Brighten Your Day
April 9, 2021
As I mentioned late last month, my wife has prepared for some time to launch her podcast. Lisa is a performance management strategist and a certified professional coach. Positivity is one of her greatest strengths, and this show is all about exercising gratitude and recognizing the things that Brighten Your Day. The variety of guests she has on the show share what they’re grateful for, and Lisa is adept at getting them to open up.
As of last Friday, the podcast is live with the first episode, and Capital Community Media in Salem, Oregon picked it up to run Sundays on KMWV, starting this weekend. Episodes will drop weekly. Lisa has done a great job mapping out the podcast and booking diverse guests; the interview calendar is full. My job is handling all the post-production and any technical issues. Evenings and weekends are busy with what has turned out to be a really fun creative project — the first we’ve worked on together.
Brighten Your Day is on all the major directories (Apple, Spotify, and Google) and quite a few of the smaller ones, too. If you have an Amazon Echo, you can even access the show via TuneIn or Amazon Music. Just say, “Alexa, play the Brighten Your Day podcast.” Check it out. Even better, subscribe!
Wintry Interlude
January 26, 2021
The forecast called for a snow-rain mix. Instead, we acquired a significant helping of just the white stuff this afternoon in south Salem. After planning to spend lunch on the treadmill, I changed my mind and suited up for a walk around the extended neighborhood. Snow is just fine as long as I don’t have to drive in it. We’re famous in this part of Oregon for our feeble winter driving skills, either motoring around too fast or too slow and causing accidents either way. But I digress…
The snow fell heavily on my two-mile walk, collecting on the streets enough that traffic became fairly light. I so appreciate snowfall for the quiet stillness it creates. The sound of only footsteps crunching in the wintry powder. The loudest noise coming from my own thoughts. And from the guy with a leaf blower. Seriously. So much for practicing mindfulness, but I did pause a few times along the journey to listen to the silence. And I stopped to scoop a handful of snow for a water diet lunch.
The break from the winter doldrums was brief but satisfying. It has been a mild winter here, and the snow won’t linger for long. Those thoughts I mentioned, however? They have rattled around in my head for months. I’ve made commitments to myself, and the path to fulfilling them has been lined with a few potholes. Yet, to borrow from Robert Frost, “I have promises to keep. And miles to go before I sleep.”
2020 “Uketide” Tunes- Part III
December 19, 2020
Santa has done his musical thing, and now Aria joins me for a song she picked. (There’s No Place Like) Home for the Holidays was written by Robert Allen and Al Stillman. Perry Como recorded the song in 1954 and again in stereo in 1959, but the iconic version of this Christmas favorite was released by the Carpenters in 1984.
While a lot of us won’t be going home for the holidays this year…or will be relegated to the house for the duration, we hope this brings a smile to your face. Questionable singing and all:
Our traditional holiday send-off video is still to come next week — with a twist!
Ode to a Friend
July 30, 2020
Hey Tracy,
I heard the news. What a gut punch in a year where the hits keep coming with despairing regularity.
I still remember that Friday in 1998 when you came in for your interview. Apparently, we were getting a new news director. The meeting was awkward considering the current news director, a friend of mine, was sitting 20 feet away from that closed office door realizing he would soon be let go. Management was impressed with your resume and life experience; you were offered the job that day.
Since you and I would work fairly closely, I was given information about you. You seemed nice enough, but admittedly, I had misgivings. You were coming from California (cardinal sin!), and this was an odd career move. You got into radio much later in life and this was your second gig. You wanted to move to tiny Newport, Oregon? Really? Your sons lived in the Eugene and Portland areas, so it was a lot closer than your home near Grass Valley, but this was still anomalous. That said, you were an excellent hire — great at your job, tech-savvy, wise, and easy to work with. You made us a better staff.
You were a little older than my dad, but we hit it off immediately as peers. Your wife planned to come at a later date, so for the time being you were a bachelor and the only other guy at the radio station living in an apartment. Our schedules were different. I worked early morning to early afternoon. You worked mid-morning until early evening, unless you had to attend a city council or county commissioners meeting, which you loved as much as root canal. We got meals together, though, and we talked. A lot.
You were a fascinating person. You told me about how you and your wife in 1969 grew weary of Connecticut winters, packed up the Volkswagen van and your little boys, and headed west. A few months later you were in Hawaii. You stayed there nearly 20 years, only returning to the mainland when your kids, after graduating from college, said they weren’t coming back.
You lived in Kailua, on the windward side of Oahu, and told me the outrageously expensive $64,000 price tag on your first home nearly gave you a heart attack. You spoke of your occupation as the senior trade commissioner for the Australian consulate, which you landed in the early 1970s. I never learned how you ended up in that job, but what a career move! You loved the daily commute on the Pali Highway into downtown Honolulu. You had a corner office and saw rainbows every day — secretaries frequently coming in to view them. You arranged protection with the Secret Service when Australian dignitaries came to Honolulu. You introduced those dignitaries to island celebrities. You oversaw trade shows, and you logged a lot of frequent flyer miles across the Pacific. A mover and a shaker who got stuff done in the 50th state! You spoke of Hawaii fondly, and it was still very much a part of you.
