One advantage of reaching “The Age of Seniority” is understanding that everything that goes around, comes around. Reflecting on years past reminds us that all things happen for reasons we never seem to understand until we’re older and wiser. ‘The Whole World Is Watching’ is proof positive. As documented on Wikipedia, ‘this chant by antiwar demonstrators outside the Conrad Hilton Hotel the evening of August 28 during the 1968 Democratic National Convention in Chicago set the stage for the anti-war movement that defined the decade to come. The event was broadcast from taped footage on the night of Wednesday, August 28, the third day of the convention. Demonstrators took up the chant as police were beating and pulling many of them into paddy wagons, each with a superfluous whack of a nightstick after the demonstrators, being barricaded in the park by the police, began to come into Michigan Avenue in front of the hotel. The prescient and apparently spontaneous chant quickly became famous. The following year, it served as the title of a television movie about student activism. That same year, on track 10 of their 1969 hit debut record album the rock band Chicago, then known as CTA (Chicago Transit Authority), used what may be a copy of the real audio clip of the crowd chanting, The Whole World Is Watching.’ I vividly remember the first time I heard that cut on the CTA album. The University of Buffalo was a hotbed of political activity. We were all affected deeply and painfully by the events of those days. Student activism proved to be the motivational core of the protest movement against seemingly unchangeable government policies. There have been other issues in the following years that garnered interest, but the power of the people never seemed to generate the same level of public support, for reasons known only to sociologists. Until now, that is. While the 1960’s protest movement was driven by college students, today’s remarkable movement is driven by high school students, for obvious reasons. Again citing Wikipedia, ‘March for Our Lives was a student-led demonstration in support of tighter gun control that took place on March 24, 2018, in Washington, D.C., with over 800 sibling events throughout the United States and around the world. Student organizers from Never Again MSD planned the march in collaboration with the nonprofit organization Everytown for Gun Safety. The event followed the Stoneman Douglas High School shooting, which was described by many media outlets as a possible tipping point for gun control legislation. Protesters urged for universal background checks on all gun sales, raising the federal age of gun ownership and possession to 21, closing of the gun show loophole, a restoration of the 1994 Federal Assault Weapons Ban, and a ban on the sale of high-capacity magazines in the United States and a ban on bump stocks. Turnout was estimated to be between 1.2 to 2 million people in the United States, making it one of the largest protests in American history.’ ‘Following the school shooting at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School in Parkland, Florida, on February 14, Cameron Kasky, a junior at the school, and his classmates, announced the march four days later. Also joining the march efforts are Alex Wind of Stoneman Douglas High School, who along with four friends created the "Never Again" campaign. Emma González and David Hogg, also survivors of the shooting, have been vocal supporters of the march. The date was chosen in order to give students, families and others a chance to mourn first, and then on March 24, talk about gun control. Organizers filed a permit application with the National Park Service during the week of February 23, and expected as many as 500,000 people to attend. However the National Mall, which was the planned site of the main march in Washington, D.C. was reportedly already booked for March 24; the application, filed by an unidentified local student group, claimed it was for a talent show. A permit was later obtained for Pennsylvania Avenue. The Washington Metropolitan Area Transit Authority announced it would operate extra trains for the march.’ Enough! National School Walkout was held on the one month anniversary of the Stoneman Douglas shooting. It involved students walking out from their classes for exactly seventeen minutes (one for each of the victims of the massacre) and involved more than 3,000 schools across the United States and nearly one million students. Thousands of students also gathered and staged a rally in Washington D.C. after observing 17 minutes of silence with their backs to the White House. After the success of the walkout, Hogg posted a tweet that included a provocative, NRA-style advertisement calling out lawmakers for their inaction on or opposition to gun control efforts, asking "What if our politicians weren't the bitch of the NRA?", and ending with a promotion for the upcoming march.’ There is still a long way to go to destroy the logjam of conflicting legal opinions and money driven lobbyists. The ultimate success of the protest movement will be judged by whether it motivates now-voting-age students, and their Grandparents, to cast their ballots in November to force necessary government action. Indeed, “The Whole World Is Watching . . . Again!” It was a routine patrol as the day began. Anti-submarine surveillance over the North Atlantic. A crew of seven aboard a Lockheed Neptune twin engine craft. A beautiful plane, all navy blue with a Plexiglas nosecone and a six-foot stinger on the rear fuselage extended, housing detection sensors for the submarines. It was a real joy to fly and be a part of its crew. Our base was Argentia, Newfoundland, a strategic location for intercepting foreign shipping and submarines. The month was August, yet the location was still the North Atlantic. The patrol usually was scheduled for five to six hours performing a sweeping pattern to cover the ocean surface and sub-surface for vessels and for submarines. As I mentioned, it was a routine patrol. Until, abruptly and unexpectedly, our starboard engine died. Just quit. Right there in mid-air and over many miles of open North Atlantic. “All hands attention!” was the first indication something was amiss. No obvious alarm, yet not quite right. The pilot very calmly relayed the condition to the crew and urged us to quickly “lighten the craft.” This meant to jettison all loose gear. And some not so loose. These were heavy tool boxes, anything metal, and expendable. ‘MY CAMERA, OH NO!’ It didn’t go, yet we got enough stuff overboard to lighten the craft and we hoped the one remaining engine would get us home (back to the base). It was questionable for an anxious while, as we shifted gear to accommodate the balance and stress on the single engine. The skipper finally informed us we were gaining some altitude and we were returning to base. After the emergency settled and we began to talk about ‘what if’ and ‘suppose that’, I looked out a port to see the weather conditions. WOW - the sky was a spectacle! We had just flown out of a most ominous dark cloud and were coming out into a monumental scene of white fluffy clouds, back-lighted by a sun flare of spectacular brightness. I didn’t fumble. I wound, aimed, and punched the shutter with a great deal of anxiety and anticipation. Oh, I hope I got it. No second chance. One time only! It did turn out, and on seeing it in print and living with the image and its message, I do truly feel that the crew was blessed and watched over that day. This was a day that turned out to be not so routine! Is there such a thing as ‘Destiny’? “Who Knows Where The Time Goes” has become a favorite story among my readers. If you haven’t read it yet, read it now! That story ended simply: ‘Two years later, we married.’ Yet that leaves out the most interesting part! My father had a strict rule that no interfaith marriages would be tolerated in our family. I was instructed in no uncertain terms that unless Cass converted to Judaism, we would not be allowed to marry. I was ready to ignore such a ridiculous rule and proceed with our wedding, with or without my father’s consent. Cass was smarter than I, thankfully. She met with Rabbi Martin Goldberg at Temple Beth Zion in Buffalo, New York. He was such a compassionate man, and understood our predicament. Frankly, Cass wasn’t enamored with her own religion, and decided to learn about Judaism. Six months later, she completed her conversion in front of a very large congregation. My mother disagreed with my father, but of course she couldn’t voice her opinion in a patriarchal Jewish family. Instead, she phoned us with interesting news. “Did you know that your father and I were born one-year, two-months, and ten-days apart?” “No, why?” I asked, confused by her question. “Did you know that you and Cass were also born one-year, two-months, and ten-days apart?” “I had no idea, mom,” I answered, still unsure where this conversation was headed. “When I told your father that your marriage was ‘destined’ to be,” mom continued, “he agreed that you and Cass can now marry, regardless of religious constraints.” Cass had already become more educated in Jewish tradition than anyone in my own family had ever been. She never even considered returning to Catholicism. After all the turmoil, our marriage finally happened as planned. And the reception? Jews on one side drinking wine, eyeing Catholics on the other side drinking beer. Soon enough, though, they all danced together in tipsy celebration. But wait! There’s more to this tale of ‘Destiny’! 30-years later, Cass’s youngest brother, Mike, became engaged to be married to a lovely Jewish girl named Lisa. We traveled to Delaware Park in Buffalo, where they had a beautiful outdoor wedding ceremony. But wait! There’s more to this tale of ‘Destiny’! 30-years later, Cass’s youngest brother, Mike, became engaged to be married to a lovely Jewish girl named Lisa. We traveled to Delaware Park in Buffalo, where they had a beautiful outdoor wedding ceremony. Sitting among the guests, Cass and I were shocked when we saw that Dr. Martin Goldberg was officiating! At his advanced age, he had become known as ‘the traveling Rabbi,’ specializing in interfaith marriages. After the ceremony, I ran up to the chupah. “Rabbi Goldberg! Do you remember me?” “Give me a hint,” he smiled. “You married my wife and me 30-years ago!” I blurted out. He looked a bit confused, so I reminded him of our names and the date of our wedding I assumed he would remember us, before suddenly realizing he was now in his 90’s! But he was sharp enough to ask me one question. “Are you still married?” “Absolutely!” I smiled. “Then I guess I must have done a pretty good job!” ‘Destiny’ ? You couldn’t convince me otherwise . . . Despite the Premier Performance audience of two, the Executive Director and her crew loved the show. To their credit, they realized we might be onto something unique, and we decided to continue our weekly performance for at least one month before evaluating whether it would become a regular feature at the theater for the enjoyment of the many tourists from around the world visiting Colonial Williamsburg. During that next week, I rewrote the entire show, drawing upon the experiences of opening day. The theater staff busily prepared press releases and marquis posters, announcing the weekly presentation of A Tribute to American Music at the new Kimball Theatre for the month of June. Our second show went from an audience of two to an audience of 22. By the end of the month, we were attracting 72, then 92, onward and upward. But something very funny and unexpected was happening between audience and performer. At the conclusion of week number three’s performance, I introduced Woody Reed to the audience as had become habit. No sooner did the laughter die down than a woman in the back of the theater shouted out, “And who is your trumpet player, Jeff?” “Hmm,” I mulled aloud. “I think you’re about to tell me, aren’t you?” “Harry James River!” She yelled for all to hear. (Readers note: If you don’t already know, Williamsburg is situated on the James River. And Harry James was a favorite trumpeter from the Big Band Swing Era.) We all enjoyed a good laugh. And I knew that a band was about to be born! Throughout all shows from that day on, I began introducing the players in the band, one at a time, spaced out through the one-hour performance. “On piano, with us from the heart of Jamaica, please welcome Mr. Ivory Keyes!” “On vibes, please welcome the one, the only, Mr. Lionel Hampton Roads!” (Another readers note: the Williamsburg geographic area is known as Hampton Roads. And, if you don’t already know, Lionel Hampton was the greatest vibraphonist of his time.) “Please welcome my bassist of many years, a hefty six-foot-six and 350 pounds, he of bald pate, Mr. Armstrong Fingers!” “On clarinet, please welcome the only lady in our band, the lovely Ms. Bonnie Goodman!” Yes, I know! Corny begat cornier, which begat corniest. But you know what? It worked. Every show became a contest of Name That Musician, and word spread that good times awaited at the next performance of A Tribute to American Music in the new Kimball Theatre on Merchants Square in Colonial Williamsburg. Our little once-a-week Sunday experiment turned into performances every Sunday and Monday to the delight of the tourists who came to see and hear what all the hoopla was about. Another strange thing happened. At the conclusion of each performance, I invited interested audience members to gather at stage front if they’d like to learn more about my 21st Century Orchestra. To my pleasant surprise, every show ended with a rather pleasant schmooz session on stage. Many grandparents in the audiences even brought their grandkids to the show to learn about the computer technology dictating the direction of modern music. It wasn’t long before every show was attracting hundreds of guests, which prompted the theatre director to add a third show every week. We even began selling my CD’s at the concession stand in the lobby. By then, my one CD had turned into ten. Best of all, the new, state-of-the-art digital stereo sound system in the theatre was beyond top notch. Imagine, a one man orchestra filling the hall, sounding like a fully instrumented Big Band! But all good things eventually come to an end. The severe downturn in tourism in Williamsburg following the recession, coupled with increasing political pressures within the foundation, resulted in Martha Washington taking over the stage, leaving Woody Reed and his band mates to seek other outlets! As we all know, though, sometimes when one door closes another opens. All you have to do is walk through it. In the years to follow, I found myself performing A Tribute to American Music throughout the mid-Atlantic states at a variety of venues, from Corporate Events to Weddings; Coffee Houses to Concert Halls; High Schools to Colleges; Arts Festivals to Convention Centers; and, Senior Communities to Nursing Homes. ‘It just shows to go ya’ that you never know what’s going to happen until you recreate the past for