The Playlist

You know as well as I do that every road trip needs its own playlist. I spent years of my life meticulously putting together tape mixes that would capture the essence of wherever we were going whether it be across the country, or an off-campus lunch break mini road trip to get a blender.
There were rules to this game. You couldn't have two songs by the same artist back to back, and you had to throw in Disney or Andrew Lloyd Webber to shake it all up toward the end of the first side. True feelings for the guy riding next to you to summer camp were revealed at the beginning of the second side. (In this scenario, you have deftly let that other girl sit next to him during the first half of the tape mix but then when you get out at 7/11, "hey - let's switch seats" - and it all seems so natural that we're sitting with the sides of our knees touching right when "I'm the one who wants to be with you" comes on.) 
And the last three songs need to be sentimental... poignant, leaving you with a sweet taste in your mouth, the last one finishing strong with a well known top 40 to give everyone gratuitous feeling of substance and well being at the end.
 Oh yes, making the road trip soundtrack was a skill that I had down to a science.

We usually start our road trips with Zeppelin's 'Black Dog' (verging on the too crazy for 6 am-but-we-still-love-it) and I'm beginnning to think of the song as a fresh beginning: to pair it with that taking-off sensation of leaving the house, the road opening in front of us, the expectation of greatness to come - in all its highs and lows. Beyond that, sadly, the playlist in our car is a frenetic mix between whatever Real Music we manage to slip in, and repeat performances of "Pandamania", a vaguely Asian themed kid's worship album that nade the rounds this summer at every VBS in the evangelical world.
All I can say is: yikes.

Okay, so now I have a secret to tell you.
When you and I are talking; ninety percent of the time I have your soundtrack running through my head. Yes, I may be a little weird, but I'm not that scary, I promise. (And sorry that there is this fourth dimension to our friendship that I've never mentioned before.)
It could be really bad euro-pop music, or the theme to Pride and Prejudice, or Bruce Springsteen, or Serge Gainsbourg, Pink Martini...well, it really depends on who you are.

Sometimes the pairing of you and your soundtrack may be as easy as knowing how much you like Arcade Fire. Or it could be a song we listened to that one time when that guy broke up with you and we sat in your car with"Life is a Highway" blasting, swearing you would never ever under any circumstance date anyone again. Yeah, that lasted.
Or maybe the time you offhandedly remarked that you had a crush on Queen Latifah and I thought - you're kidding me, right?
You might remind me of the guy in Arrested Development and - voila - all I can hear is an upbeat tempo mandolin strum when you walk in the room.
This may be why I, chameleon-like, become more mellow, sassy, intense, girlish, reckless, prayerful or otherwise when I'm with you...it probably has a lot to do with your music, which -have I mentioned? - is really hard to separate from your person.
This has been a plague with me for my whole life. I can't divorce people from their soundtrack, although it does change with the seasons, and if we spend a lot of time together, you might have two or three thematic albums that rotate in and out, just like a cinematic score.
In some cases, you may have never heard of your theme music, but you have a light and delicate winsomeness about you: that lustrous hair, the pale skin that reminds me of a Debussy song about floating in a boat in the summertime 100 years ago. I'm sorry, but you are just a Debussy girl to me.

Of course I had my own theme music when I was a little girl, watching the yellow thread of highway winding out behind our car as we left for a road trip. I would rest my chin in the crook of my elbow, lean my head to the side so that I had a sad, forlorn look. I would imagine that this was the last time I would travel this road, that somewhere in my near future things would radically change and I would be stranded in Los Angeles airport with nothing but my backpack...or given a new family - one that lived in Florida - or that me and my dog (a husky of course) would end up riding trains west in the Great Depression.

I would gaze off to the horizon behind us, a tear would glisten on its way down my cheek, and in this self-induced crisis, my theme music would rise up and float all around me. Strangely, it was usually "America the Beautiful", thrumming in a crescendo of strings toward the emotional peak of the song, which evidently captured both the sentimentality and the gravity of this groundbreaking coming of age story.
Things did not turn out as crazy as I had imagined, but the Soundtrack, ever being revised, has remained a constant companion through all of life's endeavors.

The Soundtrack weaves its way through our family too.
So maybe "Black Dog" is not optimal kid music, but gingerly and methodically, as if introducing new vegetables to our skeptical little darlings, we are building up their appreciation for the music that gives us so much joy in life. I know they're going to love it someday.
And I wonder if they have their own theme music already playing in their little heads.

