This morning when I dropped Frank off at school, I was in a huge hurry. My ID badges at USAFA expire tomorrow, and after trying all day yesterday to get them renewed, and failing, I was determined today to make it happen. I wanted to be at the Community Center at 7:30 on the dot, when they opened.
I was impatient as we drove up to the front of the building. Several cars were in front of us in the carline and it seemed that each of the high schoolers were in no hurry to get out of the car so their parents could speed away to start their day. Still ten cars back, Frank started a conversation with me about something; I have no recollection what it was about. I'm not even sure I was listening at the time.
We inched forward and the song on the thousands-plus-absolute-favorite's playlist changed. Lightning in a Bottle by Summer Set. It immediately took me back to their concert at Summit Music Hall, where I was able to get another notch (or two) in my cool mom belt when Jess (the hot drummer who Frank had a massive crush on), sat down at the bar with me for a little girl talk.
I closed my eyes, took about five deep breaths and reminded myself how fleeting this time with him is. Next year he will likely drive himself to school. Those precious mornings that give us an opportunity to connect, will be no more. Neither will the afternoon drive home, when I am the first line of fire for the summation of his day, good and bad.
We came close to the front of the line, close enough for Frank to get out of the car. He turned before he did, and told me he loved me, and reminded me to have a good day. It dawned on me that perhaps the teenagers I was cursing for their slowness earlier were doing the same thing before climbing out of their parents' car.
I looked up, one last glance at Frank before he disappeared into the building where he spends his weekdays, and noticed a group of students praying around the flag pole. Some days I drop Frank off too early to see them. Other days, like today, we arrive just in time to see them walking up, one by one, heads bowed, sometimes taking the hand of someone already standing there.
I don't know what they prayed about today, but every single time I see them, it takes me back to the Tuesday after Labor Day, after we lost three of our very precious boys. I remember how many students were crowded around that flagpole, so many of them in tears. I sobbed the whole way home that morning, and probably far into the day.
The memory made me want to pull the car to the curb, throw it into park, and run to the door to hug Frank one more time before he went inside. I didn't. But I did call him, to tell him I was sorry I was distracted. He told me it was okay, and laughed a little.
He has been teasing me lately, a new phase in our mother-son relationship. Calling mom out on her silliness. Yesterday I left my iPad at the hair salon; he rode over with me later to pick it up.
"I can't believe I left this here," I mumbled walking up to the door. I didn't realize Frank was right behind me until I heard him say, "Here, DU. Not so hard to believe mom." Which made me laugh, out loud, because it was so unexpected. Which made him laugh. Soon we were both laughing . . . and it wasn't that it was that funny, it was just a shared memory of mom's forgetfulness, and the serendipity of arriving the next morning and finding my iPad sitting on the same bench I left it on during the previous day's swimming state finals.
In a few minutes I'll go pick him up, and I'll play Lightning in a Bottle again, but this time intentionally. Because that's what this blog is. It's my way of capturing moments, those where we howl at the wind, thunder our joy, live life like a bolt of lightning, and throw our hearts in the air.
Friday, January 30, 2015
Thursday, January 29, 2015
One Step Forward, Twenty-Seven Steps Back
Twenty-seven might be an exaggeration, but today’s step count included more in the wrong direction than the right one. I need to get an updated CAC and proximity badge. Three visits to the office that makes that happen were unsuccessful. The last advice I was given was to arrive at 7:30 tomorrow morning, and I’d be first in line. Yay. Just what I wanted to do. But I will, because the current ones expire on Saturday. And I am absolutely, positively NOT a last minute kind of girl, which makes the day I had all the more perplexing.
Some days, no matter how hard you try, just don’t go right. It’s a fact of life. So here I sit, with an endless list of things I was going to accomplish today staring me in the face, and absolutely no energy to tackle any of it. Obsessive-perfectionist me looks at the clock and sees the number of hours still available before a reasonable bedtime. Balance-achieving me looks at the clock and sees that it is an hour most people transition from business-mode to home-mode, and I should allow myself to go with the flow guilt-free.
Wonder who will win out?
Saturday, January 24, 2015
The Concert - Part 5 - The Concert
Parents and teens trickled in. The first band was going to start at six-thirty. We all crossed our fingers that more people would show up. Doug had asked me to let him know when the first band started. He’d come back down then.
The opening band was good, and played four songs. There were probably close to seventy-five people there by the time they started. Close to seven, they finished. I walked over to the door to tell the parents on bouncer-handstamp duty that we were expecting two very special guests. G’ma Claudia and G’pa Kevin were on their way. I explained that we were able to use the barn thanks to them. I also explained that G’pa was very ill. Our dear, sweet wonderful G’pa has terminal cancer. He’d had a rough chemo treatment and G’ma wasn’t sure how long they’d stay, but they were definitely coming.
