Too late to the party

When I talk with my friends who have always been involved in folk music, one of the things that keeps coming up is the incredible things I've just missed. By the time I got back into the edges of the folk scene in the 1980s, I'd missed alot. One of the big things I've missed is I never got to see Stan Rogers perform live. Today is the 25th anniversary of his death. I've friends and acquaintances who were friends of his. I've sung his songs, heard the near legendary stories, admired the man, but I missed the pleasure of knowing him. I've spent time with his brother Garnet, heard him perform a dozen times or more. Hard to fathom two such immense talents in the same family.

Irony of ironies - I had just gotten my first taste of Kate Wolf's music the week she died. I'd taken a break from listening to a tape of "Gold in California" in my car coming home from Illinois, and heard it on the news. I learned to make the effort to see performers whose work I admired on recordings or on the radio. Being in Grad school outside Chicago made that possible. Being part of the early years of Folk Alliance & attending conferences made that more possible, and introduced me to some performers live before I had a chance to fall in love with their body of work. Years of helping present concerts gave me the delight of hearing and getting to chat with Pete Seeger, Eric Bogle, had Jean Redpath dandle my puppy on her knee, had Bob Copper buy me a pint, ironed Andy M. Stewart's shirt, punned with Art Thieme ... many wonderful experiences in being part of the path of music coming in front of people.

It's harder now for me to get to see the performers I crave, but I still don't want to be late to the party to see David Francey or Jez Lowe or... there's dozens. Many of the performers I love are seldom in this area, where traditional music isn't as valued generally. I need to keep reminding myself that it's worth it to make the effort to be part of the audience & tell the performers how much I value their work.

That's Flippin' heartbreaking

One of the pages I regularly peruse in the Sunday newspaper is the real estate listings. I've done this for years, just to keep an eye on what my house would be worth on the market. This Sunday's front page story about the assorted horrors of the housing market foreclosure crisis in the area had my burb's housing stock as down 11% in value. Looking at the range of prices made me think that the average must have been lowered by the historic mansions out on the boulevards. What caught my eye in a shocking way, and opposite the downward pricing trend, was seeing a listing for the house I grew up in for $179K. Yikes.

That brought back anew the sorrow at having to sell that house to pay for my aunt's nursing home in the years I was going full tilt at starting a retail business. Because of the business, I was unable to fix the house up to get either a good price or be able to rent it out, and keep it longer. There are half a dozen shows now about "Flipping that house," but in the 80s that niche wasn't such an obvious thing. I was able to get into the house, just on the first floor, a few years ago. I saw the "garage sale" sign on the corner and couldn't resist a peek. I was met with effusive greetings from the darlin lady who lived next door who introduced me to the current owners who talked about what had been done with the house. I particularly enjoyed their story about having a First Annual Safecracking Party to get open the large office safe of my aunt's that had been accidentally locked by a real estate agent (with the slip with the combination INSIDE the safe). Someone got it open the first party.

The last time I drove by, I was enchanted with the three color paint job they'd done , showing off the original storm/screens on the front windows. It was warming to know that the current family loved the place as much as we did & also felt "It lives like a larger house." With 4 "official" bedrooms and 2 baths, it was large enough for the five adults, one kid and one cranky cocker spaniel when I was growing up.

I know the guy I sold it to (for less than a third of the current asking price) had to do some serious renovations. When sold, all the phone lines were hardwired in or 4 prong plugs. All the electric ran through 4 screw in glass fuses. Both bathrooms needed tile work. The heating system was one of those behemoth converted coal furnaces taking up a quarter of the basement, complete with asbestos wrapped ducts. The leaded glass cabinets in the dining room needed repair. I don't deny lots of work and likely lots of money had to go into that house. Yet, it had a working fireplace, leaded glass built ins, hardwood floors that had been protected by carpet, and one of the most comfortable porches in town. But it still does make me want to weep that I couldn't have hung on to it. More bitter the pill is that I sacrificed my chance to keep that lovely house in order to keep my aunt safe while I built the business, and I don't have the business anymore, either. .

For those companions of my youth, you can oogle the old house along with me.