the future birth of a band! Cass and I left Williamsburg in 2013, as I officially entered the ranks of the retired. Sadly, we just learned that the glorious Kimball Theatre closed its doors to the public. Apparently, they’re trying to figure out how to fill its seats once again. Not for me to say, but perhaps they might wish to recreate the past for the future? It worked for me… If any of my teachers from grade school, or especially high school, were still alive, it would kill them to find out I grew up to be a teacher. I was a less than enthusiastic student and once I started playing a little boogie-woogie, thank you Mrs. Wallace for breaking the iron wall of John Thompson piano books, and saw the Beatles on the Ed Sullivan Show, I just wanted to be in a band making music. It wasn't even so much about playing out, although I've gotten to do a fair amount of that, or being on the cover of Rolling Stone, but it was about making music. The problem was I also loved to draw, and read, and wander in the woods, and a host of other activities that now appear to actually have some sort of connection, or at least I think they do? The year is 1957 and it was the best of times, it was the worst of times (with apologies to Mr. Dickens). The cold war was raging, communists are hiding under every true patriotic American's bed waiting to corrupt our youth, our culture, and our politics, while nuclear bombs are being stockpiled to a level capable of blowing our tiny thinly crusted spinning planet into a debris field of smoldering embers to satisfy the alpha male zeal of politicians. The dis-ease of consumerism, Affluenza and earth destroying consumption of the 21st century had only just begun to incubate but "better living through chemistry" and the lust for convenience had already been inculcated in the national psyche thanks to "our" national government and Victor LeBow. Despite all this it's a quiet night in Western New York and I, the oldest of five siblings, remember being tucked into bed by my Mom, when she asked me if I'd like to take piano lessons. Seems like an easy question, not exactly like asking the Dali Lama for some insight into the purpose of life, or even if I wanted to kiss the Pope's ring, but for me personally, it was a life altering moment. I absolutely remember the semi-darkness of the room, me being under the covers, and my Mom sitting on the edge of the bed asking me what seems like one of those extraordinarily ordinary questions that Moms ask their children all the time. But for me it triggered one of those rare in and out of body insights where I got to momentarily step just to the left of time and space to see in a way that transcended my five year-old rascallyness, I absolutely knew that I was supposed to play piano. Just to clarify, understand that my immediate family, my extended family, and all my Dad's family back to the goat shed in Sicily that my Grandfather and his folks called home, and everyone that I ever heard of on my Mom's side back to the Highlands of Scotland, the Hill of Tara and the Rhine River Valley, seemed to have no interest in playing music, but for some reason I knew I was supposed to. Also, I loved to draw and like most young children I was drawing up a storm. Somehow playing piano and drawing became inextricably linked and unlike most children, I kept drawing and kept playing piano and became involved in several other activities that any one alone could've easily become the focus of my life. But it's only at this point in time that I now realize that all these passions together are what make up "the" passion that has motivated me. It's a bit like something Joseph Campbell commented on, that as you move towards the later part of your life, or as Douglas Harding might say, "get closer to your shelf life,” you look back and things that seemed a bit random at the time, in hindsight, begin to look completely purposeful. Almost like creating an image by connecting all these seemingly individual dots. What seemed so strange at times, now, retrospectively, appears so natural and planned. Along with music and art another huge element in my life is books. I am a passionate lover of reading and books and can't imagine a day without reading. We always had books around my house growing up but also, early on in grade school I learned that I could catch some get-out-of-class-free-time by going to the St. Joseph's Elementary School library. Lest you envision a Harry Potteresque library, or the Trinity College of Dublin Library, or any sort of quaint moldy smelling paper library, this was just a touch bigger than a closet with one wall of books. But the great thing about this library was you could go and pick out books to read and that was a legitimate way to get away from class physically and conceptually. When I learned that right behind the school was the Richmond Memorial Library, the "official" library of Batavia, which before all that urban renewal modernism hype destroyed any sense of aesthetics still had an amazing wooden encrusted space for kids and a wonderful collection of books, this was almost unimaginable! Of course all that reading, even for a grade school kid, can be an invitation for a bit of free and independent thought which was something not necessarily embraced by my Catholic school education directed by the ironically named Sisters of Mercy. One of the few "truths" I feel semi-comfortable supporting is that organizations, tribes, bureaucracies, families, religious groups, or anything that resembles the aforementioned institutions or associations are all about perpetuating said institution. Nothing wrong with that, it's sort of like institutional reptilian brain survival mode, but it can sometimes provide normally quite pleasant individuals with a license to promote the association at any cost. I, unfortunately, remember quite early on not exactly drinking the kool-aid and when I would ask questions, and I seemed to always be asking or wondering why, this didn't play well in an environment that was trying to create uniformity. And perhaps it was some Sicilian-Scotch-Irish-German genetic predisposition to be a contrarian, but the less answers I seemed to get the more I wanted to ask why? It may have begun, or at least became a bonafide passion when a first grade classmate was killed by a truck while at an end-of-the-year school picnic. All the rhetoric around the whole thing made no sense to my six year old mind. How could he be sitting next to me one day, then having a great time at the park and then dead? Just like that. Where did he go? He hadn't made his First Communion yet, would he make the cut to get into Heaven? Why did he go? Where would I go? Where would everyone I know and love go? Where did my turtle go? And if nobody I knew had gone and come back with a road map, why should I believe all this stuff adults were telling me? I'm afraid you might be getting the idea. So to add to this growing list of passions there was one more factor that clearly influenced how all these passions interacted. I was the oldest son in my immediate family, as well as the oldest male in my generation of an extremely entrepreneurial extended Sicilian family on my Dad's side, all located in Batavia, New York. And there was an unspoken expectation that as the eldest, I was to simply move into one of the many family businesses and by virtue of my genetic pool to have a clear idea of what needed to be done at any moment, basically what would the old guys do, and to share their priorities about life and business. So I won't belabor the details