I love to hear Fiona singing "Glow for Jesus", a song that one of our high school students at church wrote. As I look through my rear view mirror and watch her singing through the repretoire of songs she knows, I wonder what she's thinking about. Her voice is pure and sweet, with four-year-old simplicity.
I realize that much of her soundtrack at this point is up to me, and that I'm creating the playlist of her musical education. What goes into her little head and grows in her heart is a reflection of my choices and values.

And as I think of her, my own theme music for Fiona comes up.
I can hear IZ singing "Somewhere over the Rainbow", the song Jeff chose to back the video of her birth and homecoming. It matches her sweet nature, her free spirit, her warmth. I see Fiona screaming the words to one of Adele's new songs, windows rolled down on a hot day and her hair splayed back from her forehead, blissful and loving the soulful, bluesy chords. Or dancing crazy to "Hey Bulldog", my girls' favorite Beatles song. Or singing "Get out the way, old Dan Tucker" giggling the whole time.

I think of her lying in bed at prayertime while I play guitar, singing the words that my mom wrote, and that I used to sing at bedtime too:

 "Thank you for holding me soft in your hand
 for giving me every new day from your plan
 help me to see the whole world in your light
and give me sweet peace when I whisper goodnight."

"Mommy, can we sing it again?"

I know how she feels. Life may be one huge playlist, but what more beautiful way to enjoy it than to sing it with your whole heart again and again and again.

Avery Brewing Company hits a home run

We didn't just pick this brewery because we wanted to ride on the coattails of our tenuous Avery family connections (none of which are *actually* connections to the Avery Brewing Company). We'd heard of them before: a craft brewery that has successfully enlarged, enlarged again, and then again, and has been able to keep their same vision of high quality beers and niche marketed seasonal brews.

 Toward the back of a bunch of warehouses in the industrial outskirts of Boulder is the Avery Tap Room. Driving in, it seems as though we have taken a wrong turn somehow, but magically the dead-end business park opens up into outdoor seating for the pub's restaurant which are filled to the brim with 20 and 30 something day-trippers braving the mid-summer heat.
Inside, the tables are high, intimate - there is a wall full of board games to bust out with your beermates, and a friendly, casual atmosphere. Best of all, the bar is backed with an impressive line-up of 20 beers on tap.
I ordered Ellie's, a brown ale - one of their flagship beers - which had a smooth, smoky flavor, a nice mouthfeel and a nutty, roasted aftertaste. This was a really solid brown ale that both Jeff and I enjoyed.
I also had their Joe's Pilsner, a hand-drawn, unfiltered pilsner, naturally carbonated which Avery concocted in order to give its clientele - an apparently (in the old days) un-beer educated crowd - the best example of a Pilsner they could offer. It's another of their most popular, with a great floral nose, firm hop-bitterness up front, but very clean tasting. It had beautiful color and was very refreshing. I tried it with the hummus appetizer: a great pair!
Next, we had their 18th anniversary Rye Saison which did not display a typical saison nose or color. Instead, it has a nice copper tone, a spicy rye flavor to balance out the smooth body, a 5 blend yeast which makes it taste more like an abbey ale than a saison. It finished nicely with a dry completion. Very enjoyable.
Jeff also tasted the Eremita, a sour ale which had been aged in Cab and Zin barrels. With a bubble gum nose and a nice, tangy sour flavor, it hit the spot.
Honestly, every beer we tasted from Avery was solid, enjoyable, a home run. I guess that's what you get from 18 years of dedication to a specific craft, keeping your same vision even as you expand as a business. We were very impressed.
The only thing that was not a home run, in my opinion, was the Avery logo, which brought to mind more of a sports team - even the banal red on the A made me think of baseball instead of these pristine and exquisite beers they were turning out. However, if the only unimaginative thing about this place was the logo, I'm good with that. Their beers certainly left nothing to be desired.
With so many great beer choices, it was hard to leave, but we had to slow down, considering the three little ladies had exhausted all of the table games we brought and were now floating freely in the mini-van -windows down - as disdainful 20 somethings looked their direction (probably wondering what kind of idiot parents were inside).



Well, the idiot parents were having a great time, and 15 minutes later, after we had found an absolutely amazing park in downtown Boulder, complete with rushing river and wading areas, all 5 of us agreed that Boulder and the Avery Brewing Company were a double header worth another visit.

