The year was 1965 and I was twelve years old. I wanted to learn to play the guitar, so my parents got me a golden-bodied acoustic and signed me up for lessons at Tom Pickett’s Guitar Gallery on East Kirkwood Avenue.

In the Hoosier town of Bloomington it was not a happening scene yet in 1965. A leather vest here, some long-haired guys there, but not so much love and peace and psychedelia. But Kirkwood was right down the street from the Indiana University campus and in the next few years as I was folksinging more and more, barefooted beings called hippies began to frequent the avenue in fringe, brightly colored clothes, and beaded headbands, smelling of incense and patchouli oil. Many of them also had guitars, slung over their backs like apparel.

My long-haired (and very exotic, I thought) teacher started me out with D and A7, and at first I had to work hard just to simply strum and smoothly change back and forth between these two chords. I was heartened to learn that a person could play hundreds of songs just with two chords. The first song I learned was “Good News”:

Good news, chariot’s a’comin’
Good news, chariot’s a’comin’
Good news, chariot’s a’comin’
And I don't want it to leave a me behind.

I picked up other songs along the same lines like “Hush Little Baby.” Soon I had graduated to 3(!) chords, adding G. I learned how to read tablature, and then I learned the magic of minor chords with Dm and Am. With just these chords and another progression: G-Em-C-D, thousands of songs could be played. Eventually I learned bar chords, and then almost anything (theoretically) was possible.

I began to play and sing everywhere I got the chance – for my friends and family, in Dunn Meadow next to IU, in talent shows, even once on a local TV station at a very early hour one morning. My father loved to harmonize on some songs like “Tell Me Why” and “Kumbuya.” By then I had learned a lot of anti-war songs as the draft and the raging Vietnam War started to take more of my friends. “Strangest Dream” was one of these:

Last night I had the strangest dream
I'd ever dreamed before.
I dreamed that all the world had agreed
To put an end to war.

I also sang “Simple Song of Freedom.”

Come and sing a simple song of freedom.
Sing it like it’s never been sung before.
Let it fill the air, tell people everywhere
We the people here don’t want a war.

And of course, “We Shall Overcome.” Not to mention Dylan’s “The Times They Are a’ Changin.’” The guitar teacher mischievously taught me that one at a very young age, perhaps hoping to introduce a mild insurrection in my distinctly unrebellious young life – but my parents never seemed to object, perhaps because I was an incredibly well-behaved little thing until I diverged from their plan in my twenties and started living with Mark (shacking up, as my Dad called it). They were worried about our level of commitment to each other. Thirty-five years later Mark and I are still together, so there you have it.

I learned lots of folk songs, playing and singing for hours a day sitting on the edge of the bed in my room, probably driving my entire family crazy. Folk songs were a great form of expression for me and are to this day. I loved the lyrics and had a knack for memorizing them – learning whole sets of songs made famous by Joan Baez, Judy Collins, Joni Mitchell, Leonard Cohen, Bob Dylan. It was one of the most exciting and inspiring periods of learning and growth in my life and I’ll never forget it.

Of Lady Mondegreen

I have learned a new word (where has it been all my life?): mondegreen. It comes from a 17th century ballad about how they have slain the Earl of Murray and Lady Mondegreen. Only the real words are “laid him on the green.”

The word “mondegreen” was coined by writer Sylvia Wright for misheard poetry or lyrics. In her original discussion of this in 1954 she defined the mondegreen as actually better than the original—but few samples I have seen meet this criterion. Some are better than the original, some are hilarious, and some are simply stupid.

Another example Sylvia Wright gave was “Surely good Mrs. Murphy will follow me all the days of my life,” which is really Psalm 23’s “Surely goodness and mercy will follow me all the days of my life.”

One of my favorites is “’Scuse me while I kiss this guy,” for Jimi Hendrix’s “’Scuse me while I kiss the sky.”

Then there is “A gay pair of guys put up a parking lot” for Joni Mitchell’s “They paved paradise and put up a parking lot.” As well as “We’d like to know a little bit about your far-off isles,” for Paul Simon’s “Mrs. Robinson.” The real words: “We’d like to know a little bit about you for our files.”

And “the ants are my friends, they are blowing in the wind” for Dylan’s “the answer my friend is blowing in the wind.”

