Charlie The Singing Catfish

I must have the strangest group of friends in the world.  Among my best friends are talking and singing critters including Jiminy Cricket, Billy the Bullfrog, Cindy Cicada (who plays the blues), and a pacifist spider who just wants to buy his kids shoes and teach them how to dance.  This past summer, I made a new acquaintance; a talking and singing Catfish named Charlie.  All of them have helped me out with various songs that I write, but I really think Charlie has more personality than the rest of them combined.  On top of that, he has a heart for kids, which I really admire in a fish.

I met Charlie over the summer during a fishing trip with my buddy Egor from Ukraine.  Egor was eight years old at the time and wanted to go fishing in the worst way.  Maybe I should clarify that.  He wanted to go fishing and actually catch something.  Boy, do I know what that feels like.

Egor spent a few weeks in Minnesota this summer, vacationing on a lake full of fish, who evidently were quite shy when it came to biting his hook.  He tried and tried to catch a fish, but there was no cooperation, so he came back to Roanoke fishless and frustrated.  I’ve been there a few times too.  But I knew I had to try to change his luck, so I asked his mom Jenya if I could kidnap him for a day.  She said OK, and we planned a certain day in early August. It was supposed to be a secret, just in case the weather was bad or I had to cancel.  

The day before the fishing trip, we had several inches of rain. That meant all of my usual fishing holes on Smith Mountain Lake would be a muddy and debris filled mess - not the best for fishing.  I went to pick up Egor across town and he was ready for action.  We drove down to the far southern end of the lake, where the water would be clear.  I didn’t know any good honey holes, with big fish to catch, on that end of the lake.  On the way out to the lake, Egor and I sang “bug songs” - the ones I like to write.  He knows all the words and loves to sing.  That boy has good taste in music.

I own a little red, old school fishing boat, possibly the ugliest thing on the lake (if you don’t count my truck).  Egor didn’t mind a bit, so we launched it off a public boat ramp at the crack of 11 AM.  The sky was robin's egg blue, the sun was hot and the steady breeze was kicking up some pretty big surface waves. In other words, perfect conditions for a fishless afternoon.  Undeterred, we started the motor and took off.  There wasn’t a bit of shade to be found and the wind was blowing us off every spot I tried.  I needed a plan.  My plan was to pray. 

I prayed - “Lord, please let Egor catch a fish.  Any fish will do, even tiny Bluegill.”  With the boat rocking wildly from huge waves, I looked at Egor and said “we need to try fishing off a dock”.  There was a little set of docks at the State Park.  It’s totally illegal to fish off them and I knew it.  Sometimes, you have to ignore the law and put all of your faith in God.  We tied up the boat and cast our bait into the only patch of shade on the lake that day.  And just like that, God served up a miracle.  

Myself with Egor and Charlie the Catfish
Summer 2023, Smith Mountain Lake, Virginia

That was the day we first met Charlie the Catfish.  He was the second fish of the day and, at about 4 pounds, the largest.  Charlie pulled so hard that Egor thought he’d rip the fishing pole right out of his hands!  We fought that fish with all of our strength and it took at least 5 minutes to pull him in.  That’s when God served up another miracle - my wife Denise and her iPhone.  She just happened to be at the park, heard all the commotion and raced over to get most of it on video (click here to watch).  As Charlie finally came up to the top, I told Egor “That’s Charlie The Catfish!”  The name stuck and Charlie and Egor got to meet.  After we exchanged greetings, I put Charlie back in the water to swim away and perhaps come back someday.  No one could ever have had more fun than Egor and I that day, and that’s no fish story!

Egor and Jenya went back to live in Ukraine a few weeks after that, to rejoin their family and defend their country.  I hope that the war soon ends and they can rebuild their lives and country.  I hope Egor and I get a chance to go fishing again.  He turned nine years old a few weeks ago and, as a present, Charlie and I got together and wrote him a birthday song.  You can listen to it here.  As it turns out, old Charlie really knows how to sing and dance.  He’s quite a fish.

