“You really shouldn’t play your G like that.” My brother John sat across from me in the
family room at the old house. He had
just listened to me sing one of my songs and suggested I play the G Chord with
my pinky on string number 1 instead of my ring finger. "You’re good enough that
you really shouldn’t be playing it the way you do." Though playing it that way felt completely
unnatural to me, I was honored to think that he thought I might be “good
enough”.
I was a mother of four who stayed up into the wee hours of the night to write songs. He was a professional musician, the godfather of flat picking in the state of Idaho. He was a guitar string's worst nightmare. I lightly tickled the strings on my instrument. I think it was one of the first times he had come to
visit us from his home in Idaho, before I knew him by heart, like I do
now. I had just recorded an album of original songs, one most people now don’t
know I even have. A producer had heard
me somewhere and paid for the recording. Mostly, for me, it was a learning experience.
I was naive, and rather raw as a player, singer and
songwriter. So I was a little
intimidated and nervous to even let my brother hear it. He was kind and complimentary, and most
encouraging about my songwriting. You
have to know a little about the dynamics of our relationship to understand what
that meant to me.
My brother John is eight years older than I. He was the youngest child of my mom and her
first husband, Cy Davis. When my mom
married Lewis Hansen, John
acquired a new set of house rules and an unhealthy dose of disinterest at best,
and tragic abuse at worst. When he was in third grade he wanted so badly to
belong that he started writing his last name as Hansen instead of Davis. He still goes by John Hansen, not that his
stepfather deserved any credit John has brought to his name. John was child #3
of Afton Hansen, and I was child #6.
When I was 5 and John was wading into the waters of
teenagehood, we moved from our small town in Idaho to Pittsburgh, PA. This was
the early 1960’s, a tumultuous time in America.
An equally uneasy time in our home as well. My dad, for whatever reason, was full of
discontent and booze. That’s a bad
combination. John was a lanky, long
legged fellow who found a voice for his angst in the songs of Bob Dylan. He saved up his hard earned money working at
Isaley’s Ice Cream and Deli so he could purchase his first guitar. I remember tiptoeing downstairs in my
pajamas, my hair wet from my evening bath. I peeked through the rungs on the
banister while John and his friends held band practice. John was hip, and
handsome, and quiet and kind, though he had to have been confused by life. The music
that floated from his portable turntable became the soundtrack to the scenes of
my childhood: the Beatles, and Dylan, and others whose songs I know but whose
names escape me. By the time John was a senior in high school, having moved six
times during his high school years, he had had enough and moved back to
Idaho. He carried a sort of mystery with
him, and by the time I had grown into my own personality, he was far away.
|
John, front middle, with an early band, circa 1971 |
It was music, especially the creation of a song, that
brought us together as adults. He would
end up producing my first real album, in Boise and Nashville. He has played on most of my albums, and he is one of my finest cheerleaders. Because of
his renown, especially among musicians, I have many friends who have changed me
for the better. But mostly it is John
who changed me as a musician. For years Merlyn and I journeyed to Boise to
perform and record. I felt at home in
his place, and secure in his love and
respect for me and my little family.
When my son John was swirling in his own teenage
angst, I remember one particularly vocal interchange in the kitchen. We argued about something or other. Johnny stormed up the back stairs and I followed
after him, grabbing him by the leg before he hit the top stair. We both fell in an emotional heap on the
steps. Somewhere in the conversation
that followed Johnny told me we just didn’t understand him. I asked him what he wanted in
life, and he replied that he just wanted to be like Uncle John. I listened and
thought a minute, then replied that he would do well to be like his Uncle John,
noting some of the fine character traits of my brother. We sat there a minute. I told him I had spent a lot of time with his
Uncle John, and he had shared with me the person he most admired. “Who’s
that?” Johnny asked, sure he would find the secret of life in such a person.
My son John, to his credit, knows when to be still and
absorb. That bit of full-circle
information has settled into his soul at this point, and I believe he himself
would speak the name of his father in the short list of people he would like to
emulate.
At that time, though, it was my brother. And truth be known, it still is.
My brother, John is uber-talented, and his fingers are
like lightening on the neck of his guitar. He has the gift of being able to
sincerely feel the spirit that each song carries. Songs are almost human, having souls of their
own that yearn to be understood. Good
songs, at least. Both my John’s know how to access those personalities and
stories in each song.