but let's say things didn't quite work out that way. In high school I fell in with some people, started playing rock music, played for some parties, some dances, starting playing bars, lots and lot of bars and even some roadhouses. They still had roadhouses in Western New York back then in the middle of nowhere. The only structure at a four corners that you'd have to be lost to find but it was across the county line so it was open till four in the morning instead of two, so it was the place to go for serious drinking, and had cute names like The Doodlebug. High school finally ended, I went in and out of my immediate family's and the larger family's businesses, worked a lot of crazy jobs in-between, and kept playing, drawing, reading, pondering, etc., and had no interest in "higher" education. The thought of voluntarily reenlisting in school was right up there with joining the Army, so I continued doing what I had been doing, eventually beginning to paint, and always asking, “Why?” Then, through some friends of a friend, I heard that the local community college had a band, and that they might have an opening for a piano player, and that maybe if I took a class or two, I might be able to be in the band. I started to wonder if maybe playing in a band, let alone a "big band" with a name like Jzzzzrck, led by some furry faced guy barely older than me was worth reenlisting in school for. In retrospect it was another one of those clearly planned brilliant moves that I had no idea about at the time. I enlisted in a couple of classes, painting and music, and got to play in the band. Here was a group of people who were playing at a level I had no idea about and led by this really bushy faced rascal, Resnick, who was absolutely driven when it came to music. I met Art teachers, and English teachers, and all sorts of people who were thinking, and reading, and pondering, and trying to live purposefully, deliberately. To engage life and "learn what it had to teach" and to "live deep and suck out all the marrow of life.” I loved it! This was like no education I had ever experienced. I was playing music that was fantastic, with people who were amazing and challenging, I was taking private lessons, classes at the Eastman School of Music, practicing for hours a day, playing in jazz bands, rock bands, jug bands, Celtic bands, and it seemed like maybe something was finally coming together. However, this was the early to mid 1970's and along with all this "education stuff" and deep music work, I became involved with the whole back-to-the-land, Scott Nearing/Harlan Hubbard, grow a garden, tend the goats, feed the chickens, etc., thing. What my amazing and eternally nurturing wife Melissa refers to as my "chop wood carry water" phase. All these elements are percolating through and around me, along with the cultural milieu of Nixon, Vietnam, deciding where in Canada I would move to not come home in a body bag from perpetuating some politician's imperialistic dream, and then it happened. Two unexpected incidents came along that altered my musical trajectory. The first involved an ancient piece of farm equipment, a hand cranked fanning mill wicker, that I bought at a farm auction to help separate grain from chaff. Even though I was playing out with a couple of different bands, I was still hip deep in goat poo and chicken manure during the day reveling still in my chop wood carry water phase. After the auction I brought the mill home and set it up in the driveway to give it a test run. About the fifth or sixth crank, as the gears all had some good momentum going, the tip of my glove got caught and dragged the end of my middle finger and ring finger on my left hand through the gears. It was painful, and unpleasant, and pretty much ended my playing for quite some time. As I was dealing with this new reality, I got a call to fill in for a friend of mine who had been teaching painting and become unable to finish the semester. I was being asked to teach painting at the very same high school I had barely eked out a graduation from. I waffled about doing it but then decided to go ahead and was totally hooked. Here was the vehicle that allowed room for bringing all the crazy and disparate passions into "a" passion, teaching. For me teaching has more to do with nurturing a recognition of relationships than delivering facts. Facts are an inexpensive commodity easily gotten from a textbook or cellphone, but what do you do with "the facts?” That's what I find interesting. For example, there's an entranceway on campus to one of the main classroom buildings that has a simple inverted half circle of glass with panes and mullions that radiate out from the center like a kid's drawing of the sun. Most people don't notice it or if so only casually. I was sitting with one of the senior faculty on a bench in front of the building and she made a reference to metaphor. I pointed out the window but she only saw a window. No symbol for a sun, or the associations that go along with such a shape. Such as enlightenment, or the light of knowledge, or the fact that it was on the east entrance of the building, the rising nurturing sun entrance, and a number of other references. It was just a window, but it also might be a message from the builders, or a directive from the institution, and in the act of asking why this shape, this location, this direction, why was this important, what do you do with the recognition of the story once you see one, etc.. In teaching I learn so much and only hope that I can help nurture an interest and recognition of the amazing interconnectedness of it all. Even though teaching seemed like the place I belonged, it took me a long time to get there, with a lot of diversions along the way. I was thirty-seven before I graduated with a degree that would allow me to teach, but I consider that a good thing. I clearly wasn't ready earlier, despite the cultural emphasis to plow through education, get out, get a job, buy a car, a house, a vacation home and have 2.2 kids with a dog, not a cat, and a retirement plan. I think taking the long way home, at least for some people, is an advantage that provides more material to work with and, hopefully, more to offer. One of the classes I teach is called Visual Literacy and I have taught some variation of this subject ever since I began the "adjunct shuffle" back in 1989. It basically is a class that addresses how we, as individuals, are communicated to, as well as stimulated and motivated by visual images. It is the class that I am most passionate about and I believe the class that allows me to draw on all my mini-passions. Think about it, there is no particular reason for any of this to exist but since it does, how a person answers the question of why, how they respond to the stimuli of life, has a huge influence on how you experience it. So it's not about the facts. As Thoreau suggested, "It's not what you look at that matters, it's what you see." So the question is, “What do YOU see?” Not what someone else wants you to see, or told you to see, or is stimulating you to see, but what do you authentically see for yourself? I approach this class, and frankly a lot of what I consider, with a quote in mind from Viktor Frankl who suggested that "Between stimulus and response there is a space. In that space is our power to choose our response. In our response lies our growth and freedom.” What in the past I often thought was an inability to focus on one passion, in hindsight appears to have been a passion to try and pay attention, to feel what I was feeling, to