If you’ve hung with me this far, thanks.  Please consider liking or sharing this post and hitting the blue FOLLOW button to receive new posts, typically one per month.  If you have a similar experience, or other thoughts, please leave a comment for Jenya, Egor or myself.  I’ll be sure to let you know I’ve seen it.  One last thing - please pray for Ukraine.  There’s a lot of good people just like Jenya and Egor and they deserve our prayers and support. 

Best Roadtrip Ever

I’ve traveled a lot over my career, both in the Air Force and as a defense contractor. I’ve had many memorable trips all over the U.S. and a number of foreign countries in places like Belgium, Germany, Finland, Israel, Saudi Arabia and a few others. But of all the trips I’ve taken, the best one was a road trip from Mesa, Arizona to Joliet with my sister Dorothy around Thanksgiving of 1976.

Dorothy is six years and six months older than me.   She had moved to Mesa, Arizona, about the time I got to high school. I saw her only on her infrequent visits home and the occasional letter or long-distance call. Mesa was far away and slightly exotic, especially for someone who grew up in the land of ice and snow. I’d heard you could go swimming all year around in Arizona. In any case, she was there and I was in Joliet, Illinois – far apart.

One day Dorothy called.   She said she was going to move back to Joliet and – this was the best part – she wanted me to fly out and drive back to Illinois with her. I was 19 years old and quite ready to see what lay on the other side of the Mississippi River, so I made flight reservations and waited for the time to pass until the big trip.

The big day came, I got on the plane, and headed west.  I landed at Sky Harbor airport in Phoenix about three hours after takeoff. Dorothy picked me up at the airport and we drove back to the house where she was living. When we arrived, she explained there was a slight change of plan. She wasn’t going to move back to the land of ice and snow. Instead, she was going to stay there and get married to her boyfriend, Steve. We were still going to drive back to Illinois together, but now it was just for her to share the good news with Ma & Dad and introduce Steve (who would be flying up). I was cool with that.

We loaded up the car and hit the road the next day, headed north through the desert and into the high country (Flagstaff and beyond). Arizona has about as much great scenery as any place I’ve ever been. From the desert to the mountains in the north, everywhere you look is postcard pretty. We were driving her relatively new Ford Maverick; not exactly a Mustang or Camaro, but a fun ride nonetheless. We’d carefully mapped out the trip on a Road Atlas, which is how you got to places before GPS was invented. Major roads were easy to locate, but secondary roads were not always easy to see.

While driving, we talked a lot about life, love and everything else. It was the most time we’d spent together, probably ever, but for sure since she’d moved to Arizona. By late afternoon, even though we were scooting along about 80 mph, it was looking like we were behind schedule and wouldn’t hit our planned destination until about 3 am. But I looked at the map and saw a shortcut. I showed Dorothy that there was a tiny line on the map that looked like a state route, that would cut about 50 miles off of the trip and take us to Moab, Utah. She was reluctant, but my enthusiasm and expert salesmanship convinced her to give it a try. We found the road and took it. It didn’t take long to figure out we had driven right into no-man’s land.  You know the old saying about how fools rush in. And rush we did, headlong into the quickly fading sunlight (I was driving).

Road tripping with my sister in Colorado

Northern Arizona never fails to impress me

It was a tiny 2 lane road that ran beside the Colorado River and, so help me, there wasn’t a sign, no road lights, no nothing - except steep canyon walls and a million stars above. There were no other cars and no place to turn around, all curves and hills to climb and speed over, wheels barely touching the ground. I drove her Maverick like a Maserati at Monte Carlo. I thought Dorothy had her eyes closed in fear (as she rightfully should have). We raced over one hill and, as soon as the headlights found the other side, we both saw it at the same time – a stream had crested the pavement and the road was submerged! She screamed and I hit the gas, reasoning that if I hit the brakes, we’d stop in the stream and get washed away. We hit the water about 50 mph and the water splashed about ten feet high on both sides of the car. We sailed on through the stream like a speed boat and got to the other side.  The whole time, Dorothy was screaming and cussing me out. Somehow, the engine didn’t die and we kept on cruising through the night. I think Dorothy peed her pants, but other than that, we were fine and I congratulated myself on my driving skills. We finally got to Moab, found a hotel and decided not to take any more shortcuts.

