Southwest update
Been in Arizona since Thursday night. It is so dry here. Of course, no one will be surprised at that, but the fact is they haven't had any decent rain since October. Before that, August. It is dryer here than it has been in over one hundred years.
My skin shows it. I'm used to only putting on lotion after I shower, but here my skin demands moisturizing at the very least once a day. My lips seem to get dry just hours after I've saturated them in balm. On the bright side, my face has cleared up completely for the first time in weeks.
Already the concert part of the tour is over. We started in Tucson on Friday, in a church where my father has played annually for the past 27 years. It was a very responsive crowd, and their new CD sold well (I was overseeing the sales table). Then Saturday morning we swung up to Phoenix. The crowd was smaller and less enthusiastic, but they still stood to applaud at the end. We saw old friends, including a woman I hadn't seen in over ten years, who I remember making me feel more important and at home than just about any adult would have bothered to with an ugly eleven-year-old. She showed me a photo of her latest bulldog - she's owned many. I felt warmed by her smile and charmed by her sturdy turquoise jewelery. We stayed at the house with other old friends. In the morning the man, Vince, cooked us delectable omelets (who knew eggs and asparagus could go so well together?) and then showed me to the back yard where their were fruit trees. Before leaving we filled plastic bags with lemons, tangelos and grapefruits.
We stopped in Tucson, dropping in on the annual Jewish-Muslim Peace March. Then we drove down to Bisbee, a mining town-turned-tourist-trap. Lovely to visit, but I'd hate to be the kid who had to grow up there, isolated and dry and surrounded by touristas in overpriced cowgirl getup. One such woman showed up at my dad's concert, making my skin crawl with her designer poncho and cowboy hat, all-too-Connecticut debutante-like voice, and pasted-on smile. I much prefer the leathery, tapered-jean wearing southwest hippy types. At least they're genuine. We stayed at a beautiful house (designed and decorated by a chiropracter) in the foothills, where I played with an enormous and docile great dane and slept on the most comfortable pullout couch I could imagine.
This morning they played at a college outside Bisbee. I hate college concerts. Professors who like my dad make the concerts an activity for class, and the students obviously can't wait to bolt afterward. It makes me sad that so few people my age appreciate folk music. I can understand how it might be perceived as corny or just not wild enough. My roommate simply states that she hates the sound of acoustic guitar strings being plucked. But for me, the simple music I grew up with will always strike a part of me. These are the people who sing the unstylized truth about what's going on. They are the voice of the voiceless, expressing both outrage and hope. I wish more people my age would realize how important that really is.
Now we are back in Tucson. Soon we will go to dinner with our old friends Ted and Jackie. Ted and my father have been working together on and off for thirty years now. He is a tiny little Jewish man with bristling beard, fierce blue eyes, a sharp mind and a mouth that refuses to stay shut for any length of time. I used to be afraid of him when I was little. But then, by the time I was thirteen I was taller than he was, and he didn't seem so imposing anymore.
Then next few days will be quiet. I plan to get some walking done. In the past I've walked miles every day here, braving the sun to seek out thrift stores while Charlie and Karen practiced their repertoire. Perhaps we'll see a movie. We'll certainly peruse the thrift and used book stores.
It's good to be back. Some people have one home. My sense of being at home exists in pieces, spread across the country.
My skin shows it. I'm used to only putting on lotion after I shower, but here my skin demands moisturizing at the very least once a day. My lips seem to get dry just hours after I've saturated them in balm. On the bright side, my face has cleared up completely for the first time in weeks.
Already the concert part of the tour is over. We started in Tucson on Friday, in a church where my father has played annually for the past 27 years. It was a very responsive crowd, and their new CD sold well (I was overseeing the sales table). Then Saturday morning we swung up to Phoenix. The crowd was smaller and less enthusiastic, but they still stood to applaud at the end. We saw old friends, including a woman I hadn't seen in over ten years, who I remember making me feel more important and at home than just about any adult would have bothered to with an ugly eleven-year-old. She showed me a photo of her latest bulldog - she's owned many. I felt warmed by her smile and charmed by her sturdy turquoise jewelery. We stayed at the house with other old friends. In the morning the man, Vince, cooked us delectable omelets (who knew eggs and asparagus could go so well together?) and then showed me to the back yard where their were fruit trees. Before leaving we filled plastic bags with lemons, tangelos and grapefruits.
We stopped in Tucson, dropping in on the annual Jewish-Muslim Peace March. Then we drove down to Bisbee, a mining town-turned-tourist-trap. Lovely to visit, but I'd hate to be the kid who had to grow up there, isolated and dry and surrounded by touristas in overpriced cowgirl getup. One such woman showed up at my dad's concert, making my skin crawl with her designer poncho and cowboy hat, all-too-Connecticut debutante-like voice, and pasted-on smile. I much prefer the leathery, tapered-jean wearing southwest hippy types. At least they're genuine. We stayed at a beautiful house (designed and decorated by a chiropracter) in the foothills, where I played with an enormous and docile great dane and slept on the most comfortable pullout couch I could imagine.
This morning they played at a college outside Bisbee. I hate college concerts. Professors who like my dad make the concerts an activity for class, and the students obviously can't wait to bolt afterward. It makes me sad that so few people my age appreciate folk music. I can understand how it might be perceived as corny or just not wild enough. My roommate simply states that she hates the sound of acoustic guitar strings being plucked. But for me, the simple music I grew up with will always strike a part of me. These are the people who sing the unstylized truth about what's going on. They are the voice of the voiceless, expressing both outrage and hope. I wish more people my age would realize how important that really is.
Now we are back in Tucson. Soon we will go to dinner with our old friends Ted and Jackie. Ted and my father have been working together on and off for thirty years now. He is a tiny little Jewish man with bristling beard, fierce blue eyes, a sharp mind and a mouth that refuses to stay shut for any length of time. I used to be afraid of him when I was little. But then, by the time I was thirteen I was taller than he was, and he didn't seem so imposing anymore.
Then next few days will be quiet. I plan to get some walking done. In the past I've walked miles every day here, braving the sun to seek out thrift stores while Charlie and Karen practiced their repertoire. Perhaps we'll see a movie. We'll certainly peruse the thrift and used book stores.
It's good to be back. Some people have one home. My sense of being at home exists in pieces, spread across the country.