highlights...

...I had two ties (!) which turned out to be with two guys from Ottawa who were roommates. Does it get any freakier? The one game with our division winner, Chris ten Den, was a real yawner. Such a dull, dull game, we both agreed. At the end, we decided to do a recount. That was far more exciting. I was up two points which I had missed, then a vile little miscount put me at three points behind to lose the game by one lonely little point. This put Chris ahead by 1/2 game, thanks to my other true tie with his roommate, Dean Porporo, which was also recounted and remained tied after the recount (reporter's note: Incidentally, after that recount and in the spirit of true Scornsmanship, I did go around referring to Chris as Chris Ten Point Five Den until I felt better).

There was another vile discrepancy which I did not catch, but fortunately my math "consultant," expert player Paul Avrin, did. As he looked at the standings which were posted, and then at my own personal record sheet, he noticed a HUGE gap of more than a hundred points in spread. The posted mistake put me neck-and-neck with what seemed at the time to be my next closest competitor -- Dean Porporo -- at least according to the posting. In fact, Chris Lipe, who would take third place, was actually closer to me in our cumulative scores.

When Paul and I trotted the paperwork over to our data entry mavin, Vernon Jones, he went into the files and noticed that one of my point spread entries had not been saved in the program. Therefore, my true record was not reflected in the posted standings. Whilst this probably would not have affected the final outcome for first place, it certainly could have put me in third place rather than second. And since I was so fuckin' close to that first place spot, I was now educated and eager to have the mistake cleared up for all comers to see.

Joseph Bowman of Toronto, despite his two bingos to my none, lost to me by 50 points. He took third place, and what a fun game that was, no matter the outcome.

Ida Scaglione had studied up the top 15 stems list. She had opportunity and ability, and played REaGENTS to a triple and then LEARNeRS to another triple and took the game. She tried ANNEARS*, which I challenged, but again, I pulled the IOU and clunkers and lost by 45 pts.

In the deciding game with Chris ten Den (pictured, above. That's Chris in the orange sweater and your humble GuitarGirl in her faceless, silver haired, sinister-pawed, black-sweater-clad glory), he opened with AI and then played two more twos before we finally got started in the game, when he played SCANTiER for 80. I countered with PORKIeR, which he held and then let stand. After that, it was his draw vs. mine, with me pulling the all the IOU and clunkers while he got the bingo prone tiles. I pulled the Q at the end and was able to play QAT for 35 pts, so I did give a good fight to narrow the spread. All my little plays were pointy, and so were his. But we really three'd and four'd our way to the end of the game, which he won by 63 pts.

My significant bingos (and biggies):

fRECKLED
AXILLAE (challenged)
WINNERS
URINOSE (challenged)
STONEMAN * (anagram is MONTANES, but hey, sometimes you forget)
DETAINS
DEARIES
MARQuEE
FLAUNTs
CERATIN
ZEAtINS (challenged)
AEROSATS
AERIEsT

PORKIeR

Opponents' bingos:

REAGENTs

LEARNeRS

TOILEtS

ItERATE

LOOTERS

PRAISING

EROSIOn

RESiGNER

AIRINGS

STONIER

StHENIA

SCANTIeR

I am ready for my next challenge of killer word lists, or risk languishing in lower divisions for life, where nary a board is left with a lonely A looking for a cheap date.

******************************************

Tidings from the New Orleans Potholes Brass Band

Good news! The Potholes have a tour lined up in Europe. If you are anywhere near where they will be, go see 'em! Here's the post which I received from band leader Rob Espino last night. I can't rave enough about him and the music that he creates.

To all my music, knitting and Scrabbling friends -- this is a do-not-miss! Support New Orleans' finest!

xoxox
Lynda
_____________________________________________


Hey beautiful!!!
Thank you so much for everything! You are the best! Thankfully we have been putting together a huge New Orleans show in Europe. So far it is myself on tuba, Mark Braud on trumpet, Lucien Barbarin on bone, Kerry Lewis on Bass (we will switch off between sets), Gerald French on drums, Charmaine Neville on vocals, and Tom Fisher on Clarinet, and I'm not sure who the piano player is.

But here is a rough schedule of where we are going. There is more to add on but so you can get an idea.

thanks again
Rob

OCTOBER
31 London

DECEMBER
01 London
02 London
03 London
04 London
05 London
06/07 Edimburgh
08 Inverness
09/10 Madrid, Spain
11 Madrid, Spain
12/13 Pamplona, Spain
14/15/16/17 Barakaldo, Spain
18/19/20 San Sebastian, Spain
21/22 Valencia, Spain
23 Murcia, Spain
24 Vitoria, Spain
25/26 Lisbon, Portugal
27 Oviedo, Spain

Love and special thanks to Richard Flohil who sent me this press release, and extra love to Danny Aykroyd for never forgetting his roots. Big shout out to Donny Walsh and a moment of silence for brother Hock and the beautiful and extraordinarily gifted Jane Vasey. Too soon, too soon, alas. I urge my Canuck compatriots to tune in.
xoxox
Moi

DOWNCHILD BLUES BAND LEADER DONNIE WALSH PROFILED WITH DAN AYKROYD ON HOUR-LONG TVO SPECIAL TO BE AIRED NEXT TUESDAY (OCT. 4)

Don Walsh, the leader of Downchild - which calls itself Canada's blues band - is the subject of an hour-long special to be seen next Tuesday, October 4, as part of Studio 2 on TVO. Actor Dan Aykroyd, who calls Walsh "one of Canada's greatest musicians," is also prominently featured.

Airtime for the show is 8 p.m.

The season debut of Person 2 Person, a series of profiles hosted by Paula Todd, the show illustrates and summarizes the long friendship and mutual admiration between Walsh and Aykroyd. From Aykroyd's viewpoint, Donnie Walsh and his brother Richard "Hock" Walsh - partners in the early versions of Downchild - were the direct inspiration for the Blues Brothers phenomenon. And from Walsh's point of view, the Blues Brothers helped build an audience for blues as a whole, and for Downchild.

Both musician and actor talk to Paula Todd about the losses in their lives: Ayroyd lost his original Blues Brothers partner, John Belushi; Walsh lost his brother, who died in 1999 - and with whom he had not spoken in a year - and, in 1982, his girl friend Jane Vasey, who had played piano in the band for many years.

And both talk about the perils of being entertainers - excessive drug use and drinking included - and finding the strength to continue. And the pair are seen together on stage in power-packed versions of Downchild hits "I've Got Everything I Need (Almost)" and "Shotgun Blues."

Dredging up a year-old past


I was sifting through some old mail that I had sent out when I was at the pit of my despair, shortly after my mum was diagonsed with inoperable cancer, which had spread from its initial site as a polyp in her colon to an uncontainable scourge which was devouring her organs. It mostly stayed silent for more than ten years, which is the scary part. By the time she was ready for treatment, it was too late. She was shy of her 80th birthday when she died this past May 7. She had known she was ill only for ten months. In that sense, I guess she was blessed.

