anywhere you hang your head...

(photo Thursday)

Kasteel Zwaluwenburg near Oldebroek, NL

The family name comes from this estate, but this isn't the house our family lived in. Remember, they left to emigrate to the U.S. I suspect my relatives lived in something more like a hovel or barn somewhere nearby.

I took this picture when my older sister and I did a "roots" trip through the Netherlands. It's a flat, wet, cold country, and I'm pretty sure I would have been tempted to emigrate as well, if I'd lived there. In a barn.

According to a memoir from younger brother Jacob, our great-grandfather Reyer emigrated to America with his family (father, step-mother and siblings) in 1850 to avoid military conscription. Reyer was the eldest of the siblings, and at 19, had to step in and care for his brothers and sisters after his father, step-mother and youngest sister died shortly after they all settled in Michigan.

(Note: The story I'd been told was slightly different: when Reyer's mother died and his father remarried, his step-mother had no interest in the children and they emigrated (w/out parents) to the United States. That doesn't seem to fit with the details and facts published elsewhere, so I'm not sure how that story developed among our immediate family, but I'd disregard it as suspect.)

Here's something I found on the web regarding the family name:

"Reyer van Zwaluwenburg who was also one of the Dutch pioneers in Western Michigan gives the following explanation as to the origin of his name. He says that his grandfather's name was recorded originally as Reyer Aartzoon (zoon meaning son). His father's name was Aart Reyerzoon. When the Napoleonic edit went into effect his name, Reyer, was changed to Reyer van Zwaluwenburg because the family lived in Zwaluwenburg, a famous estate in the Netherlands. "

(found here)

time waits for no one....

Yesterday I had a disconcerting experience: during a quick web search about the Rolling Stones, I came across a current photo of Mick Taylor. Wow.

Mick Taylor, the boyish guitar wonder who joined the Stones at 21yo to replace Brian Jones, and then contributed some of the most recognizable classic guitar parts during their classic period between 1969 and 1974. That would be the period that includes Let it Bleed, Get Yer Ya-Ya's Out, Sticky Fingers, Exile on Main Street, Goats Head Soup and It's Only Rock 'n' Roll. Sticky Fingers was my go-to album all through high school. The album I played before swim meets to get me worked up. The album I could play in my head in its entirety to pass the time while working in the over-loud pineapple cannery.

In a moment my mental picture of Taylor went from:




to this:


I had to remind myself that, yes, we're all getting older (if we're lucky -- Brian Jones, for example, isn't, but that's a different story). And there's a certain inevitability to getting older, including but not limited to this: we aren't going to look like we did when we were 21 or 25 or even 35. Not Taylor, not me, not my kids.

Why does it matter? It probably doesn't much, beyond the fact that it feeds into a memory I recently had. My sister drove her 15yo son up from Olympia to Seattle to leave him for the day at Bumbershoot, our local, multi-day music festival. She swung by our house on her way back home, and I told her how her willingness to do this reminded me of something our mother had once done for me.

Back in January of 1973, the Rolling Stones played at the HIC in Honolulu. They were headed west on their Pacific Tour, with Hawaii their last U.S. stop. And for some reason, my mother had the confidence and generosity and boldness to allow me, all of 14yo, to attend. I may have browbeat her into it. I'm not sure. That's not a detail I remember.



It all came about through a fluke of luck and timing. The 2 scheduled shows (1/21 8pm and 1/22, 10pm) had quickly sold out, and they added a 3rd, early show on 1/22. I somehow managed to get a nose-bleed ticket to that 6pm show. Up in the last row. The ticket cost me $6.50 and I still have the stub.

Mom dropped me off at the HIC and came back for me 2 hours later. I can't imagine what it must have felt like, dropping her 14yo son off at something like that. The Stones had a reputation, and there was already a long-haired, counterculture crowd gathered. It probably helped a lot that the show was so early. I may have been the only kid dropped off by his mom at the show that night.

Looking back, I'm amazed at my mother's willingness to allow me this experience, and I'm extremely grateful. As a result, I managed to see the Stones play during one of their all-time great tours, managed to see Taylor play in his second-to-last-ever US concert (one bootleg of the late show that same night is called "Mick Taylor's Last U.S. Performance"). For years this concert was my best-ever live show attended. It may still be. Imagine seeing the Stones in their prime! Wow. But even more important to me is the memory of my mother allowing me this opportunity. That, in the end, matters as much as the music.

It's a reminder that being a parent sometimes means giving kids some space, giving them some rope and opportunity and hoping, praying they don't choke themselves. I sat in that nosebleed section, surrounded by older men (mostly), peering through a smoky haze at the far away stage, declining multiple offers of shared joints, watching Mick Jagger prance around the stage in his white jumpsuit, watching Keith and Mick sit facing each other with acoustic guitars to play Sweet Virginia (or was it Dead Flowers?), feeling the crazy intensity of the band and the crowd, chest resonating with the amplified bass and drums, and by the end of the evening, ears ringing, I knew I'd been a part of something special.

My mom provided me many good examples of parenting, and one of the most important things she did was give me a sense that she trusted my judgment (and so, helping me to live up to her expectations). Among other experiences she exposed me to that same year: the Broadway Cast version of Hair (and the Honolulu Symphony Hall) for my 13th birthday and a screening of Woodstock at the Waialai Drive-in Theater (right next to the Jolly Rogers drive-in). She had an open mind and a willingness to give me experiences.

I only hope I'm able to give my own girls a sense of my respect and trust of them, and to allow them to experience things for themselves, to make their own decisions and their own way in this world. After all, how else do we form our sense of ourselves and the world except through experiences? Nothing else has the same impact.