For someone like me, who longed to visit but had only journeyed vicariously through episodes of Hawaii Five-0 and Magnum, P.I., these were sublime conversations. I always planned to visit someday. It took a few more years, but your aloha for this special place stoked the fires that finally led to someday becoming now. I think of you every time we go over.
It was evident early on that you were proud of your sons, and you had a fierce loyalty to your wife. You worried about your eldest son who had broken his neck in a fall at work. That was a primary reason for moving to Oregon. He lived in Springfield, and you would be close as his life changed as a result of the accident. Your wife, though, was the love of your life, and it was an omen when she visited and liked neither Newport nor our boss.
One day in 1999, you told me you gave your notice. I remember it sucked the life out of me. During the five years I was in Newport, friends kept moving away. You were the latest, and as it turned out, the last. I didn’t know it at the time, but I’d move within a year. You said the Jim Brickman-Michael W. Smith song, Love of My Life, that we played to death was the way you felt about Cindy, and if she wasn’t moving here, you weren’t staying without her. Fair enough.
On your last night in town we went to the Chowder Bowl in Nye Beach. I owed you dinner for those seat covers you gave me following your infamous car accident — one of my favorite stories. There you were driving through my neighborhood one Saturday morning when a kid, who had just gotten his license, blew through the stop sign at Sixth and Nye and broadsided your Subaru. You were okay, but the car was totaled. I’m not sure you were ever called Tracy after that. You became known at work as “Crash.” The climactic point in your nickname’s etymology coming on your birthday when we presented you with a cake depicting an auto wreck — toy cars included. Nickname cemented.
You and Cindy relocated south of Eugene. I moved to nearby Springfield for a new gig in the spring of 2000. You and I got together only once, for lunch, before you told me your son was adjusting okay to his life changes and your wife had grown weary of the rain. You were moving back to California. We emailed and talked on the phone a few times in the ensuing years. You visited Portland for my wedding in 2006 when I asked you to be my best man. It had been six years, and it was great seeing you again. I remember the absurdity of our last conversation on that trip. Lisa and I were returning to Hawaii for our honeymoon, and I suddenly worried that my aloha shirts were touristy. After pulling them from my suitcase in the middle of a parking lot while saying our goodbyes, you assured me they were not.
Over the years, I lost track of you a bit. You and Cindy talked about moving back to Hawaii, but the only thing tenable was the Big Island, and Cindy preferred Oahu, as it had been home for two decades. That just wasn’t going to work due to the expense. As you put it, once off that financial merry-go-round, it’s hard to get back on. Then, one day last year I found you on Facebook, and you were still in California. You hadn’t been on social media long, and I got the impression you were nonplussed by the whole thing, but we chatted. The first thing you said to me: “Wow, voice from the past. Your daughter is precious. Best, Crash.”
Last August you said you were thinking of moving back to Oregon. You wanted to downsize and be closer to your sons but not in their backyards. You were thinking of places east of Interstate Five, Silverton being one of them, which is in my backyard. You planned a trip before the end of 2019 and wanted to connect over a beer. In the meantime, you made comments on photos and even on my ukulele playing. We shared holiday greetings a week before Christmas, and then it got quiet. I wondered why I never heard from you on your trip but thought perhaps you hadn’t made it. You also hadn’t posted anything on your Facebook page since late February. I didn’t think much of this, surmising you were already tired of social media.
But suddenly your face kept popping up in my Facebook Messenger late this spring. I finally visited your page, which had been silent for months. That’s when I learned you died from cancer in March. Your daughter-in-law had tagged you in a “This is why I run Relay for Life” post, and the activity on your page presumably made you show up in Messenger. Stunned is the best word I have to describe my feeling at that moment. Just. Stunned. And sad. I didn’t know you were sick.
You leave behind a wife of 58 years, two sons, three grandchildren, and a worthy legacy. I was able to reach your son, Terry, and we talked about you. He asked if I had any photos of you, so I sent him everything from the wedding. He said they brought him comfort. Your boys miss you a great deal. Terry called Cindy who said it was fine if I reached out to her. We’ve been unable to connect as of yet, but at some point we will. She left your voice on the phone message greeting.
You and I talked every day for only about 12 months, a bit more than 20 years ago. I saw you in person three times after that. You certainly made an impression in that short time of interaction.
“Many people will walk in and out of your life, but only true friends will leave footprints on your heart.” — Eleanor Roosevelt
I’ll miss you and that last beer we never had. Thank you for the conversations, memories, advice, and patience you always exhibited during a tumultuous time in my life. And mahalo for sharing your love of the Hawaiian Islands. Aloha ‘oe, Crash. A hui hou.
