For My Grandmother

For My Grandmother                                            by Krissy Sack

Dry your eyes; please no more tears,                                               Listen to my words carried on the wind.

It may now seem we are so very far apart,                      But my tender syllables arrive with the summer breeze.

You are entirely a part of me.                                    And I of you.

Though time takes us apart,                                      The distance between our hearts could not be closer.

It's a Cold and It's a Broken Hallelujah

It's been a hell of a week. If you've seen some of my Facebook posts from the week, you're aware that the husband of one of my best friends in the world died of cancer one week ago.
Mike was the kind of guy that slid right in to our circle of friends. Had he gone to high school with us, we totally would have hung out with him. He would've been one of "us", that's how closely he matched our general vibe, interests, music & "recreational activities". If I have to explain to you why recreational activities is in quotes, you didn't know us in high school. The "us" I refer to know who you are & anyone else from the 1989 class from Appleton West knows who comprised "us" as well.
I think I have a unique perspective on Jeanette & Mike's relationship, at least the budding beginning of it. She came out to Boston to visit me my senior year in college and reported that she was "interested" in this guy who worked with her mother (of all people) and they had gone on one or two dates by that time. Nothing serious, no expectations, but she was hot for him - girlfriends know these things about each other.
After she returned to Fond du Lac, she kept me updated on when they spent time together.
Then there was the week that went by when he didn't call her. She called me sobbing that he was "a thoughtless mother-fucker" and she was pissed off at herself for "thinking that it would work out." I had not laid eyes on Mike at this point and I was obviously totally loyal to my friend, so I concurred that he was indeed a "thoughtless mother-fucker" for stringing her along.
Then he called.
Then they had sex. Sorry Jeanette, but this is a crucial part of your history with Mike & this story. Her update about the sex was, "Man, I think he was going through the stats of the National League" (baseball) because it wasn't over in under two minutes, as is a common phenomenon for men in their early 20's. We were women in our early 20's and had plenty of experience with "the two-minute magic" but Mike is, was, 13 years older than Jeanette. He had moves. He had experience. He knew how to turn the two-minute magic into the twenty to thirty minute magic, which is very appealing when you're in your early 20's.
They eventually married. Her "g-ma" hand-made her wedding gown. She was stunning and he was majestic. The look on his face said, "Oh yeah, she kicks ass and she's mine." And he was right. He surprised her with a horse drawn carriage ride at the end of the ceremony. One of her attendants was our friend Eric J who told me at Mike's funeral that when he was standing up at the altar during their wedding ceremony he thought he was going to pass out because everyone in the church was staring at the wedding party and this was the first wedding he'd stood up for.
I remember our friend Steve taking communion, which generally isn't a remarkable event except that he's Jewish and "just got wrapped up in the crowd" that was heading toward the altar.
This was way before digital cameras and every time I snapped a photo my camera made a hideous "rrr-rrr-rrr" sound as the film advanced and wrapped around the spokes. Our friend Robb was seated in the pew in front of me and eventually got fed up with the whirling of my camera so he turned around to me and said, "If you take one more picture and that camera makes one more sound, I'm going to snatch it out of your hands and NOT give it back to you." This explains why I have photos of the first half of their wedding ceremony but none of the second half.
One of my pictures from their wedding was on a photo display at Mike's funeral. It includes Mike, me, Kate and Carrie. That photo captures a glorious moment in all of our lives and includes some of my favorite people in the world. I'm truly honored that it was chosen to be displayed as a testament to Mike's life.
I also have the dubious honor of making the first toast at their wedding reception. I was drunk off my ass, rambled on completely aimlessly for several minutes, raised my glass of whatever liquor I was swilling in large quantities and weaved my way back to my seat. My father and my sister were in attendance and after I returned to my seat, my sister immediately walked me out of the reception hall, plunked me in the backseat of my car, gave me a can of Sprite and said, "Just pass out and be done with it." I stupidly said to her, "But they must have liked it (my toast) because they were applauding when I was done." Her response: "They were just being polite."
A few years later Jeanette told me that the hotel where most of the guests stayed (not me as my sister drove us both back to Appleton that night, which I have absolutely no memory of) complained because by the end of the night, there was a large portion of a cheese and sausage platter floating in the hotel pool. I love those kind of weddings.
By the time our 20th class reunion came, Mike had been diagnosed with cancer and had undergone his initial treatment at Beth Israel Hospital in Boston. He and Jeanette showed up at my parents' house as I had invited "all of us" to reunite there. We spent many a weekend night in my parents' basement engaging in all sorts of debauchery that I won't describe in detail here; if you were there, you know what I'm referring to. At one point Jeanette asked my mom where I was and my mom's response was, "She's downstairs with some of you kids." At Mike's funeral Jeanette's mom Elaine referred to us as "you kids" as well.  My dad's assessment of that reunion evening was, "there are still cars lined up and down Lynndale Drive, but the cars are newer and in much better condition." My friends actually brought beer and liquor to my parents' house instead of drinking what had belonged to my parents at the time.
Mike was a huge Packers fan and during their run up to Super Bowl 36, or whatever the number was when Brett Favre took us to the Super Bowl and we actually won, Eric, Mike & Jeanette, Hays and I would get together at one of our apartments and watch playoff games. I again brought my camera and have wonderful snapshots of those playoff weekends.
Throughout Mike's past six years of treatment, he was a fighter. He would absolutely go to work on the days he was feeling up to it; likely he went when he wasn't feeling up to it because that's how loyal and dedicated to commitment he was. As a result of witnessing Mike's treatment, Jeanette went to graduate school and got her Master's Degree in Nursing and has become a huge advocate for cancer patients, cancer research and the care cancer patients receive.
For those of us who knew and loved Mike, our lives were made richer and better for it. Rest in peace my friend. Tell Jack-Dog and Peanut that we all love and miss them and take good care of them as they will take good care of you.