The next day, we headed out and saw the amazing beauty of the area and spent the day crossing into and across the Rockies.  We were both laughing and getting to know each other as young adults instead of kids. It was stupendous. Neither of us had ever been to Colorado and were both mesmerized by the beauty. It was beautiful weather and you could see for miles in any direction. Way too soon, we got past the Rockies and headed east into the flatlands and prairies. The skies turned gray and the temperatures dropped. It was late November and we were headed into the land of ice and snow. By the time we got to Illinois, the snow was flying and the temperature was in the teens. It was dark and freakin’ cold. We were home, our relationship firmly bonded in the three-day adventure.

Steve… remember him? He had flown up to O’Hare to meet our parents and drive Dorothy back to Arizona. I don’t think he had ever been to Chicago as he didn’t own a stitch of winter clothing. He arrived in a sport coat and froze his tail off. I thought he was going to get frostbite, but he survived and went on to become fast friends with Dad (who loved going to Arizona). I hated to see Dorothy go, but I’ll never forget how much fun we had on that trip. It was the best trip ever.

Dorothy and Steve on their wedding day

Postscript - Steve Gillespie passed away a couple days before Christmas last year (2022) after a tough fight with colon cancer.  This post is dedicated to his memory.  

If you’ve hung with me this far, thanks.  Please consider liking or sharing this post and subscribing to receive new posts, typically one per month.  If you have a similar experience, or other thoughts, please leave a comment.  I’ll be sure to let you know I’ve seen it. 

My Ukrainian Daughter & Grandson

I’ve always said, “if God wants you to have children, they’ll show up”.  It doesn’t really matter what stage of life you’re in and they don’t always come the natural way.  They just show up in your life and you don’t know how or why.  You just accept that it's God’s will and open your heart, because after all, you can’t argue with God.  He wins every time.

Late last November, I opened the Sunday newspaper to find a front page feature article about Jenya Shulym and her eight year old son, Egor.  They had fled their home in Russian occupied territory near Ukraine's Zaporizhzhia Nuclear Power Plant, where Jenya and her husband Maksim worked and lived with Egor.  There was a picture of Jenya and Egor arriving at Dulles and their U.S. Sponsors, Anna and Travis.  Their escape from Ukraine would rival any movie plot for sheer danger and peril.  I looked at the picture thinking “that could be any one of my daughters”.    

Being Christmastime, it seemed the entire city was indulging in holiday spirit.  Stores, restaurants, bars and even tiny coffeehouses were filled with people spending money after two years of COVID lockdown.  It was unlikely that Jenya and Egor would have much if any Christmas.  That didn’t seem right.  I reached out to the article’s author, Heather Rousseau, and asked if 3rd Street Coffeehouse could maybe buy a few presents.  Heather asked Jenya, who suggested a couple of very inexpensive stuffed animals for Egor.  She didn’t want anything for herself other than this - she just wanted friends.  That was all - she just wanted friends. 

Meeting Jenya and Egor
Photo By Heather Rousseau

Christmas Dance Contest
Photo By Heather Rousseau

Jenya’s simple request for friends resulted in a series of events.  It was either God calling the shots, or maybe as Jenya thinks, her deceased father watching over her.  We planned a little Christmas party at the Coffeehouse for her and Egor and the whole community jumped on board.  At least 20 people and a dozen or so businesses stepped up with food, music, games, presents and a ton of love.  Jenya and Egor walked in the Coffeehouse that  day with Anna and Heather, Santa and Mrs. Clause, and about forty or fifty others.   It was the first time we met and we celebrated Christmas like no other Christmas I can remember.  It was total joy and fun from start to finish.  Afterwards, I told Jenya and Anna that they were my Ukrainian daughters.   Jenya had tears of joy in her eyes and later wrote on her Facebook page that it was a Christmas miracle.  I had to agree.

