Gratitudes

When Matteo asked and was told what we were going to do tomorrow for St. Patrick’s day, he was disappointed to learn that it wasn’t a school or work holiday, and that it was going to be mostly business-as-usual. He loves pre-school, but also loves his time at home and our weekend/holiday activities. I didn’t bother telling him about my childhood, when my 100% Irish mother would take us out of school to bring us to New York City for the sometimes-diginified-sometimes-not St. Patrick’s Day parade or how many people, Irish or whatever, seem to consider March 18th a work holiday. Instead, I reminded Matteo that he could look forward to our special once-a-year meal of corned beef for dinner. He needed no reminding that we’d be enjoying Martinelli’s Gold Metal Sparkling Cider with the meal because we’d been talking about it since Valentine’s Day, when we had a hard conversation about there being no dinner tradition involved–just lousy chocolate.

Matteo’s sense of holiday anticipation is mostly fueled by the calendar he keeps on the wall opposite of his bed. This year’s calendar theme (and theme of life) is giraffes. Each month is dotted with the birthdays of friends and family and, of course, all the holidays, each of which are the start of the countdown to the next major or minor holiday. It will be years before Matteo understands which holidays are Martinelli’s holidays or not, school or not, federal or bank. Until then and as always, I’m grateful to vicariously enjoy some of his perpetual excitement and wonder and anticipation.

Somewhere in a crawl space in Vermont is a journal that I kept in 2000/2001 when I lived in Galway, Ireland. I didn’t write regularly, so the entries are mostly the highlights of the year—experiences I’d want my grandkids to know about. One such highlight was the night I was invited a defunct pub a few doors down from my Prospect Hill apartment to hang out with a small group of people that included John Prine. As Prine posthumously and rightfully picked up what were probably the last of his Grammy wins last night, I reflected as I have so many times before on how incredibly grateful I am to have once been in the intimate presence of a national and international treasure, cherished by millions and matched by no one. 

As the brakes were slamming down on us all last spring, John Prine people will vividly remember his COVID-related death as one of the first major blows of a year that never stopped blowing. April 7th turned out to also be the day dozens of colleagues and I were suddenly laid off. While everything was not so cool that day or in the days, months, and year to come, there was a shared consolation—a kind of faith—in the knowing of Prine’s gifts. The flood of tributes and remembrances shared by so many other gifted artists since his passing have cumulatively transfigured Prine’s body of work into a soul salve this year. Wrung from the squeeze tube of our shared experience, the heartfelt, same-but-different cover versions remind us that we’re all what we were and what we will be before and after COVID and before and after Prine. It’s a squeeze tube beyond depletion or denying or understanding. Life’s gonna keep coming. For some of us, it’s gonna continue to be soothed by John Prine’s outlook, humor, and unique appreciation for it all.

I came to know Prine’s music in college, when I hosted a college radio show at WRUVfm and had the station’s magical collection of folk vinyl at my disposal. Specifically, my entry point was Sweet Revenge (1973), then his self-titled debut (1971), and then (and since then) everything else. What the radio station might have been missing in college, I gained access to a few years later when I worked at a busy, touristy record shop in Galway. In the auspices of ensuring its employees were current and knowledgeable about the music they sold, the store had a policy of allowing its clerks to take unwrapped CDs home for listening (where a CD might occasionally be fed to a clerk’s portable minidisc recorder for indefinite appreciation). It was interesting to me that despite a modest selection of other better-known artists, Zhivago kept a nearly-complete Prine discography. Before long there, I came to understand why.

At Zhivago, I worked at the counter along side a wise craic’er named Donal. As Prine CDs would pass from customer to scanner to bags, I would hear him say things like “I know this guy” or “that’s my man” or [Irish equivalent here]. He was always putting me on, taking the piss as they say, so I didn’t take the banter seriously until one day, he mentioned Prine presenting a cake at his mom’s birthday party. By this point, I had figured out that Prine was popular in Galway because he was married to an Irish woman. They kept a residence in nearby Kinvara and Prine had been a part of the vibrant music community there for years. Donal hadn’t realized I was such an admirer and he assured me there’d be other occasions soon to have us an introduction. 

Sure enough, only weeks later, Donal invited me to his father’s birthday party at the closed-to-the-public bar his family once kept. He told me to come by around 10pm and that Prine and others would probably be by around 11. The musicians didn’t roll in until after midnight, presumably arriving from a prior session. Several were recognizable as players from Sharon Shanon’s popular Diamond Mountain Sessions recording from that year. As friends milled about and said hellos, I had the opportunity to introduce myself to Prine, who unsurprisingly gave me an “oh, I remember you” vibe as we got into talking about his health and what he loved about New Jersey. Mostly the Sopranos. The musicians slowly morphed into their circle in front of a locally-famous fireplace, said to be one of Galway’s oldest. 

