2014 Review

Memories of 2014 

2014 was a memorable year indeed, if for nothing more than unsettled weather. Winter started during the last week of November 2013 and the last patches of snow fell to ol' sol at the end of April. It wasn't an exceptionally cold winter, but it delivered continuous wallops of heavy wet snow and ice and it was longer than a sled track.

Sue and I bolted from this one horse town for a short visit to New York City to see the Allman Brothers Band at the Beacon Theater on March 7. Seeing the ABB (for a second time in a year, I might add) was a bucket list thang for me, and for it to be a "Beacon" performance was the stuff of blues dreams. Sue went because we both enjoy NY. She can take or leave the Allmans. This was the final year of a 23 year spring residency for the band at the Beacon, and for all accounts, the finale at the Beacon on Oct. 29 was the last time we will see the band play, period. They are finito.

We coasted through the late spring with great anticipation for the relief of summer. Spring came so late that I chose to forego planting flowers and my small garden. First time ever for no hanging flower baskets . . . no annuals . . . no garden . . . zippo . . . nada.

Things were shaping up nicely at the camp, and the welcome mat was rolled out for summer's arrival. In June I poured a (long talked about) concrete deck alongside the camp and an octagonal pad close to the lake for our new chiminea fire place that we ordered from someplace in the states during the Arthur power outage. 

At the end of June, Sue and I were more or less residents of Davidson Lake for the summer . . . and then . . . on July 5, "sub tropical storm" Arthur came to visit. Don't let the sub tropical part appear to diminish the intensity of this sob. It was Saturday, and Wag and I awoke at the camp to heavy rain and wind. Sue decided to stay home and not come out as planned. By 9:00 or 10:00 am, our power was out and trees were leaning. Power went out in Douglas around noon. Wag and I packed up and headed out in the early afternoon as the trees started falling. It was surreal. Power was out in Douglas for seven days, and 11? days at the lake.

We had one humongous spruce fall across the front veranda roof at the camp. Amazingly, no structural damage, just some cosmetic scarring. For the remainder of summer, I yarded, blocked, split, and ranked Arthur wood, almost four cord, finishing on Thanksgiving. It is to say, summer didn't roll out the way I had envisioned. On a positive note, the absence of hydro evoked a grand opportunity to hone my skill on the BBQ, for all three meals many days. Danny arrived home one day with a big bag of chicken wings that were in need of either a freezer or a recipe. Since we too were sans freezer, we had two huge feeds of wings, Q’d to perfection by moi.

I tended the generator each day from about 5AM to about 11PM. Every 4 ½ hours, 6 litres of gas (or maybe it was 8 litres). It seems strange that the monotony of sourcing gas and tending the generator and BBQ would be so tiring, but when the power came on, I crashed. The sound of a generator now triggers a whole variety of emotional responses, all negative.

Harvest Jazz & Blues in September is (and has been for a long time) the highlight of my year. I love music, and I especially love the blues. We've been so fortunate to have had many, maybe even most, of the big name blues men and women right here at Harvest. Well done Freddy. I buy a festival pass, and I make it pay! As a Harvest side note, it is common knowledge that musicians have a difficult time wrapping their heads around the fact that Harvest is made possible by dedicated volunteers. No corporate ownership, and no one profiting a windfall from its success. This is unheard of in the American market. This is a world class, big budget, community supported, volunteer run, blues festival.

The weekend after Harvest was the 40th anniversary reunion of my FHS Graduation Class of '74. So many old acquaintances renewed. The organizing committee did an exceptional job with it all, including the reception Friday evening, and the dance Saturday evening. Many hugs and smiles all 'round.

Although it seems there was hardly enough time to do any productive, customer-paying work in 2014, I managed to have another successful year with my custom carpentry business, RH Schwartz & Company Inc. I am more than half way through the tenth year of this adventure, and I truly enjoy helping customers realize their visions. I don’t work every day. When there is work in the hopper, I sprint through it. When there is no work, I enjoy the camp, or guitar, or my shop . . . whatever.