After a deafening silence since then, for the past couple of weeks, my mother has appeared to me in my dreams. At first she looked terrible and was bedridden. But slowly, in the past few days, she has appeared to me more healthy, walking a bit more upright with every vision. Last night, in my dream, she came out and joined us while we were out shopping. She was dressed. I had not seen my mother dressed in a very long time, with the exception of two outings to the casino: She lived for the slots.

So here is an entry from my e-mail, dated, "Sat, 31 Jul 2004 12:47:24 PM Eastern Daylight Time."


Well, I've done it. I've finally hit the wall that I thought I was holding up for this past few weeks. My journey into the world of saying goodbye to my mother began just about five weeks ago, and it appears it is almost over.

This afternoon, the nurse who is assigned to my mother's homecare was in a car accident. She was injured and was in hospital before they sent her home tonight. This set off a series of mistakes which culminated in my mother's visit being neglected and anxious for three and a half hours while she waited for a nurse who never came. During that time, I spoke to some of you, I thought about all of you, and I called every single agency involved in this fiasco to get some answers, and also to let them know how furious I was about the situation. I did not receive one phone call. It was only after I began to poke around that I heard what had happened.

After leaving the third round of messages (it's a long weekend here), a car pulled up, and I met Linda the nurse, who only lives up the block, and only hear about this omitted homecare visit an hour ago, thanks to the confusion after the car accident.

My fortune was that Linda is a palliative care specialist. She took one look at my mother and I knew at that instant that she could give me the most objective and honest long view possible, so here it is. (She also understood that she may be in charge of my mother, with the other nurse possibly laid up for at least a week.)

My mother's illness has caused her to have a lack of appetite. My mother wanted to know when her appetite will return, and Linda was honest in a very frank but caring way and said, "Your illness is causing this, and you won't really have much of an appetite anymore." She suggested instead to drink Gatorade. A lot of palliative care people say this.

At the end of the visit, after all the meds were administered, I had a frank talk with Linda. She told me that in the best of all possible worlds, my mother has a few weeks to live, and maybe a month or two more if her vital signs stay strong. Because she still quite aware, now is best to see her friends so that she can say goodbye. The nurse said that my mother's body will begin to rapidly change now, and the children are best seeing her as soon as possible, knowing that this will be the last time they will get to see her, and so that they will not be disturbed by how she looks in the near future.

Once the appetite goes, the body begins shutting itself down. Linda says this is an amazing feat -- that the body turns on a switch, and begins preparing itself for the inevitable. She says that my mother will begin sleeping more and more. These are actually more like little comas that will slowly get longer and deeper, until one day she will not wake up. It is a gentle departure, with no pain at all.

I was not shocked to hear this since her sleeping has changed and she does not look the same in sleep now as she did when she was vibrant and healthy. But it did transform me, and I am much less innocent than I was a few hours ago. Particularly as I saw my mother laying in bed, like a baby, with a diaper, covered in punctures from the tubing, a pickline in one arm, butterflies in her thighs, not really aware of what all this means. Not really aware that this time must be spent in the pursuit of "good bye" and the celebration of an incredibly triumphant life.

She has been telling me that she will call her friends "tomorrow," but of course she doesn't. It is unlikely once I leave here that she will use the phone to speak with me or to any of us who love her. So now her friends speak with me and get an update, and sometimes I convey the back and forth messages as my mother sits next to me. Some of her friends cry, but most of them are just sad and careful not to upset Ann's little girl -- me.

A couple of them have come forward to prove themselves that they have never been friends at all. But none of this surprises me as much as it makes me hurt and angry.

None of us who have been with my mother lately really feel that she is aware of what is happening -- she innocently asks about when her appetite will come back....what about the next round of chemo (Linda thinks it's a terrible idea, but agrees with me that if this is my mother's wish, it must be honored)...when will the diarrea stop...why she is sleeping so much...and so forth. We let her believe whatever it is that she is believing, and I don't ask her what she is thinking about too much, because I don't want to hurt her. When she is awake, she stares a lot, and there seems to be the look of regret in her eyes, which now gaze out from her drawn, ashy face.

Now, there could be a miracle, and she could make a complete recovery. It has happened before, as Marty and I heard from my mother's oncologist. However, I am also hearing the reality as I perceive it -- that the palliative care team at Baycrest is top notch, and once they begin their work, it will be comforting for my mother and for those of us around her until the end.

As for me, I am 45 and living in my mother's basement in Toronto where nothing much has changed since we moved to this house when I was a kid. I am not sleeping. I miss my bed most of all. I wish I could have spent all of this time with Marty, focusing on the kids' upcoming school year in new schools, and fussing over each other, fighting over the remote, dining on Indian food, walking the track, him letting me bicker about narishkeit, playing Scrabble and laughing a lot, in a world free of illness and tragedy. I wish we could get back all of the Saint Martins, New Orleanses, Europes, Niagaras on the Lake, Muskokas, Chattanoogas, Arizonas, Seattles, Las Vegases and Nashvilles that gave us such a joyous time together. We crave one week to celebrate life and live it to the fullest. We have vowed to take that time. Not "some day," but as soon as we make an opening we can squeeze through.

Before I continue my complaining, let me give you the good news. The good news is that I will refrain from detailing for you the following current events from our Summer That Wasn't:

- Other family health matters
- NJ garage flood with 6 inches of water that I waded in for around an hour as I dredged and tried to get the sump pump working
- My resulting acute tonisilitis, high fever and strep episode that started in the plane, en route to TO
- Broken boiler in mom's house during my tonsilitis
- Dad's soiled stuff and my inability to launder anything or bathe due to broken boiler
- My cancellation of the Scrabble event that would have taken us to my beloved New Orleans
- My lack of favorite activities -- sleep, rollerblading, tae kwon do, and proper meals
- How much I miss and appreciate my husband, our life and our home
- My pre-menopausal PMS and its miraculous property of making me able to get everything done, all at once, all the time, without anyone getting in my way.
- Beautiful Miriam and Yona, who are truly my life and my reason for being; they do not leave my thoughts for a moment. I am in their service, and this is how I can suck it all up and stay strong.

From my communication center in the ancestral basement, I am orchestrating my war. I am at war with neighbors on all sides, with zoning police, a pending trial, and other matters of intrigue. I know that at the end of the road I will have done the right thing for the right reasons. I may actually win some of these wars, but they are not important to me now. Doing what's right is what matters most to me. So that one day, when I do manage to get some kind of regular sleep pattern going again, I will be able to sleep with a clear conscience.

A few positive things have come out of this: My mother is happy to have Josepha the domestic coming to live in the house starting Monday. She is a wonderful woman who knows exactly what is going on. She worked for a couple -- both dead now, but both of whom lived into their late 90s, and she knows what geriatric and palliative care is about. She will be a great companion for my mother and my mind is at ease knowing that she will be in good hands. We are looking for 24/7 round the clock care for my mother on the weekends now, and the community palliative care unit is able to fully subsidize this through the government. My mother has it right: "Josepha is an angel."

Marty and I have taken care of the power of attorney issues and the banking. I have successfullly put my father in a temporary home and he is well on the way to permanent and subsidized living in a nursing home. He is still strong, but crazy and toxic, and after decades of abuse, my mother just wants him kept away from her. He is safe, housed and fed, and despite the wagging tongues of all the cackling hens, that deed is done. It's over. And I'm sure I'll get some grief over it for a few years, yet. The alteh kacker keeps on ticking.

