songgypsy

[songgypsy]

Scarlett Begonia

Scarlett Begonia is not only Nashville’s connection to the past, present, and future of fair-trade, it’s the story of a family business that keeps on keeping on.

by Trisha Leone

I moved to Nashville in 2009. A singer-songwriter from Colorado making the pilgrimage to Music City, because that’s what songwriters do. I wanted to be around the best, and I was not disappointed. In my first year, I watched Sheryl Crow perform for a music video in Centennial Park, I had a great conversation with Ray Stevens at Grimey’s Record Store, and I saw Chrissy Hynde perform at the Exit/In to a crowd of less than fifty. Since then there have been many other memorable moments, but what I treasure most are the people, many of whom I met at a store called Scarlett Begonia on West End Avenue. It’s across the street from the Commodore at the Holiday Inn, where singer-songwriters line up for a chance to perform at Debi Champion’s Writer’s Night, a longstanding Nashville tradition.

As with most songwriters who come to town, I needed a day job. My husband, a guitar player, as well as a guitar amplifier builder and repairman, quickly found work at Rock Block Guitars on Elliston Place—which is how I first found Scarlett Begonia. The colorful window displays drew me in like a magical spell, and for several minutes all I could do was stare in awe at all the beautiful details—hand-carved gourds, seed jewelry in every color of the rainbow, stylish clothes and intricate weavings. Lucky for me, someone broke the spell and spoke to me in a friendly voice that I loved the moment I heard it. It was Kyle Elias, one of the owners. We became fast friends and when I told her I was looking for work her eyes twinkled. She flashed a big grin and said she would talk to her daughter Gabriela. Not only did I gain some lifelong friends working at the store, but I also gained an education in customer service, merchandising and music. As we worked, we listened to music, curated mostly by Jack Elias, Kyle’s husband and co-owner of the store. While I helped customers and straightened displays, I honed my craft of songwriting by listening to Gram Parsons, Rodney Crowell, Emmylou Harris, Marshall Chapman, Bonnie Raitt, Bob Dylan, and yes, the Grateful Dead, whose song “Scarlet Begonias” is the namesake of the store. The stories that Jack and Kyle told while the music played were priceless, but before I delve into those, let’s go back a few years to the beginning.

The roots of Scarlett Begonia go back to 1971 when Jack graduated from Vanderbilt with a degree in Latin American studies. He met Kyle in the summer of 1974 while working at the Jolly Ox restaurant in Goodlettsville, TN. Jack soon left to travel with a friend throughout South America and his descriptive letters of the beauty he encountered enticed Kyle to follow within a few months. After returning to Nashville, the couple spent the next two years waiting tables and tending bar at the Gold Rush on Elliston Place, saving money for their next trip to South America. (Both the Gold Rush and Rock Block Guitars on Elliston Place are no longer here, partly a result of changing times, and the escalating rents that come with progress.)  They even celebrated their wedding reception at the Gold Rush in 1976. Jack and Kyle’s stories of the ‘70s and ‘80s Nashville music scene are priceless--stories of serving drinks to Townes Van Zandt, Shel Silverstein, and Guy Clark, who used to tell them to play his latest album while he sat at the bar. Just across the street, the Exit/In was in the height of its glory days, and many legendary artists played at the iconic venue before they made it big. Jack and Kyle are music lovers to the core and one can learn a lot about music from the soundtrack of their lives.

However, aside from music, there is another great love they share which is the culture and people of South America. After marrying in ’76,  they ventured out to explore the treasures of South America, traveling and living in places throughout Colombia, Ecuador, Peru, and Bolivia--embracing the native cultures, shopping at the markets, making friends, and developing a keen eye for the finest in indigenous arts and crafts. After spending their limited resources on irresistible finds at the markets they came up with the idea to bring their treasures back to the United States and open a shop. Thus, Scarlett Begonia was born and opened its doors on October 1, 1981.

Jack and Kyle’s wedding reception at the Gold Rush in 1976.

Scarlett Begonia was fair-trade before fair-trading was cool. For almost 40 years, Jack, Kyle, and now their daughter Gabriela have mindfully chosen every item in the store and displayed them with careful attention to detail. Through the years, they’ve dressed some of their favorite musicians in Nashville. Emmylou Harris bought an Ecuadorian Poncho from Scarlett Begonia in the late ‘80s which she is wearing on the “Brand New Dance” album cover. The cotton men’s Matrimonial shirts from Ecuador are also a favorite among many musicians and are easily recognizable on stages throughout town. Every item in the store has a story—about where it came from, who made it, and how it got here, nothing is ordinary. Master gourd carver Pedro Osores is a close family friend and travels from Cochas, Peru every other year for in-store demonstrations. Jack, Kyle, and Gabriela still purchase many of the items on an annual trip to the Otovalo market in Ecuador, including handwoven rugs and wall hangings, paintings by their godson Patricio, Chales (lightweight scarves), handcrafted jewelry made by Betty and much more. They know the artists’ families and their children and have stayed true to their original objective to provide an outlet for struggling artisans from around the world and to gain positive exposure of native cultures through their folk art and clothing. On any given day, Jack can be heard conversing in Spanish with his Latin American friends on his flip phone while out on the sidewalk. Fair-trade is still a basis for all their business dealings. Scarlett Begonia also offers items from several Nashville-based companies that share their business practices and sentiments including Thistle Farms, Bee Attitudes, Center Earth Pottery, fine jewelry by Sealy, and several others.

Gabriela shopping at the Otovalo market in Ecuador.

Scarlett Begonia is the heart and soul of Nashville. A small family business that continues to open its doors day after day. For almost forty years, the colorful windows of Scarlett Begonia have brightened the busy street that leads to downtown Nashville. The antique bells that hang on the side of the wooden open sign ring every time the door opens as they have for decades. Sure, shopping online is easy and convenient, and we’re all busy. However, what we need most in these troubled times is connection. Do yourself a favor, take the time to stop by Scarlett Begonia and visit with Jack, Kyle, and Gabriela. Learn about the artists, see and touch the Tagua seed that sustainably provides raw material to make jewelry, ask Jack about the Panama hats, feel the softness of bamboo fabric, look at the picture behind the checkout counter of Jack and Kyle at one of their first markets, and listen to a few stories about the Gold Rush days. It will do the heart good. And although Scarlett Begonia has withstood the test of time, there are no guarantees what tomorrow will bring, because as we all know, “the times they are a-changing.”