2014 is ending on a down note for me, brother Doug, sisters Marilyn and Charlotte, Dad (Herb), our families, and our extended families. Mom has been at the DECRH for two weeks, and in palliative care for almost a week as of today (Dec. 27), and we have been keeping a bedside vigil here throughout this time. She has lived 85 good years plus one year of declining health. Life is one big ball game, and as Mom is in the batter’s box making her final swing at life, the family that she and dad created moves one step closer to the on-deck circle. Eventually, we all get to bat. I am writing this at her bedside.

Junk Mail

Dear "Whoever you are who sends me junk mail",

Thank you for thinking about me. It’s always nice to get mail this time of year. We don’t know each other, do we? I ask because my name and address are typed on all of the enclosed forms. Generally speaking, I prefer to offer my “headstone information” to people I do business with or at least to people who don’t p!ss me off, and I generally reserve its use completely around people I do not know.

You are shifting very quickly from “people I do not know” to “people who p!ss me off”. Although I have no indebtedness to your company, I am feeling festive, and I must share a money saving tip, expecting nothing in return, because that is what giving is all about. I can save you the cost of future postage on mailings to me, because there isn’t a snowball’s chance in hell, not even a wee tiny tiny iota of a shadow of a chance, that I will do business with anyone who has made a choice to use my name and address on a bulk mail application form without my permission.

Your friend
Roger

Cool November . . . way cool!

Feeling unpleonastic this afternoon . . . the remedy . . . a few minutes on the blog.

Outside bagging the rest of our leaves earlier this afternoon, I darned near froze. Its not that its that cold, just that the toggle switch in my head is stuck in summer position, early fall at best . . . and its not. Having said that, its not winter, nor is it summer, and if fall means apples, lots of colour, and Harvest, its not that either. They're dimming fast in the rear view mirror. Once the winter coat comes out, there's no turning back, so I stubbornly resist. This awkward transition happens each year, and I suspect its an inherent part of mandom. We are complicated . . . not. We train easier than Labs.

For the seven warmer months, the wood heater in the family room collects dust and books and whatever needs a place to be for a while, but now its commissioned to service for another winter, ne pas bookshelf 'til April. I love wood for its combined offering of inner and outer heat. It warms the soul. Centralizing around a wood stove flips the mind back to a simpler time, like when the kids were younger and we'd eat supper by oil lamp, just for fun. By its very nature, a wood stove radiates a false sense of security . . . or maybe its not false . . . come and get me winter . . . see that wood stove? . . . you can stay outside and freeze for all I care!

Its a bit overcast now, dusk at 4:30, dark at 5:30. I built a fire in the furnace and stoked the small heater in the family room. Probably could have gotten away without the furnace fire, but it makes the basement nicer, and I'm reluctant to crank the baseboard electric. (See above comments re the stubbornness/mandom link). I spend the latter part of the afternoon in the man cave. Always enjoy picking music to match my mood. I've got everything stored in my iTunes library, so all I need is my Apple TV remote, my chair, some time, and I'm "with the music". A lazy arse I've become. I don't have to get up for anything. No vinyl to flip and no tapes or cd's to insert.

This afternoon, its Rick Fines. I love his work. A masterful bluesman and a true gentleman. He's been to Harvest in Freddy probably more than anyone, and returned in September for a couple of memorable sets, plus a week of Blues in the Schools. He was a Harvest regular back in the early days. A real pro for sure. His craftsmanship comes through in all of his tracks, but the intricacy in Riley Wants His Life Back is nothing short of pure art.

A bit coolish . . . maybe time to throw in another stick.

Bill The Bomber by Robert W. Service

The poppies gleamed like bloody pools through cotton-woolly mist;

The Captain kept a-lookin' at the watch upon his wrist;

And there we smoked and squatted, as we watched the shrapnel flame;

'Twas wonnerful, I'm tellin' you, how fast them bullets came.