Auld Lang Syne 2014

Yes, it's the final day of 2014 and that generally requires some type of personal reflection of "the year that was"; however, I received a Christmas letter from a colleague and friend that really pared down the "review process" of reflection. I am going to attempt to complete my final entry of 2014 using the "thumbs up/thumbs down" process that she used in her Christmas letter. I thought it was genius to make something that can become SO complicated into some SO simple.
So, here are my personal "thumbs up" and "thumbs down" moments of 2014. I'll review the year month by month so as not to group all of the "thumbs up" stuff together and then lump all of the "thumbs down" stuff together because life is always a mixture of both.

01-04-14: Mark & I attended the "Dobbs Family Reunion" which is an annual event that reminds me of my connection to my Native American relatives. Although no one knew it at the time, this was the last reunion my cousin Shorty Dobbs would attend.

01-05-14: The Packers lose to the 49ers 23-20 in a play off game. Hopes of another trip to the Super Bowl are dashed.

01-06-14, 01-07-14, 01-28-14: Public schools are closed due to the significant sub-zero temperatures. This never happened when I was in school. We walked uphill in both directions to make it to school because schools didn't close due to freezing temperatures. We were lucky if recess was held indoors in these types of low temperatures.

01-23-14: My parents celebrate their 43rd wedding anniversary.  That's a long time to spend with another person. Go Rog & Shirl!

02-06-14: I have a phone interview with a sort of "outward bound" camp for at-risk adolescents located in Hawaii.  Unfortunately I would have to add a thumbs-down image because the phone interview never amounted to the in-person interview which would have been held in Hawaii, all expenses paid by the organization.

02-14-14 - 02-16-14: I spent the weekend at my sister's house with her family to facilitate a Pre-Marriage Workshop on 02-15-14 in Eau Claire. I got to spend time with my nieces, my sister and her common-law husband (if Wisconsin recognized such a relationship, which it does not) as well as their puppy Pearl and the "Dynamic Duo" her two cats, Snicks and Doobs.

02-22-14: My parents and I travel to Eau Claire to celebrate my sister's 40th birthday at a local golf clubhouse which had really awesome cupcakes instead of a cake. I bought my sister another charm to add to her bracelet from Tiffany's and her friends were going insane when they saw that "little blue box" on the gift table, expecting it to be an engagement ring from her boyfriend. I guess they would add a thumbs-down because it wasn't an engagement ring, but she seemed happy enough with the charm.
This same weekend Mark flew out to Denver to attend the wedding of his younger brother Bob to a wonderful woman, Irene.

03-03-14: My mom turns 65 (hello Medicare!) and Apollo turns 4!

04-05-14: We celebrated my mom's 65th birthday without her because she wasn't feeling well, but we had a great time!

04-25-14: Dad retires after 37 years at JJ Keller & Associates. He was hired in the summer of 1976 (before Chad was even born) as an Accounting Supervisor and retired as the Vice-President of Finance/CFO. I took my dad out for lunch on his final day of work and just as we sat down at the table, he handed me a dog-eared file folder and said, "I found this when cleaning out my desk today and thought you might want it." The folder contained every college report card, Dean's List acknowledgment, graduation and Dean's List announcements from the Post Crescent, and transcripts from my undergrad and graduate school programs. After paying for our lunch, when I got back to my office, I looked through the folder and began crying because my dad had been keeping track of my academic career since 1991, twenty years of accomplishments which is a gift I never expected to receive - and those are the best gifts to receive.