Scarlett Begonia is located at 2805 West End Avenue Nashville, TN scarlettbegonia.com

[songgypsy]

Postcards From the Past 

by Trisha Leone

Little did I know when I started this project that one little picture had so many stories to tell. It’s true that a picture that paints a thousand words, but in reality, a thousand words barely scratch the surface and even with so many words it can be hard to find the right ones. Though a photo may capture a solitary moment in time, it’s the details that tell another story. It’s the t-shirt I was wearing—I remember when I got it, it said Winter Park and I loved how the silver snowflakes sparkled against the black fabric. It was the car in the background—a Thunderbird that we got from your grandparents that barely fit into the garage. One time when I was backing it out it slipped on a mound of ice created from snow melting off the roof and put a dent in the side. It’s looking into the eyes of someone else and seeing yourself— a key that fits into a tiny lock somewhere deep in your soul. It’s the crooked smile, the innocent glance, the band on the stage, the dog in the yard, the address of the house. Layers of story upon story, all in one photograph. And to think we have an infinite number of these moments every single day of our lives. 

If nothing else, through the words of a song, I have told one truth of thousands, a pinhole view of a bigger picture. Postcards From the Past is a project that could go on forever. Maybe it made a difference in someone’s life, or maybe not. Either way, it has been worth every effort—digging through boxes of pictures, trying to come up with fresh chord progressions so that the songs didn’t sound the same, and spending more than I make to record the project. If there ever was a labor of love, this is it. But there has definitely been something for me in all of it. Last December I decided I didn’t want to play, write, or perform music anymore. I was frustrated, discouraged, tired, and burnt out, so I quit, again. In January, Minton Sparks and Jane House challenged me to go on a quest through writing and yoga and to discover the stories my body held deep inside. The stories took me back to my first love, music. Writing songs makes me feel alive. Committing myself to this soul quest gave me a vision and a purpose and kept me moving forward. I will always write songs, it’s not something I can quit, I am the song. This has been a life-changing year for me. I have discovered that everything I need or want is inside of me. And Melea, you were right, I now have a body of work to show for the last twelve months. So now, here I am again, another year ahead of me—12 months, 52 weeks, 365 days. I don’t know the details of my new quest yet but I already have the titles to three new songs. 

Song Lyrics

Postcard from the Past

by Trisha Leone

I was looking through some pictures

and I found one of you 

I held it in my hands 

Searched for a clue 

I looked deep in your eyes 

And wondered what you were thinking 

There were so many things

You didn’t know back then 

It was a postcard from the past

Delivered from a box of memories 

Telling me a story 

that I hadn’t heard before Dm 

The picture painted a thousand words 

But still they weren’ enough

To describe everything I was seeing 

So much love and truth, soul and heart 

In one old photograph 

The picture held the key

To a treasure chest of memories 

A silver thread of truth 

Connecting you to me 

For a moment time stood still 

And I saw you 

Like I’ve never seen 

You before 

Chorus

If I sent you a postcard 

What would it say 

Would I be wearing the earrings 

You sent me for my birthday 

Would I be laughing 

Or fighting back the tears 

And if you looked long and hard enough 

Would you see yourself in me 

[songgypsy]

Love Plus One

by Trisha Sandora

I saw him in December. He was holding a beer in each hand at his cousin’s wedding. Hanging with the guys while all the girls checked him out. Weddings are great for bringing the family together and seeing how everyone has grown up while we were all living our lives in faraway places. He’s a star college football player. Last week he caught an interception. I know that because I was with my sister in Georgia. He was playing in Missouri and she was keeping track of the stats on her phone. I thought she would be sad that she was missing the game, but she surprised me when she said it was a lot less stressful to cheer him on from a distance. I love it when moments of truth pop out from nowhere. 

With his good looks, sense of humor, and easy smile he could easily have any girl he wanted. However, there’s a catch, he has older sisters. I could stop there, but not really. These older sisters are tougher than most and they aren’t about to let just any girl waltz up and take a seat next to their brother—especially gold-diggers, slackers, or thin-skinned beauty queens who are afraid to break a nail. There are tests that must be passed. Tests that require things like crawling under barbed-wire fences, riding a cantankerous mule, or coon hunting in freezing weather into the early morning hours—just everyday skills that any girl worth her salt would have. And for anyone who can pass these quality-control checkpoints his sisters have set up, there’s still something more.

Any girl who falls in love with this special guy will never have his whole heart. It’s already taken by someone he’s known since the day he was born. He has been by her side his entire life. He took her to prom, she’s on the sidelines at all of his games, she’s his date at the movies, and nothing will ever come between them. He’s got her back and she has his. She has now grown into a beautiful woman that possesses something so valuable that no other woman, no matter how pretty or kind or loving will ever have—she has an extra chromosome.

She will always be his first love. She’s the light in his eyes and the fire in his heart. To love him, you must love her, for they share the same heart and soul, brother and sister, best friends forever.