When they walked in the door, I felt the tension I hadn’t realized was there, leave my shoulders. I was so very happy to see them make it. Doug walked in shortly after, and the boys began their show.
Frank has not always been a confident kid. We’ve seen that change over the course of the last three or four years. He became a competitive swimmer, and he became friends with a group of kids who share his passion for music, as well as his creativity. It was great to see him right up front, the lead singer, making announcements, bantering with his band mates in between songs . . . G’ma and I stood near the front, both in awe of this boy we love heart and soul.
Before their third song, Frank spoke. “Guys, guys,” he began. “Listen up. This is a special song and we’re dedicating it to everyone who helped make this happen, our parents and my grandparents, G’ma Claudia and G’pa Kevin.” Applause broke out and my tear-filled eyes met Frank’s. To say I’m proud of him, doesn’t scratch the surface of the emotion I was feeling. They played Sideways. And if you’ve ever read anything on this blog, you know how special that song is to me.
G’ma and G’pa lasted until the last song, and left right before the encore. I am so happy they were able to stay that long, and I know, without a doubt, that Kevin loved every single minute he was there. Every single one. His eyes were filled with pride, and love was written all over his face. What an incredibly special memory that will be.
The show was amazing. As I looked around the room, I saw the same pride etched on the faces of the rest of the parents as I was feeling. None of us had any idea a week ago that the boys were as good as they are.
The show ended around 8:45. By nine the barn was cleaner than it had been when we arrived, thanks to the boys and their parents, and the boys were on their way to a celebratory after-show dinner, at MacDonald's. They still, after all, are teenagers.
Frank came in to talk to me when he got home. I expected him to talk non-stop, and tell me all about how he felt, how he thought it went. He did a little of that, but then he stopped. He leaned back and closed his eyes. I watched as a little smile formed on his face. He was peaceful, serene, and happy. What a wonderful thing for a mom to witness.
I will never forget this week. It was full of twist and turns, but in the end, it was magical. It is the start of something for these boys. Who knows where it will lead them, but none of them will ever forget last night. The Lost and the Lonely. Keep your eye out for them. They’re gonna be huge.
The opening band was good, and played four songs. There were probably close to seventy-five people there by the time they started. Close to seven, they finished. I walked over to the door to tell the parents on bouncer-handstamp duty that we were expecting two very special guests. G’ma Claudia and G’pa Kevin were on their way. I explained that we were able to use the barn thanks to them. I also explained that G’pa was very ill. Our dear, sweet wonderful G’pa has terminal cancer. He’d had a rough chemo treatment and G’ma wasn’t sure how long they’d stay, but they were definitely coming.
When they walked in the door, I felt the tension I hadn’t realized was there, leave my shoulders. I was so very happy to see them make it. Doug walked in shortly after, and the boys began their show.
Frank has not always been a confident kid. We’ve seen that change over the course of the last three or four years. He became a competitive swimmer, and he became friends with a group of kids who share his passion for music, as well as his creativity. It was great to see him right up front, the lead singer, making announcements, bantering with his band mates in between songs . . . G’ma and I stood near the front, both in awe of this boy we love heart and soul.
Before their third song, Frank spoke. “Guys, guys,” he began. “Listen up. This is a special song and we’re dedicating it to everyone who helped make this happen, our parents and my grandparents, G’ma Claudia and G’pa Kevin.” Applause broke out and my tear-filled eyes met Frank’s. To say I’m proud of him, doesn’t scratch the surface of the emotion I was feeling. They played Sideways. And if you’ve ever read anything on this blog, you know how special that song is to me.
G’ma and G’pa lasted until the last song, and left right before the encore. I am so happy they were able to stay that long, and I know, without a doubt, that Kevin loved every single minute he was there. Every single one. His eyes were filled with pride, and love was written all over his face. What an incredibly special memory that will be.
The show was amazing. As I looked around the room, I saw the same pride etched on the faces of the rest of the parents as I was feeling. None of us had any idea a week ago that the boys were as good as they are.
The show ended around 8:45. By nine the barn was cleaner than it had been when we arrived, thanks to the boys and their parents, and the boys were on their way to a celebratory after-show dinner, at MacDonald's. They still, after all, are teenagers.
Frank came in to talk to me when he got home. I expected him to talk non-stop, and tell me all about how he felt, how he thought it went. He did a little of that, but then he stopped. He leaned back and closed his eyes. I watched as a little smile formed on his face. He was peaceful, serene, and happy. What a wonderful thing for a mom to witness.
I will never forget this week. It was full of twist and turns, but in the end, it was magical. It is the start of something for these boys. Who knows where it will lead them, but none of them will ever forget last night. The Lost and the Lonely. Keep your eye out for them. They’re gonna be huge.