~Clarke
Surreal to New Normal
March 29, 2020
On Saturday, March 21, I felt a twinge of panic. I had to service my car in the Portland area, so I drove up from Salem with a plan to do that, get my hair cut at the nearby strip mall, and then run into Fred Meyer to pick up necessities before heading home.
Interstate Five was empty, as it had been for a week. The waiting area at the dealership was reconfigured to allow maximum space between people. I was a week or two overdue for that haircut and believed salons and barber shops would close indefinitely within a couple days, so the shearing had to be done now. The problem was finding a place that was actually open before a mandated closure; it took driving another half hour north to do so. A Fred Meyer was next door, so I went in to grab a few things. It was unnerving. Shelves were bare, employees looked anxious, and many shoppers wandered through the aisles in masks. I got out as quickly as possible and flew back down the freeway.
The surreality of the COVID-19 pandemic continued the following Monday. The office had fewer people than the week before. Some of us talked about regularly feeling on edge. Oregon Governor Kate Brown announced a stay-home order, effective immediately. A few of us essential employees decided since we had the technology, it was safer for us and our families to work from home. Efforts to make this possible had been underway for a few days, and it was time to deploy.
As of last Tuesday I have a radio studio in my home office. When I was a kid I used to pretend I had a radio station in my bedroom. Now it’s actually a reality for the time being and is quickly becoming the new normal. Workflows are evolving to be more efficient with the way work is done at home, and I’m learning new ways to do what used to be automatic. A bonus of being at home is having my daughter nearby as the longest spring break ever continues. She’s very curious about what goes on in Daddy’s office these days, and I let her hang out from time-to-time.
I don’t know how long this goes on, and anxiety lurks in the back of my mind as the news worsens each day. Something has profoundly changed in the world, but it’s not yet clear what that means. Right now I focus on doing my job to the best of my ability and staying well. That’s all I have control over. I also continue playing the ukulele at night, which has a calming effect on my psyche.
I do need to be in the regular studio this Tuesday afternoon for a few hours, and we are advised to carry our Homeland Security letters authorizing unfettered travel during the health crisis. That sentence looks weird to read back, but it’s also part of the new normal, just like continual hand washing.
On that note, be kind to your industrial washed hands. Be well. And though you are working at home, please keep wearing pants. Take care…
Remember the Song? – No. 3
March 8, 2020
Little River Band – We Two. Formed in Melbourne in 1975 this is one of the great bands to come out of Australia. And this song is the band in 1983 running on the fumes of their commercial success. We Two was one of Little River Band’s final Top 40 singles, peaking at number 22 on the Billboard Hot 100.
The band never broke up and still tours, but the original members left before the turn of the century, and with no Australians left in the group, it’s now an American band. Uh, what? Founding member Beeb Birtles derisively refers to them as a tribute band. So, what’s the deal? Trademarks. Stephen Housden joined the group as lead guitarist on The Net, the album from which this song comes. While he left in 2006, he remains the sole owner of the Little River Band name and trademark, and he works hard to keep founding members from profiting from the brand they built. Relations are acrimonious between him and the original members to put it mildly.
Enough about the legalities and ugliness of the music business. Let’s talk about We Two. I’ve been a fan of Little River Band for a long time and played their songs to death on the radio, but until a few years ago I’d never heard this one. I came across it on iTunes when looking at The Definitive Collection, which is an expanded greatest hits package released in the United States in 2005. I instantly liked it.
John Farnham replaces original lead vocalist Glenn Shorrock and holds his own on a midtempo song lamenting the loss of a romantic relationship. We Two has the classic Little River Band vocal harmonies. I like the insistent bass and how tightly the rhythm section plays together, and the steady rhythm guitar gets my attention at the beginning of the song, too. While no solo, there is an instrumental break at the midway point featuring a repeating guitar riff that flows through the whole song. Atmospheric keyboards come in at the tail end of the composition and run through the fade. We Two doesn’t quite live up to the legacy of the band’s previous work, but on its own, the song is an enjoyable listen:
For the record, I saw Little River Band at a casino on the Oregon Coast in 1996. I think the only original member at that point was the drummer, Derek Pellicci. What was cool was seeing Peter Beckett on guitar and vocals. Beckett is the former lead singer and guitarist of Player, which had the big 1977 hit, Baby Come Back. He joined Little River Band in the late 1980s, and they performed his old group’s song that night. Would I recommend seeing Little River Band in concert today? No. It’s a bunch of guys operating under the name with a tenuous connection to the past. I wouldn’t recommend listening to the modern lineup’s rerecording of the classic songs either. Yeah, they actually did that.
This is part of a series I’m doing on forgotten and obscure songs. Get caught up here.