Hello, new members! Don't forget to check the bottom for backissues!
It’s been five months since my last mailing list.
During that time, I played 54 gigs, traversed the country and back, released my new album, mailed 150 packages or so, debuted at the Philly Folk Fest, accomplished a milestone with ilyAIMY, and sold-out two shows with the Simon & Garfunkel Tribute (we're already close to selling out next month in Hagerstown and Tysons!?!). Add another sold-out show with a Women’s Rock tribute, and yet another singing my first Early Music concert with Ayreheart (reprising this Sunday in Frederick, Md). A most successful season.
But amidst happy bouts with a guitar or friends or a steering wheel, I was also scared, angry, sick, and sad. I haven’t entirely conquered the Four Horsemen of my personal apocalypse, but one of my preferred weapons is gratitude. I cannot thank you all enough for the grace given me via so many sold-out shows since August, allowing me to hawk myself less and hide awhile. Until I could return with better words. ___________________________
Today’s 2-Minute Tale
It is the season of the blanket, and I am reminded of an old winter ritual to make a child finally go to sleep. At bedtime, mind the precise order four blankets must be layered. First, blue-and-brown stripey. Followed by a light blue one. The penultimate layer is dinosaurs, before (finally) RED. The bars keep the child in and dinosaurs out, but softly, beneath a reminder of daytime’s blue sky. The dinosaurs stand guard should the red outer armor fail as a stop sign to monsters. It is an actual Technicolor Dreamcoat. Childhood’s Kevlar against the dark. Depending upon the child, unicorns or superheroes may be substituted for dinosaurs. I do have an adult version of the spell that involves a weighted blanket sandwiched between comforters (less protection from boogiemen and more failsafe against quilt-pilfering bedfellows).
It is also the season of the mouse. I am grateful the neighbor foxes thin their ranks, but I am no vixen. So, after a night in the peanut-butter penthouse, I drive them far away with half rations of a chocolate-dipped Chewy Granola bar (their favorite) and a small word of encouragement. They always look back at me once before they run, as I wonder if the few days I spared them are any kindness at all. Mercy is much like the child’s blanket spell … protection is not guaranteed, only a slightly better chance at comfort. And these days … the darkest part of me fears it’s all meant to comfort the wrong party.
Not all my seasons are merciful, but this Fall I finally pardoned the pumpkins. That first lockdown Autumn, I bought a ridiculous number of pumpkins. A month later, with softening rinds and snow coming, I set about giving in to winter. While collapsing the frame of my summer hammock, I realized every dismantled rod made quite a nice, weighty bludgeoning device. I didn't have a lot going for me those days, but I had past-prime pumpkins and big heavy sticks. I called for the kids.
In the backyard, I issued every member of the household a metal rod and a meaty pumpkin, with instructions to pummel them all. The slaughter was profound. Cathartic. So good it became tradition. But not this time. The nest is empty. A new season entirely.
Along a roadside in Nevada, offerings had been left at the foot of a folk-art sculpture that drew me in. I’d come with only one thing in my pockets, a single guitar pick.
I decided that the only thing you have to give is the greatest offering of all. I've been working on believing that ever since.
I made something between a prayer and a wish, looked back at her once more, and headed east.
And … I think mercy was granted?
But who knows what that means?
I may very well be the mouse.
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In 2026, I am fulfilling album-backer house concerts. Shipping out the last perks, opening for my idols, sharing stages with my friends, working to complete ilyAIMY's overdue album, and taking with me into the New Year all that was successful about the old one.