And there has been a core of amazing people who have been there for my mother. Most are cancer survivors, or people who have lived with loved ones who put up a fight and won for a long time. They have been a source of inspiration to my mother. She is tough -- she asked for the strongest course of treatment, and she also wants to go ahead with her commitment to speak at the Wychwood Library this November about her remarkable wartime experiences. I am encouraging her to do it.

My mother has touched the lives of thousands of young people, telling her story of how she survived the Holocaust. She truly reached many of them. My mother has all the letters of appreciation. This is her greatest source of pride -- those beautiful letters. The storytelling aspect of her life came late in her life, and I am really proud of her even if she was somewhat obsessive about it -- enough to cause us real concern! She kept writing, and eventually compiled and completed a memoir about her life. She remembered every detail, from the time when she was practically a babe in arms. We are all amazed at her recall.

She was an ethical and dedicated retail store owner who for 26 years just wanted to bring home the money and do a little traveling. I will always remember how she answered the phone when I'd get home from school and call her: "Good afternoon, Albion Style Shoppe." She threw a great Christmas party with pastrami and corned beef from Schmerel's, the kosher delicatessen near our house. The customers and other store owners, mainly Anglicans and Italians, loved to come by and leave a fruit cake or some Christmas cookies just so they could have a sandwich with rye bread, a kosher pickle and a little whiskey. My mum always gave a Christmas bonus and a gift to her girls -- usually a silk scarf or a bottle of Seagram's in the purple velvet bag.

As a kid I used to sit on the little waste paper basket in her tiny office and keep her company as she did the books at the end of the day on Saturdays. Although later in her life my mother would throw her fashion consciousness away and replace it with the obligatory dowdy Bubbie attire, I did learn a few things from her: grey pinstripe flares; a few good career girl wash and wear dresses, and rib knit sweaters. And of course that I should stay away from pastels, favoring olive greens and reds instead. My affinity for all things black broke her heart. She also told me to have a decent coat. For most of my life I shunned this advice until she sprung and got me a gorgeous black Jones New York midi coat with fastened elegantly with a single button, which I wore to threads.

And the Hadassah Bazaar -- the world's largest one-day flea market and sale? My mother and I learned that sometimes "used" is actually better than "new" -- a valuable lesson that I have passed down to Yona and Miriam. The Bazaar was a central part of our lives for many, many years, especially since my mother was elected to at least 10 terms of President of her Hadassah chapter. Bazaar day still is an unofficial Jewish holy day which falls on the third Wednesday of October, when you see everyone while having fun and buying lots of cheap stuff -- all for a good cause. I still have the down vest and leather/down ski mitts that I got there. Total cost -- two bucks. I also have the videotape that I made one year, featuring the infant Miriam and lots of great interviews with my mother fellow Masada Chapter members. Happy times -- selling merchandise, doing a mitzvah, being social and happy and comfortable. And laughing, and healthy.

I am watching and see the expression of what she has give me and my family -- a love of Israel, and the gift of Hebrew language. A love of all people. In her day, she could be so animated, sassy and funny. That was a very, very long time ago. Hard to believe now.

An annual colonoscopy would have prevented all of this. By all accounts, my mother has been silently ill for a minimum of ten years. But things really fell apart after her blockage, just two short weeks ago. As I watch the video of the Hadassah Bazaar, I am eerily reminded that my mother might have been saved if she had a polyp removed around the time that the video was made, some 14 years ago. She could have rung in the dawn of her Eighties at the Hadassah Bazaar this year, as a laughing and healthy old Bubbie.

So forgive me if I am not my usual goofy self tonight, but this is all so new, and I am terribly alone tonight, as my mother lay sleeping in the other room, possibly in the best health that she will have for the rest of her time here on earth.

Maybe once we get over this hump I will be able to objectively reflect and understand that my mother had symptoms for many years, and that things were going south when her mood changed, and she didn't enjoy the mall anymore, couldn't walk too well, started to sleep a lot, and became harsh and bitter. I wonder what she was thinking -- if the fear of possible illness ever crossed her mind. I will not waste her precious time by asking her these things. I will sort it out in due time for my own peace of mind, so that I can try and understand what has happened here. For now, I want her to focus on being comfortable and at peace. She is so happy with me right now and happy that I am managing her affairs and taking care of her. If this is what the job is, and if I am doing it well, then I am satisfied, even if I don't really understand the job.

After being sucked up in the vortex of this harrowing and other-worldly experience, I have only one prayer: May G-d protect us all, and may we all have the good sense to take care of our eventuality matters so that it does not rest on the shoulders of our children. Let's not let our kids wonder for the rest of lives whether or not they did the right thing. I'm here, I'm doing that, and I don't care for it much.

Keep the cards and letters coming.
Lynda

Toronto Holocaust Committee Enrichment Day

It was unfortunate that I was not able to join Judy Cohen and the Toronto Holocaust Committee for their special Enrichment Day program, which took place today. They were giving my mother a posthumous honour. Although I could not be there, I did send these words, which were read by Judy:


I am sorry I could not join you today. But on behalf of my family -- my husband Marty and our daughters Miriam and Yona, I would like to express to you how grateful we are to the Holocaust Committee for having been able to give my mother the most enriching experience of her life -- sharing her personal story of triumph.

My mother believed that there were no coincidences in life. She died on a Shabbat, which is an honour for the most righteous. She was buried at the precise time when 2,000 March of the Living participants were leaving Poland, bound for Jerusalem. This was her reward -- to leave the world a little bit improved; to see a State of Israel and to see children learning about the Holocaust; and to be chosen to leave this world on Shabbat.

My mother gave us life and enriched everyone who knew her with her vitality. We miss her terribly. On behalf of our family, I would like to thank you all again for helping make my mother's life one of fulfillment, purpose and validation.

It will be the first time that I will be receiving a plaque and bringing it to New Jersey. I am almost tempted to leave it in the Bathurst Manor Ancestral Home, because I really feel it belongs there. I can see how this will be a year of transition. Just trying to roll with it.

David Amram at the Hunter S. Thompson blast off...

I simply had to share this. Check out David's website at www.davidamram.com. He's a national treasure. He knows the world. Literally. I had no idea that he was friends with Hunter. I was still bowled over by his recent book, Offbeat: Collaborating With Kerouac, about his friendship with Jack Kerouac! I wish I had half his energy, and he's turning 75. Rock on, baby! xoxo

Subject line: to lady lynda naches and nachos

Dear Lady Lynda,

I got your nice e-mail but still haven't gotten a night's sleep after returning home at 3 am Tuesday morning two weeks ago from Woody Creek and Aspen Colorado, after performing for Hunter Thompson's final big blast off, and received phone calls and e-mails for all over the world from people who heard about the event.

I wanted to wait to write you back after I finished writing my own review of all my crazy experiences leading up to the event for Hunter Thompson's unforgettable night, where I closed the show with a theme and variations on My Old Kentucky Home, where i was joined by Johnny Depp on guitar, LyleLovett and Hunter's brother singing, as well as Jimmy Ibbotson, one of the founders of the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band playing with me, as I got the audience to sing, but...... it is taking a long time to write about it, so I am sending you this short note for now.