Since I am a great fan of lyrics and have memorized many songs, mondegreens are particularly amusing. I know I’ve been amazed at what I thought I was hearing in a song and what the actual words were when I looked them up. Sometimes when you look lyrics up on the Internet you find a bad version which is actually a series of mondegreens, so beware as always of anything you discover there.

The word mondegreen, after 54 years, has finally made it into the Merriam-Webster Collegiate Dictionary, and is a welcome addition. Feel free to post your favorite ones in comments below.

Wild Basin Hike

On the Monday after July 4th we all drove up to the southern corner of Rocky Mountain National Park to hike Wild Basin. The trail leads past a rushing mountain stream and Copeland and Ouzel Falls are quite spectacular. The day was a little overcast but it seemed to make the white froth of the waterfalls glow even brighter, and the Indian paintbrush too.

I remembered again how fine it is to have kids who have grown up and still like hanging out with us once in awhile and found a moment to be grateful. We had some good conversation hiking up the trail. There were a lot of people of all ilks hiking along, including several youth groups, who we found a couple of times sitting on logs lining the trail having their own heartfelt conversations.

We saw a chipmunk, and later on the way back down a deer crossed the trail a few feet in front of us. The doe was skittish, but willing to be photographed from a distance.

A fire rushed through parts of Wild Basin a few years ago, so there are areas still rejuvenating from the burn in a way I find quite fascinating - it reminds me of hope. The brilliant green of the ferns in these areas always draws my attention as well as the green tips of the pine needles; who says it isn’t green in Colorado (ex-Hoosiers sometimes say this, but they are wrong).

Boulder has a special relationship with prairie dogs. One has only to peruse headlines from the Boulder Camera in recent months or do a search on prairie dogs at its website to get a clear sense of the place they hold in the hearts of the citizenry. Headlines like: “Prairie Dogs Tapping Toxins,” “Tests Show No Sign of Plague in Valmont Butte Prairie Dogs” and “Public Input on Prairie Dog Endangered Status Commenced,” not to mention “Activists Alarmed by Bulldozing of Prairie Dog Burrows.”

The Camera seems to be quite open to first-page placement for prairie dog stories and I have even seen two stories at once on the front page during particularly dire times. Even Boulder’s close neighbor Louisville gets into the act with a letter to the editor: "Louisville Should Act to Protect Prairie Dogs."

I have nothing against prairie dogs. I have walked on paths by their burrows, listening to their alert warning calls to each other. The sound has been likened to barking, which is why an animal that is clearly a rodent has the word “dog” in its name. I think it sounds more like a whiny little squeak.

When a field has become their habitat, it is riddled with these burrows, which alas make the field unusable by any other species and can produce a mean sprained ankle if one is not careful. Debates have been had on whether the prairie dog is really endangered in Colorado (conclusions varying depending on facts like whether the tail is black or white), and the place that the prairie dog should hold, relatively speaking, in the ecosystem. He’s a dear little creature as you can see here, and tasty for the raptors. We have many brilliant scientists in Boulder who surely can find ways for city parks and prairie dogs to coexist without cramping each other’s style.

In any case, I captured this picture of a prairie dog today on a walk in Valmont City Park, location of Colony #9. Against his better judgment, he let me come pretty close before ducking into his burrow, but sounded his alarm a couple of times to his compatriots nonetheless. I don’t blame him since at one point the city was thinking about killing him and his friends –clearly this plan was revisited.

An Update on Emily

Emily the cat got her feeding tube removed Wednesday morning, leaving behind a round wound that the vet recommended we allow to heal in the open air. She has been reveling in the outdoors, rumors of the lurking neighborhood fox be damned, and seems pretty much back to her old demanding self with many requests for treats, entrance or exit through front or back doors, petting, and laptime - all this punctuated by luxurious naps on various beds and couches throughout the house. She is none the worse for wear after her ordeal except for furless patches on the side of her neck, belly, and one front ankle which all suffered various indignities during her medical treatment. I am very grateful for her recovery, and attempting to finish out administration of the "healthy liver" pills the vet recommended, with little cooperation from Emily herself. "A cat will do what it wants when it wants, and there's not a thing you can do about it." - Frank Perkins.