'Twas weary work the waiting, though; I tried to sleep a wink,

For waitin' means a-thinkin', and it doesn't do to think.

So I closed my eyes a little, and I had a niceish dream

Of a-standin' by a dresser with a dish of Devon cream;

But I hadn't time to sample it, for suddenlike I woke:

"Come on, me lads!" the Captain says, 'n I climbed out through the smoke.

We spread out in the open: it was like a bath of lead;

But the boys they cheered and hollered fit to raise the bloody dead,

Till a beastly bullet copped 'em, then they lay without a sound,

And it's odd--we didn't seem to heed them corpses on the ground.

And I kept on thinkin', thinkin', as the bullets faster flew,

How they picks the werry best men, and they lets the rotters through;

So indiscriminatin' like, they spares a man of sin,

And a rare lad wot's a husband and a father gets done in.

And while havin' these reflections and advancin' on the run,

A bullet biffs me shoulder, and says I: "That's number one."

Well, it downed me for a jiffy, but I didn't lose me calm,

For I knew that I was needed: I'm a bomber, so I am.

I 'ad lost me cap and rifle, but I "carried on" because

I 'ad me bombs and knew that they was needed, so they was.

We didn't 'ave no singin' now, nor many men to cheer;

Maybe the shrapnel drowned 'em, crashin' out so werry near;

And the Maxims got us sideways, and the bullets faster flew,

And I copped one on me flipper, and says I: "That's number two."

I was pleased it was the left one, for I 'ad me bombs, ye see,

And 'twas 'ard if they'd be wasted like, and all along o' me.

And I'd lost me 'at and rifle--but I told you that before,

So I packed me mit inside me coat and "carried on" once more.

But the rumpus it was wicked, and the men were scarcer yet,

And I felt me ginger goin', but me jaws I kindo set,

And we passed the Boche first trenches, which was 'eapin' 'igh with dead,

And we started for their second, which was fifty feet ahead;

When something like a 'ammer smashed me savage on the knee,

And down I came all muck and blood: Says I: "That's number three."

So there I lay all 'elpless like, and bloody sick at that,

And worryin' like anythink, because I'd lost me 'at;

And thinkin' of me missis, and the partin' words she said:

"If you gets killed, write quick, ol' man, and tell me as you're dead."

And lookin' at me bunch o' bombs--that was the 'ardest blow,

To think I'd never 'ave the chance to 'url them at the foe.

And there was all our boys in front, a-fightin' there like mad,

And me as could 'ave 'elped 'em wiv the lovely bombs I 'ad.

And so I cussed and cussed, and then I struggled back again,

Into that bit of battered trench, packed solid with its slain.

Now as I lay a-lyin' there and blastin' of me lot,

And wishin' I could just dispose of all them bombs I'd got,

I sees within the doorway of a shy, retirin' dug-out

Six Boches all a-grinnin', and their Captain stuck 'is mug out;

And they 'ad a nice machine gun, and I twigged what they was at;

And they fixed it on a tripod, and I watched 'em like a cat;

And they got it in position, and they seemed so werry glad,

Like they'd got us in a death-trap, which, condemn their souls! they 'ad.

For there our boys was fightin' fifty yards in front, and 'ere

This lousy bunch of Boches they 'ad got us in the rear.

Oh it set me blood a-boilin' and I quite forgot me pain,

So I started crawlin', crawlin' over all them mounds of slain;

And them barstards was so busy-like they 'ad no eyes for me,

And me bleedin' leg was draggin', but me right arm it was free. . . .

And now they 'ave it all in shape, and swingin' sweet and clear;

And now they're all excited like, but--I am drawin' near;

And now they 'ave it loaded up, and now they're takin' aim. . . .

Rat-tat-tat-tat! Oh here, says I, is where I join the game.