The Concert - Part 4 - Day of the Show
Friday dawned a beautiful day. The Colorado sunrise was particularly spectacular. When I dropped Frank off at school, I asked him to take a photo of the sky with my phone. Later I posted it with the caption, “This is what the sky looked like on the day Frank and his band mates played their first concert.” When I look back through photos I've posted, it will forever bring a smile to my face.
At rehearsal the day before, they realized there was another adaptor they’d need. I agreed to go and get it. One of the other parents had volunteered to go get sodas, water and chips for the boys to sell at the show. Evidently they hadn’t gone to get the stuff and didn’t plan to. We’d get that stuff too, I answered Frank’s text.
When Doug and I delivered the Costco goods to the barn at noon, no one was there, the door was unlocked, and I didn’t see the equipment the boys had left the night before anywhere. Sick to my stomach. Again. Why was the door left unlocked? Where was the equipment? Disaster loomed. I walked over to the house, rang the doorbell, but no one was home. Tears filled my eyes on the slow walk back to the barn.
When I reentered, Doug told me he’d found the equipment, stacked behind the bar. Thank God. The heat still hadn’t been turned on, as had been promised, and the tractor still sat in the middle of the floor. Worry loomed.
A few minutes later, Si and Dorothy pulled up in their truck and came inside to chat with us. She called her son who was up in Thornton. He promised to be there sometime that afternoon to light the pilot light on the heater, and move the tractor. The key was still unfound, but he had another plan. Worry . . . again.
The afternoon was filled with texts from Frank, with questions from the boys in the band. The air crackled with excitement. They were playing their first show. Wait, my son is in a band. When did that happen? And he did this on his own, no prompting from me. This was his thing, but also, a dream come true for me. Throughout the afternoon I found myself in tears. Really happy tears.
Later, the boys and I met again at the barn. Doug met us there too, with his Nikon. He took professional-quality “band shots” that I can’t wait to see. The boys set up their equipment. No one mentioned the proverbial elephant-tractor in the room, but every so often I’d catch one of them looking at it, willing it gone.
At five o'clock, the concert slated to start at six-thirty, I sent one of the boys up to the house to see if we could get an update on Brian’s arrival. Nope. Worry. A few minutes later my cell phone rang. It was Dorothy. Brian should be at the barn in fifteen minutes. Relief.
I gathered the boys around and gave them the update. Sometime the day before they had proclaimed me their manager. But wait, they said, so-and-so is our manager. They pointed to a girl helping with set up. It’s okay, I assured them. “But you’re band mom,” they said.
I laughed and showed them a photo I’d posted on Instragram. It was a pic Doug took of me right before we left for the barn. The caption read “band mom.” Their smiles mirrored mine.
Brian arrived, got the pilot light on the heater lit, and with the help of three other guys, got the tractor out of the barn. It was six o’clock.
I gathered the boys around again and told them for the umpteenth time how proud I was of them. “You’re ready,” I said, and hugged them one by one. When I stepped back, I saw that I was not the only one whose eyes had filled with tears. Hand on my heart, I turned and walked away, feeling so proud and so close to these young men.
At rehearsal the day before, they realized there was another adaptor they’d need. I agreed to go and get it. One of the other parents had volunteered to go get sodas, water and chips for the boys to sell at the show. Evidently they hadn’t gone to get the stuff and didn’t plan to. We’d get that stuff too, I answered Frank’s text.
When Doug and I delivered the Costco goods to the barn at noon, no one was there, the door was unlocked, and I didn’t see the equipment the boys had left the night before anywhere. Sick to my stomach. Again. Why was the door left unlocked? Where was the equipment? Disaster loomed. I walked over to the house, rang the doorbell, but no one was home. Tears filled my eyes on the slow walk back to the barn.
When I reentered, Doug told me he’d found the equipment, stacked behind the bar. Thank God. The heat still hadn’t been turned on, as had been promised, and the tractor still sat in the middle of the floor. Worry loomed.
A few minutes later, Si and Dorothy pulled up in their truck and came inside to chat with us. She called her son who was up in Thornton. He promised to be there sometime that afternoon to light the pilot light on the heater, and move the tractor. The key was still unfound, but he had another plan. Worry . . . again.
The afternoon was filled with texts from Frank, with questions from the boys in the band. The air crackled with excitement. They were playing their first show. Wait, my son is in a band. When did that happen? And he did this on his own, no prompting from me. This was his thing, but also, a dream come true for me. Throughout the afternoon I found myself in tears. Really happy tears.
Later, the boys and I met again at the barn. Doug met us there too, with his Nikon. He took professional-quality “band shots” that I can’t wait to see. The boys set up their equipment. No one mentioned the proverbial elephant-tractor in the room, but every so often I’d catch one of them looking at it, willing it gone.