Song Lyrics

Love Plus One  

by Trisha Leone

I saw him in December 

Standing with a group of friends

Laughing and drinking a beer 

Swapping stories about a long weekend    

He smiled at some girls in the corner

But he was keeping his eye on one 

Who was out on the dance floor 

Twirling around having fun

CHORUS

He’s already taken 

By a girl he’s always known

She’s the light in his eyes 

and the fire deep in his heart 

What they have together 

Is unbreakable and strong 

It’s a love plus one, a love that’s their own 

It’s a love plus one chromosome

She stands on the sidelines, 

At his college football games 

He hears her voice in the crowd 

When she yells out his name 

And though the world is knocking at his door  

It will just have to wait

She’s counting on him 

And he knows he can’t be late 

Hand in hand they’re showing the world a different kind of love 

Everyone’s watching and nothing can stop them 

Cause they’ve got a love plus one 

[songgypsy]

Skeletons in the Closet

by Trisha Leone

My ancestors have a few skeletons in the closet. At least that’s what my mom says. She’s been tracking down our family history for several years now and almost every day she discovers something new—a horse thief, gamblers, drunks, men and women who had affairs, and there are others—secrets and black sheep we don't talk about. A new second cousin just showed up, the results of a passionate moment between two people long ago—a moment long forgotten by one, but never forgotten by the other. Time has a way of digging the past back up, one way or another. 

I’ll admit, I have a few skeletons of my own. My skeletons, the ones I’ve locked up in a tiny closet in the back of my mind, like to pick the lock every now and then and have a little fun at my expense. They aren’t quiet about it either, their bones start rattling, causing a disturbance in my peaceful existence where everything looks good and life is picture-perfect—talk about party crashers.

They laugh, tell jokes about the time I had too much to drink at a high school party in the woods and made a complete fool of myself in front of the cool upperclassmen. One of the skeletons parades around the room wearing a ring made out of a horseshoe nail, acting like it’s a diamond. It’s a ring I stole when I was 13, but here it is again. They can go on for hours raking their bony fingers through my past. I used to try to slam the door shut and cover my ears. But now when I hear them coming I grab a few extra chairs and set the table, after all, they’re family. They’re what makes me human. Those skeletons are my bones. They’re my flesh and blood. The no-so-pretty parts of my past. The things I wouldn’t put on Facebook. The times I lied, cheated, and stole, trying to fit-in or get an edge. The things I did to be accepted or gain approval. They aren’t moments that I’m proud of, but they’re part of my story. Choices that I made all by myself. It’s too late for me to go back and fix my past. It was too late, the moment I made the decisions. I always wanted to be perfect, but I’m not—and I have a few skeletons who would love to tell you all about it.

Song Lyrics

Skeletons in the Closet

by Trisha Leone

I stole a ring made out of a horseshoe nail

Slipped it in my pocket and swore I’d never tell

I snuck out the window in the middle of the night

Met a boy who was waiting out in the moonlight

You’d never know by looking at me

That I have a few secrets way down deep

You won’t see them on my Facebook page

Where my life is picture-perfect

But I’ve got skeletons in my closet

and they’ve picked the lock again

laughing and having a good time all at my expense

They make enough noise to raise the dead

Rattle their bones in my aching head

They parade my sins around the room and tell it just like it was

Yeah, I’ve made a few mistakes along the way

Those old skeletons sure have a lot to say

They remember every lie I told

Even the one about the window I broke

And the times I drank too much and got sick

And said things I wish I could forget

I’d love to change some things back then

But it’s too late now to make amends

Oh I’m so far from perfect

And I’ve got skeletons to prove it

Those skeletons in my closet

They’ve picked the lock again

laughing and having a good time all at my expense

They make enough noise to raise the dead

Rattle their bones in my aching head

They parade my sins around the room and tell it like it was

Yeah, I’ve made a few mistakes along the way

These skeletons sure have a lot to say

[songgypsy]

Little Things

by Trisha Leone

My great-grandmother had an eye for detail. She noticed. She noticed the world around her. She painted what she saw on the inside of clamshells, on a tiny painting in a dollhouse, inside an elaborately decorated eggshell, or on the edge of china plates. She would mix her paints on a palette until she matched the colors of the sky, the clouds, the green blades of grass, and the dark ocean waves. She took time to notice the details, to lay in the grass and see the tiny flowers, remarking how happy they were—and then she would paint them. 

I thought of her this morning when I reached for the latch to open the gate and a beautiful, blood-orange Mexican sunflower grabbed my attention as if it were saying, “Hello, good morning.” The petals looked like velvet and the inside had tiny little yellow flowers that would later let the hummingbirds know there was sweet nectar for them today, a gift of food, of life, of beauty. There are amazing things happening all around us, every minute, every second of the day. Trees, flowers, our pets, birds, and people all trying to communicate with us—we just have to stop and notice.

My great-grandmother knew a secret. It’s the little things that matter, the details. Perhaps it was the times she lived in. Her mother died when she was six and her father died when she was eleven. After that she and her sister went from family to family, never finding a home of their own. At twenty-one, she married and wrote in her journal. “I really don’t know how a girl could be 21 years old and know as little about life as I did, or the best way to live it. All I knew was to do just what came naturally, and I guess that one factor in my life was that I was truly ignorant of problems to be faced, so therefore could be very happy living in a dream world. I had much to learn - we didn’t have the conveniences of today, and looking back, I don’t see how were managed. However, as I had nothing to start with, I surely had nothing to lose.”

I can’t help but think that noticing the tiny things is where she found her joy and hope, and how she survived the many hardships of her life including the years of the depression. She sought out the gifts each day had to offer. And she spent her time creating beauty with her hands—making dolls, hand sewing tiny stitches for their clothes, stringing beads, and painting until her hands could no longer hold a paintbrush. She died at 97. But during her time on this earth, she shared the secret to life. It’s in the little things. All you have to do is notice them and they will give their treasures freely. The trees, the desert, the grass, the clouds, they all have something to say about life and death. She once told my older sister that the stars in the sky were the spirits of all the people that loved her. If everyone on this earth knew they were loved that much it would be a different world.

Song Lyrics

The Little Things

There’s a secret, that I know

I heard it a long long time ago

She whispered it softly in my ear

When I close my eyes it’s oh so clear

Lying in the grass, she winked at me

She said, “It’s the little things that make life sweet.”