And my right arm it goes swingin', and a bomb it goes a-slingin',

And that "typewriter" goes wingin' in a thunderbolt of flame.

Then these Boches, wot was left of 'em, they tumbled down their 'ole,

And up I climbed a mound of dead, and down on them I stole.

And oh that blessed moment when I heard their frightened yell,

And I laughed down in that dug-out, ere I bombed their souls to hell.

And now I'm in the hospital, surprised that I'm alive;

We started out a thousand men, we came back thirty-five.

And I'm minus of a trotter, but I'm most amazin' gay,

For me bombs they wasn't wasted, though, you might say, "thrown away".

Robert W. Service

Please welcome . . . Lynyrd Skynyrd

Lynyrd Skynyrd was at CasinoNB in Moncton last evening . . . and so were we. Skynyrd has been one of my southern rock & roll staples for as long as I can remember. I’ve got all of their classic stuff on one form of media or another. I first saw them live May 18, 2001 at Harbour Station in Saint John, along with Ted Nugent as opener. Ted is a story unto himself. At that time, the band enjoyed the presence of Gary Rossington, Billy Powell, and Leon Wilkeson, who were all founding members as well as survivors of the deadly plane crash in 1977, Johnny VanZant, Ricky Medlock, Hughie Thomason, and Michael Cartellone. Although Medlock and Thomason weren’t part of the original lineup, they had played guitar off and on with Skynyrd for so many years that they passed as family. Thirteen years have passed, and so have Powell, Thomasson, and Wilkeson. Peter Keys plays keys where Billy Powell once sat, Mark Matejka has replaced Thomason on guitar, and bassist Johnny Colt, who immigrated to LS from the Black Crowes, fills Leon’s space on stage left.

Skynyrd is both nostalgic and current. Under the guidance of Gary Rossington, they’ve kept the flame lit for forty-plus years. They have history, and they have cred, but buying tickets to a show like this is often done with more than a wee bit of trepidation. Are they over the hill . . . have they still got what it takes . . . are they mere shadows of their past . . . are they worth the price of tickets, meals, and a night in a hotel . . . am I nuts? Admittedly, they’ve lost some key personnel since 2001. There are certainly unknowns, but the internet seemed to have viewed them in favourable light, so we were in.

Show day . . . rained axe handles the whole drive to Moncton . . . northern NB got snow. Got checked in and fed, then off to the venue. After ACDC’s Thunderstruck defined the opening, the band came to the stage snapping with fire. They played a set list of their classic hits, and man, they were good. They beamed enthusiasm and professionalism and showmanship. Ricky Medlock is bigger than life. What a stage presence! Thank you to Johnny VanZant for wearing a poppy, and dedicating Simple Man to the Canadian Military. Peter Keys, on keys, has “the persona” with long, dark, flowing hair, long beard, top hat, and awesome lighting. He demo’d his playing ability on a couple of short features. Johnny Colt, carries on Leon’s “mad hatter” tradition, alternating through a trunkfull of hats . . . big hats . . . top hats . . . fur hats. Mark Matejka is the fabulously capable third guitarist. One of Skynyrd’s hallmarks from the beginning has been three front line guitars. Gary Rossington has always been very unassuming on stage. He’s rarely “in your face” and seems quite content to let the band happen around him. You’d never know that he is “the brains” of the operation, and that he has written or co-written many of their hits. Such talent.

They closed the show with Sweet Home Alabama. There wasn’t a person in the house, short of the crowd of young girls that shows up at every concert knowing squat about the band, or even that there is a band, who didn’t anticipate the encore would be Freebird, and it was, and the house came apart. At every concert, there is the guy that predictably yells Freebird in the middle of a pristine vocal solo. This is the only time where that idiot gets his wish. All in all, it was a fantastic evening that I will score as “exceeds expectations”.

Dad and I Go Shopping . . .

