My Vote For Waiter of the Year Award, 2010

Let me tell you the story of someone who is doing right by the world in a very small way.

Michael C. -- A waiter at a restaurant in an airport. Now, being someone who spends a very large proportion of my days in airports, I'm familiar with airport food service workers. It seems like a low-rent job. I'm not sure how much it pays, but I can imagine it can't be that great to get out of your bed in the morning and show up at an airport to be a bartender or a waitress. I was both at one time. A waitress at a busy business-luncheon place, a Famous Steak House, in Brooklyn, where men in expensive suits ordered on their clients' dimes and no matter how much work I put into my smile, into my enthusiastic rendering of the Daily Specials, it was a rare moment to see more than a 10% tip. Seriously. And as a bartender in hip music bar in a Jersey town that sat on the Hudson River, I made pennies. Pennies. For hours standing up and listening to the rants of ex girlfriends and stoner rockers. Not worth it, I say. Give me an office temp job any day. But to work in an airport? You don't find many bastards cheaper than travellers, and I should know cause I'm definitely one of them. After I've shelled out the 25% more for the rental car than I'd planned because of some airport taxes that have just been imposed (the "You're in Houston so we'll just charge you $10 more for being here" tax), after having to be charged per bag, per pillow, per shoe I want to wear on my feet (seriously? are we coming to this?), you'd be hard pressed to find a generous tipper in a regular business traveller. I love business travellers. Did you see "Up In The Air"? They nod to each other with their matching Samsonite bags. Do they notice that amidst and among their breed are we musicians who hold bagazillions of frequent flier miles as well, but perhaps not the most expensive luggage. They get to put their meals on the client. We pay our own way. So this is the culture into which I want you to enter for this chapter of my saga. The tired, bedraggled, going home fliers OR the excited, distracted, chattering "did I forget my IPhone in the car, honey?" fliers who are en route to some long-planned destination. I realize airport restaurants are expensive. All food here is. Mostly I try to eat and drink beforehand, but a great once in a while, I feel the need to splurge. If I've got the time, I might take a table in a restaurant (a table???), order a nice glass of wine and eat a REAL meal. Yes, and spend money, but sometimes this luxury is worth the price of admission, even if the food mostly sucks and the wine is not top shelf. Its worth it to not eat something wrapped in white paper.

Like today.

Houston Hobby Airport. I'm flying Southwest Airlines. I have 2 hours to kill, and I haven't had a real meal in 2 days, so I decide to take a booth seat at Pappadeaux, some pseudo Cajun chain, I figure. The waiter approaches--a cheery 30 something blonde man, big bright smile, too happy for a Monday at noon, but there's something quite genuine about him. A salesman, but a salesman you like despite knowing all you know about salesmen. He spots the guitar (they all do) and instead of asking me the regular question "What's the name of your band?" he says he has his grandfather's Fender Strat but he can't play it (I'm calculating the age of said guitar and inwardly drooling ... ). He leans in, elbows on table. Have you been here or to any Pappadeaux? he asks. I say no. His eyes light up. "Well...." and he points out 2 fish items and says, 'seriously, we do fresh here. I mean fresh like they were swimming 48 hours ago fresh. And if you go with the Tilapia, I'd recommend the Napa Sauvignon Blanc"... I find myself charmed and I'm no sucker. And so, yes, I say "whatever you say" and proceed to have the BEST airport meal I've ever had. Seriously. The fish was perfect. The beans weren't frozen or if they were they were masked well. The wine was light and crisp. Mike C seemed to have his beat down. He owned the four tables around me, enjoying brief yet genuine conversations with each of them as he passed by, checking on them. One couple, well-dressed, Hispanic, in linen pants and gold bracelets, sat across from me. They'd waited in line and requested to be seated in a section so as to be waited on by Mike C. Seriously. They'd been here before. Who does that? This guy, Mike--I've never seen anything like this. He created this conviviality between people who were not inclined to be convivial: frequent travellers used to keeping their heads in their Wall Street Journals and their fingers and thumbs on their Blackberries. One table had a couple that were retired Army band members. She was the lead clarinetist, still playing in nursing homes and VA Hospitals. He was a retired trumpeter. They were both originally from Long Island, heading home. How do I know this? Because Mike introduced us. Because he knew them: they travel from here all the time. As they left, he asked, "When will I see you guys again?" I'm usually the one with my head in my I Phone, checking emails, not particularly friendly. I hate the questions about the guitar, or the meek "good luck with that"s that occur after I answer the questions that lead to "I'm a folk singer" or, worse, "Are you famous?" But here, in this Pappadeaux (what the hell does that mean anyway?) there was this brief camaraderie. A kindness. A gentility. Nobody seemed to invade anyone's space for too long, but a brief nod or a "where are you heading?" as if, captained by Mike C, we were all on the same ship. This kind of person is so rare, I think. I hope not. I hope there are Mike C's everywhere, who recognize that a big broad smile and a bit of fun while waiting on a plane make a world of difference to someone who spends way too many days away from her own house, her own dog. So, I beg of you, if you are travelling through Houston Hobby Airport on a Monday - Thursday, on Southwest Airlines, go to Pappadeaux and ask for Mike C. Remind him of the girl with the Gibson guitar that I let him look at. Tell him I sent you. Tip him very very well.