I leave next wednesday for Richmond Ohio, where my cello concerto Honor Song for Sitting Bull is being played, and leave after the performance Sat night the 17th and drive 500 miles all night to Tinley Park outside of Chicago to play with Willie Nelson for Farm Aid Sunday the 18th, (I realize those venues are a little far to go for you to go to by cab or subway) and back to NYC the 19th and then leave for Stevens Point Wisconson for college programs there with the crazy professor who founded the Beat Meets East Festival i did in China last summer.

Then a bunch of concerts all month celebrating my Nov 17th big 75th in Philadelphia, Chicago, San Francisco, London England, Cork Ireland an Amram Jam gala concert at the Tarrytown Theater in new York Nov 19th.. whicch will benefit homeless survivors from New Orleans.With all this activity, I won't have time to get into any trouble!!

Below are some of the reviews sent to me for Hunter Thompson's event..I wish you could have been there. It was an amazing night.All cheers, as I try to catch up with a ton of mail and phone calls, before all the upcoming concerts, plus composing a new symphonic piece, Symphonic Variations on a Song by Woody Guthrie and working on a new book, Nine Lives of a Musical Cat.All joy and creative energy to you and prayers for all survivors from New Orleans and the Gulf states.

David

Macleans magazine

September 08, 2005

ELECTRIC MOMMYLAND
Mothers rock out with songs like Pick up Your Socks

THULASI SRIKANTHAN

Go home now and tell your mother
Not to waste another day
Tell her to unplug the Hoover and
Plug in stuff the punky way!

-- from Punkymum by the British band the Mothers

Lynda Kraar is a 46-year-old suburban mom of two by day and a rocker in leopard print by night. Driven by a need to escape the daily grind of suburban life, the self-identified militant mom and Toronto native has found an outlet in her music, in between driving her daughters to school and tae kwon do, buying groceries, cooking dinner and helping take care of her sick mother. "I am not Britney Spears, nor do I have any desire to be running with the twentysomething pack," says Kraar. "I have survived birthing two children, becoming a mother, losing a mother, and now I have no intention of growing old gracefully." So Kraar, with her black velvet jacket, vintage guitars, Napolean Dynamite T-shirts, Phat Mom bracelets and black Frye boots, rocks out her frustration with songs she's written, like Suburban White in a White Suburban and Militant Mom.

Kraar, who divides her time between Toronto and New Jersey, is part of the mom rock movement breaking out across North America and finding a voice in England. Suburban women are dying their hair pink, donning fishnet stockings and rocking out in groups like Placenta, Housewives on Prozac, Frump and Candy Band. And they turn to themes they know to pen songs with such titles as Pee Alone, Pick up Your Socks, Toy Hell, Eat Your Damn Spaghetti and Fuzzy Slippers.

It's a movement Kraar and Fredericton native Alana Ruben Free want to bring to Canada next year through Mamapalooza, a festival for moms who are musicians, artists and writers. Launched in New York City in 2002, Mamapalooza has expanded to eight cities, including Chicago and Detroit, and draws thousands to some of its spring and summer events. "Just because you are a mom doesn't mean you have to give up everything," says Free, editor of Mamapalooza's magazine Mom Egg. Even for those who never plan to perform in public, rocking out can be a liberating form of expression. "Some people may see it as frivolous to make a song that nobody hears or to write lyrics no one reads," says Free, "but for the person, it can be the very thing that affirms and saves them."

Joy Rose, the 48-year-old singer for Housewives on Prozac and founder of Mamapalooza, agrees. It's not only rock's potential for fun, success and critical acclaim that draws these women, Rose says, but also its power as an antidote to the disorientation women feel when they become moms. "When we snap on the apron, snap out the kids, suddenly we don't know who we are."

For Rose, this is what happened when she left New York City for the burbs and gave birth. "I realized how we get stuck in the middle of the grind of working and raising children and how weary and dull life can get," she says. "I didn't want to be stuck anymore." She escaped through music, using everyday life to inspire her. When her daughter refused to eat dinner, she wrote: I've been standing in the kitchen since / a quarter to noon / Eat your damn spaghetti or leave the room. The song was featured on the Housewives' national album, I Broke My Arm Christmas Shopping at the Mall.

Rose feels being a mom rocker has allowed her to reclaim part of her old self, if only in a small way. "We all have a dream or two we put on the back burner when we get caught up with the responsibility of life, motherhood and general adult issues," she says. So as she keeps busy juggling the creative life and the responsibilities of motherhood, Rose says it's important to remember that "life doesn't end at 30, you can be expressing yourself and rocking at 20, 30, 40 and 50."

As for Kraar, she confidently predicts the mom rock movement will take off in Canada. "We are here and we are waiting for our moment," she states. "You will see a long line of mom bands who have been holed up in basements, garages and chat rooms all over the country coming out."

Happy Anniversary, Marty!

Seven years of marriage, and ten years of being together. Hard to believe you tamed the ol' serial bride, but here I am.

Here's to more of the same, only bigger, better, healthier, happier and with more life experience. It's been a trip, my love. You are still my whole world.

xoxo
moi

Toronto Star
Aug. 22, 2005. 11:26 AM

'Nobody's daughter' spoke up
Ann Szedlecki's Holocaust tale

Survivor told her story until the end

CATHERINE DUNPHY
OBITUARY WRITER

Ann Szedlecki was a powerful and popular speaker for Toronto's Holocaust Centre.

"I think you are brave for standing up in front of a bunch of students to tell your story; it must have been hard to tell us some of those awful memories from your past," wrote one student from King City Secondary School.

"I don't think I would last as long as you did. Unlike me, you never gave up," wrote another.

"It opened my eyes and informed me about something I knew little about," a third student commented.

And a fourth wrote: "I believe that people like yourself, who struggled during the war, should speak out and share their stories."

But Szedlecki, who died of cancer May 7 at 79 and was buried on Mother's Day, had to be talked into telling her story. At 14 she was alone in Siberia, sentenced to six months of hard labour, her brother imprisoned for supposed political crimes, but she always said she was never in a concentration camp and therefore really wasn't a Holocaust survivor.

"At first she was a bit reluctant to talk, especially with an Auschwitz survivor like me," recalled Judy Cohen, who as co-chair of the Holocaust Centre's speaker bureau interviewed all potential speakers four or five years ago when Szedlecki was approached to tell her story.
"I said `Ann, you lost your family. The end result is you are a Holocaust survivor of a different sort. It's good for people to know there are varied experiences.'"

That accomplished, Cohen had to then talk Szedlecki out of telling her story the way she was accustomed to: as an adventure story of a spirited young girl.

"I think she missed the point of her own suffering," said Cohen. "I told her to tell them the absolute truth and put it in an historical context, otherwise it is just a sad story. As I said to her `You didn't enjoy the adventure.'"

Szedlecki listened and became a fine speaker, someone who understood that this kind of storytelling is more educational than cathartic.
"Her story became what it should be," said Cohen.