At five o'clock, the concert slated to start at six-thirty, I sent one of the boys up to the house to see if we could get an update on Brian’s arrival. Nope. Worry. A few minutes later my cell phone rang. It was Dorothy. Brian should be at the barn in fifteen minutes. Relief.
I gathered the boys around and gave them the update. Sometime the day before they had proclaimed me their manager. But wait, they said, so-and-so is our manager. They pointed to a girl helping with set up. It’s okay, I assured them. “But you’re band mom,” they said.
I laughed and showed them a photo I’d posted on Instragram. It was a pic Doug took of me right before we left for the barn. The caption read “band mom.” Their smiles mirrored mine.
Brian arrived, got the pilot light on the heater lit, and with the help of three other guys, got the tractor out of the barn. It was six o’clock.
I gathered the boys around again and told them for the umpteenth time how proud I was of them. “You’re ready,” I said, and hugged them one by one. When I stepped back, I saw that I was not the only one whose eyes had filled with tears. Hand on my heart, I turned and walked away, feeling so proud and so close to these young men.
The Concert - Part 3 - Thursday’s Rehearsal
Wednesday was a snow day, and the boys were able to practice at our house again, for most of the day. There was an underlying feeling of tension. No one voiced their fear of what Thursday might hold. If the man was there again, the concert would be cancelled. We were all in agreement. I think sleeping on what had happened made the boys realize the risks involved with someone so unpredictable, who owned at least one gun.
They were back to school Thursday, and once again I met them at the barn. I held my breath when we approached the barn door. I could hear someone inside.
They were back to school Thursday, and once again I met them at the barn. I held my breath when we approached the barn door. I could hear someone inside.
“Well how the hell are you, Heather?” Aaron greeted me when I walked in. “Is this your son?” he asked, pointing to Frank. “Shit, he’s grown up.” I knew Aaron from the wine bar. We’d hired him several times. He was the hayride guy. The one who drove the tractor pulling the flatbed during special events hosted by the merchants in town. He is a great guy and I was so relieved to see a friendly face. He introduced me to Brian, whose name I recognized as father of the scary man.
Brian assured me that the family, many in number, would do whatever was necessary to keep his son away from the barn, not just that day, but the day of the concert and in the future. His parents didn’t need that in their lives, he told me. “He’s okay until he drinks,” he said. “And then the next day he doesn't remember what happened.” Little by little my fear dissipated. It still lingered, but less and less so.
The only issue I saw was the tractor was still in the barn. Dead center in the middle of the floor. With a flat tire. Brian saw me looking in that direction. “I’ll get this outa here soon as I find the damn key, I don’t know what the hell my son did with it,” he said. Uh oh, uh oh, chimed the voice inside my head.
Rehearsal was great. Really great. The boys ran through their entire set list and one of the other parents showed up to watch. So did another band, who would be opening for the Lost and the Lonely. Using my iPad, I filmed every song they played.
I had to leave before they were finished, but was happy another parent was there to help them close up the barn. As I walked out the barn door, I turned back, and looked at the tractor that sat there, an unpleasant reminder that everything was not as okay as we were pretending it was.
I left feeling a connection with the boys I hadn’t felt before. As I filmed them, one by one they’d look to me, eyebrows raised in question. “Are we good enough?” their eyes pleaded. I’d nod and smile, and they’d smile back, continuing to play with greater enthusiasm.
I left feeling a connection with the boys I hadn’t felt before. As I filmed them, one by one they’d look to me, eyebrows raised in question. “Are we good enough?” their eyes pleaded. I’d nod and smile, and they’d smile back, continuing to play with greater enthusiasm.
The Concert - Part 2 - The Scary Guy
I met the boys at the barn after they got out of school on Tuesday. When I drove up, Will, one of the band members, stood outside talking to two of the other boys.
“He seems a little crazy, but he’s all talk. I think we’ll be okay,” I heard Will say. Wait. What? Will explained there were three men in the barn; it appeared they’d been drinking. One of them had been yelling at them. “I don’t think he wants us in there,” Will explained. I asked if the boys had told them they had permission from Si and Dorothy to practice that day. They had, he assured me.
“He didn’t really worry us until he went and got the shotgun.” Wait. What?
“He seems a little crazy, but he’s all talk. I think we’ll be okay,” I heard Will say. Wait. What? Will explained there were three men in the barn; it appeared they’d been drinking. One of them had been yelling at them. “I don’t think he wants us in there,” Will explained. I asked if the boys had told them they had permission from Si and Dorothy to practice that day. They had, he assured me.
“He didn’t really worry us until he went and got the shotgun.” Wait. What?