New kinds of Magic

When you live in the rumpled hills of California, in a wide flung valley sprung up with grapevines, ancient oaks, near a town with its own distinctively romantic architectural style, minutes away from a cerulean sea you forget.You get big headed. Yes, there is a wealth of natural splendor where I live, yes the air in the morning is salt tinged and fragrant with sage and dry grass of summer. Yes the weather stays conveniently between 72 and 75 degrees and if it rains...well, it won't until October, and you can pretty much take that to the bank.
But you forget that there are other kinds of Magic.

I'm not talking about the vastness of Utah canyon land, or even the snow enveloped heights of the Rockies. Those are beautiful and breathtaking, and I'll admit, there is a letdown after you emerge from a steep rushing river valley in Colorado, cliffs studded with rock climbers to your right and left, bicyclists in hot pursuit of one another as they wind out the last of the narrow turns into the broad streets of Boulder or Loveland. The roadway flattens into a straight line, the ridge lines melt away behind you and you feel a sad regret that there will be no more grandiose displays of natural wonder until you hit the Appalachian mountains...and even then, it's no Pike's Peak or Estes Park Yes, I'll admit to loving the west with its drama and its untamed beauty.

But after a few hours driving east something sweet happens.
The land becomes soft, rounded, as welcoming as fresh baked biscuits. Green velvet fields roll out on either side, and with an imperceptible rise in the land each understated hilltop unfurls a view of gentle repetition. Silos dot the landscape, tractors wind to and fro. Quiet productivity and hard work, the heartbeat of agriculture thrums from all around.
Almost without noticing it, appreciation for something new is born. Or is it really new? Is it more a remembrance of something in my distant cultural history?

I thought about all of these things as we drove through Eastern Colorado and Nebraska.

We left the inter-state and headed north on the two lane ribbon of highway. Golden tipped corn grew high and dark, barns presided over neatly trimmed tiny kingdoms of farm buildings and kids bounded, warlike, in circles around lazy rotating sprinklers. It was as though the whole country had zipped back in time to the days of fried chicken and jello molds at Grandma's on Sunday afternoon. There is a feeling here that things are intrinsically more ethical, that if you showed up at church, you might get called "honey" or something.

We stopped in Wahoo, Nebraska, in 100 degree heat to get something to eat. Just for fun, Jeff looked it up on wikipedia.

"Did you know that this town sent David Letterman letters asking him if they could be designated as the home office of his show? They promised him all sorts of honors, clothing, animals, free medical checkups; they sent him a Ford Pinto with a sofa attached to the hood, and two of the town's teenage boys?"

 We looked at the sagging front porches, the community pool packed with screaming kids, the huge brick town hall that looked too impressive for the current size of Wahoo.

"Wow." I said, "That's something!" My heart swelled for the little community on a ridge among the cornfields of Nebraska, that had sent two of its teenage sons as a present to a talk show host. There was something wonderful about this. 

Three hours later, in the twilight of an extremely hot evening, the farmland still continued rolling by the wayside. We watched the heavy, molten ball of the sun drop onto the cornfields far, far away, and the car became silent. 

Just then, in the quietness of the dusk, on the edge of the road I saw it. 

Off the asphalt in the newly cut grass there was a glimmer and then it was gone. I waited, not sure if my eyes were playing tricks on me. Then there was another and another and another. I scanned the horizon and saw glittering lights everywhere, darting in and over the cornrows. Lilting above the grass they weaved dreamily.

We pulled off the road and watched them dance: thousands and thousands of fireflies. I heard a little gasp from the back seat and turned around to see Fiona, wide eyed and beaming. The air was humid and thick, the smell of the earth rose up around us, green and good.
And in the twilight of a Nebraska evening as we watched the fireflies dance, there was Magic.

Good Times at Kannah Creek Brewing Company

Whoever was in charge of naming the area around Grand Junction shirked on their responsibility.
 Either that, or the early settlers were way too pragmatic.
 However, if you consider that they decided to stop on the edge of the vast desert to farm the land - the Rocky Mountains firmly to their backs - I guess they would have had to be practical about life. No romanticism here: It's a big coming together place...Grand Junction? Good enough. Up there they grow apple trees...Appleton? And here we have an orchard: let's call it "Orchard Mesa".... Pear Park, Fruitvale, Rosevale, Redlands. I tell you, these people had a lot of fun.
But if the early city planners had no imagination, the town's inhabitants certainly don't lack any today. Grand Junction gets a huge thumbs up for a refreshing revitalized main street. Not only are there thriving restaurants and stores, there are plentiful benches, fountains, flowers and, to our delight, a surprising amount of public art on display at every street corner.