But first she wrote it down over the 10 years in which she attended Toronto author Sylvia Warsh's creative writing classes at the Bernard Betel Centre for Creative Living.

"My mother became a whole other person once she muttered the words `I am a writer,'" said her daughter, Lynda Kraar.

"She was a natural storyteller," said Warsh, who helped Szedlecki produce a 200-page autobiographical manuscript. "Look at page three, starting `I am nobody's daughter.' It is great stuff."

Her manuscript begins as Ann Frajlich is leaving the Soviet Union after six years, leaving behind the unmarked grave of her brother Shoel — dead at 23 from tuberculosis contracted as a result of being arrested for cooked-up political crimes, tortured and imprisoned — and leaving with only a bag of dried bread, a jar of melted butter, a few clothes and size 12 shoes on her feet.

She is returning to her hometown of Lodz, Poland, even though her entire family had died in the Warsaw Ghetto.

"I am nobody's daughter, nobody's sister, nobody's granddaughter, daughter-in-law, sister-in-law, aunt or cousin," she wrote. "My past is all gone, it disappeared."

In 1940, her worried parents had sent her off with her brother to the Soviet Union where they would work for one year to "wait out, hopefully, the short war," as she wrote. They were transported to Ridder (later renamed Leninogorsk) in western Kazakhstan, in Siberia, about 500 kilometres from the Chinese border.

And it was true, she was a bit giddy over what she considered to be a great adventure, excited to be going to a new place and to be out on her own. She didn't even mind when she was put to work painting bathhouses and enrolled in school. But after her brother was arrested, she was thrown out of the school and ended up hauling bricks, then later peeling potatoes and washing dishes in a mining cafeteria.

When she took three days off work without permission to bury her brother in the frozen spring of 1943, she was sentenced to six months of hard labour in appalling conditions at a labour camp. She lugged railway ties to build a new line, shovelled snow to clear roads, cut down trees and freed logs from a frozen river, but she was also carrying the grief of her brother's death and her guilt that she wasn't with him when he died.

After being released she volunteered to work underground in the mines, loading the ore into wagons. She hated it but, typically, wrote instead about "the miracle of my survival" in which she left the pile of ore she was sitting on to boldly ask the foreman for a cigarette — and just as he handed her a smoke, the pile collapsed. "I could've been buried under tons of ore," she cheerfully concluded.

"I can even go so far as claiming that smoking saved my life."
(The children and students to whom she later told that story just loved it.)
"Since she was 14, my mother has been invincible," said Kraar.
She married soon after the war, a man who was 11 years her senior, a concentration camp survivor with the numbers forever burned into his forearm. Abraham Szedlecki was "a wounded, traumatized and sad guy," according to his daughter and the marriage was never a happy one, although it lasted until her death.

The couple moved to Canada in 1953 after three years living in Israel and both went to work in the garment district. He pressed coats, she sewed on buttons. But it wasn't long before the boss promoted her to bookkeeping duties in the office and even though she'd had no experience doing books, she learned fast.

Although Abraham stayed in the factory, she left her job in 1965 when a store out on Albion Rd. became available.

"She took out a loan for $5,000 — this little Holocaust lady with Grade 7 education — when all her friends were saying don't do it," her daughter recalled.

For years, her women's clothing store was the most successful business in the Shoppers World Mall on Albion Rd. Kraar — Szedlecki's only child and travel companion on holidays — had married and moved to New Jersey by the time Szedlecki retired in 1990.

"They were close, closer than I could imagine," said Masha Ami, Kraar's best friend since they met at camp when they were 11.

"I could see they were not only mother and daughter but friends."
The friendship was always volatile, however, as both were strong, talented and stubborn women who liked to do things their way.
As Szedlecki and her husband had long been leading separate lives although continuing to share their Bathurst Manor area bungalow, she threw herself into volunteer work.

She had always been involved with her Masada chapter of Hadassah-WIZO, but she began driving for the Kosher Meals on Wheels program and serving on a committee managing funds provided to survivors through the Jewish Material Claims Against Germany Inc.

She kept up her writing and her talks until the last year of her life.
Her husband, suffering from Alzheimer's, moved into a care facility, but she stayed where she was determined to be, in her own home. Kraar said she kicked into overdrive, often staying for weeks to care for her weakening mother in her home.

Szedlecki died in her home listening to show tunes and singer Theodore Bikel.

And as far as Kraar is concerned, her mother's story isn't over. She's writing a show about her mother's life. One song is finished, which Kraar, a musician and publicist, performed in a small club in New York City recently. It was part of Mamapalooza, a celebration of mothers.

NEW ORLEANS UPDATE

In the midst of this chaos and tragedy, I have two incredibly good pieces of news:

1. I heard from Joe Lastie, drummer of the Preservation Hall Band. He is okay and in Georgia with his daughter and some relatives. His house, car and drums took the brunt. All he wants to do is get back on the road and keep playing. This is me with Joe in happier times, earlier this year.

2. I heard from Rob Espino of the New Orleans Brass Potholes Band. My understanding is that they made it out in time. As a band leader, Rob is trying to get some gigs lined up for his band. Rob is a superb leader in that regard. A true soldier.

All of these wonderful musicians and their families are suffering the trauma and hardship of having to start from scratch. Life as they knew it is over. But in the true spirit of musicianship, all they really want to do is to get back to gigging, and upliftthe spirits of people by bringing them together through music.

In the case of Preservation Hall, I understand they have a September tour scheduled. The Potholes are currently and actively looking for gigs and have asked me to help them.


Any ideas? Get in touch with me. Let's be creative, gang.

Musicians on Call

Your humble GuitarGirl reporting from the plane, en route to Italy. Go get your coffee, gang. I’m running long today.

Guitar backpack strapped on tight, I am walking along Sixth Avenue on my way downtown. It is a very pleasant afternoon. I hear Hebrew, Italian and Greek spoken in the street. It’s the day before our cruise to Italy, Croatia and Greece with the Israel holiday add-on. I am going to places where I will probably hear nothing but English in the street since apparently all of the locals are here in New York on holiday.

I arrive at the Foundling Hospital. It’s exactly as my friend Lisa Ludwig the rock star says it will be. I have come as a volunteer to perform music for three floors of kids, infants through teens. Most of them are too sick to be home and there are a too many palliative, non-responsive kids.

This is my first gig for Musicians on Call, a non-profit organization that arranges bedside visits by musicians to hospitals and homes. I learned about it from my first chance meeting with Michael Solomon, its founder, who also manages the fabulously gifted singer songwriter John Mayer.

Michael and I met when I attended a fund raiser for the Kristen Ann Carr Foundation, which labours tirelessly in its pursuit of a cure for sarcoma. When we first arrived, a wonderfully energetic and dashing young turk came by to say hello. In no time I learned that Michael had been the fiancé of Kristen Ann Carr, who was stricken with the disease which tragically robbed her of her life. Having lost a young love myself, I connected with Michael. Although you can never really recover from such loss, Michael was a true leader who took tragedy and made from it something positive and hopeful.