It took me all of a split second to park the car and head into the barn. When I walked in, there was a tractor in the middle of the floor, that hadn’t been there the day before, and a truck parked inside. The three men were sitting around a wood stove, and one was yelling, complete with a slew of profanity, about his displeasure with the boys being there. He wasn’t looking at us, or directing his comments to us, but we could hear enough to know he had no intention of letting the practice, or the concert, take place. The other two men with him were trying to calm him down, which was only making things worse. When I heard him say, “I don’t give a fuck, I’ll kill anyone I fuckin’ want to,” my mama bear instincts kicked in full force.
“Let’s go,” I told the boys. Sensing the panic I was feeling, the boys grew somber, quickly packed up their equipment and loaded it into their cars. “Go to the house,” I told them. “I’ll follow.” With the boys safely on their way, I went to talk to Dorothy and Si.
They told me the man was their grandson. He wasn’t supposed to be in the barn. He wasn’t supposed to have a key. They told me he was bipolar and only got that way when he drank, which he wasn’t supposed to do. I told them the part about the shotgun, and they assured me he wouldn’t ever hurt anyone, he’d just been trouble since he was a little boy. Uh . . . not assurance I could go on when not only my son and the other band members were at risk, but so was every other person who planned to attend the show. While I was still there, Dorothy called her son, the man’s father, and told him to come and get him out of there, and if he didn’t, she’d call the police. When she hung up she told me it wouldn’t be the first time she’d called the police on her grandson.
If my head reeled with stress over the train-track incident, these events had me holding onto the chair next to me so I wouldn’t topple over. We had to cancel. That was all there was to it. I drove home feeling sick to my stomach, knowing how much I was about to disappoint the boys.
Once I told Doug the story, he agreed. We had to cancel. I asked him to give me a few minutes to think about it. He did. Very reluctantly. I called Claudia and asked her opinion. She told me not to cancel, that Dorothy wouldn’t let this guy within five miles of the place after this. Okay. Still not convinced. Doug and I talked again. “Let’s ask the other parents,” he suggested. Good idea. That way, if we collectively agreed cancellation was necessary it would come from all of us, not just Doug and me.
I went downstairs to where the boys were rehearsing and told them what they had to do. “Each of you explain to your parents what happened today. After you have done so, I need one parent from every household to call me and tell me their opinion. We’ll decide then.” Crestfallen. It’s what I expected. It’s what I got. My heart broke a little for them.
Less than thirty minutes later, I got the first call. The dad and I had a long talk, and his opinion was we should let the show go on. We talked about the kind of security measures we’d put into place, and he agreed to talk with the other parents as well. When I went downstairs to tell the boys about the first call, they told me that right after I talked to them previously, they stopped rehearsing and each called their parents. “We wanted to get it over with,” they told me.
Within an hour, I had spoken to all but one parent. All were in agreement that we let the show go on, and all agreed to be here to help. The boys were overjoyed, but there was one more parent who hadn’t weighed in. And she wasn’t likely to agree with the consensus. It was all or nothing, I’d told them initially, so if she said no, the concert would be off. It was another tortuous half hour for them before she called. She was reluctant, but she agreed to let the boys have their show.
The Concert - Part 1 - The Barn
Last night, my son Frank and four of his friends, who have formed a band called The Lost and the Lonely, played their first concert.
Originally they’d planned to play in Fox Run Park. In January. In Colorado. Not the best plan ever formulated. Particularly considering they were all shivering two days ago when they were practicing inside the barn they ended up playing in.
Once they determined the park idea in the middle of winter probably wouldn’t work out, they began a search for a venue. They went to the places around town that feature live music, only to be added to a list of bands they’d consider asking to play.
They went to the Woodmoor Barn, which they could rent for $100 plus a $500 security deposit. Given they’d given out 500 flyers for their show, they determined that if anyone broke anything and they lost the deposit, it would mean their first show would cost each of them $120. Money they didn't have.
A week before their announced concert date, they were still without a venue. I posted something on Facebook asking for suggestions from local folks. Before any came in, Doug and I drove downtown to look . . . one more time. Keep in mind that “downtown” in Monument means a little over three blocks. As we rounded the curve on Front Street. Doug said, “the barn.” Yes, I thought, that would be perfect.
The barn is owned by Si and Dorothy Sibell. Si and Dorothy are two of the best known residents of Monument. In their late eighties, there is not a feistier couple in the state of Colorado. It is almost unbelievable, given the fact that we know everyone and everyone knows us, that in the eight years we've lived here, Doug and I had never met them.
I called G’ma Claudia seconds after Doug and I drove by the barn and asked her how best to go about asking them if we could use it. “I’ll get G’pa Kevin on it,” she said. “He’s known them forever.” I told her the boys were looking to play their show one week from that day. That was Friday. It was Sunday before we heard back, and the answer was yes, but the date wasn’t a good one. “Call Dorothy,” she told me.
I rang the number and Dorothy answered, “This is Heather, isn’t it?" After a minute, Dorothy told me the date was, in fact, available, and we made plans to meet the following day. Monday was a holiday, so all five of the boys went with me to look at the barn.