Right off the bat, I’ll say that I’m not the correct choice of person to tend the elderly, or maybe the young, or whoever . . . although I do seem to do OK working with Yellow Labs. I don’t have any patience, and I’ve got way too much A in my psyche to leave a befitting amount of space for compassion or . . . or . . . I can never remember the other one . . . empathy. I’m not certain what empathy is, other than that I’m told by my better half that as a lad, the empathy truck missed me on the way up the street.

Having said that, I do enjoy being company to my Mom and Dad. They are 86 and 90 respectively. They have good days and bad days, and my brother, two sisters, and I make the best of it. Today, I stopped at Sunset Estate to measure Mom’s chair for risers. I had a mission. Just after I got there, Dad asked if we could go shopping for long underwear, maybe new work boots, batteries for either his hearing aids or the big flashlight, the request flipped back and forth a couple of times, and to pick up his teeth . . . from somewhere. He had this all on a list that he held close to his chest, kind of like Maverick holds his poker hand.

The conversation went something like this:

Roger: “Where are your teeth?”

Dad: “At the plaza.”

Roger: “Which plaza?”

Dad: “I don’t care which plaza we go to, I’ve got to get my teeth.”

Roger: “So where are your teeth?”

Dad: “At the plaza?”

Roger: “Which plaza?”

Dad: “I don’t know which plaza. I need my teeth.”

I could see that I was going to miss a couple of meals if I didn’t get out of this loop, so I suggested we head toward Mark’s Work Warehouse, and maybe the whereabouts of the wayward teeth would present itself. What else could we do, with no phone number or address? We cruised Main St. like the police cruise King at 3am, looking in all of the store windows. As we were coming up to the Superstore plaza at Brookside, I asked if it might be in there, and he didn’t think so. We cruised onward. As we got near St. Mary’s Street, I suggested we go on up to Marks for long underwear and a new pair of work boots, and we did. They didn’t have the right undies, so we went to the Prospect St. Marks, then headed back to cruise Main again. He said it was on the right, but that would only make a difference if we knew which direction we should be heading. Both sides of the street can be “right”, right? We cruised in around the little plazas. No tooth fixer to be found. When we got back up near Brookside, I asked if it might be in there at the Superstore plaza. He said he didn’t know, but it may be worth a look. Blinky, blinky, and left we turned. He brightened up and said it looked somewhat familiar, then lo and behold, there it was, way over near the end where the Marriott call centre used to be. It was now after 4pm, and it was closed for the day. I had asked earlier if Brian (neighbour) had driven him there to drop the teeth for repair, and he answered no, he had driven there himself. (Insert big gasp here.)

In summary, got the boots, got undies, got D cells for the big flashlight, never heard about the hearing aids again, didn’t get the teeth, didn’t get the chair legs measured. All in all, we had a pleasurable afternoon.

Is This It For The Allman Brothers Band?

The Allman Brothers Band played the Beacon Theater in New York for the last time on the evening of Tuesday, October 28, 2014. The band has announced they will tour no more, which generally translates to mean they have abdicated their reign over the kingdom of blues-rock after a mere forty-five year tenure. Their annual Beacon shows have been the stuff from which rock & roll legend is born, after an almost consistent twenty-three year residency. I’ve listened to the Allmans since the early 70’s, long before I understood from where their music came, and long before I became a die-hard fan.

Like any band that has weathered nearly half a century of sex, drugs, and rock and roll, the Brothers have a storied past, from forming in 1969, to losing founder Duane Allman in 1971 to a motorcycle accident, to losing bassist Barry Oakley a year later, also to a motorcycle accident and mere blocks from Duane’s accident, to turfing founding member and guitarist extraordinaire, Dickey Betts in the 90’s, not to mention Gregg’s personal issues with addiction, and what it was like for a bunch of mere lads to suddenly have money, lots of money. Alan Paul’s book “One Way Out” uses a unique interview format to help the reader live these tumultuous years with the band. It’s probably the best artist biography I’ve read, and there is stiff competition in Gregg Allman’s “My Cross to Bear”, Eric Clapton’s self titled autobiography, and of course, Keith Richards' “Life”. All are great reads, which will be my only Christmas plug for Amazon, or locally, Westminster Books on King St., open M-W 9-7, Th & F 9-9, Sat 9-5, Sun 12-5, 506-454-1442, just sayin’. . .