What happened in front of the fireplace next had certainly happened there hundreds or even thousands of times before over many generations. For me though, those single hours of sounds and words were an experience of a lifetime. It was by no means a John Prine show. In fact, as the songs and stories made their rounds, I don’t recall Prine stepping out to contribute more than the Speed of the Sound of Loneliness and his “hit” from Galway that year, Love Love Love.

Ironically, the session was one of a few special audio moments that I didn’t record that year, which could be baffling for a moment until the intimacy of such a scene is considered. I slept awake, wired, for only a few hours before I had to be back to the record shop for a morning shift, where I would fill people’s bags with only a dash of the essence of the experience I was blessed to have been a whole part of the night before. While I am grateful to have had many rich musical experiences, no memory is as precious as the night of Prine and company.

There’s a video on YouTube of a singer-songwriter named Kasey Musgraves singing her song “Burn One with John Prine”, the chorus of which says “My idea of heaven is to burn one with John Prine”. It’s a perfectly crafted song and sweet homage to Prine’s musical style and turn of phrase, but what induces goose-bumps (I’m over the eye-watering) even after dozens of views is that in this version, Kacey is sharing the stage with Prine, singing her song about him to him, with only him. In another kind of tribute video, Musgraves had this to say about Prine:

I have some memories that I’ll absolutely never forget. I am so thankful that I even just got to be on this planet at the same time as John and I think he’s left us so many wonderful treasures and stories and songs. Such a legacy.

Indeed. 

Today, I got a ping from a singer-songwriter I support on Patreon. The update from Patreon was to tell his supporters that he’d had a podcast conversation with another singer-songwriter of his ilk and that he’d cross-posted the audio to his own page.

One thing the two rockers have in common is that they’re the lead men for acts that have not done nearly as well (commercially) as many of the more popular bands they’ve supported over the years. A couple hilarious stories they exchanged demonstrated their humility and modesty and good humor dealing with what was, at the time years ago, their sad reality. What I found encouraging is that both acknowledged that the things that they wanted and didn’t achieve at the time were what made them the type of artists they are today. Both say they are happy with what their careers have become and could not imagine the other glitzier experience. While I’m not famous or semi-famous by any means, their outlook gave me a lot to think about and a lot to feel grateful for.

I am grateful for food, in general. To have enough food for me and my family, to have the luxury of considering food preparation an outlet of creativity and flavor exploration, and on occasion, to spurge and enjoy the gut-bombing comfort-food experience that San Leandro institution Harry’s Hoffbrau provides.

At Harry’s, just down the street, food is ordered in a full-service carvery/buffet style and served by men and women in white chef hats and aprons who move your plate from main to sides to salad to dessert to register. The fully-carpeted, poorly lit hall features a lot of chunky, well-lacquered wood and brass. The walls are covered with hung memorabilia and tchotchke from yesteryear. What would it look like if geriatric Germans redesigned the IKEA cafeteria and featured “quality food in generous quantities? Something like Harry’s.

The food is indeed good quality if very dense, but dense is what we go for. I can’t think of anywhere else around to have all the good stuff: mac & cheese, myriad beef and pork cuts and chunky slabs of roasted tom turkey with stuffing and mashed potatoes, half chickens, stuffed peppers, rich soups, and countless sides, salads, desserts all staring you down from behind the glass. You’re gonna have a stomach ache and it’s gonna be worth it.

Even if it wasn’t COVID times, we might still prefer Harry’s take-out option on account of a traumatic dining-in experience a couple years back. We had ambitiously ridden our bikes there–Matteo in his rear bike seat behind me and the twins in the trailer attached to mom’s bike–and the twins cried relentlessly from before we even got there until we abandoned our mostly uneaten food at the table (and on the carpet) and fled. The twins stopped crying a few blocks from home. We laugh about it now as we enjoy the comfort of the food from the comfort of our home, while being grateful that such a fascinating place exists so nearby.

For a couple years, our apple crop has been plagued by coddling moths. The larvae of coddling moths burrow into the fruit early on in the season, feed on the seeds, and when the mature worm has freeloaded until it’s full, it makes its way out of the ruined fruit and, as if to add insult to injury, takes a shit in its tunnel to leave its mark. Just vulgar.

This year, we’re taking an aggressive and proactive approach to our coddling moth problem. Along with a couple of coddling moth traps for use a little later in the season, we have invested in beneficial nematodes. While it’s probably too early to express gratitude for their effectiveness in our backyard, I am glad to understand and appreciate how they work. It’s entirely fascinating.