Dorothy and Si are book character inspiration if there ever were. We were mutually amazed that we finally met, seeing as both of us had heard of the other. We walked out to the barn, Dorothy and Si telling stories the whole time.
What I didn’t know was after the last “teen” concert held there, a boy somehow ended up on the adjacent railroad tracks, and lost both his legs. "We vowed not to allow concerts in the barn ever again,” Dorothy told me. “But Kevin taught our kids to swim, he’s part of the family, and since he asked, we agreed.” My head reeled with stress, hoping there wouldn’t be a repeat of that fateful night, and no one attending this show would get hurt or in trouble.
The Sibbels had a birthday party in the barn for their sixty-year-old daughter two days before our tour. The place was clean, but there was a great deal of alcohol behind the bar, and lots of tables and other party equipment that would need to be moved before the boys’ show. The barn is a bit of a misnomer. On the outside it looks like a standard steel-framed barn, but on the inside it is more of a special events venue. Every year, on July 3, they hold a barn dance . . . attended by some 300 people. It serves as a fundraiser for wounded warriors. Again Dorothy couldn't believe Doug and I had never attended. Neither could I.
The boys asked that afternoon if they could help clean up. Dorothy enthusiastically told them they could. Si stood, in his moose-hide moccasins, oxygen tank in hand, and directed the boys to their next task with a wave of his cane. Inside an hour, the remnants of the weekend’s party were put away, liquor loaded into boxes and moved to the house, steam tables empty and put in a back shed, trash cans taken to the dumpster to be emptied. Dorothy proclaimed that they boys had more than earned their use of the barn. The only thing she asked was that it be as clean when they left it, as it was that afternoon.
I was so proud of the boys that day. I knew Frank would be a gentleman, especially with his mother’s watchful eye over him, but the other boys proved to be equally as polite. Each of them approached Si and Dorothy, looked them in the eye, introduced themselves and shook their hands. During the barn cleanup, they spoke loudly enough for Si and Dorothy to hear them, and rather than getting distracted with planning the space for the show, they stayed alert and helpful. Dorothy commented to me later how polite and helpful they were. I beamed.
We left that afternoon, barn key in hand, and with the invitation for the boys to practice in the barn that week. The boys and I were overjoyed.
Originally they’d planned to play in Fox Run Park. In January. In Colorado. Not the best plan ever formulated. Particularly considering they were all shivering two days ago when they were practicing inside the barn they ended up playing in.
Once they determined the park idea in the middle of winter probably wouldn’t work out, they began a search for a venue. They went to the places around town that feature live music, only to be added to a list of bands they’d consider asking to play.
They went to the Woodmoor Barn, which they could rent for $100 plus a $500 security deposit. Given they’d given out 500 flyers for their show, they determined that if anyone broke anything and they lost the deposit, it would mean their first show would cost each of them $120. Money they didn't have.
A week before their announced concert date, they were still without a venue. I posted something on Facebook asking for suggestions from local folks. Before any came in, Doug and I drove downtown to look . . . one more time. Keep in mind that “downtown” in Monument means a little over three blocks. As we rounded the curve on Front Street. Doug said, “the barn.” Yes, I thought, that would be perfect.
The barn is owned by Si and Dorothy Sibell. Si and Dorothy are two of the best known residents of Monument. In their late eighties, there is not a feistier couple in the state of Colorado. It is almost unbelievable, given the fact that we know everyone and everyone knows us, that in the eight years we've lived here, Doug and I had never met them.
I called G’ma Claudia seconds after Doug and I drove by the barn and asked her how best to go about asking them if we could use it. “I’ll get G’pa Kevin on it,” she said. “He’s known them forever.” I told her the boys were looking to play their show one week from that day. That was Friday. It was Sunday before we heard back, and the answer was yes, but the date wasn’t a good one. “Call Dorothy,” she told me.
I rang the number and Dorothy answered, “This is Heather, isn’t it?" After a minute, Dorothy told me the date was, in fact, available, and we made plans to meet the following day. Monday was a holiday, so all five of the boys went with me to look at the barn.
Dorothy and Si are book character inspiration if there ever were. We were mutually amazed that we finally met, seeing as both of us had heard of the other. We walked out to the barn, Dorothy and Si telling stories the whole time.
What I didn’t know was after the last “teen” concert held there, a boy somehow ended up on the adjacent railroad tracks, and lost both his legs. "We vowed not to allow concerts in the barn ever again,” Dorothy told me. “But Kevin taught our kids to swim, he’s part of the family, and since he asked, we agreed.” My head reeled with stress, hoping there wouldn’t be a repeat of that fateful night, and no one attending this show would get hurt or in trouble.