A drop of dew on a blade of grass

Reflecting the sky like a piece of glass

On the velvet moss beneath the leaves

A tiny snail sits on a pillow of green

And in the twisted branches of a live oak tree

There’s a message of hope for you and me

CHORUS

When life gets hard, take a look around

There’s beauty and life right where you are

A little everyday magic that will help you see

It’s the little things that make life sweet

It’s the little things that make life sweet

It’s the morning sun painting the sky

And the moonlight shining on the snow at night

The shades of blue in an ocean wave

The seeds of a flower the wind carries away 

The layers of time etched in a stone

The bark of a tree that feeds its own

When life gets hard, take a look around

There’s beauty and life right where you are

A little everyday magic that will help you see

It’s the little things that make life sweet

It’s the little things that make life sweet

[songgypsy]

The Tin Man & The Indian

by Trisha Leone

You wore black and white saddle shoes. They were the finishing touch on your Halloween costume, and they couldn’t have been more perfect. Every tin man should have a pair. Your costume took several days to put together. The kitchen table was covered with newspaper and glue, as each piece of armor was formed in layers and carefully shaped to fit around your torso, legs, and arms, including a hat that looked like a helmet. Everything was spray-painted silver, and when you put it on, we all stood in awe at the paper-mâché work of art. Your smile said it all, so proud, so happy with the new version of yourself. Blue eyes, rosy cheeks, and a heart bigger than the state of California—there was never a more beautiful tin man.

Your partner in crime, and trick or treating wasn’t a lion or a scarecrow. It was an Indian in baggy pants with a feathered headband and war paint. With bags in hand, they eagerly pranced out into the neighborhood. The first stop was on Sandhurst Avenue, Grandma’s house, for a picture, and of course a handful of goodies. From there they went door to door filling their bags with candy, always on the lookout for the apple with a razor blade hidden inside or any of the other evil tricks they had been warned about.

Side by side, the tin man and the Indian traveled through the ups and downs of childhood, then adolescence, into adulthood—Irish twins, born less than a year apart. Underwater races in the pool, backpacking for miles with blisters on their feet, rollerskating on the boardwalk along the beach, chasing boys, and working on their tans—two American girls traveled on a yellow brick road that went on forever.

There was never a doubt that the tin man had a heart, and it wasn’t just an ordinary heart, like the one you might find at the grocery store checkout line on Valentine’s Day. The tin man’s heart was like no other. It was resilient, able to handle things that would have crushed smaller hearts. When it was wounded, it didn’t get weaker but only stronger. The Indian was reckless with her heart, and sneaky too. She knew how to break the rules and not get caught. She even used the tin man as a shield more than once. But no matter what the Indian did, the tin man stayed true and held the line. Her beauty is a shining armor that glimmers in the sun. If you are lucky enough to call her mom, sister, daughter, grandma, wife, or friend, then you know how strong her love is, and how the heart of one tin man can hold enough love for everyone.

The Tin Man - Song Lyrics

She had a smile from ear to ear                                                                 Standing tall in her black and white saddle shoes                                       Specks of silver paint in her hair                                                                       And a sparkle in her baby blues                                                                         And while the kitchen table was still covered in glue                                         She had become someone new

She was a paper-mâché work of art                                                             Looked like she walked right out of a storybook                                                   In a California suburb on a Halloween night                                                      She made her way through the neighborhood                                                      A tiny tin man with an oversized heart                                                            Who’d give you the world if she could

Chorus                                                                                                               And everybody knows how the story goes                                                          How what we don’t have, is what we want most                                              And we spend our time chasing something we had all along                           Searching for love, coming up empty-handed                                                   Missing the one who’s standing right beside us                                                           If our hearts had eyes we’d see, that love is all we need                                  And there’s a tin man out there who keeps me believing

In fairy tales and childhood dreams                                                                    You can be anything that you want to be                                                              There’s a yellow brick road that leads                                                                       To all the faraway places you want to see                                                    Everyone has a heart that beats                                                                          Just because you can see it doesn’t mean anything

That costume is long gone, but I’ll never forget that night                              When the great big heart of one little girl made a tin man come to life

[songgypsy]

Love Grows On

by Trisha Leone

For a lot of us, when a relationship ends, we write it off as a mistake. We blame, we regret, and we try to forget and move on,  Like an earthquake, the repercussions radiate through family members and it changes our perceptions of what we think love is or isn’t, and what we think it should or shouldn’t be. We tell ourselves stories of what went wrong and lose sight of all the things that went right. Every relationship has gifts, some are easy to name, such as children, and others unseen, something we learned about ourselves. Relationships change us. It’s part of our history, the story of a family, a story that matters, to us, our children, and our grandchildren.

It was my first year of college and I was on Christmas break, still grieving the November death of a close childhood friend. Some friends and I went out to a country bar in Boulder to dance. I was only 17, so it had to be a 3.2 bar. I think I must have had a fake ID that said I was 18. That was in the days of Urban Cowboy when it wasn’t hard to find a place with a country band. I loved to dance, I still do, although these days it’s usually to a rock or blues band. He wore a silver belly cowboy hat and drove a rental car with Arizona plates because he had just rolled his truck. We danced. I dropped out of college. A few months later, he bought me a young sorrel horse named Dan, moved up to the mountains, and hired on at Drowsy Water Ranch as a wrangler. He needed a red checked shirt for the square dance on Friday nights. I sewed one for him with a solid red yoke and cuffs and pearl snaps. I made myself one to match, and then made two more for Randy Sue and Ken Fosha’s little boys. We listened to Chris LeDoux, and the Starlight Ramblers, Hoyt Axton, and Don Williams, and dreamed in western color. There were always horses and dogs. After Dan, there was Credit, Susie, Smokie, Guy, Money, Buster, Chex, Barney, a dozen rodeo broncs and several others I don’t remember. He wanted to be a cowboy. I wanted to be a mom. We both got our wish.

There was cancer, twice. A fall from a ladder, which resulted in a helicopter ride to Denver and a black and blue appearance at his dad’s funeral. Lots of rodeo runs, riding saddle-broncs, roping and wrestling steers. He hit the dirt and got back on, gambled with fate, and was never afraid to bet it all. Days turned into months and then to years—five, ten, twenty. There was love, happiness, joy, anger, sorrow, and pain. We grew up, made choices that we believed in, and lived through the consequences. 