try and understand how to respond to life, to experience life. And teaching, for me, has been the ultimate form of education and passionate inquiry because I learn so much in the process. But then this may just be the ramblings of a geezer trying to make sense of it all. As Candide suggests to Pangloss, we must each "take care of our own garden." For me, the many interests and passions that I've had the good fortunate to nurture, the amazing people I've known and know, my soul-mate and wife Melissa, our daughters Isabella and Carmen, and our herd of cats, are what I consider my remarkable garden. And maybe at the end of the day it's the teaching that has taught me how to take care of my own garden. To pay attention to the garden I'm already standing in, to be here now in The Garden of Passions. My name is Paul Neri. I’m a string instrument repairman who runs a shop out in Clinton, Connecticut. I’m known as a Luthier, or one who builds or repairs string instruments. It’s an old term taken from the French word for lute maker. There are no longer many lutes around so violin, mandolin, banjo and guitar makers have adopted the name. I came by this craft from being a musician and leatherworker. I was born into a musical family with two brothers, a sister, and both parents playing violin, guitar, or piano. I started playing the drums as it came naturally. My poor parents had to listen to me playing in the adjacent room to the kitchen to “Wipeout” or the latest Beatle album. I always remember hearing my parents telling me to do what makes you happy but don’t make music your sole means of support. I had to try anyway, playing in a variety of rock, western swing, bluegrass and jazz groups and solo and duet guitar. My association with music throughout my 62 years has brought me joy and income both as a Luthier and a Musician. I knew early on that college was not for me and just squeaked by in junior high because my straight A’s in 6th grade put me into all advanced placement classes. It humbled me, solidifying my idea that I should stay with my natural musical talents, not further schooling. When I first heard the 5-string banjo played by Earl Scruggs I knew I had to learn it! As it was 1971, there was no easy way to learn it locally. Since I learned drums by myself it was only natural to do the same with the banjo. Listening to Earl Scruggs on vinyl at 16 speed so I could follow the fast three-finger picking rolls was a challenge. Television spots by John Hartford and Roy Clark playing the five-string banjo also inspired me. After winning a “Hire The Handicapped” state poster contest in my senior year of high school I had just enough money to buy a decent upgrade to my ailing beginner banjo. As I got better I became a fan of a local band that played weekly at Yale so I was able to hear and see live banjo playing. In my senior year in high school our music theory teacher showed us that school was a good place to learn and play in more than just traditional band and orchestra. He started a jazz band called The Jazz Workshop. Jeff Resnick knew the value of producing not only a jazz ensemble but had the idea to give us free rein to form individual splinter groups to further strengthen our individual styles. This was not only a learning experience but after a successful school performance, a contestant in the Quinnipiac Jazz Festival in Connecticut, and a recording of our music on vinyl, it further solidified the idea that music is important, fun, and if you practice enough, good things can happen. After high school and a 10-day bicycle trip to the White Mountains, I moved in with roommates who were also band mates. This was a great way to get together to practice in between our day jobs. Our bluegrass band, “Spacegrass,” played a lot of originals, toured some, opened for The New Grass Revival a few times, and won 1st place at the Middlebury Folk and Bluegrass Festival. Living on a shoe string, I gave banjo lessons and made leather goods. My craft skills started with my father teaching me the craft at an early age. As an artist and photographer he was always keen on his children learning something related to the arts. I owe a lot to both my parents’ depression era frugality to get me through the lean years of learning guitar repair. It also helps to have the support of not only an understanding and artistic wife but one who is also frugal with a good paying nurse practitioner job. Thank you Eileen! My leatherwork led me to, and later apprentice to, a guitar maker who had bought some of my more artistically carved guitar straps. From 1980 through the present, I continue to repair and restore string instruments out of my home in Connecticut. I also played banjo with Connecticut Orchestra New England with Mitch Miller conducting “Rhapsody in Blue,” and recorded an instrumental bass and guitar CD called “Watercolors” with my good friend Dean Roumanis, a high school member of The Jazz Workshop who died suddenly in 2006. After learning classical and flamenco techniques on guitar I formed a duo with my guitar teacher, Joe Tinari. “Las Guitarras” was born out of our love of all things Spanish. We developed and performed a program for libraries and schools called: “The Guitar in Spanish Music.” I am currently playing banjo in a trio called “The Kerry Boys.” It is often said that everyone has a book they could write and it is also said to write what you know best. So, it is only natural that I should write about what I know best: fixing guitars. I wrote “The Acoustic Guitar Repair Detective.” My inspiration came when on vacation with friends in the bucolic hills of New Hampshire, I visited a book store and bought a how-to guitar repair book written by a well known Luthier. After reading through it I realized that a typical guitarist, whether a beginner or professional, with a desire to know basic knowledge of how to diagnose guitar related problems, would find his book and others like it much too technical. My angle was more focused on why things happen and how you can both know why problems arise and how to diagnose them. I worked on literally thousands of instruments since I started repairing so I had heard lots of myths being told about guitar problems and why they occur. AHA! I FOUND MY NICHE! After writing the bulk of it during that New Hampshire vacation I let it sit but continued to refine it. I came up with the idea that I’m a detective and I’ll explore “cases” like: “How come my guitar doesn’t play in tune up the fretboard?” Or debunking myths like: “I was told never to adjust the neck truss rod with the strings fully tensioned.” My brother, a technical writer, helped me with editing but I still needed illustrations. I was stuck. After one more year of hoping my wife, a former illustrator and stain glass artist would have time from her busy job to illustrate my book, I remembered my neighbor was a crack illustrator and he volunteered to help me. After two cases of wine … (as payment!) … 8 months later I had a finished book. With luck and support from my many customers I felt confident that my book would sell. I sent Hal Leonard, the leader in music related books, a query and subsequent mock up of the finished book and it was roundly rejected. SURPRISE! But here is the strangest thing: The publisher told me that the book looked fine but because they had already published me before and that book hadn’t done well he would have to pass on it. ??? I never wrote any books before! So, I resubmitted the manuscript, convincing him of the misunderstanding and he took another look at