The Sibbels had a birthday party in the barn for their sixty-year-old daughter two days before our tour. The place was clean, but there was a great deal of alcohol behind the bar, and lots of tables and other party equipment that would need to be moved before the boys’ show. The barn is a bit of a misnomer. On the outside it looks like a standard steel-framed barn, but on the inside it is more of a special events venue. Every year, on July 3, they hold a barn dance . . . attended by some 300 people. It serves as a fundraiser for wounded warriors. Again Dorothy couldn't believe Doug and I had never attended. Neither could I.
The boys asked that afternoon if they could help clean up. Dorothy enthusiastically told them they could. Si stood, in his moose-hide moccasins, oxygen tank in hand, and directed the boys to their next task with a wave of his cane. Inside an hour, the remnants of the weekend’s party were put away, liquor loaded into boxes and moved to the house, steam tables empty and put in a back shed, trash cans taken to the dumpster to be emptied. Dorothy proclaimed that they boys had more than earned their use of the barn. The only thing she asked was that it be as clean when they left it, as it was that afternoon.
I was so proud of the boys that day. I knew Frank would be a gentleman, especially with his mother’s watchful eye over him, but the other boys proved to be equally as polite. Each of them approached Si and Dorothy, looked them in the eye, introduced themselves and shook their hands. During the barn cleanup, they spoke loudly enough for Si and Dorothy to hear them, and rather than getting distracted with planning the space for the show, they stayed alert and helpful. Dorothy commented to me later how polite and helpful they were. I beamed.
We left that afternoon, barn key in hand, and with the invitation for the boys to practice in the barn that week. The boys and I were overjoyed.
Friday, January 23, 2015
I Didn't Mean to Rain On Your Parade
They kind of lost it at the end . . . because someone's mom and little sister walked in, but I think you can still get the gist of it.
http://youtu.be/iw3eG-H6sSU
http://youtu.be/iw3eG-H6sSU
The Lost and the Lonely: Sideways
Sneak peek of the Lost and the Lonely's cover of Citizen Cope's Sideways.
Wednesday, January 21, 2015
Intellect
The issue with lack of it, is there is no chance that the voice of reason will be heard.
Rather than making a resolution for the new year, I wrote this: “2015’s keyword: reasonable; as in being. Would be nice if everyone played along.”
January 21. People aren’t playing along. Not nice. Maybe it’s because I didn’t say please.
The Queen of Distraction
I have so much to do. It’s a phrase muttered often as I sit at my computer trying to keep my mind on all that stuff I have to do, rather than what it’s on instead. If I could simply keep my focus, I might be able to finish all the tedious stuff so I can write. But do I? Of course I don’t.
Today my goal was to be done by noon. It’s now after 1:00, and I’m at least a couple hours away from doing what I want to do instead of what I have to do.
Distraction plagues me, and I seem to have temporarily lost the ability to combat it. I’m sure my mother-in-law would suggest taking B12. Good advice. But in the meantime, I need to find the off switch for my wandering mind.
I need to write. It isn’t a want, it’s a need. I hate it when I can’t, whether it’s because I have so many other things to do, or because when it comes down to it, I can’t focus on that either.
It isn’t possible to count the number of people who tease me, criticize me, make comments to me about how much I accomplish in a day, week or month. They roll their eyes sometimes and ask me if I ever give myself a break. And yet, here I sit, agonizing about how much I’m not accomplishing.
It’s all relative, n’est pas?
Saturday, January 17, 2015
Eileen and the Nineteen, Who Grew into the Eight-Four
That is the dedication on AND THEN YOU FLY. Eileen is a dear friend of mine, who asked me to consider a character who was a professor who loved fly fishing. As it turned out, the character of Bree, who was introduced in KISS, was easily molded into both.
I loved writing something new, that I didn’t know. And what was better . . . one of my beta readers, who loves to fly fish, said, “You must either fly fish, or did a lot of research about it because that’s exactly what it’s like.” High praise indeed for a girl who’s never done it.
I love the character of Bree. She’s feisty and smart, a bit of a know-it-all, but in a good way (at least most of the time), and she certainly gives one particular cowboy a run for his money. As a character, she’s deep and rich and I feel as though I know her.
In the midst of writing this book, I got stuck. Really stuck. And I was stuck for a while. I knew something wasn’t right, but I couldn’t put my finger on what it was exactly. I sent the book over to Catie, who I rely on for absolute brutal honesty when it comes to my books, and now that she knows it’s okay, she delivers.
The first thing she said was, “I don’t like this part, [this character] wouldn’t do that. He’s not like that.” She was right. He wouldn’t. The super-cool-amazing-incredible thing was . . . Catie knew him well enough to say that.
As soon as she said it, I knew how to fix it. The book is back in her hands now, in its fixed state, and I’m waiting to hear what she thinks.