05-14-14: I celebrate my 43rd birthday and my second cousin Sammy celebrates his 5th birthday. It's so cool to share a birthday with a family member!

05-24-14 - 05-26-14: Memorial Day Weekend which in the Krause family translates to "grave-hopping"! We (my two maternal aunts, my sister, Ben & the girls, my three female maternal cousins, and myself) go to the cemeteries where our much loved ancestors are buried and clean off their graves and place summer flowers near their headstones in tribute to their lives; we truly celebrate them in memory. Once these tasks are completed, we stop at a local bar in Red River and then go out to eat in Shawano. We've been doing this for well over a decade and the group members have changed over the years; my Grandma Krause no longer goes along because all of the walking is too difficult for her; my great-aunt Shirley no longer attends because she's in a long term care facility due to Alzheimer's disease; and my great aunt Kootchie had passed on. The absolute BEST part of the weekend is when Grandma Krause fries eggs in a cast iron skillet in the bacon grease that she cooked up moments earlier. We all call it the "heart attack breakfast" but it's the BEST part of summer and something I look forward to every year.

06-01-14: Brayden's 5th birthday party: Our grandson Brayden turned 5 on 05-24-14 and we all celebrated at a birthday party on June 1st at a local park.

06-08-14 - 06-11-14: I attended a three-day training in Eau Claire and stayed at my sister and her family's house. The training was intense, but spending time with the girls & Pearl (the dog) and the Dynamic Duo (the cats) was awesome! This is me getting some lovin's from Pearl.

06-27-14 - 06-29-14: One of my best friends in the world whom I've known since junior high gets married to a really amazing guy on 06-28-14. The ceremony was beautiful, the dinner was amazing and the reception music totally rocked!

This is a photo of me & Mark at the wedding. I had complete strangers taking my picture because of my fascinator!

07-08-14: I had finally grown my hair long enough to donate to Locks of Love. The following photos are the before and after. I donated 13" of hair and my stylist cut off an additional 12" to style it!

Before.

After.

08-01-14: Dad participates in an Old Glory Honor Flight as a Vietnam veteran on the final Friday of EAA. It was an amazing experience for him and for me & Mark who were there to greet him when he arrived home and finally got the welcome home he deserved 40+ years ago.

Dad returns from his Honor Flight to Washington D.C.

09-02-14: I begin working at Rawhide two days a week through a contracted position with LSS. In a very short time I realize I love working with the staff and the residents who become my clients.

09-30-14: Mark & I celebrate our 9th wedding anniversary.

11-27-14: Thanksgiving wasn't so great this year as no one came to eat the feast I had prepared. This is the dessert they missed out on!

12-27-14: We celebrate Christmas at Mom & Dad's after I'd been sick with an upper respiratory "thing" from 12-22 through 12-26.

 The Porath family Christmas photo 12-27-14.







So that brings me to today, December 31, 2014. By totaling the thumbs-up and the thumbs-down, it's easy to see that despite the challenges and setbacks of 2014, the majority of events fall into the thumbs-up category. I guess, actually I know, you can't really complain about that!

Happy New Year's to you and yours. May the best of 2014 be the worst of 2015! I say, "BRING IT!" :-)

Don't You Forget About Me

Recently I had the wonderful experience of spending the long Labor Day weekend with five wonderful women who have known me since I was approximately 13 years old – that’s about 27 years.

Of course there are people I’m friends with on Facebook that I knew in Junior High and high school, although my contact with the majority of them is pay-by-play updates during Packers games, which is great because there was no way on God’s green earth that most of us would have actually spoken to each other during junior high or high school, and the fact that we now comment on the 5/4 defense amazes me: it amazes me that I know what the hell a 5/4 defense is, but I do!

But this group of women that I spent Labor Day with (minus two who couldn’t make the trip and were sorely missed) have known me for so long, I often describe our friendship to others as: They don’t ask me why I am the way that I am. They were there when I was becoming who I am. Which to me, is a statement of unblemished loyalty, and if there’s one thing I am, it is loyal, often to a fault.