Kannah Creek Brewing Company is off the main drag, but still worth a visit. Started by two local families, it is a hopping brewpub with a great menu and wood fired pizzas to compliment its fine beers. Brie-waxed pine tables and a steady stream of Zeppelin, Beatles and the gratifying appearance of "rocket-man" added to a happy vibe.  In addition to the beers on tap, Kannah Creek had several flights of scotch and Kentucky bourbon for tasting. Clearly, these people are up for a good time.
Jeff ordered the Pigasus Porter, which had a nice chocolaty flavor but was a bit thin and fell apart at the wrong moment, finishing weakly.  I had the Highside Hefeweizen (yes, I love Hefeweizen), and it was everything a hefe should be - clean, crisp, malty.
The real winner was the Black Bridge Stout which had chocolate on the nose, a silky mouthfeel, and was well balanced and toasty with a hint of coffee and a bitter finish. I wish we could have tried more of their beers, but it was the end of a long drive with the girls and the second brewpub of the day, which made for some squirreling around.
In the end, Grand Junction served us well. It may not be on the right side of the mountains if you're talking beer, but the Kannah Creek Brewing Company is able to hold its own as a craft brewery with a good time.

Going Rogue in Utah

 

Talk about a great location for a brewery! Moab belongs to that happy genre of small town which hosts a lot of outdoor sporting activities, making it a great jumping off point for adventure.  Lying at a curve in the Colorado river, Moab is flanked on three sides by towering cliffs of deep ochre and orange.  The entrance to Arches National Park is literally on the way into town, and there were bikers, hikers, and rock climbers everywhere.  My mouth was watering as we passed aging school buses full of rafting equipment and watched blue fleets being gently launched into the muddy water.







Okay, so I realize that I'm sounding effusive, but there's nothing I like more than a little town with a lot of heart, and preferably a lot of outdoorsy people in it.
Moab fits the bill perfectly, and Moab Brewery fits the bill for what every small town with outdoorsy people needs: a craft brewery.
You may have been thinking to yourself....wait a minute: a brewery in Utah? How does that work? Yes, it is tricky (we asked), and involves some irritating laws such as - you need to order food with your beer, and you can never have more than two beers sitting in front of you at a time. The people we talked to literally said "Hey, we're just happy to be here!"

Well, we're happy they are there too, because the beers were fresh and interesting, and the feel of the brewpub was upbeat, friendly and outdoorsy - just like the town. I love a good combo.
Jeff and I had a flight of beers (but only two at a time, thank you very much - even though they were 2oz each).
The highlights were the Lizard Wheat Ale: creamy and clean, refreshing with a touch of sweetness in the middle and a satisfyingly dry finish, and The Merrimack: a steam lager with a beautiful color, a spicy forward punch and a malt-biscuit sweetness in the finish.
Their Elephant Hill Hefeweizen and Black Raven Stout were disappointing - the Hefeweizen is one of their flagship beers but we felt that others had surpassed it and that it lacked the traditional banana and clove flavoring of a good Hefe. The Stout had a great bouquet and maple syrup undertones, but felt too thin and seemed to fall off into nowhere, finishing weakly.
Overall, I am a huge fan of their location, the easy friendly vibe of the establishment, and their determination to provide outdoor enthusiasts with a brewpub within the boundaries of Latter Day jurisdiction (yes!). Now to plan the rafting trip to go with that Lizard Ale....

Las Vegas: getting lucky at Big Dog's Brewing Company

"This is a very Man place." Vera commented knowledgeably as we ducked from the brightness of the sun into the cavernous interior of Big Dog's Brewing Company in Las Vegas, Nevada. Stale smoke and the strains of evil 80s dance remixes pulsed methodically: I had to agree with her.

With its faux cow-hide dining booths, models of wooden ducks flying in formation above us on the ceiling, vintage cowboy posters from the annual December Rodeo finals, and a general sense of lived-in western kitsch, it fit the profile of a brewery that has been around for 20 plus years on the edge of Vegas and caters to a local crowd. Who ARE the locals in Vegas anyway? I have my thoughts, but we won't go there.