I knew you when you hung the moon. When you were a young cowboy whose dreams went on for miles. Who gave me the gift of two sons, and that will forever be the greatest gift of this life.

Love Grows On - Song lyrics

She knew him back when he hung the moon                                                      He made her heart beat fast                                                                             Young love in full bloom                                                                                         It showed in their smiles                                                                                 Sparkled in their eyes                                                                                        And their dreams went on for miles                            

CHORUS                                                                                                             Love sprouts up when you least expect it                                                                      It grows wild and free, like a wayward vine                                                         Once upon a time, two hearts came together                                                      But what they didn’t know then is that the story never ends                              Love comes around again and again                                                                 And grows on and on and on                                                                             Love grows on and on, love grows on                              

A couple of kids with stars in their eyes                                                          Playing their hands like bandits                                                                                  in a game of real-life                                                                                   Sometimes they were winning                                                                               and sometimes they were losing                                                                       Making it look like they knew what they were doing                      

Years went by and they went their separate ways                                                But the love they planted long ago                                                                       Still has something to say                                                                                      A tiny heart that beats                                                                                        Little hands and little feet                                                                                     Love is alive and it’s never been stronger

[songgypsy]

Sleeping in the Sun 

by Trisha Leone

There was a house on Cottonwood Pass. It was on a picturesque ranch called Peaceful Valley and looked like it came right out of a storybook. All the buildings were painted red with white trim. It was a two-story house with wood-plank carpet that was perfect for driving toy trucks on, a tricycle too. Those were magical years—of learning how to walk and talk, and how to ride a bike. We went to story hour at the library and brought home piles of books. You played T-ball In pinstriped baseball pants with grass-stained knees. You bounced on the trampoline. We didn’t get TV reception, but your great-grandmother in California sent boxes of videotapes with old Jerry Lewis movies and episodes of the Andy Griffith Show. In the summer, you and your brother would haul your Tonka trucks across the dirt road to an old dump with big piles of dirt—perfect for building roads. We had a yellow lab named Barney, who went everywhere with you. His name came from Barney Fife. He’d sleep in the sun while you played the hours away. He chased rabbits through the sagebrush. I don’t recall if he ever caught one, but he made a high pitched bark when he was in hot pursuit. You sounded out the words and read him your favorite books. He was your audience and co-conspirator. He played the good guy and the bad guy. He patiently let you rope him, and was the first to find you in games of hide and seek. He was your pillow and napped alongside you with a green blanket stretched over the two of you. Whether you noticed or not, he was always close by, keeping an eye out. He was a boy’s best friend, and you both grew another year older, side by side. 

Sleeping In The Sun - Song lyrics

by Trisha Leone

On a dirt road two miles out of town                                                            There’s an old farmhouse that’s still around                                                    Sage covered hills, under skies so blue                                                                A lab named Barney raised a boy or two   

He slept with one eye opened, kept an eye on you                                        When you were sad he knew just what to do                                                     You called him Barney Fife, from the Andy Griffith show                                     He was the best friend a boy could ever know

There’s a rabbit on the run, the chase has just begun                                       He’s getting closer and closer to the catch                                                         We watched and we laughed and he taught us how to live                                Run as fast as you can and have a little fun                                                       Then spend some time sleeping in the sun 

When you learned to walk, he kept you steady                                                    You held on tight until you were ready                                                           When you took the training wheels off your bike                                                 He followed you until you got it right 

We all need someone to listen, and he always had the time                   Sometimes a one-way conversation, can help to clear your mind                   And even now I wonder who raised who                                                            But I guess that’s just between the two of you 

[songgypsy]

Shine On

Shine On 

by Trisha Leone

This is a story about a friendship that was unlike any other. They met when they had hit rock bottom after they had used up all their second chances. They carried their skeletons along with them. Out in the open for everyone to see, excavated from layers of dirt disguised as drugs and alcohol. They came from handcuffs, jail cells, and hospitals. There at the bottom, they found each other and shared their stories of hurt, shame, disgust, and regret. Slowly and painfully they peeled away the layers like the skin of an onion. And deep inside they discovered something they thought they had lost—beating hearts alive, pulsing, and full of promise for a life still yet to be lived. There was hope.

They were more than friends, they were more than brothers. They had seen the worst of each other. The stuff no one is meant to see. The ugly side of addiction. The anger and despair. But together they found strength and climbed. One step forward, and two steps back. When they could finally see that there was a way out, they knew they had to tell others and show them the way. Their stories were true and had power. Success met them at the door. And through it all, they never forgot each other. They held on tight, always there but never cutting each other any slack. For they knew. They knew what nobody else knew. 

They fought like brothers, cussed each other out, and held nothing back. But at the same time, they had a deep love and respect for one another. They had each other's backs and would drop everything if needed. But then life took a sharp turn and no one saw it coming. So now what? One is gone, but not really. Though your phone is not lighting up with his texts, his words are still in your head. When you get dressed, you know what he would say about your shirt, your shoes, your hair. He is still finishing your sentences, correcting your grammar, and ordering your lunch. He is right where he has always been—in your heart and in your soul. And you’re still taking care of business. That was the plan all along. Some stars shoot across the sky and fade, and others keep shining and leading the way. Shine on. 

[songgypsy]

Show Me The Way - Big Sister Love

by Trisha Leone

I’ve memorized the way you walk and the way you talk. I’ve taken notes and written down your words so I don’t forget. I’ve spent a lifetime following you, watching you, and wanting to be just like you. You were my guide through the wilderness of growing up. Through the awkward teenage years, when I was too skinny, too tall, and too flat-chested, you were the one who taught me the things that really mattered—good music, cute clothes, and following your heart. 