Egor and I With A Nice Bass From Smith Mountain Lake
Photo by Denise Schmucker

Egor and I connected immediately.  He didn’t know much English, but with a couple smiles and high fives, we both knew that we were destined to be buddies.  He loves dancing as much as I do, and both of us love singing and making up silly songs.  Most of all, we both love sports of all kinds and pizza at Gracie’s in Grandin Village.  Around mid-March, Jenya and Egor joined my family for a minor league hockey game, their very first.  Neither of them knew anything about hockey, but they were hooked immediately.  Loud and crazy crowds, and home team wins, made them instant fans - all the way to the championship. Jenya posted the video below the next day (because she has crazy good video skills).  As the weather warmed, we switched the Salem Red Sox baseball games, Blue Cow ice cream trips and fishing.  I was in full-on Grampa mode and having a ball with Egor.

Jenya didn’t drive and made it clear at the start, that wasn’t going to change.  She said it in a way that meant it wasn’t up for debate.  It needed no translation.  I picked them up for hockey games and, over time, our car conversations went from happy talk and culture questions to more serious topics, like family back home, hopes, dreams and aspirations.  She talked a lot about her husband Maksim, her mom, grandmother and sister.  I told her about Denise, Chris and our three daughters and grandkids. One night I asked about her Dad.  She softly told me that he had died suddenly when she was only sixteen, and her grandfather passed shortly afterwards.  Their passing left her with feelings of tremendous sadness and loss.  It was heartbreaking to hear.

Over time, a closer bond of trust developed.  One day, Jenya asked if I would teach her to drive.  I knew it was a very sensitive topic for her and it took a lot of courage for her to even ask me.  I said sure, I’ve taught all of my kids to drive and half of their friends.  She warned me that she’d never ever sat behind the wheel and was terrified that she’d crash my car.  I assured her that all of my kids survived my teaching them how to drive, and so did their friends.  I also realized how important that bond of trust was to her.  

Driving lessons started and gradually progressed from awkward starts, stops and turns to increases in skills and confidence.  Egor was often along with us, and a constant source of encouragement for her.  They have been through a lot together and he knows just how to give her the confidence to get through something scary.  He is mature beyond his years in many ways, but also knows how to be a sports loving, ice cream loving kid.  Before long, I was taking pictures and videos of Jenya driving, for her to share with her family back home.  In Ukraine, there was a lot of excitement and encouragement.  In Roanoke, fear turned to confidence, then fun, and big smiles on Jenya’s face.  Somewhere in the laps around those parking lots, I know her father was smiling down on her.  We both felt it.  It was as real as a spring breeze.

As spring turned into summer, Jenya was really missing her home and family in Ukraine.  She had hopes of Ukrainian victory by mid-summer, and a return to her family.  We spoke honestly of the realities of war and often, there were silent tears over the immense difficulties and challenges that were faced. I told her I’d support any decision she made, but inside, my fears for their safety were on high alert. She bought tickets for a mid August flight and shortly after that, the Kakhovka Dam near her home was blown up.  In the horrors of that event, her longing to return to home and family grew even stronger.  It was clear that both she and Egor were returning home.  Egor backed up her decision 100%.

Family Picture at a Salem Red Sox Game
Photo by Chris Schmucker

As the days and weeks ticked down, this newly realized family bond matured and grew even stronger.  We talked, we laughed, and tried hard to squeeze the most fun we could out of the time left.  Denise, Chris and Kaleigh joined the fun several times and we all shared hopes and dreams for the future.  Jenya gave Denise and I beautiful hand stitched vishivanky shirts made in Ukraine. On departure day, Denise and I showed up at Anna and Travis’s apartment for coffee and a couple parting gifts.  Amid many tears and hugs, the bags were loaded in my trunk and we started one last drive up to Dulles International Airport.  Along the way, we quietly talked about memories, hopes and dreams; of families and bonds, and promises for the future.