Although the decor and cleanliness of the pub seemed lacking, Big Dog's Brewery had a solid selection of beers for every palette. Jeff ordered a mesquite smoked wheat beer, which was clear and mellow, even with the characteristic smokiness. It had a beautiful copper color, thin head and was smooth with a distinctive mesquite finish (thumbs up for usage of local wood rather than the traditional birch over which the beer is normally brewed). We thought that pulled pork sandwich would have been a great accompaniment for this unique flavor. 

I ordered what turned out to be a great example of a hefeweizen, thoroughly satisfying with a nice mouth feel (meaning the body of the beer has substance or a silky texture). It was citrusy, cloved and clean tasting with a long finish. This would be perfect for a summer beer on a hot day...maybe not in the "Man" room, with the ducks. Maybe somewhere other than Las Vegas (okay, now I'm just being mean). Still, a surprisingly good beer.

While the beers were great, we were not impressed by the location of the brewpub: in a remote industrial location northwest of town. And we were underwhelmed by the lackluster appearance of everything. But then again, it was on the outskirts of Vegas, so what did we think we would find?

Idealism and Parenting

 Maybe it was inadvisable to go to a Bob Dylan concert the night before leaving for our three week road trip. Maybe it was not such a good idea to subsequently stay up until 1:30am working on that Radiohead song until I could execute the anticipatory kick before the four count and hit the snare at the exact right moment. Maybe I should have considered that taking three kids to brew pubs all across America would be - well - a bit of a challenge.
But you only live once. And Dylan was amazing...and I knew that I would be a happier person in the morning if I drummed just a little bit before crawling into bed.
I also knew that no matter what, Jeff and I would enjoy the hunt for good beer, even if it meant there would be a real possibility that our first grader would be able to identify a Porter or a Hefeweizen from a mile away.

There are ways that your parents look at you in which you know they are not saying the thing they are thinking. In this case: Why are you being so irresponsible? You need to go to bed early, to tie up loose ends, to lovingly make cut out sandwiches and cubed fruit on sticks in tiny plastic containers for the road so you don't have to eat fast food.

These are the things the good me would like to do, if I was that kind of a mom. Instead, Jeff and I disobeyed the rules.

So, rolling out of the driveway shortly before seven the next morning, with three bedhead girls in floral pajamas, and a residual happy feeling from the Dylan concert, the famously intrepid Jeff and I banded together in solidarity.
Late nights of good music are just fuel for the soul, we assured one another. Sleep is overrated, we said. Pressing on toward Utah, through 100 degree heat and a less than idyllic rest stop luncheon outside of Baker, where the bread from our sandwiches toasted itself right on our plates, we persevered. Through diapers and traffic we persevered. All the way to Cedar City and the pool that was about 30 degrees too cold and hyper bed jumping we persevered.
 We continued in our dogged mutual enthusiasm regarding our self imposed sleep deprivation until late that night when we acknowledged our success at beating the system. It had been a pretty good day after all.

This announcement was premature, unfortunately.

 At about 5 the next morning, the lovely Vera came racing to our bed yelling loudly that dawn was breaking over the horizon and didn't we want to get up and see it?
No, no we really didn't, although I did struggle over to the window, with Vera's hot little hand pulling me along, to see the faintest sliver of grey above the horizon. Jeff and I assured her that there were still a few more hours of sleep, but - no - she wouldn't have it, and continued to announce the progress of the sun at exactly the wrong intervals until everyone else had joined us on the bed, wide awake and ready for the day. Groaning, thinking of the ten hours of driving ahead of us, I cursed our cavalier attitudes of yesterday.

So this is where the fantasy breaks down, where the reality of parenting crashes audibly with the euphoric plans of the idealist (me). Dylan is no match for a trio of energetic girls, and maybe I'm too old to start drumming. Could we really get away with shoving our girls into booths at brew pubs while we consider the merits of one Pilsner versus another?

But then, as I sat with little Vera, watching her breathlessly await the cusp of dawn, I saw myself. I was right there, all idealistic and starry-eyed, fully convinced that everyone else in the room was as enthralled with the moment as I was. God made her an idealist, he made her passionate, he made her a bit obsessive about things, but he made her joyful.
And it occurred to me that going to see Dylan was just about right. What is more important than that which feeds the soul?
And the brewpubs? Well, what better way to feed our marriage than to have fun together, kids or no kids.
And the drums? well, you have to practice to get good at something. Everyone knows that.