In the meantime, as I (im)patiently wait for feedback from my sweet beta readers, I’ve started book five. This is a book I’ve been anxious to write for months. My subconscious has been writing it for me, I think. As I sat down to write, I knew the main character so well, it was almost eerie. And he’s someone new.
Catie also said, “I don’t understand what [this other character] is doing in this book.” Well, because he’s the main character in book five. I hope it’s evident when she gets to the end of book four . . . if not, there will be a modest rewrite in order.
Back to the title of this post. This book is dedicated to Eileen, who gave me the inspiration and the impetus to write Bree. And the nineteen, who grew into eighty-four, is now 186, as of my last look. That is the number of pre-orders for AND THEN YOU FLY. When it was at nineteen, I was incredulous. At eighty-four, I thought there must have been some mistake. Now that the pre-orders are in triple-digits, I’ve gotten used to it. Perhaps there will come a day when my pre-orders are in quadruple-digits. Wouldn’t that be something?
Twenty-nine months ago I started my first book. Two years and five months ago. Since, I’ve written six books. Today I started my seventh. Along the way I’ve tried to document everything I want to be sure to remember. I’ve posted photos of the sunrise on the day I sold my first book, photos of the first time I received a box of books, and then two books, and then three . . . and so on. I don’t want to forget a thing, nor do I want to take any of it for granted.
This is my dream. I’m living it. I write books that people read. And love. They send me notes when they’re in the middle of the next book, and tell me they love it. And they aren’t only people who know me . . . they’re strangers, who have become friends because of my writing. I pinch myself often. Lest I ever forget . . .
The day I got the first author proof of AND THEN YOU FALL, I picked Frank up at school and when he got in the car, I showed him the book. Without hesitation he said, “This is the fourth best day of your life Mom.” And he was right. After marrying their father, and the birth of our two sons . . . that was next best. There are now five bests in line behind that one.
I loved writing something new, that I didn’t know. And what was better . . . one of my beta readers, who loves to fly fish, said, “You must either fly fish, or did a lot of research about it because that’s exactly what it’s like.” High praise indeed for a girl who’s never done it.
I love the character of Bree. She’s feisty and smart, a bit of a know-it-all, but in a good way (at least most of the time), and she certainly gives one particular cowboy a run for his money. As a character, she’s deep and rich and I feel as though I know her.
In the midst of writing this book, I got stuck. Really stuck. And I was stuck for a while. I knew something wasn’t right, but I couldn’t put my finger on what it was exactly. I sent the book over to Catie, who I rely on for absolute brutal honesty when it comes to my books, and now that she knows it’s okay, she delivers.
The first thing she said was, “I don’t like this part, [this character] wouldn’t do that. He’s not like that.” She was right. He wouldn’t. The super-cool-amazing-incredible thing was . . . Catie knew him well enough to say that.
As soon as she said it, I knew how to fix it. The book is back in her hands now, in its fixed state, and I’m waiting to hear what she thinks.
In the meantime, as I (im)patiently wait for feedback from my sweet beta readers, I’ve started book five. This is a book I’ve been anxious to write for months. My subconscious has been writing it for me, I think. As I sat down to write, I knew the main character so well, it was almost eerie. And he’s someone new.
Catie also said, “I don’t understand what [this other character] is doing in this book.” Well, because he’s the main character in book five. I hope it’s evident when she gets to the end of book four . . . if not, there will be a modest rewrite in order.
Back to the title of this post. This book is dedicated to Eileen, who gave me the inspiration and the impetus to write Bree. And the nineteen, who grew into eighty-four, is now 186, as of my last look. That is the number of pre-orders for AND THEN YOU FLY. When it was at nineteen, I was incredulous. At eighty-four, I thought there must have been some mistake. Now that the pre-orders are in triple-digits, I’ve gotten used to it. Perhaps there will come a day when my pre-orders are in quadruple-digits. Wouldn’t that be something?
Twenty-nine months ago I started my first book. Two years and five months ago. Since, I’ve written six books. Today I started my seventh. Along the way I’ve tried to document everything I want to be sure to remember. I’ve posted photos of the sunrise on the day I sold my first book, photos of the first time I received a box of books, and then two books, and then three . . . and so on. I don’t want to forget a thing, nor do I want to take any of it for granted.
This is my dream. I’m living it. I write books that people read. And love. They send me notes when they’re in the middle of the next book, and tell me they love it. And they aren’t only people who know me . . . they’re strangers, who have become friends because of my writing. I pinch myself often. Lest I ever forget . . .
The day I got the first author proof of AND THEN YOU FALL, I picked Frank up at school and when he got in the car, I showed him the book. Without hesitation he said, “This is the fourth best day of your life Mom.” And he was right. After marrying their father, and the birth of our two sons . . . that was next best. There are now five bests in line behind that one.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)