We had a final meal together and said heartfelt goodbyes in a quiet and tasty restaurant near the airport. Jenya had tears in her eyes and Egor comforted her, saying Mom, don’t cry.  I softly told him it’s OK to cry, when it comes from the heart.  From there, I drove a short distance to the airport to drop them off with one final hug.  I was sending them back to Maksim and the rest of her family, back to their home.  

One Last Time at 3rd Street
Wearing My Vishivanky Shirt That Jenya Gave Me
Photo by Lena Kuhfawl

I’ve always said, “if God wants you to have children, they’ll show up”.  It doesn’t really matter what stage of life you’re in and they don’t always come the natural way.  They just show up in your life and you don’t know how or why.  You just accept that it's God’s will and open your heart, because after all, you can’t argue with God.  Maybe it was God that brought our lives together, maybe it was Jenya's father.  Whoever, and however, we're all grateful it happened.

If you’ve hung with me this far, thanks.  Please consider liking or sharing this post and subscribing to receive new posts, typically one per month.  If you have a similar experience, or other thoughts, please leave a comment for Jenya, Egor or myself.  I’ll be sure to let you know I’ve seen it.  One last thing - please pray for Ukraine.  There’s a lot of good people just like Jenya and Egor and they deserve our prayers and support.  

Wanted: Time Machine (low mileage)

TARDIS ("Time And Relative Dimension In Space") Time Machine from "Dr. Who"

Wanted:  Time machine (low mileage).  Must be calibrated and accurate to within +/- 24 hours.  Prefer American made, but will consider foreign models.  "Return To Present" functionality is desirable, but I can live without it.  If you have one, or know of one for sale, let me know in the comments along with price and shipping info.

That is what I posted on Facebook this morning.  Of course it was half in jest, and was received as such by my friends.  But it also reflects my increasing awareness of the value of time, especially over the last few months.  I want more of it.  And, I’d like a chance to go back and savor a few things, some of which I was present for, others that I wish I had been present for.  A “Time Machine” would be perfect for that.

Imagine if you could go back in time and experience past memories again in the present tense.  Maybe to enjoy some good time, or a precious moment, that you remember.  Maybe to change the outcome of an experience that didn’t go as well as you’d hoped.  Maybe to hug someone one last time and tell them how much that they meant to you before they unexpectedly passed.  I lost a co-worker to cancer in the last month.  I didn’t even know that she was sick.  I don’t think she did either.  I never told her what a great person she was and how much I enjoyed having her around.  I wish I had a time machine to go back and tell her.

For the past few months, I’ve been teaching my Ukrainian daughter Jenya to drive, just like I’ve done in the past with the rest of my kids and half of their friends.  It brings back a ton of good memories from the past - kids nervous, excited, laughing, and sharing deep thoughts.  Those are memories that mean so much.  Teaching Jenya to drive has connected me again to all those good times, along with creating new memories for both of us.  My car has served as our time machine this summer.  Jenya’s son Egor and I have bonded over sports this year.  A baseball and two fifty year old gloves have been our time machine and when we’re playing catch, I’m a kid again.  

Of course there might be other things to accomplish with a time machine.  Maybe I could go back and experience events that I wasn't there for in the first place.  I traveled a lot for work earlier in my career, missing events with my kids and with my wife Denise.  It would be nice to go back in time and get a second chance on some of those.  I haven’t seen nearly enough of our grandkids who live in Charlotte.  Too much work and not enough fun.  A time machine would be handy to get back after I retire.

Maybe I could go back in time and experience things like my sister being born or alter the course of history.  Who wouldn’t change or stop the great evils and catastrophic events like wars, pandemics, etc.?  Would a time machine help?  Could crisis and death be averted or are such events fixed and immovable?  I’d sure like to try… if I only had a time machine.  