Here's another thing. I love New York and I love New Yorkers and I love the honesty and brashness about the Northeast. And I'm wary of the "bless your heart" niceties of the south. All bullshit. But I wonder, even if Mike C. wasn't really that happy or that interested in everyone, is it so PollyAnna of me to think that maybe throwing a bit of southern bullshit charm around into the Karmic atmosphere can be a better energy (regardless of the veracity) than the aggressive, honest, "take it or leave it" brazenness of my previous area of the country? All I know is that my shoulder tension is gone now. 18 years of it and its gone.

Or maybe its that 1pm glass of Sauvignon Blanc.....

Dragonfly

To be perfectly honest, sometimes I wish I could cancel the weekend ahead of me of shows and stay home, stay in fleecy sweats, cook and read the Sunday New York Times (my favorite thing to linger over for hours) and share the couch with June. I'm not complaining. Everybody dreads work. I bet the Pope dreads Mondays (well, lately, I'm sure more than ever before). But isn't it odd and wonderful that when you just show up, the nagging, naysaying critic yammering in your head and all, the beautiful and the unexpected happens.

For example. Elba, Alabama. Where the hell is Elba? I'm not even sure. I just followed Linda, my GPS guide and 6 hours south of Nashville, I was driving along bucolic windy country roads, through "front porch" towns--2 blocks in length with stores strung together in rotting wood porches and flat fronted signpost roofhats. I expected to see someone on a rocking chair with a harmonica. A place you feel like is stuck in the dustbowl era -- and almost missed Elba, the size of a postage stamp. These are the places you drive into as a folk singer and you think 'uh oh...this MUST be a mistake.' How could this deep southern town with dusty empty streets and an apothecary and apocalyptic billboards hold even 30 folk music fans? Someone must have made a mistake. The thing is, as I've learned while writing my song "Manila Street", its not just beauty that hides in the shadows. You can never judge a town by its billboards. Here in this sleepy small town lurks a host of music fans who can sing along to Jean Ritchie and John Stewart songs and who will work to get state funding to allow a troup of 6th graders to sit in the front row to a concert that doesn't include a former American Idol alumni. There's decent mexican food and a bed & breakfast with a wide front porch populated by whitewashed rocking chairs, ripe for the late night decompression. I met some amazing folks in Elba, AL, people who live there, people who were visiting. I talked to a man about the importance of clean water and water purification, a basic right and one that becomes increasingly scarce in this season of hurricanes and earthquakes. I felt like there was something at work beyond just a paycheck and a 2 set gig.