Kristen’s parents, Dave Marsh and Barbara Carr, were at the event and were surrounded by many of Kristen’s friends who now participate in the foundation’s events. They also get a lot of support from Bruce Springsteen and the E Streeters. Barbara is Bruce’s manager, and Kristen had basically grown up in the music business around these people. Dave is “That” Dave Marsh, the prominent rock journalist from Rolling Stone.

As we spoke, Michael mentioned that his father was a prominent Jewish communal professional. It turned out that his father was a longtime colleague of my husband. Furthermore, he and his wife had given us a lovely wedding gift, which adorns our house to this day. In fact, we had socialized with them and had been to their home for dinner. His parents were on the board of Musicians on Call.

Michael really inspired me. We kept up. The day came that I would be meeting him at his management office on the Upper West Side. I will never forget that day. It was gorgeous out. I figured I’d go for a walk in the park before the meeting. I even remember what I listened to that day: a reggae compilation.

I got to the house, feeling mightily righteous and ready to start my day. I called Michael on my way out the door at 9 a.m. The phone was out of order. There was only one other problem.

It was Sept. 11, 2001.

So now it’s four years later and I’m walking down to the Foundling Hospital, ready to do my thing.

It’s an amazing little hospital in what must be a historic building, filled with fabulous staff, all smiling and friendly. The kids are everywhere. I am being led around by a host from Musicians on Call who is also training a new volunteer host. We make our rounds together. They guide me and I go in there and do my thing.

Lisa Ludwig, who has a killer band called Black Flamingo and is a New York City icon, is a tough act to follow, but I do my best. I am the maverick cowgirl with funky jewelry to her black/leopardskin/sparkles rockstar. It’s a good match. The kids are thrilled to hear that we are connected. So it’s like a visit from a favorite relative. That makes me feel good and I am in top form, working the room, learning the names, improvising and playing with the kids as though I were one of them.

There are many rooms that are sealed off because there is a bug going around the wards and the kids are very susceptible. Or because some of the kids are very excitable or can’t handle the stimulation. Reasons for everything and signs up to let you know if you absolutely can’t enter a room.

I do manage a few smiles down on the third floor, where most kids are on respirators and are not responsive, other than eye contact. Yet, a few tiny kids in wheelchairs reach out to strum my guitar when I come around. I let ‘em. I sing. I talk to them. Sometimes we even laugh. Mostly their smiles made me laugh and that made them smile more.

Up on the fourth floor my first encounter is with Lisa’s “boyfriend.” He is in his single digits, wheelchair bound. And at the computer station, playing a game. He has no time for music today.

“Uh-uh, not today,” he says, and I get brushed off, as does another kid. But he’s funny about it and I’m actually kind of flattered when he is told, “This is Lisa’s friend.” Even so, I am shooed away in favour of the game.

A West African kid with a gorgeous smile is flirting with me. I say to him, “Here’s a song your parents know for sure,” and launch into My Girl. He is excited and very appreciative. Doesn’t want me to go.

I turn to walk away for a moment and then I turn back to him.

“Parles-tu francais? I ask him.

He vehemently shakes his head no and laughs. I ask again. Of course he does. Note to myself: Next time, a French song.

I’ve loosened up now, in a room filled with three girls who are my teenage daughter’s age. I’m now singing in Hebrew if I sense that the child is Jewish. And I throw in a French song, too. These girls transcended their bodies and were just being girls.

I sang Stand By Me. I hadn’t done that song since the Passover seder at my mum’s, which was the Seder To Remember: her last one. My longtime musical partner, the wildly talented Ardene Shapiro, joined me in a little concert of all my mum’s favourites from our old band days. It was the last time I saw my mum smile and really interact with her friends and loved ones.

In this room, with these girls, I felt the presence of my mother for the very first time since she died. She was with me, and she was happy.

Before I know it, two hours have passed and it’s time to go.

A quick debrief with the music therapist. I mention to her that I sort of ethnicated my song list and tried to play to the crowd. We talked about certain kids’ responses. She was thrilled to hear that some kids actually sat up (or really tried to) and participated.

On the way home, I walk with the new volunteer and we talk about our experience. Uplifting. Profoundly sad. A little piece of Gd on Sixth Avenue.

You can really learn a lot from these kids, like how precious every second is. I was fortunate to be able to serve them a little piece of quality time. I hope I did a good job.

Great news. Musicians On Call asked me back. I’d love to take my girls next time. Maybe I will.

Huge shout out to Michael Solomon and to Lisa Ludwig. We need more people like that.

I'm doing this little ad for my wonderful friend, Annette Tedesco. Many thanks to Seth Lipkin. I couldn't have done it without him. :)



BATTEN DOWN THE HATCHES FOR THE BIG NOR'EASTER!

You may be packing your lightest clothes for the heat of Reno, but it is not too soon to bundle up your Scrabble gear for the Nor'Easter in Lake George, NY. Registration is now open. From Thursday, Oct. 20, to Sunday, Oct. 23, it's guaranteed non-stop game action like never before.

Click on the link below to learn about the exciting, new TWO Early Bird mini tournaments plus the 15-game Main Event. You will find an easy-to-read page of information and a link to a printable registration form, which you simply mail back to Annette. All contact info, rates and dates can be found at:

http://www.cross-tables.com/lg2005/lgflyer.htm

For a very limited time you can also access the link to the Nor'Easter by visiting the front page of Seth Lipkin's amazing stats website, www.cross-tables.com . Click on "Flyer: Lake George Tourney October 20-23, 2005." Be early. Book now and avoid the rush.

See you in Lake George! Submitted by Lynda Kraar on behalf of Annette Tedesco and staff

C’est une chanson, qui nous ressemble
Toi tu m’aimais et je t’aimais
Nous vivions tous, les deux ensemble
Toi que m’aimais moi qui t’aimais
Mais la vie sépare ceux qui s’aiment
Tout doucement sans faire de bruit
Et la mer efface sur le sable les pas des amants désunis

- from Autumn Leaves (French lyrics Jacques Prévert, English lyrics Johnny Mercer, music Joseph Kosma)

Up in Gravenhurst:
A Town Stuck in Neutral


A week prior to my visit up to Sudbury was Yona's visitors' day at Camp Shalom in Gravenhurst. Marty came up from the States to see Yona with me. The party was over: After the blistering, record-breaking heat and humidity, the skies opened up and spewed forth the wrath of the gods. We were under inches of water everywhere you could see.

In true Canadian spirit, no one cared. The 400 northbound lanes were packed with cottagers, their kids, ORVs and their two fours. There was a uniform noise coming from practically every car: the sound of Q107 blaring licks by every blazing triplet-playing guitarist known to mankind. And despite the terrifying road rage and crazy driving, everyone seemed pretty happy. An hour and a half after departing the Bathurst Manor Ancestral Home, there it was. Gravenhurst. I imagine it's like visiting one's grandmother's house.

I spent the summers of 1968 through 1977 up the road in Torrance at Camp Massad, which is now the Camp Crossroads. The Mennonites gentrified it, but it is still recognizable by us Massad orphans. They do get the occasional former Massadnik and they are pretty hospitable. Sometimes I am one of those trespassers.