You rocked that baby blue velour bikini and those short cut-off shorts with embroidered flowers. I couldn’t wait until you passed them down. Of course, they didn’t look the same on me but they made me feel like I was all that. And the music, Frampton Comes Alive, Tommy, and Jefferson Starship, that touched my soul deep inside and would forever lead me on a lifelong journey. I studied the album covers, the colors, the faces and ran my hands across them absorbing the images through my fingertips. You took me to my first concert to see Fleetwood Mac and bought me the t-shirt. It was there I would fall hopelessly in love with Firefall. Afterward, we went to Peaches Records and bought the Buckingham Nicks album, which I still treasure to this day. 

Music and cute clothes, those are still the essentials, but you’ve taught me so much more. To be brave, to follow my heart, to dance to the jukebox, to laugh uncontrollably, to go within, to trust my intuition, to love myself, to be in my body, to write my own story, to find peace in chaos, and most importantly, not to take life or myself too seriously. Little things, gifts you gave me, remind me daily that you’re still leading the way— a leather journal cover, a leaded glass moon that hangs by the tub, meditation and yoga CDs, and lots of worn pieces of paper where I have written down your words, because I really don’t want to forget—they are my lifeline of hope. 

You’re my north star, still clearing the way, taking the heat, sneaking me in the back door, and holding my hand. Thanks to you, I know what a woman who lives and loves freely looks like. She’s beautiful, wild, and rocks this game called life. I still want to be just like her.

[songgypsy]

A Good One

by Trisha Leone

She worked the graveyard shift at the Seasport Landing Restaurant in Newport Beach, California. The fishermen would come in at 3 am before they went out on the charter and day boats. She served them breakfast and coffee, charmed them with her million dollar smile, and they tipped her well—so well, that one year she took a trip to Hawaii. She listened to their stories of full nets and the ones that got away. When one of them asked the beautiful waitress if she had frog legs, she said of course, after all, they were on the menu. But when he said her legs didn’t look like frog legs at all, she blushed and laughed along. At 7 am, as the beach town began to wake up and the early morning sun softly touched the water, she hung up her apron and headed home, but not for long. In her movie star sunglasses, she headed for the beach, where she soaked up the California sun and dug her toes in the sand. The voices of seagulls and the steady rhythm of the waves breaking on the sand lulled her in and out of catnaps. It was just enough rest for a seventeen-year-old girl. A few hours later she would be getting ready for a date or cruising down the boulevard in her 1952 two-tone green Chevy Bel Air—a third generation California girl—to the core. Today she lives in Tennessee, but she still falls asleep to the sound of the ocean every night.

Something else I know about her is that she loves a nice ride, and if it’s got some power and speed, well that’s even better. She’s had some nice ones including two Bel Airs, an Austin Healy, a Porsche, a Dodge Challenger, and even a motorcycle. At 84, she still drives with a lead foot, which is why if we go anywhere together, I drive. On a recent visit, her grandson rented a Dodge Challenger just so he could take her for a ride. I know she loved it, but I also know she really wanted to drive.

Whether it was waiting tables, teaching children how to read or adults how to speed read, selling Alpaca rugs out of a teepee, or helping high school students hang in there and make it to graduation, she cared, and she worked. With three daughters, she made a go of it on her own. It was macaroni and cheese, spinach souffle, Hamburger Helper and Salisbury steak tv dinners with peach cobbler dessert in the corner section of the tray. We loved it. We didn’t know things were hard. We tap danced, and took piano lessons, and rode our bicycles with banana seats and playing cards attached to the spokes of the wheels. I wanted to go to music camp--she taught night school. I wanted to ski--she took on a couple of summer jobs. She always found a way, and if there wasn’t one, she made one. She carries hope in her pocket—lucky for me. But most of all, she believes. She believes in tomorrow and in today.  She believes in you, and she believes in me, always.

The things that shape us, the stories they tell, and the memories that bring a smile, they’re the good ones--the icing on this birthday cake. Happy Birthday, Mom.

[songgypsy]

Little Bird 

by Trisha Leone

It’s a picture of a little girl, my niece. She is holding a tiny bird in her hands, so careful not to squeeze it too tight. Her dark eyes are full of wonder at the life she holds. She can feel the tiny wings lightly brushing against her palms. She opens her hands, and it flies away. But it doesn’t fly far. It lands on the branch of a nearby willow bush. She follows, and it flies to another branch, and then another, leading her along until she hears the sound of her mother’s voice calling her back. She watches for the little bird to return. Every hummingbird she sees, she’s sure is the one. 

Standing on her toes reaching for the sky, with her head up in the clouds, that’s how she learned to fly. From one place to another that little girl is grown up now and finding her way through this big old world. “Pay attention,” they say, “keep your feet on the ground,” but she keeps on going, never turning around, flying to the next branch, the barbed wire strand, making it up without much of a plan. 

She always had a bit of an ornery streak, still does, a playfulness to test the waters and have a little fun. I remember one time when we were at the rodeo. She was supposed to be tending to the horses, but instead, she was kicking up dust in a mini gang she formed to terrorize little boys. One of the boys came up to the crow’s nest in tears, “Bonjobi is going to beat me up,” he cried. It didn’t take long for her mom and me to realize the boy was talking about Bobbi Jo. A short time later she appeared, pants tucked inside her cowboy boots with dirt on her face, and her cowboy hat pulled down tight over her tangled hair. With a look of innocence on her face, she fought back a smile, and while facing the charges, she planned her next move. “Get it together,” she heard over and over again. Get what together? She never really knew why everyone was worked up. 

She won’t do what you expect. She’s like a summer rain that comes out of nowhere and catches you off guard. She'll have you dancing in the rain, wishing on a star,  and laughing so hard it hurts, at the funny side of life. Catch her if you can, she’ll slip right through your hands, from one branch to another, one moment to the next. It’s a life full of surprises, she likes it that way, and if the truth be known, so do I.

[songgypsy]

Tennessee Rē Tour - Ready for some inspiration?

by Trisha Leone

You and I have a lot in common. We live on the same planet. We have the same basic needs of food, water, and shelter.  We also have an innate desire to do something good and make a difference. However, even with all our similarities, it’s usually our differences that define us, many of which have to do with where we were raised and the resources available to us, or lack thereof. Through my own life experience, in my fifty plus years on this earth, I have learned a few things that could really help someone else and vice versa. The exciting part is, that I still have so much to learn. There are people all over the world doing amazing things to make this world a better place. I read about them all the time. But to have the opportunity to see what they are doing first hand and to experience it with all my senses, for me, that is when real learning takes place.