The first song they played as a band in 1969 was a cover of Muddy Waters’ “Trouble No More”. The last song they played, just after midnight in the early morning of October 29, 2014, was again “Trouble No More”, the timing of which was strategically planned to mark the 43rd anniversary of Duane’s death. This performance at the Beacon Theater was an epic, three hour, three set opus. I have ordered the CD from their merch site, Hittin’ The Note. I’m going to guess that it will also be out on DVD.

Brother Doug and I traveled to The Meadowbrook Pavillion in Gilford, New Hampshire to see the ABB in August of 2013. It was my first time seeing the complete ensemble, and I was blown away. Three originals, Gregg, Butch, and Jaimoe still play, or is it now played, in the band. They, along with Dickey Betts, also own the Allman Brothers Band corporately. Warren Haynes is a twenty-five year veteran, and co-guitarist, Derek Trucks is the newbie with fifteen years. Marc Quinones has been one of the three percussionists since signing on in 1991, and Oteil Burbridge has been on bass since 1997. This band plays with the precision, intensity, and intricacy of an orchestra. Their music is complex, while keeping the cherished sound of the south. I’ve got all of their key albums.

In March of 2014, Susan and I planned a sojourn to New York City around tickets to see the Allman’s at the Beacon. We were not disappointed, or at least I wasn’t. As I may have said before, appreciation of their work seems directly proportional to understanding the Brothers and what they have accomplished. Directly after each of their live performances, they do a really neat and crafty business thang and sell CD recordings of the performance you just saw. This is handled for them by Munck Music, and I’m not aware of any other band that does this, but then, this is characteristic of the ABB. I have CD’s from when I was at Meadowbrook and The Beacon, and I have ordered one on-line from the grand finale at The Beacon. The legacy of the Allman brothers Band will live on.

. . . . and I'm Off to the Races

I'm finally getting a chance to start this blog. It's one of those things that has lingered undone short of being an idea, a mere notion at best. I am in my man cave on this rainy Saturday afternoon in October, with summer in the mirror and winter at the door bell. This is my go-to refuge when I have need to become scarce for a few hours. It doubles as my music, TV, sleep-in-the-chair-reading, and profound philosophical thought room. I carved it out of an unused section of the basement back in the winter of 2011, and I can honestly say there is no room in the house that I enjoy more. OK, maybe my workshop, or maybe our bedroom, or maybe the bathroom, or maybe the kitchen should be considered as worthwhile spaces before I avow to hole-up here for the winter. Anyway, you get my drift. My enjoyment of the music room, as I've come to refer to it, is directly proportional to the severity of harsh winter weather or the heat of the summer sun.

Four consecutive days of rain have dampened the fallen leaves nicely. We needed the rain. As the old fellers say, it's best for the wells to go into winter with a healthy water table. The St. John in front of our house has been unusually low for most of this summer, as has been Davidson Lake, where our summer camp is.

This has been a most unusual summer, beginning with a late thaw that saw the last shaded patches of snow hang on until the end of April. May was a bit behind, and June was mostly back on track seasonally. Then came Hurricane Arthur on July 5th. Correctly, it was "Post Tropical Storm" Arthur, but since it ripped a new one right through central New Brunswick like no other storm in my time, the moniker Hurricane Arthur works for me. Power was off here in Douglas for seven days almost to the hour. Davidson Lake was sans juice for nine days. We learned to cope with cold showers, and meals cooked on the bbq. Come to think of it, we had two humungous feeds of wings on the Q that week that we probably wouldn't have had under normal circumstances. Bonus! Yep, urban campers we became.