As our mother aged, John travelled from Boise
regularly to sing to her, to kiss her soft cheeks, to hang hooks in her garage or dig
up a tree stump, or just sit with her. John, however, never just sits. His hands need to hold a guitar. Mom was curled into her red leather recliner,
her snowy white hair like a cloud against a crimson sky. John would plant
himself comfortably on the couch next to her, his guitar gently throbbing against his chest. The words and comfortable
melody of Tom Waits floated from his lips: “Time
went so quickly, I went lickety-splitly out to my old 55….” Harmony rose up from her throat, our beloved mother, and if I was lucky enough to be
there I could pull up a third, or listen as Kate did. It makes me weep to think of it, to think of
her voice harmonizing with all of us, allowing us to sing our own songs but
supporting with her own harmonious sweetness.
Her pitch was dead on, even when she didn’t know the lyric. And her
sense of timing was impeccable. There is a sweetness in family harmony that is rare in non-bloodline music.
Even though our mother has gone the way of all living things, John still works his way down south toward us. Each August, when the fruits of the apricot trees are
soft and warm, when the hot August sun awakens the sugary juices so that the
apricots nearly jump into the palms of your hands as you pick them, John drives
down with his granddaughter Brooklyn for Pappy week. (His treasures call him Pappy.) We pile into the van and continue south one town to
Centerville, to the corner lot with the ancient gnarled trees that bend toward
the ground with the weight of their bounty.
For 40 cents a pound we drag the tall wooden ladders up into the orchard, through the
rutty soil, and plant them firmly under the branches where the most fruit has
fallen to the ground, an indicator that the fruit there is happy to be
ripe. We usually pick between 50 and 80
pounds each year. Only ripe ones. No green.
The riper, the better for apricot jam.
At home we wash, pit and remove blighted portions of the fruit. The rest we cut into little orange pieces,
adding a fair amount of granulated sugar and some corn syrup. We do not mash the fruit. If it is truly ripe it will mash itself in
the process. All day my brother will stand over the stove, stirring the fruit
as it bubbles down into liquid gold. Brooklyn or one of my sisters or I will spell
him off. By the end of the day we have a
couple dozen quart bottles sitting on the counter, their lids popping as they
cool. We do not add pectin to our
apricot jam. Our mom liked it a little
runny, so that you had to hold your plate under your chin when you ate a
crunchy piece of toast slathered with butter and a nice spoonful of apricot
jam.
One of our favorite family Sunday meals is a tender
pork roast browned in olive oil and butter, roasted while we are at church and
all the way through a Sunday nap, if we are lucky enough to get one. About an
hour before serving we pour one of those quarts of home made apricot jam over
the roast, basting it occasionally as the jam mixes with the juices of the
roast. The skin of the roast becomes
caramelized with the fruits of those apricot trees. Served with roasted yams or sweet potatoes,
or a baked potato and asparagus, it is a sweet reminder even in the bitterest
part of February that August repeatedly gives us her bounty, as long as the
blossoms in the spring have survived a late frost, as long as the heat of the
summer days dances with the chill of northern Utah nights, and as long as my
brother John makes his way south toward his family.
So much of the music that comes from me is influenced
by my brothers, John and George, from the life searching lyric of Dylan to the
deep harmonies of Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young, I cannot separate my past
from my present. I am reminded
repeatedly that we tend to love the things that the people who mean the most to
us love. It’s a darn good thing my brothers have good taste.
There are a few men whose lives are inseparably
connected to my heart, and two of them are named John.
|
John and me. |
Pork roast, boneless or pork tenderloin.
Apricot jam (if using commercial jam, dilute slightly with
water or broth.
Preheat oven to 400 degrees. In a heavy skillet heat
about ¼ cup oil to very hot. Add a dab
of butter.
Generously coat pork roast with salt and pepper and
garlic salt.
Put roast in hot oil and sear until the color of the
roast changes. Sear all sides of the
roast.
Put roast in a covered casserole or cover your pan
with foil and place in hot oven for 15 minutes.
Afterwards lower heat to 300 and cook covered 3-6 hours depending on
size of roast.
If you choose to add onion, brown the onion whole
(peeled) in oil and add it to the roasting pan.
About one hour before eating test roast for doneness.
Remove lid and pour apricot jam over roast.
Baste every 20 minutes or so.
When ready to serve, remove roast from pan and cut or
chunk it on a platter. Spoon some of the juices over top. Pour the rest of the juices into a small
pitcher and allow guests to add more juicy sweetness to their servings.
(it is nearly 3 am Easter morning and I am weary to the
bone. I will post this and proof it
later when I have more of my wits about me.
These late night postings are doing me in!)