In early 2006 I had a “medical nightmare” (complications from a simple gallbladder removal that landed me in a local hospital for six weeks and included a pulmonary embolism, [a blood clot in my right lung], a buildup of fluid around my liver [I have no idea what the fancy-schmancy medical term for that is], a pleural effusion [fluid between my right lung and my chest wall] which required placement of a chest tube for five days.) When my surgeon pulled out the chest tube, his first words were, “Oh no.” Not something that I really wanted to hear. While pulling out the tube, he snapped the tip off and it was lodged somewhere in my back. An emergency CT scan pinpointed its location and I had surgery the next day with one of his colleagues (he had to be in Minneapolis for a conference, you see) to dig around in my back to retrieve it. Pre-op I asked the attending surgeon if he could put the tip in a bag so I could keep it. He flat out told me that that was an odd request. From my gurney in the OR, I flat out told him that it was odd that an experienced surgeon should make such an error. He shut up and I’ve got my chest tube tip in a biohazard bag in my underwear drawer, where most women generally keep anything of value.

Anyway, I’ve still got the card that came with a bouquet of flowers from these friends who have known me before I knew myself. It reads: Thinking of you. Get better soon! Love – followed by five names that I will not list to protect their privacy. The flowers were delivered to my parents’ house because I had to stay someplace that could provide 24/7 care, which left me with two options: my parents or a nursing home. I was 35 years old and could not envision myself at a frickin’ nursing home, so I chose to stay with my parents.

When the flowers arrived, I gently opened the tissue paper and located the card and read it out loud. My mother and I both started to cry. She because those whom she knew as kids still cared enough about her daughter to send flowers when I was gravely ill, and me because that simple gesture assured me that I had a history, that I had deep, strong roots, and that in a world of full of six and ½ million strangers, five people cared enough about me to send flowers and wish that I got well soon. It made me feel as important as the Queen of England, only much more sincerely loved.

So, on Labor Day weekend, we tossed cow chips (or bought tee shirts declaring that we were there to witness the tossing of said cow chips), ate German food we couldn’t pronounce, shared stories on the porch that got us yelled at by the neighbors (hell-raisers to the end, that’s got to be part of our motto!), and spent time eating our way around Capitol Square in Madison and visiting the only known feminist bookstore in the entire state of Wisconsin.

To commemorate this weekend (we were celebrating the fact that we had all turned 40 this year – oy!) some of us made cds with songs that reminded the cd creator of each of the weekend attendees. It seems somehow very personal to reveal the songs each of us chose for each other, so I will not list any song titles here.

After all, some things should remain between friends, shouldn’t they?