Gravenhurst was where we spent our days off. It was always a hospitable place. We would go down to Gull Lake Park and then our dining options were pizza at Rombo's, a delicious slice of blueberry pie at Sloan's, maybe grab a beer at the Albion Hotel. Then maybe stop by the Kee to Bala and see what bands were playing. In true Muskoka time, these are still the options.

My reunions with Yona are always fabulous. She has such incredible energy when she first sees me. There's always a lot of screeching and a lot of jumping around. Yona gets into the act, too. After three minutes our shoes are filled with sand and we are filthy.

This day the grounds were nothing but water and mud. Nonetheless, we picked our spot and unfolded all the chairs. It was pointless to throw down a blanket. Instead, I draped the goodie-filled plastic bags over the armrests. Yona had a feast of her favourites. We had Gryfe's pizzas and bagels, strawberry yogourt with bitter chocolate shavings, gummy things from Johnvince, and three flavours of Kernels. The intention was to save much of it for the campers' afterparty in the cabin, but much of the crunchy stuff just wilted in the intense moisture of the air and the intermittent storms.

The weather did not put a damper on much. The program was performed in the rec hall of the camp. Yona was a star. When she screamed, the kids screamed. When she sang, they sang. She danced, they danced. She got an excellent report from counselors and also the specialists, particularly the drama specialist. She looked so happy. I was so grateful that at least for a stolen moment in time, once a year, she could have this carefree experience that will sustain when all other memories are gone.

Desserts were served, tea was taken. The kids were happy. We parents were ecstatic to see our friends and their kids, maybe catch up on a little gossip. At three in the afternoon, Marty and I departed. It took three gruelling hours crawling in the rain, the mist and among a lot of exhausted and drunken drivers to get back down to city limits.

As we passed through Orillia I had a flashback to last year, same trip, same spot. A sunny day, the end of another great visitors day at camp. The cellphone rang as we were in the middle of a bad zone. It was a doctor at a hospital in the west end. My mother was brought there by ambulance. She was having a bowel blockage. Phone cuts out. An hour later a message. He wanted to operate as soon as possible but wanted to be sure we approved, because the patient was not cooperating. Around King City I made contact. I told him to do nothing. He had not known she was a cancer patient at Mount Sinai downtown. We got down there at 5 p.m. My best friend Masha met me there. Before I went in to see her, we all stopped by the Second Cup for a coffee. Three Equals. A blend of skim and 2 percent milk.

Within an hour we had mum discharged and we drove her down to Mount Sinai where she was admitted. Marty and I got back to the house at 3 a.m. I was still in my khaki shorts and Merrell mocs. The house was eerily still. That was the first time I was convinced she was going to die. I was at the depths. I was debating graveside or funeral home. At 4 in the morning we took a spin to the 24-hour Dominion. I had a bowl of roasted red pepper soup, a cup of peppermint tea and went to bed. Funny the things you remember.

So it's been a very lonely summer without my mum. She gave me camp as a centerpiece in my life. Like all good greenies, she sent me away for the summer so that I could have a normal time. Now I do it for my own kids. Even when I am a million miles away, in addition to my mum, I always have Gravenhurst with me. It keeps me sane. I know it will do the same for my kids when they go out and have their own lives.

Sudbury! Sudbury! Sudbury!


Friday. The barista at the coffee joint near the Bathurst Manor Ancestral Home hands me my Grande Rift Valley and I rush off to the airport to pick up Marty, who was arriving at 8:45 a.m. With one jittery hand on the wheel and Q107 blaring, we two caffinated wonders take off to Sudbury to visit Miriam at camp.

Make no mistake about it -- the 400 and all roads leading from Rome up to da nord country der, eh? are treacherous. They will kill you if they don't pass you, and sometimes they'll kill you AND pass you. Some parents reported that there was a fatal long after we had settled in at our downtown bivouac. That added another hour or more to many parents' trip time of roughly four hours, if you calculate in a stop in Bracebridge for a decent meal at a waterfront cafe plus a refueling.

Anyway, we were safely tucked away at our downtown Howard Johnson on Brady Street, not to be confused with the Holiday Inn on Regent, which last year was the Howard Johnson on Regent at precisely the time when the Howard Johnson on Brady was the Holiday Inn on Brady. We were all very confused. No apologies necessary, though, we were all there for a good time and didn't really care too much. Despite the fact that the Soccer Tournament was on, there were still a few rooms at several hotels in the area.

How were we going to use this weekend? We debated a visit to the science centre or possibly to the Big Nickel to see a nickel mine and the exhibits. There was a powwow on in the area; lots of music; art festivals and more. My choice was to sleep, uninterrupted, for many hours at a time. For most of the weekend. It was a plan that worked.

Friday night at 7 we were tooling down Long Lake Road toward Tilden Lake Road, all alone, no other cars in sight. We no sooner got to the opening of the camp when two BMW SUVs flanked us and together we made it to the parking lot.

We -- Miriam's parental units -- were VIPs, it turns out: the only parents of campers. The rest of the parents were there to see their kids who were on staff, or else they were board members whose objective was to raise funds for the camp from people like us.

Although Miriam was thrilled to see us, she wisely kept her distance so that I wouldn't be able to do anything to embarrass her. I will not name names here, but I did actually know around 70 percent of the parents there from my many previous lives. There were loads of people (now adults) who I knew from school and also from camp. When our own beloved Camp Massad (of blessed memory) in Torrance, Ontario, passed away in 1978, it left a lot of orphans. Well, here we were. Now with our own kids in a camp which has not only survived, but has apparently thrived with our own kids in the system.

Over the course of the weekend Miriam would approach me with some of her friends. Of course, right away it starts with the Jewish geography. Over the years Miriam has gone from mortified to kinda morbidly fascinated by how I know these folks. One thing for sure -- I adore seeing them from year to year, particularly now that I am no longer living in Canada on a full-time basis. It's as much a visitors day for me as it is for her. We had a great Shabbat evening dinner, hung out with the director, who has become a great friend, and left around midnight. In fact, we were the last to leave.

We had Saturday to ourselves since her program did not start until evening. I had managed to find a terrifc vintage store which had a handknit sweater with Ojibway patterns on it which was done in a combination of intarsia and Fair Isle techniques. It had a sewn-in lining. Just by the look of it, I could tell that some nice grandmother had made this sweater with the intention of having her marry "in."

The program that night was great and I got to see the rest of the "gang" who had not been part of the previous evening's experience. Once again, we closed the joint. But not before Miriam's tentmates had begged me to sleep over. Marty was quite willing to let me go, but I was scared that I'd get kicked out of camp and bring the innocents down with me. Instead I offered them accommodations at the NJ house whenever they come to visit.

The next day we picked up Miriam from the designated spot and before long we were driving around in the misty, dreary rain, looking for a little hot action. So we went to Value Village where I did my usual Garbageologist schtick and checked out the tees and sweatshirts for the wealth of information about how the locals live. Miriam found a Tim Horton's soccer jersey. I admired the incredible selection of hand-knit blankets in the bedding section. As I described what I was looking at (intricate chevron pattern which was made on a large circular needle; clapotis; bowtie pattern, etc), a lady overheard me and decided she needed to have all of these magnificent blankets. She thanked me for the knitting lesson and tossed the beautiful handmade items into her buggy. Total cost: mebbe ten or twelve bucks. A bargain!