What would you do if you had a time machine?  Tell me in the comments about it and give me your ideas for time machine specifications.  Maybe together we’ll come up with the perfect time machine specifications that someone will someday build for us.  I’ve got my list.  What’s on your list?  

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Anyone recognize this famous time machine?

Baseball

Baseball.   For generations, it has been a foundation of relationships between men and boys here in America.  Through baseball, men pass on the values of teamwork, sportsmanship and love of a little white sphere flying off a bat or popping into a glove.  It’s a shared experience that builds bonds of friendship and love across generations, one that transcends language and cultures.  I bet that Abner Doubleday never dreamed that the game that he was credited with inventing would grow to be so much more than a sport.  I love baseball and have since I was a little kid playing rec ball in school yards and later little league.

When my son Chris was young, we used to play catch and I’d go to all his games and practices, starting late in the winter and on through the spring and summer.  I still remember Coach Carr teaching Chris and his teammates basic skills of hitting and fielding while snowflakes were still flying.  I’d take Chris to Salem Avalanche games and later Salem Red Sox games - more than a hundred of them over the years.  But it's been awhile since I experienced the joy of playing catch or watching a game with a young boy.  

All that changed earlier this year when I discovered that my young Ukrainian friend Egor Shulym was just as much of a sports nut as I am.  Egor is 8 and is a gifted, natural athlete.   This was clear the first time I took a little white ball and two baseball gloves out of my trunk.  One glove was my Rawlings Jim LeFebvre basket-weave model that I’ve owned since I was about 10.  I bought it with money I earned cutting grass, raking leaves and shoveling snow.  It’s been sitting in a closet for far too long and needed a bit of leather conditioner, but was in pretty good shape.  I let Egor slip it on his left hand and in a few minutes we were zipping the ball back and forth like we’d done it for years.  For just a moment, I was 10 again too.  It was magic.

No longer in a closet - my old Rawlings Glove

My buddy Egor - he's a natural ball player

A few weeks ago, I was invited to a picnic atop Mill Mountain to meet some new Ukrainian families who have recently arrived in Roanoke as refugees.   They are young couples with young kids about Egor’s age, learning to live and navigate American society and culture while also struggling to learn a new language and missing the home and life in Ukraine.  Egor and his mom Jenya were there and Egor had brought the two baseball gloves and a ball with him, intent on snagging a game of catch with me.  So as we started zipping the ball back and forth, the other kids came over and before long, we had them playing too.  Then their Dad’s came over and put on baseball gloves for the first time in their lives.  Within minutes, kids and dads who have never seen or played baseball were laughing and playing, and not a word was needed to translate the sheer joy of playing a game of catch.  Abner Doubleday would sure be proud, as was I, just to be a part of it.  I love baseball.  I love sharing it with my new Ukrainian friends.  What a game.

My new Ukrainian friends

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It's Not Really A Coffeehouse

Julie and Josh Kinn as Kinnfolk played last Friday night

3rd Street Coffeehouse.   It’s not really a “coffeehouse”, at least not in the sense that people come for over-priced latte's and plug on a laptop or chat with friends while music plays in the background.  At 3rd Street Coffeehouse, the songs and songwriters are what matter the most. We're a throwback to the coffeehouses of Greenwich Village, back in the early 60’s, where folks like Bob Dylan, Tom Paxton and Joni Mitchell started their musical careers.  A lot of others too.  Like days of old, incredibly talented songwriters and performers grace our stage every Friday night, laying their souls bare for all to see and hear.  Some of my best friends are these traveling troubadours, folks like Julie and Josh Kinn, Shawn Byrne, Scott Cook and Pamela Mae, Roy & Kim Schneider and dozens more.  They live their lives creating unbelievably great original music and doing everything they can to share it at places like 3rd Street Coffeehouse.  It’s not an easy life. It's generally not financially lucrative, but it's a calling - one that won't be denied or surpressed.