A small group of people at the Rē Regenerative School in Tennessee have such a dream. It’s a dream where people across the globe help one another, share ideas and make the earth a better place, together. It’s a lofty idea, but these changemakers know that any worthwhile effort starts small, where you live, and using what you have. I have already gotten my hands dirty at a few previous workshops and community workdays where I learned to mulch my garden with cardboard, how to make a spiral herb garden, build rainwater catchments, and more. Through the ideas shared, I think a lot more about how everything I do affects the earth and those around me. It’s not just about sustainability. It’s going one step further and making things better than they were—giving back more than I take. 

What if everything I do has a positive effect on the earth and the people around me? What if when I plant a garden, the soil becomes richer? I am well aware that the earth’s resources are becoming scarce, but what if every person could make things better. That is a lot of “what ifs,” but the possibilities are endless, and it all starts with a single effort.

The Rē Tennessee Tour is the first of many tours where people can see up close what other people are doing to better the world. It’s a chance to learn techniques and glean from the creative problem-solving ideas of others. Most of all, it’s a chance to engage with like-minded people. It’s boots on the ground, hands in the dirt learning that inspires and motivates.

The tour will traverse scenic roads beginning in middle Tennessee, dipping south to Fayetteville and the surrounding areas, reaching up into Kentucky, and finishing in eastern Tennessee. Tour stops include visits to Thistle Farms, Bells Bend Farm, Spiral Ridge Permaculture Farm, Pilaroc Farm, Mulberry Lavender Farm, Gaines Preserve Homestead, the Sewanee University farm, Highlander School, Solace Farm, and more. You will see fertile farm ground built on reclaimed mine land through soil regeneration techniques. There will be information shared on rotational grazing, working with livestock, farming hops for beer, farming lavender, and year-round greenhouse production. It’s a tour of visionaries, of people who had an idea and are making it a reality one day at a time. 

For more information about the Tennessee Rē Tour visit the website at https://regenerativeschool.org/retour/tenn/ 

[songgypsy]

The VW Bug

by Trisha Leone

It’s one of my favorite pictures of you. You weren’t even two years old. Your brother wasn’t born yet. You were sitting in the driver’s seat of a blue Volkswagen Bug with your head barely rising above the window. You are smiling, and your tiny hands are gripping the steering wheel with your imagination in high gear, driving.

It’s hard to believe that I used to drive that car over Berthoud Pass in Colorado on snow-packed roads. I guess with the engine in the back it must have had some sort of traction. You would ride shotgun, buckled in your car seat, bundled up in a hat and mittens with a blanket tucked around your feet. Riding in that car was cold. If the heat worked at all, we couldn’t feel it. Of course, the exhaust fumes required that I drive with the window part-way down so we could breathe, which didn’t help the heat situation.

The VW Bug had a history, as all cars do. We bought it from some friends, a family I had known since I was in 5th grade. Their daughter, Brenda, was my best friend and the two of us had ridden in the backseat of that bug many times. I remember her older brother driving it. He was cool, and that made the car “cool.”  He played drums in the family band, a champion athlete who later achieved Olympic stardom, and had “surfer boy” good looks. At that time we were fairly new Colorado transplants. We had come from Southern California, with a car full of 8-track tapes, singing along with the Beach Boys “get around, get around, I get around.” 

The car was later driven by my friend’s older sister. She was attending cosmetology school in Denver. Brenda and I rode in the backseat on a warm spring day with the windows down, hanging out with the older girls and hoping to be just like them one day, pretty and popular.

Oh the stories that car could tell, I only know a few. I don’t remember what happened to it. Maybe it got restored and is still on the road today, but probably not. That VW Bug lives on in a photograph with a smiling boy behind the wheel, ready to take on the world and drive. 

Blue VW Bug - Song lyrics

I’ve got a picture of you from a long time ago                                                      You weren’t even two years old                                                                         You were smiling at me from the driver’s seat of a blue Volkswagen Bug 

With your mouth you made the sound of the motor                                              Your feet didn’t reach the floor                                                                            Your tiny hands held tight to the steering wheel of that old Volkswagen bug 

And you were driving, driving down the road                                                    And you were smiling, taking a ride                                                                     And you were ���ying, flying to another place                                                     Singing a song in a blue VW Bug 

My friends and I would squeeze in the backseat                                                     My older sister drove us around                                                                        We’d giggle when she talked about being in love In that blue Volkswagen bug  

That old car had some stories and I know a few                                                But my favorite story of all is the one about you                                          Traveling down a snow-packed road with the window rolled down                        You sat next to me with a blanket tucked around your feet   

[songgypsy]

Roy Harper - Manchester’s Golden Link to Country Music’s Legendary Past.

by Trisha Sandora

When Manchester’s Roy Harper sings a train song, he means it. In his younger days, as a brakeman on the railroad, the surefooted Harper walked across the top of many a train car, setting the retainers that were used to avert the disaster of a runaway train. He also narrowly escaped death from the derailment of a passing freight train, a moment as vivid in his memory as if it had happened yesterday. The adventures of riding the rails through 17 states with his guitar in tow, left Harper with more than a few stories to tell—stories of rodeos and honky-tonks, the colorful characters he met along the way, and the time Gene Autry borrowed his guitar.

Born in Manchester, Tennessee in 1925, Harper got his first guitar at 12 years old—a five dollar guitar that he says is worth about fifty dollars today. Likened to the original “Singing Brakeman” Jimmie Rodgers himself, Roy not only shared the famous singer’s railroad occupation, he emulated Rodger’s blue yodel and unique singing style as well. Roy picked up where Jimmie left off and has been keeping traditional old time country music alive and well ever since. 