Mallory, Myth and What I Like

I strongly recommend a book called “Find Me” in a series by one of my favorite authors, Carol O’Connell. The focus of the book and series is a character of mythical proportions named Mallory (although her first name is Kathy she prefers just Mallory). Mallory works for the NYPD but is certainly one of its most unconventional members. She is the adopted daughter of the otherwise childless famed NYPD detective Louis Markowitz and his wife Helen. Lou rescued her at age nine from the New York City subway tunnels where she had been leading a mysterious and feral existence on her own since approximately age six.

Mallory is beautiful, brilliant, and savage. She follows her own code in the battle of good against evil and remains fiercely loyal to family and friends in her own way. After the deaths of Lou and Helen, Mallory is watched over by her father’s three friends, Riker (another hardcore NYPD detective), Charles Butler (a brilliant, wealthy psychologist who has the misfortune of having fallen in love with Mallory), and Dr. Slope, the NYC coroner. Mallory is not undamaged from her years of survival on the streets, but is indomitable in beating her father's friends at poker, trapping murderers and bad guys and succeeding at any other activity she decides is important.

Since I liked this novel so much I decided to itemize what I liked best. One day perhaps I’ll write a novel of my own with all of these elements. This novel has:

• An admirably strong female character repeatedly outsmarting, outwitting and out manipulating the men surrounding her, several of whom continue to love her despite herself.
• A noble quest—in this case a road trip across America down legendary Route 66 in search of two holy grails: finding a serial killer and finding Mallory’s roots (“Find me.”)
• A complex plot that never unfairly deceives the reader. I read it again to make sure; the only misdirection that happens is when various supporting characters, and the reader, jump to conclusions unsupported by logic.
• Excellent characterization, not only of Mallory herself but of her surrounding friends and foes, and even of the killer whose motivation and peculiar behavior ultimately become clear.

One character in the book, a psychiatrist who seems to know more about a child killer than he is telling, has this reaction on tangling with Mallory:

“…here before him was the living illustration of someone larger than life; her sense of presence did not recognize the boundaries of her body. Her eyes were cold, and so was her stance, arms folded against him….face set with grim suspicion, and this was merely what she allowed him to see…he could sense the tight control that checked her desire for expedient mayhem; she dwelt forever in that moment before the taut string snaps. He knew how truly dangerous she was, and she gave him hope…In this new century he had regained his faith in gods and monsters—and she was both.”

Oh, that I could pen a novel this good! Read it. And tell me what makes a great novel in your mind. Comments welcome.

House Cat

Emily the Cat has recently starred in a feline version of “House,” which makes her a “House Cat.” For the uninitiated, “House” is a television medical drama that my daughter and are in the habit of watching on DVD each Sunday night. Dr. Gregory House, the star of the show, is an irascible, irreverent yet brilliant diagnostician, obnoxious to patients, manipulative with friends, addicted to pain pills, lacking in people skills and obsessed with solving complex diagnostic puzzles at nearly any price. He is surrounded by beautiful, intelligent women who are inexplicably attracted to him, of course.

Each House episode involves desperate diagnostic measures, treatments that are stabs in the dark, fairly gruesome and graphic scenes of medical mayhem, patients being resurrected from near death with those round things they put on your heart that make you jerk up into the air, and at least one MRI, spinal tap and/or brain biopsy through a tiny hole drilled in the head.

I plunged into the somewhat less complex world of veterinary medicine the other day after Emily stopped eating, becoming even tinier than she already is in only a few days, and seeming close to death. Blood tests revealed high bilirubin, a sign that the liver isn’t functioning right. The doctor (an affable fellow with no resemblance to House) recommended a liver biopsy, which he unceremoniously extracted through a small puncture in Emily’s abdomen and sent off for tests. Meanwhile Emily had to stay in the hospital with a feeding tube to keep from starving to death while we waited for the lab results.

The results were better than feared—no cancer or hepatitis. Pancreatitis, already subsiding and treatable. But the feeding tube has to stay in for the time being, and with Emily coming home, it would be my job to fill the syringe with soupy brown (but nutritious) cat food and meds four times a day and squirt it into the little feeding tube protruding from the side of Emily’s neck like a perverted periscope.

Emily is understandably irritated by this invasion and periodically hides under a bed at feeding time. But so far we are getting along okay and I am hoping she will start eating on her own soon because I would be sadder than I can describe here to see her go. Stay tuned.