Never Forget

It seems to be a part of the American experience that since we fought the British for independence, each generation of Americans has had one defining political, military, or war-mongering event that truly defines the youth of our nation.
I was 30 years old a decade ago on September 11, 2001. My grandparents were all in their mid- to late-20s on December 7, 1941. Both of my grandfathers fought in WWII; my Grandpa Porath in North Africa, then "D plus 3" landing in Normandy, France 3 days after the D-Day invasion. My Grandpa Krause was stationed in Okinawa, Japan. I wonder if, at the time, the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor was labeled "an act of terrorism"? Having been to Pearl Harbor and the USS Arizona, I don't think "terrorism" was used to define that attack because that word was never spoken in the memorial video or listed in any of the books I have on the subject. "Terrorism" is really a late 20th and early 21st century construct. Did we call the 444 days American hostages were held captive in Tehran, terrorism? The first time I can remember events being referred to as "terrorism" or carried out by "terrorists" is either the unfortunately common IRA bombings in London in the mid-1980s or in reference to the ongoing Israeli-Palestinian conflict from the late 1980s to the present day.
Some incredibly talented orators have spoken powerful words over the past 2 days, and I am in no way trying to compete with that level of reflection or tugging of heartstrings. This is simply what I remember from my life 10 years ago today, on September 11, 2001.
I was living in the last place I would live in Milwaukee, my "dream apartment" on 51st Blvd, north of St. Joe's hospital in the large Jewish Orthodox neighborhood, just 2 doors north of Rabbi Tewerski. I was working as the Clinic Coordinator for a Columbia St. Mary's outpatient clinic and was completely overwhelmed with an unsupportive Clinic Manager, departments that were sorely understaffed, and I was working an average of 50+ hours per week just to make sure insurance was being billed and the switchboard phone was getting answered.
At 8:10am my switchboard operator called the office to tell me she was not coming in that day, which I had already figured out since she was supposed to be on the switchboard from 8 to 8:30am and I was the one answering switchboard calls. She said something like, "There's something going on in New York. Airplanes are flying into skyscrapers-" I cut her off right there and said, "I'm too busy to worry about what's going on in New York. Call me later if you're not coming in tomorrow," and I disconnected the call. I remember thinking, I don't care what the hell is going on in New York. I've got to get this clinic open and running.
As the doctors, other staff, and patients came in for the day, patients were telling stories about terrorists flying hijacked planes into the World Trade Center, then into the Pentagon, then that the towers of the WTC were caving in on themselves. The south tower fell at 8:59am CST and by that time, even though we were strictly an outpatient medical clinic, we were affiliated with a hospital that is Wisconsin's premier burn center and there were rumors that Chicago may be hit and injuries could be diverted to Milwaukee. There were also rumors that the nuclear power plant near Sheboygan was a potential target and Milwaukee again would receive diverted injured patients.
At about 9:30am I was called into an impromptu meeting in a conference room with the Clinic Manager, Clinic Medical Director, the triage nursing staff, and on the speaker phone was our Clinic Administrator, the hospital's Medical Director, and the hospital's Emergency Response Director. It goes without saying that there was no "emergency code" for the threat we were now under. The Emergency Response Director developed a plan strung together with paper clips and bubble gum, which was basically, "If something happens that directly effects us, we'll call you with more detailed instructions." Thank God that was a call that never came.
When I walked out of the conference room, for the first time all morning I had a moment's pause to attempt to take in all of the tragic information I was receiving second-hand. I still had not seen any of the video that would begin playing non-stop for the next 48 straight hours. In this brief moment however, I did remember a good friend since childhood and that he worked for a law firm with multiple floors in Tower One, the north tower of the World Trade Center complex. The blood drained from my face and I remember leaning against the hallway wall, looking at my hands which had begun to shake and as much as I mentally tried to get the shaking to stop, I couldn't manage it. My hands would not stop shaking. I walked to my manager's office and told her that a friend of mine worked in the World Trade Center and I had to call him right now. I yelled the words, "I have to call him right now!" without knowing I had done so, until the silence after them was the only sound filling her office.
I had been to New York less than a year before and met my friend in the lobby of the north tower and we took the elevator up to his office, which I think was on the 64th floor. He gave me the "50 cent tour" and after about half an hour, we rode the elevator back to the lobby, said our good-byes, and I spent the next hour or so shopping in the mall that was beneath the plaza between the north and south towers. The subway station I took from the American Museum of Natural History on the upper west side to downtown was also located underground in this area. That was my 5th or 6th trip to Manhattan and I was proud of myself for being able to navigate the complicated subway system, at least enough to get myself around Manhattan to the major museums and tourist sites. Earlier in the day I spent some time at St. Patrick's Cathedral in mid-town. I still have the bookmark I bought there that day, and I still have my friend's business card he gave me that afternoon in November 2000with his WTC address embossed on it.
At work I didn't have my friend's home or cell numbers with me so I called 4-1-1 and got his father's home number. At the time his father was the pastor at a Lutheran church in Appleton and I called the church and his home and left messages on both answering machines. I left both my work and home numbers, hoping I wouldn't have to wait until after work at 4:30pm to hear from him.
At lunch I finally saw the images of the plane hitting the south tower, the collapse of both buildings, and the damage at the Pentagon. Although the images were horrific and I had no factual information about the status of my friend in New York, I felt in my soul that he was safe, that he was not trapped in some oxygen-sucking rubble or staggering through dust and debris that looked more like a moonscape than the lower Manhattan the world knew. I was anxious for confirmation of my gut feeling, but my instincts told me he was ok. I have no idea why I felt this way; I was too old to believe in the invincibility of youth, but knew the struggle of my friend's life that had gotten him to a law office in Manhattan, in the iconic World Trade Center, and something deep inside told me his story was not going to end this way.
I don't remember the rest of that work day, the drive home, or walking into my apartment. I do remember looking at my answering machine, its red light blinking to indicate a waiting message. I pressed play and the voice of my friend's father told me that his son was fine, was safe in his Jersey City apartment, that he hadn't left for work before the north tower was hit at 8:46am eastern time and had been at home all day. He then left me my friend's cell number, with the caveat that phone service was extremely hard to get and that I likely wouldn't get through, but to try anyway. I made several attempts at calling throughout the evening and into the night. I don't remember any of them expect the one that was answered at 8:42pm. He assured me he was ok, and ended the call quickly because phone service was at a premium. After our good-byes I turned off the constant barrage of horror on the TV and went to bed.
I have heard people on TV this weekend say that "it seems like yesterday" that all of these world-changing events took place. That is not the case for me. It has been a long decade of watching other countries like Spain and England move beyond the deep wounds of their own terrorist attacks, hunting first for Saddam Hussein and then Osama bin Laden, trying to reconcile the tragedy of September 11, 2001 with water boarding and the torture and humiliation of prisoners at Abu Ghraib. It has been a very long decade.