Eventually we went for an early dinner where I got the real 411 on what's happening this year. It was a classic mom-daughter gabfest, which I have missed all summer long, since both my babies went to camp.

Not terribly eager to leave camp, naturally I snuck back in with poor Marty in tow. Miriam took me to the lounge where a bunch of the guys were jamming. The bass player had popped his low E string and was banging away on three strings, although he sounded terrific. The guitar player unstrapped his Strat and gave it to me to check out. I plugged in through a recent model solid state Fender Champ and flipped it to the out-of-phase position, and then I set the reverb to 7, bass to 3, treble to 7 and volume to deafening. It was time to wail.

I cannot imagine how embarrassed poor Miriam must have been, but she sucked it in pretty good and watched me bang out some blues with the guys. We chit chatted about Stevie Ray Vaughan and Jimi Hendrix. I showed the guitar player a few licks. The drummer was actually the other guitar player at camp, but he wanted to listen, so he took a seat behind the kit. After a few measures here and there -- just enough to whet their musical whistles -- I unstrapped myself and told them, "remember, never underestimate the blues."

As I left, two of them ran up behind me and Miriam had the unfortunate duty of confirming to htme them that I was her mother. She lamented that this would mean that from now until the end of camp, she would be bombarded with taunts of "your mother's so kewl!" She and I know the truth; that I am not kewl; that I just play guitar.

Before we left, Miriam promised me she would take guitar as one of her interest groups. All I ask is that she come home with a few chords. Once again, we were the last ones to leave. With Mattisyahu blasting on the camp sound system, and also from my car CD player, we headed back south and arrived safely at 10:15 last night.

Survival of the Fittest

After tae kwon do class yesterday one of the students shocked us with her story of a car that had just almost knocked over her and her new baby as they tried to cross a busy street in Teaneck, NJ. The car was being driven by an elderly gentleman who apparently was not as sharp as he once was. The sidewalks were under construction; she had a tricky time negotiating the bits of the sidewalk that were usable. Out of the blue, this man's car sped toward her. She darted in between a parked car and quickly pulled the stroller up with her. Meantime, the driver knocked over four large traffic cones and sped off. My fellow student was sure that he didn't see her.

Lookit, in Canada, we drive crazy, but we drive close to each other because essentially we trust that the other guy will get out of the way and let us pass if we really need to keep barrelling. We are a fairly unassuming, social bunch. And we do really trust the other guy. The other big reason that you might want to get out of the way is because in Canada our beer is made with actual alcohol.

And besides, it's altogether possible that the guy knows you and just wants to drive close to say "Hey, how's it going?"

My tae kwon do instructor and I talked about this and then equated the scenario to the midwest, where -- strong beer notwithstanding -- the same thing could happen.

However, here in the Northeast it's about survival of the fittest. The driver may have been thinking that if this little lady with her baby buggy couldn't get out of the way fast enough, they deserved what they got.

I think he's onto something. It could also be that he is a martial arts master. I will ponder this when I'm out blading today, listening to ZZ Top on the iPod.

Mum and her grandchildren 

Some Girls

In our very PC culture, I find that I get asked what it's like being a female. Especially when it comes to the guitar life. What's up with that?

I don't think I ever really realized that girls were different from boys. When I picked up the guitar, my world became two worlds -- those who played and those who didn't. I never realized that I was the only girl in my universe who played. I never got any special treatment. I carried and set up my own gear and rented the truck when I needed a truck.

One day I got a questionnaire from a feminist group asking me about my music. Did I have a message? Do I play to a particular audience? Have I ever been discriminated against because I was a girl? Stuff like that.

I answered honestly: I play to the crowd, my message is "lessez les bontemps rouler" and I have never been a guy, so I don't know if I've been discriminated against, because I only have the experience of being a girl. I am sure those were not the right answers, but they were mine and I mailed them back. I never heard from that group again. I actually felt that the feminists discriminated against me because I didn't answer the thing right.

Now that I'm older I still don't really feel I've ever suffered discrimination. I try to teach my girls that Job One is to go out into the world, be true to yourself, and be the best you can be to others.

It could be that I'm just denser than most. It could be that my mother - despite sharp warnings from her other immigrant friends - came to Canada and opened a retail store with nothing more than a bank loan. My mother probably was the only woman in her circle to do such a thing, but I honestly did not notice. She was a great boss - #1 in her shopping center in sales per square foot for many years, loyal staff, great Christmas parties.

It never dawned on me that Mum was the only one who sat at the card table with the guys while the other women watched TV in the den. Or that the people calling asking for my mum were Harry, Louie or Jack. Dare I dwell on it? Laissez les bontemps rouler!

GuitarGirl and her 1963 Gretsch Chet Atkins Nashville back in the Day. 

I don't know how it first happened, but I admit it -- I'm a cave dweller. I set up my music teaching studio in the basement; recording and writing gets done down here; my office is down here. There's absolutely no natural lighting, because the window boxes were covered over ages ago. So when a little light from the outside world gets through the cracks, it can illuminate the entire footprint of the basement. Sunlight down here would just plain be unhealthy.

I do my best thinking down here, because it's night all the time, and I can recreate my early days in the bars of Toronto, and later, the metro New York City area. My mum used to say that I was a "nine-to-fiver -- nine at night to five in the morning." Although, come to think of it, my latest late-night gig was in Jaffa, Israel, where the gig started at 1 a.m. and ended around 4. I used to go to that job from an early one up the street, which started at 9 p.m. and ended at 1 a.m. That gave me an hour's break for an early breakfast and coffee, plus a glance at the next day's newspaper.

Fast forward to now. I'm staring into the green glow of an old Ampeg jewel which has made its home in my 1968 Fender Princeton Reverb for at least 25 years. I know this because I swapped jewels with an old and unsuspecting Ampeg piggyback amp back then. The Princeton is my alter ego. It looks interesting and intriguing with that emerald jewel. I know that the years have passed but I am still that kid with the Princeton, playing Steve Cropper or Django Reinhardt licks as I sit in front of my parent's hifi with records scattered all over the floor. Gonna keep going 'til I nail it!

The first time I heard Los Lonely Boys doing "Heaven" on the kitchen radio, I basically did the same thing. I dropped the spatula and headed down to the cave and fired 'er up. I don't know a single guitar player who didn't do this.

I still have a handful of my erstwhile toys -- old amps, guitars, effect pedals, guitar picks. I pride myself on preserving my vintage stuff. Mind you, it was vintage when I got started collecting it, so I'm not panicking yet. And I don't have an outrageously gargantuan collection -- just enough to be slightly over the top.

One of my students last night asked me about my older stuff and I explained that although I do have some pieces from the 1950s and even the 1920s, I prefer collecting from the early 1960s because I was alive then. I even vaguely remember the Beatles on Ed Sullivan. I haven't figured out why my students are so devoted and want to hang around with an old broad, but I take the compliment.

And meantime, here in the cave, in my solitude, I watch Arlen Roth instructional guitar videos while I do a couple of miles on the treadmill, just to keep me inspired.