it. The rest is history. My luck was the niche I had carved out for myself which I have also done in my repair business. My success has been based on a few basic tenets: do good work efficiently at a fair price and always return phone calls! I’m busy and see no end in sight, that is unless my actual eyesight eventually fails me. Wait! A new book idea! The Blind Luthier, subtitled What I Don’t See Won’t Hurt Me. My book debuted in August, 2016, and I’m hopeful they will continue to reprint it. I’m currently writing “The Electric Guitar Repair Detective” and I’m crossing my fingers when I send it in to Hal Leonard that he doesn’t say: “Didn’t we do a book with you and it didn’t do well? I’ll pass on this one.” My book is available through the Martin Guitar Museum Shop, Elderly Instruments, Sam Ash, and various on-line sites, including Amazon and Walmart. “Watercolors” is at CD Baby under the name: “The Acoustic Suburbanites.” Dean Roumanis (In Memoriam) and Paul Neri, “The Acoustic Suburbanites” You can also get the cd or book by contacting me at: paulneri@sbcglobal.net Ragweed, performing in Hamden CT at The Outer Space: watch it on Youtube! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DL4XyivWdCQ It was the summer of 1966, “Summertime,” the languorous song from George Gershwin’s “Porgy & Bess,” became a popular hit for Billy Stewart. His pop rendition of that iconic song perfectly matched up with the endless summer days. The torque of the heat and humidity, the inveterate sense that summer living was easy and a day worth about 20 waking hours, helped this young restless outlier think about the future. Was it time to move on? The bacchanal of the crossroads beckoned, but where would it lead? It’s a big country, an even bigger universe. I had completed my second year of college at Buffalo State Teachers College in June. My second year, unlike the first, was considerably more rewarding and satisfying. I had become a better student and had the mien that said so. A highlight from the school year was my psychology professor, Pat Tirse - yes, I still remember her name - inviting three students, of which I was one, to a lecture at the University of Buffalo, which was a few miles across town. The renowned behavioral therapist, O. Hobart Mowrer, was giving the lecture. Professor Tirse didn’t mention to us why we were the chosen, but my proud sense of why I was in that group of three, settled in on one of the main tenets of behaviorism: reward. I was rewarded for turning in a mid-term paper which analyzed the psychological torment of Philip Carey, the protagonist in W. Somerset Maugham’s “Of Human Bondage.” Helping me put some money in my pocket, my father landed me a job where he worked, Hewitt Robbins, a manufacturer of rubber hose products used in aircraft and fire engines. It was my first experience working in a factory. To boot, it was assembly-line work in the department I was assigned to. Today, it would be hard to find anyone applying for and accepting this kind of work. Of course, there is little left of blue collar work in today’s America. The current occupier of the White House thinks he can change this. Then, it was good work, if you could get it. My father was confident that I had the right upbringing - and I’ll throw in genes - for grunge work, as he called it, and I was confident that I wouldn’t let him down. I made about $75-a-week. As the job faded to its last days and came to an end, I was awarded union membership in the United Rubber Workers of America. I carried that membership card like a talisman until years later, when the wallet that carried it was stolen from my car. I came to accept that life is about intersections; it’s where we get the chance to examine our life. At those intersections we undergo paradigm shifts. College life, which I found liberating and radicalizing, embraced a pedagogy of change. Paulo Freire, the Brazilian educator and philosopher, spoke volumes about education being the transformative event for the oppressed. For me, it applied equally for those raised in the obscurity of freedom. In early 1966, I joined the school chapter of Students for a Democratic Society (SDS). SDS was quite open and less sectarian to this political neophyte. Its campus based anti-war activists first secured my interest and, second, mentored my activism. One was a graduate student/student teacher in the math department, perhaps five to six years my senior. He was recognized as a campus leader in the anti-war movement, a gifted teacher, who I later learned was a member of the Communist League. An Irishman, who minced no words regarding his politics, his rhetoric as fiery as his carrot-topped head. I would hang out with him and his girlfriend at their apartment which was quite near the campus. At the time, I don’t think I knew any couple that lived together without being married. Their relationship was very open, a real eye opener for me. The other was a professor of philosophy - Kantian, as I recall - who led many of the ubiquitous teach-ins against the war. She was a tenacious defender of dissent. The architecture of the world that I knew growing up was being replaced by a different architecture, one that was as immutable as the laws of gravity. During the summer months, less so when the school was in full session, student organizations set up tables along the major walk-about in the central part of the campus. There were the usual sorority and fraternity tables. ROTC was always recruiting, though this was becoming extremely difficult. Campus religious groups spoke the enticing tongue of secular scripture. And one of my favorites, the American Friends Service Committee table, where students could receive counseling on draft deferment, though careful not to cross the line, counseling draft dodging. I happened to notice a new table, or at least one I hadn’t noticed before. Two young people, a female and a male, who could have been students for all I knew, were there representing the VISTA (Volunteers in Service to America) program. They were recruiters, casually and informally talking about the program to those who stopped. I stopped, and it wasn’t in the name of love, but curiosity. I picked up a couple of brochures from the table, pausing a few moments before moving on. Well, a moment was all these recruiters needed to engage me in conversation. They were recruiters from Washington, D.C., spending the summer months on college campuses on the east coast. When I asked whether either of them had been VISTA volunteers, “no” was the response, because the program, started in 1965, was in its infancy. President Lyndon Baines Johnson, 36th President of the United States, wanted the program up and running, as it was one of the crown jewels of his Great Society legislation. When I asked what volunteers would be volunteering for, first they said, “think of VISTA as the domestic Peace Corp.” Was I familiar with the Peace Corp? Well, yes, somewhat. VISTA volunteers would be helping underserved and impoverished Americans in the communities they live in. The recruiters were engaging, perhaps voluble to a fault. As I readied to leave our conversation, I took an application. I meandered off campus in the direction of ‘The Masthead,’ the local off-campus watering hole. Over the next couple of days, beset by a torrent of thoughts, one kept returning. John Fitzgerald Kennedy, the 35th President of the United States, in his inaugural address of 1961, challenged the citizens of the country: “Ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country.” I firmly believed