The Importance of the Dvorak Cello Concerto and Lessons Learned

One of the two high school teachers I learned the most about life from was Gary Wolfman, my orchestra conductor. Every spring the final concert featured senior symphony musicians, choir singers, and composers at the chapel of Lawrence University. With stars in my eyes I auditioned with a cello concerto, not just any cello concerto, but the Dvorak cello concerto. You have to understand that my stand partner was an amazing talent and is now a professional cellist, but at that time, in my opinion, he lacked the passion for the music that I exuded. Of course he auditioned and won a spot and played a beautiful (if someone stiff) version of the Saint-Saens cello concerto number 2. I did not get a soloist spot and I was crushed. I cried when the list of soloists was posted and it was lacking my name. The next day, Mr. Wolfman said to me, "I've been thinking about your response and I think this is a realization for you that you're not as good as you think you are." WHAM! I admit that I had not experienced a lot of rejection in my life up to that point, but the lesson I learned is that life isn't fair, and sometimes we're all not as good as we think we are, and that’s ok. No matter how much spirit I felt, how much I believed in myself, how much passion I exuded, sometimes life smacks you in the forehead. It was delivered to me by someone I very much respected and wanted to make proud, and by eventually accepting my lesson with grace, I think I did.
The senior concert came and went and during the Saint-Saens, I sat first chair of the cello section, the highest rung I would musically reach. There are still times, though, when I put in my earbuds and the Dvorak cello concerto comes up on my playlist. Every time, it immediately brings me back to the Lawrence University Chapel on that May day in 1989, only this time, I’m the soloist. After my chair and music stand are arranged on stage, I walk in from stage right, weaving my way through the first and second violin sections, in a gorgeous full-skirted gown. I sit down, settle my cello in, tighten my bow, adjust my music stand, and when I look to the conductor’s podium to indicate that I’m ready to go, standing there is Gary Wolfman.

Eric in the Dark

I wrote this poem in 1993 about one of my best friends, Eric J. It was actually published that year in a local literary magazine. Enjoy.

Such a lonely sight
was the boy who sat on the street corner
smoking a cigarette.

Half hidden in street light shadow,
his doubled over denim frame looked almost frail
sitting there alone.

He thought and
took a long drag off his cigarette.
Exhaling the smoke,
raising his eyebrows and
tossing that thought away.

Only one long drag remained on the smoke and
he took it...
then shot the butt across the street.
The little rocket landing, then sputtering out,
invisible in the darkness.

Digital music

So I spent some time on iTunes this weekend and downloaded some tracks from my youth: The Who, Led Zepplin, Bob Dylan, and even one by Blind Faith. This is not necessarily music of "my generation" since I still think I was born 25 years too late. I wanted desperately to be a hippie and apparently so did most of my high school friends because we exclusively listened to music from the '60s and early '70s.
There seems to be something un-genuine though about listening to "Baba O'Reilly" on an iPod. It's just not how that music should be heard. For me, it should be listened to on a cassette player in a friend's car, or maybe on a boom-box in Memorial Park. Good grief do they even make boom-boxes anymore? Music has become so personal with MP3s and ear-buds, we can each walk around to our own individual soundtracks, but when I was a kid, music was a community experience.
When my parents and the neighbors would get together on Saturday afternoons for beer and burgers on the grill, someone would open up their patio doors and blare whatever music my parents and their friends would listen to from an archiac turn-table and speakers that were taller than I was. Usually it was The Beach Boys or a radio station that specialized in "the oldies." This was when vinyl was king as the 8-track had finally died so there was always the background sizzle and pop of the record accompanying the actual music.
All of that is missing in digital music. It's crystal clear but somehow more impersonal. Even listening to music on the radio comes with the occasional area where reception is lousy and the station gets fuzzy for a second or two. I miss liner notes and real album cover art. The teeny tiny album cover on my iPod just doesn't satisfy. My thumbnail is bigger than the picture of the album for Pete's sake - a lot bigger.
So this is what we're left with: clear, tiny replications of our memories. Maybe with my tax return I'll go out and buy a turn-table...if I can find any place that still sell them.
Enjoy.