I woke the next morning and shared weak coffee and grits with a bunch of these folks who have a more wicked and droll sense of humor than even the British, twisted and honest and sharp, but with an accent thicker than sourghum. Filled with food painted by the same swath of the colorwheel, I pointed my van north to Montgomery, heading to Hank Williams' grave, to pay homage. Driving through these small roads lined with waving tall grasses and bending pines, drooping crimson clover and bright flourescent yellow flowers that dotted the grasses, I felt this wave of the River. The flow. My friend Rebecca would say I felt in my bliss. I guess that's right, but my skin tingles at crystal-talk. But yes, ok. I felt bliss. The sweet spot of the sun. I felt love. I felt life. I felt warm. The sun was out. I was doing what I loved so much. I was alone, driving, listening to a really interesting 11 CD volume book on CD on Abraham Lincoln, and sometimes stopping to listen to the same Joe Pug song over and over because I love it so much. But I was in a flow.

I found myself in front of Hank Williams' grave in this small cemetary in a rundown neighborhood of Montgomery. Two tall rectangles of slate carved with Aubrey on one and Hank on the other. Carvings of western wear: boots and hats. Someone or ones had left empty bottles of rye and whiskey and tequila. Plastic flowers stood in a vase. I sat on a bench in the 80 degree April sun and thought of lyrics to songs I know. I pondered the brevity of his life. How is it possible that he only lived 30 years with that body of work that still exists. My friend Jon calls it writing "copyrights", as in "don't write for what's on the radio today. Write a copyright." Write something that lasts long after your death. Like Hank. To be perfectly honest, I never feel anything at all at gravesites. My favorite person in my life so far was my grandmother Roro and I stood at her gravesite and felt cold. Nothing. She wasn't there. It was just theater, this visitation. So why would I feel different at a stranger's. No different. I just felt obliged to stop by and somehow nod at the grave. Acknowledge it and him and his importance and that time passes and we pass and we dissolve and in the flow of the river we pass those who have gone before us and its just respectful to nod, even if there are no tears.

Last night I played a small show in the mountains in Georgia and it was an unexpected delight. A bit chaotic, as it was being broadcast on the internet, live chat along with my set along with the small crowd who were physically there. Again, it was one of those situations where I thought it was going to be a possible disaster, but in the chaos, there was beauty and truth and it all came together as it should have come together and I felt, again, dipped in the flow. I made a mention of my Uncle Will, who passed away a year ago. Who I miss. Some days with a real strength. Wishing I'd had more conversations with him, the wise one, the quiet one, the one of truth and integrity and peace. I said that I wasn't sure I believed in heaven. The truth is, I don't believe in heaven nor hell. Its all just here and we recycle or we don't or I'll never know but I doubt I'll go into the clouds of the great beyond and meet anyone from this lifetime. I said, If I come back as an insect, please let me come back as a dragonfly. It was off the cuff. But writing this, reflecting on happenstance and opening up to what might be and then being offered what is, darting in and out vertically and horizontally of the flow of life and love and emptiness and chaos, greatness and smallness, there's something to be said about the brief life of a dragonfly, watergills then bursting through a shell to breath air for a brief few months. That sweet spot? There was nothing extraordinary in my weekend. But something lifted my head up, as if to say, 'pay attention' and I did and I was blessed with meeting love and stories and passion and mission and music and nature and history and soil. Like that insect, the flying pattern is quite erratic, turbulent and brief but in its small smallness, extraordinary.

The Chronicles of Trixie

Trixie. Rich Feridun, or Rico as he's been called, red-haired smooth guitar player of the Tearjerks, bought me this air freshener a few years ago at a highway truckstop. Rich and I would have this game where we'd spend a few bucks on each other and buy surprise truck stop gifts. We both have an impressive collection of sculpted eagles with American flags or loinclothed native americans and bears and turtles all holding aloft some patriotic symbol. You know: those $1.99 snowglobes or paperweights you find next to the rack of monogrammed keychains or shotglasses with state flags? I'm sure I bought Rich once a pink truckers' hat that said "I love Jesus" and he bought me a pamphlet on Sin & Repentance. I love truck stops. So Rich decided that I needed a hula girl, a hula girl with moxie. So we named her Trixie and she has driven with us all over the country. I've decided I should have a Trixie column for this blog. Where is Trixie now kind of thing....In this 2nd photo, Trixie is in Blue Ridge, Georgia, hanging out on the porch of the cabin where I'm going to play a concert... In the 3rd, well, she's just enjoying happy hour...

So stay tuned....