he was speaking to the young people of our nation. He was speaking to me. He was reaffirming our greatness as a people and country, and it was up to us to rise to the occasion. In 1961, when I heard this entreaty, I could not grasp what it meant for each of us as individuals. However, five years later, it resonated, somewhat like a calling. Well, the recruiters were right about President Johnson wanting to get this program rolling. Within three weeks of sending my application to Washington, I was accepted into the program. They set me up to attend a 12-week training session in SanDiego, California, starting in early September. With my confirmation, which to me at this point was all but certain, they would arrange airline transport to San Diego. It was late July, perhaps early August. I sure had decisions to make, and fast. Initially, I had not talked to my parents about the application, believing that maybe it was just wishful thinking that I would go ahead and do something like this. After sending in the application, however, I knew I had charted a destiny, but did not know where the maps would lead me. Was I just throwing dice, hoping to get lucky? What would they think, what would they say once I told them I would be leaving for San Diego, California, in early September? I did not want to hurt them, but I knew my decision would. They were quite proud of me because I was the first in both my parents’ families to go to college. It’s important to remember that in 1964, when I graduated from high school, then went on to Buffalo State Teachers College, many high school students did not graduate, and many of those students who did graduate did not pursue a college education. This phenomenon was not due to a lack of aptitude, though lack of interest may have played a part. No, during this era, our country still was in a post WWII economic boom, and there were plenty of good paying jobs for high school drop outs and graduates. Of course, many young men were being sucked into the vortex of the war in Viet Nam. Still, I dreaded telling mom and dad I was leaving. Never a very clever person, I tired of trying to pick a time to tell them of my plans. I considered telling my older brother Jerry and oldest sister Cassie, but quickly stripped the idea from my thoughts. They would know of my plans when my mom told them. I don’t recall when I told them of my plans, but it was no more than a day or two after I received confirmation from VISTA. Dad was somewhat dejected but remained stoical. This was his nature, particularly when there were strong currents running over and about his usual routine. Mom, on the other hand, became quite animated and emotional. She thought I was too soft and inexperienced to be out on my own. Maybe she had listened to Dylan’s, “Like a Rolling Stone.” Admittedly, her concerns were mine, as well. But at 19, with two years of college under the belt, I was ready to ride. However, neither one of them tried to dissuade me from my decision, although my mother did throw in a mortar shot with, “what about your education?” I replied quite assuredly that this volunteer assignment would be a real education. For her, though she never mentioned it at the time, there was a small consolation because of where I was headed, San Diego. Both her brother and sister lived in southern California. They would become her eyes to watch over me. There were just under three weeks before I left for San Diego. The lion’s share of this time would be spent on good-byes to my friends; those close, and not so close. Honestly, I don’t think I had a friend who didn’t like drinking, so this interregnum produced many episodes of “Cheers,” with beer in hand. Many friends were surprised, maybe astonished, that I was leaving the steady, but slow-milieu of Buffalo, for the never-never landscape of California. My witty retort was that I had experience with California: I saw the Beach Boys in concert at Kleinhan’s Music Hall in 1964! I had a girlfriend that I still was emotionally involved with, though we had broken up months earlier. She was the first real love of my life. Our last get together was at the Buffalo Zoo, just before I left. I told her I was leaving for California and would miss her. She demurred on returning the sentiment, but steadfastly held my hand, till we separated. A week before my departure, I received my airline ticket, training program schedule, and a contact to call when I arrived in San Diego. I had an early morning flight which I was ready for at three in the morning. My family, absent my older brother who lived in Rhode Island with his new family, gave me a tearful send-off, my brother Mike, the youngest member of the family, the exception. I think he was happy. My mom hugged me for an eternity, reminding me to write and send pictures, as I got the last call to board the plane. My eye sockets drained as the plane finally hurtled down the runway. I remember three things about the flight. First, it seemed to take forever, which, naively, I attributed to crossing time zones. Second, the airline hostess who serviced the back of the cabin was from Buffalo. She was attentive, assuaging my nervousness which was abundantly on view, and yes, quite attractive. Third, a haze of smoke clouded the cabin, as smoking in flight was allowed in those days. After a short stop in Los Angeles, I arrived in San Diego mid-afternoon and promptly was picked up by a VISTA staffer and deposited at the community center where we would receive our training over the next three months. After a heartfelt welcoming and a brief Q&A, I was taken to a large apartment building which would house the volunteers while in training. Though the community center and apartment building were within easy walking range, we were admonished not to do that. VISTA had vans that would transport us to and from the training sessions and our living quarters. At that moment, I felt that I was the fatuous Mr. Jones, in Dylan’s, “Ballad of a Thin Man.” I had $12 in my pocket and I wondered when I would get to see a surfer. Deciding to recreate the album excitement generated in Connecticut two years earlier, I must have delivered a more than adequate sales pitch, because we were authorized to record two albums, one for the Community Jazz Ensemble, another for the smaller ensembles. Naturally, the student activities fund would be reimbursed from album sales to offset their investment. Profits would benefit the music program. Profits? You’d have thought instant stardom was promised to all, given their plans for the left-over dollars, reminding me of ‘The Connecticut Impresario’! No amount of rehearsal could prepare them for what they would encounter in the studio. Live performance was the only way to sharpen them up, so we began touring to perform at other colleges and high schools. As in Connecticut, most high schools had given up on assembly programs, terrified of audience misbehavior. Our concerts were the perfect medicine, giving their students something to get excited about. I often had to tell the audiences to loosen up, so hesitant were they to applaud for fear of retribution by teachers and administrators! Once given the green light to be human, they responded enthusiastically. One outstanding performance experience came about on our trip to Jamestown Community College. Their Jazz Ensemble hosted our performance the evening prior to the featured festival concert by Maynard Ferguson. Our kids really showed their stuff that evening. Most college bands are proficient playing the written music as a well-rehearsed