I'm forever grateful for Mom for giving me this opportunity, and hope I can live up to her example.

P.S. It's interesting to read about the show now. To quote from one web page: "[Ben] Fong-Torres characterized this concert as a downer compared to the first show... a somewhat tired, slow performance..." But that didn't (and doesn't) matter to me. As I said, it's more about my mom than about the Stones.

P.P.S. Also interesting is to read that ZZ Top opened for the Stones. If I close my eyes and imagine hard enough, I can imagine that I remember this, but I don't, not really.

And one final note: Here's the set list for the late show that same night, from an audience recording I have ("Mick Taylor's Last...."). The early show, my show, would have been (nearly?) identical:

• Brown Sugar
• Bitch
• Rocks Off
• Gimme Shelter
• It's All Over Now
• Happy
• Tumbling Dice
• Sweet Virginia
• Dead Flowers
• You Can't Always Get What You Want
• All Down The Line
• Midnight Rambler
• Rip This Joint
• Jumping Jack Flash
• Street Fighting Man

definition: ballsheimers

A terrible illness that attacks the memory and gives its victims the balls to attack others for things they themselves made a career of.

Usage: see any post-November 2008 Dick Cheney interview for examples.

(stolen from Jon Stewart)

I can't stand up...

On Tuesday I went to K's school for an "observation." Which, in the manner of West Seattle Montessori School, means I stood around for 30 minutes, something of a distraction, while the kids did their best to continue continuing on. K was definitely distracted by my being there, but I gather that was ok too. She showed me what she'd been working, and the teaching assistant suggested she do some things while I watched (adding glitter to her fish, for example).

I loved being there, seeing what she did for part of her day. She's not been especially forthcoming about what goes on at school, and I'm not sure why that is, but there was something I saw that made a small light bulb go off. Near the end of my 30 minutes they started music, and this meant they all sat in a circle and the woman who teaches them songs came in and they sang.

The first thing they need to do is sit quietly. K did a good job of this, listening to her teacher, even with the distraction of my being nearby. She looked back at me several times, but it was clear she was focused on doing the right thing and on paying attention. Once the music teacher came in and started them on a new song (new month, November, so last month's Halloween song doesn't much apply any longer -- now instead of pumpkins, they're singing about turkeys sitting on a fence), K paid close attention to her. There were hand motions and new words and it seemed clear to me that K didn't catch all of them at first. She watched closely though, so closely that it was hard to catch her attention to wave goodbye and blow her a kiss.

Here's the thing that registered with me: I've always been a watcher, unwilling to really step out and do something when I don't feel I've got it nailed. I've also been good at following directions, at least back before I got to be a stubborn stick-in-the-mud. I think K's inherited both these traits, at least to some degree.

I like the paying attention and following instructions bit. I just hope she doesn't sit too long and is willing to make mistakes and be a fool. That's how we all learn, by falling on our faces. Easy for me to say, right? Here's to falling down!

no ka best...

It's photo Thursday....


We took a Sunday morning field trip to the canoes so the girls could see what I've been doing.

wait a darn.... couple of hours

It turns out that we went farther (11.22 miles) and longer (1.59 hours) on Tuesday than I'd thought. Well no wonder I was so beat!*

Here, for anyone who cares, is our track:


And here, for even fewer of you, is the detailed breakdown of the workout:


Question: how the heck can we possible gain132 feet of elevation whilst paddling on a small lake?!?

* Of course, this doesn't explain why I was beat at the beginning of the workout!

cross-eyed and painful

Last night at paddling I got my okole kicked. I'm not sure why, but the practice did me in. I was hurting after 10 minutes, and we went on for nearly 2 hours (it seemed... maybe more like 1 1/2 hours). More than anything else, it reminded me of the few football practices I managed to do before my knee issues forced me to stop.

Have I mentioned that there was nothing, nothing I enjoyed about football practices. Not the running, not the bumping into people, not the sweating, not the painful sucking in of humid air....

We did 10 x 10 minutes, with each 10 minute set a 1-off/9-on combo. So my back started tightening up after the first 10 minutes. And there were 9 more 10s to go.

We had a 4-man crew in the OC6 (the women had 5 in the other boat, DougM steering), Murray in 1, me in 3, Jack in 4 and DougN steering. I'm realizing that I don't particularly like paddling short-handed. Even on the best of days, it just feels like there's not enough power to get the boat moving properly. And we had the boat moving pretty well for a good part of last night. I think we managed on timing rather than on power, but that's ok. It just felt like a grind the whole way.

We paddled down to the Ballard Locks and back and by the time we got out under the Aurora Bridge and into Lake Union, we'd done 4 10s. So another 6 to go... We paddled south along the west side of the lake, rounded the bottom near the Center for Wooden Boats, and started back up north into the breeze. It was cold and dark and somewhat hazy, which meant the full moon was blurred by passing clouds. At one point I glanced up and watched what I thought was a plane flying north. I only realized it was a shooting star when it faded away while I watched.

Out under the I-5 bridge and toward Montlake Cut for our last 2 10s, turning back for the final one and somehow managing to make it back to the beach, where Sabine and DougM were waiting for us and helped us pull the canoe up.

I was so beat I could barely talk, much less say anything intelligent. The entire last set, all I could think about was Thanksgiving. There were dinner smells coming over the water from houseboats and from the Ivar's on the lake. There was emptiness in my stomach. And there was pain and dumbness in my body.

I drove home and shoveled food into my mouth, had a shower, and climbed into bed. The end.

Except that even in my pain and exhaustion I was glad I had the opportunity to paddle, and glad I had the chance to work out like this. M dealt with the girls last night while I was on the water, and made dinner and cleaned up. All of which I'm very grateful for.