In 1947, Roy joined Blake Bynum and the Sand Mountain Boys—which marked the beginning of a long partnership between Bynum and Harper. Frequent trips to Nashville’s Grand Ole Opry found Roy backstage, swapping stories and jokes with the likes of Roy Acuff, Uncle Dave Macon, Minnie Pearl and Ernest Tubb, Throughout his music career, he has shared the stage with Janette Carter (daughter of A.P. & Sara), Patsy Montana, Bill Monroe, the Stanley Brothers, Grandpa Jones and Fiddlin’ Sid Harikreader among many others. He also performed regularly for the Country Music Hall of Fame as part of their Traditional Country Music Education Program. 

Although he may not have traveled in a multi-million dollar tour bus, Harper traveled in style, in his cherry-red 1948 Aero Fleetwood Chevrolet—back when the speed limit was still 55 mph. With his guitar in the backseat, he played shows, festivals, and crisscrossed through states along the same stretches of highway Hank Williams and other legends of country music had traveled in the past. 

In addition to his musical talents, Roy is also an accomplished artist. His award-winning paintings have been displayed in places such as the Tennessee State Museum, the Country Music Hall of Fame, and in Washington D.C., where he represented Tennessee in the Smithsonian Folklife Festival in 1986. His paintings and his music are intertwined and inseparable, both outward expressions of who he is, the places he’s been, and the things he loves. 

Today, Roy Harper lives in the same house where he was born and raised, a home that showcases many of the achievements he has made throughout his lifetime. Harper’s oil paintings of trains, scenic landscapes, and portraits grace the walls. Bookcases overflow with memorabilia. Stacks of albums, CDs, and cassette tapes, keep the music he loves close by—17 of which are his own recordings. And then there are the plaques and trophies that commemorate notable events including his induction into America’s Old Time Country Music Hall of Fame in 1999, the prestigious Folklife Heritage Award he won in 2003, and the 2007 Uncle Dave Macon Trailblazer Award.

However, the show posters, pictures, awards and letters of appreciation could never tell the whole story of Roy Harper. There was also a lot of hardship, of barely getting by, of unsold paintings and everyday disappointments that go with being a lifetime artist and musician. Looking back over the good times and the bad, Roy smiles and says, “I’ve kicked up a lot of dust in my time.”

At 93, Harper has finally gotten off the road, but his guitar, music stand and ladder-backed chair still sit prominently in the middle of his living room. Does he ever play in Manchester? With a slight chuckle and a twinkle in his eye, he says, “You never play in your hometown.”

[songgypsy]

The Magic of Open Mics

by Trisha Leone Sandora 

Throughout our years as performing musicians, Mickey and I have had the opportunity to participate in open mics around the country (we actually met at an open mic or jam session of sorts.) I can honestly say that at every open mic there are magical moments that stand out and remind me of why I fell in love with music in the first place. 

An open mic is raw, pure, spontaneous—just everyday people singing and playing a few songs. It’s not about being good enough or having a flawless performance. It’s about people coming together to share songs that mean something to them—songs they have practiced, or not, songs they have listened to and taken the time to learn. 

Here are a few more reasons I love open mics.

I meet new people. Songs are great ice-breakers, they give us a starting point to strike up a conversation and say, “Hey, I saw that band when…..”

I hear songs I had completely forgotten about. At a recent open mic I heard the 90’s hit song Where Have All The Cowboys Gone—definitely a first. 

It’s no pressure, really. Sure, the next American Idol winner might be up before you, but the playing field is level. Everyone gets their time to shine.

It’s great motivation to learn something new and get in a little practice time. Plus, it helps get me out of the rut of always playing the same songs and stretches my skill level with new chords and rhythms.

As a songwriter, an open mic is the perfect place to take that new song for a test drive.

So whether you have a song, or two or three, or just want to listen, head on out to an open mic near you. Make some new friends and catch up with some kindred spirits in a supportive and relaxed environment. And don’t be surprised if you leave wanting to hear more of one of the artists, or humming a song you heard and remembering some good times. 

[songgypsy]

Surprise Me

I found a bowling ball in the meadow. No really, I did. Typically in the spring, after the snow melted in the Colorado high country, all sorts of interesting things were revealed that had previously gone unnoticed for years, decades or maybe even centuries. While I was pondering the thought of how the bowling ball got there, my eighteen-year-old son, had already grabbed an armload of small round logs from the stack of firewood up at the house and set them up in true “bowling alley” fashion. He always was one to seize the moment and this was a prime example. Instantly, what could have been an insignificant find, shrugged off, unexplained and quickly forgotten, was now ten minutes of pure joy I will never forget. All of my troubles, sorrows, worries and concerns vanished as we watched the giant marble slowly roll into the logs, knocking them over, one by one, “STRIKE!”. You would have thought we had just won a million dollars the way we carried on; laughing and setting up the “pins” over and over again.

Reflecting on this memory makes me think about the day in front of me. Where is the extraordinary in the ordinary? Whatever or wherever it is, I want to find it, I want to be surprised. As an artist, I know the magic that occurs when I study the details of something, such as a tree, or a horse grazing in the meadow or my half-full cup of coffee sitting on the glass table in front of me. Take the tree for example. I have driven past it at least a hundred times but when I give my full attention to the tree, the scars on the trunk, the broken off branches, the individual leaves and think about the stories it could tell, my heart is filled with wonder and a new appreciation for this extraordinary tree.

There is great magic in giving attention to something. I guess that is why it is also called “paying attention,” because my attention really is the most valuable asset I have.

Back to the bowling ball. Months later I had a revelation about how the bowling ball got there. When I was growing up, my sister and I raised 4-H pigs, a project I continued with my two boys. In 4-H, exercising the pigs was important in order for them to develop the desired muscle mass. We were always looking for ingenious ways to exercise them without having to take them on long walks. Since pigs love to play with balls we gave them a bowling ball to push around. Of course, it ended up buried deep in the mud, only to be “discovered” years later. And, yes, I wrote a song about it. How could I not? You just can’t make this stuff up. (Photo by Douglas Muth)