ensemble, but it’s rare to hear young musicians shine as Jazz soloists. Improvisation is the result of years of practice and performance. Yet our kids seemed to understand the Big Picture of improvising Jazz despite their youth. They never failed to bring audiences to their feet, made all the more special by the humility they brought to each concert. No strutting. No trash talk. No belittling the other bands. The next evening, we wolfed down a fast dinner before boarding our bus to hear Maynard. By the time we arrived, there were 3,500 people jammed into the gymnasium. The lights dimmed, the crowd roared, and out walked Maynard to front his band of musicians not much older than our students! As always, Maynard brought unmatched intensity to the music. Known as ‘Mr. High Note’, his trumpet soared miles above the band. You never heard a more powerful trumpeter or a more energetic band. After the three-hour show, with no intermission, we made it back to the motel. No doubt there were a few all-night parties. Me? I slept soundly, eager to return home after another successful tour with my college ensembles. Our next festival was in Rochester at Monroe Community College, the judges all well-known professional Jazz musicians. I shouldn’t have been surprised by their written comments, but I will admit to the profound satisfaction that comes when a panel of professionals recognizes what I’d heard all along in my students. “Oh, man, these kids are head and shoulders above any other band here. They really get what it’s all about. They’re not just going through the motions. They’re creating some fine Jazz here. Most important, this is the only band we’ve heard that listens to each other, playing off each other’s ideas. What a pleasure it is for us to hear this group...thank you, and congratulations!” My students took this in stride without increasing their hat size, if you catch my drift. Even better, I had written only one of the charts they performed that day. The other three were original compositions they composed and arranged. I’ve always cherished the thrill of performing my own charts. And now, my students were experiencing that same life-changing experience under my direction. I couldn’t have been more proud of them. These festivals helped me validate my own philosophy of Teaching. My students have always told me that I inspire them to achieve. I don’t recall consciously trying to inspire anyone except myself, but the fact that it happens, time and time again, must mean that it’s true. By April, we were ready to visit the recording studio. It took a couple of marathon sessions to get all the music down on tape, the students realizing that recording is as physically exhausting as musically exhilarating. Their albums were, and still are, among the most cherished of possessions. How many kids get the chance to participate in something as exciting as documenting their musicianship on vinyl, to be enjoyed by their own kids and grandkids years later? To this day, I get emails from record collectors worldwide asking if they can buy any remaining copies of these cherished albums. Yes, they sell them on the internet, mostly to other collectors. Who’d-a-thunk-it? Jeff: Hi, Ana. I'm so glad you've decided to share your story with our readers. Ana: Hola, Jeff! I was so thrilled to receive your invitation to participate in this project. How could I say "no?" I only hope my story will help others discover their own Passions. Jeff: I have no doubt of that, Ana! So let's get right to it, shall we? Ana: Okay, Jeff, I'm ready whenever you are. Fire away! Jeff: What was the earliest Passion that helped shape your Future, Ana? Ana: Believe it or not, Music has always been my greatest passion! I grew up listening to all the classics. I even played the violin for eight years. It’s an important part of who I am. Jeff: You know, that doesn’t surprise me at all. I know many musicians who are indeed talented artists. And, many artists who are talented musicians! They definitely go hand in hand. Ana: They sure do. Visual Art seems to be more of my gift, but Music has always driven me to create. I can’t imagine being able to function without Music to inspire me! Jeff: What do you enjoy most about your work? What makes you the happiest? Ana: Oh, that's an easy one. You see, for too many years, I thought it was important to label myself! Was I a Fine Artist? Or, was I a Graphic Designer? Ana: But there is so much more to life than a declaration inscribed on a piece of parchment paper which might still hang on a wall somewhere in a previous lifetime. Jeff: In other words, versatility is essential, if I understand you correctly? Ana: Not only essential, but necessary in today's economy. Jeff: Do you still travel as much as you did a few years ago? Ana: Thankfully, no! In the early years of my business, I traveled throughout California, Arizona, New Mexico and Texas, selling my art at local festivals, attracting a loyal national following. Jeff: Was there anything about travel that you can look back on with a smile? Ana: Absolutely! The best part of traveling was meeting and staying in touch with so many beautiful people along the way. Jeff: Ahh, yes…it’s always about the people we encounter along the way, isn’t it? I’m very fortunate to have met so many talented and friendly people on my own journeys. Ana: I’m very lucky, too! Plus, I love what do, both as artist and designer. Every day, I'm inspired by the natural beauty that surrounds me. Jeff: And how would you describe your own natural style, Ana? Ana: It's funny, but I've always found it difficult to describe my own artistic style! Thankfully, people everywhere tell me they're attracted to my realistic flair in oil paints, charcoal, pastels, colored pencils, ink, and digital media, while focusing on portraits and nature life. Jeff: Is there one favorite medium you enjoy more than the others? Ana: I must admit that my artistic specialty is personal commissions. I thrive on the professional challenge of delivering the deep emotional impact that my clients have come to expect from my work. I particularly enjoy portraiture. Jeff: Ahhh! Why portraiture? Ana: Regardless of the medium or the subject, my philosophy is simple: The true purpose of art is to inspire and communicate feelings that tell a meaningful story which lasts a lifetime. For me, portraits hold that power. Jeff: I was particularly moved by the title of your chapter, Ana. I'm sure there's a touching story there, am I right? Ana: Yes, a wonderful story! You see, my mother once told me she wanted to name me Sirenia, Spanish for mermaid. In hindsight, mermaids have fascinated me all my life. So, it was only natural that I chose the business name Sirenia Art in my mother's honor. Jeff: As always, it’s all about love! Ana: Of course! Without love, how could any of us find true meaning in our lives? Jeff: Well said. Thank you, Ana, for sharing your Artistic and Musical Passions with us. I have no doubt you'll hear from many of our readers! Ana: And thank you, Jeff! It’s always a pleasure to speak with you. I would be excited to create an original piece of Art for you and your loved ones. Or, perhaps you’d prefer one that I have already completed, ready to ship. email me at: sirenia_art@hotmail.com And just like that, my "Big Boy" goes back to teach school . . . again. And guess who missed the bus? Okay, that’s another story! Ahh, the house all to myself! Wait! What? Is he crying?
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March 2023
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