The people who sit at the tables are often other songwriters.  They know what it takes to create an interesting verse, wrap it in a melody and travel from city to city, hoping to make a few dollars and continue on in a quixotic pursuit of sharing their creativity.  Sometimes, there are folks who don’t fit in at the bars or other social venues.  They are drawn to 3rd Street to share with others who, like themselves, enjoy and appreciate the magic feeling that occurs when a songwriter carries them away to a place where songs free the mind and spirit.  It is magic indeed, and it happens more than you would think possible.  It’s like the spirit of John Prine and all the songwriters of past, present and future inhabit the walls and stage. It's very real and will make your skin tingle.

Quite often, 3rd Street Coffeehouse is a place of small miracles, where extraordinary things happen on a regular basis.  A senior couple, who meet there by chance, and wind up sharing their lives together.  People overcoming everything from major medical issues to broken hearts on a regular basis.  A hastily contrived COVID plan to raise a few bucks for Feeding Southwest Virginia on Tuesday nights by LiveStreaming local songwriters that raises over $32,000 and provides over 160,000 meals.  A young woman escapes Russian occupied Ukraine with her son and finds a community of love, acceptance and support in the darkest time of her life.  Quiet, yet undeniable miracles built on the love of musicians and music lovers.  You can almost feel the spirit of love from generations gone for over a hundred years that the room has existed.  Miracles happen frequently within these walls.

Since 1987, 3rd Street Coffeehouse has provided a place for songwriters and road-weary musicians to find a loving and accepting audience that values what they bring. We’ve survived through thick and thin, with the help of Trinity United United Methodist Church, our great volunteers and even greater fans.  In 2017, I accepted the sacred honor and privilege of guiding our extraordinary volunteer team and keeping the music, and the miracles, alive.  It is an honor to be a part of such a community of faith, love and respect, but there is no doubt a greater power at work than I could ever command or summon.  I accept that as fact and don’t question it.  Somehow, by the grace of God and the support of live / original music fans, we’ve kept it going for 37 years.

If you’ve ever been to 3rd Street Coffeehouse, you get it.  You’ve seen and felt the magic. You've seen miracles and heard great music. If you’ve never been, I invite you to drop by.  If you’re inclined to support the cause, please know that we very much appreciate it. Our PayPal address is gramps1842@gmail.com. 

What's your favorite memory at 3rd Street Coffeehouse? Please let me know in the comments section and be sure to like and share the post with your friends.

Jenya and Egor Shulym (foreground) are proud Ukrainians

Folk icon Tom Paxton and other songwriters helped raise
over $32,000 for Feeding Southwest Virginia over 18 months

We're located at 305 Mountain Avenue SW, Roanoke, VA 24016

Tribute To A Master - The Passing Of Gordon Lightfoot

 

I was going to write about a hockey game tonight.  The game I saw last night in Roanoke was maybe the greatest game I’ve ever seen live.  But on the way home, I heard the news that Gordon Lightfoot had passed away.  I wasn’t shocked or surprised, but I sure was bummed out to hear that news. He deserves some thoughts and maybe a few comments on how he affected my life, and probably yours as well.

Gordon Lightfoot was the Mount Rushmore of modern songwriting.  Put another way, he was the guy that John Prine and Bob Dylan looked up to.  I once saw a video of John playing a club in Canada with Gordon sitting in the front row.  You couldn’t miss how John was just over the moon because his hero was there to hear him.   Dylan said that his fellow singer died “without ever having made a bad song”, and every time he listened to one of them, he “wished it would last forever”.  I couldn't agree more.

Every song I've ever heard Gordon play was an absolute jewel in every respect.  His lyrics painted images that one could see, feel, hear and touch.  Who hasn’t felt a chill up their spine when listening to “The Wreck of The Edmund Fitzgerald” or felt the pain of a lost love listening to “If you Could Read My Mind”?  His composition, arranging and production were second to none.  Listen to the way the orchestral strings come in on “If You Could Read My Mind” or how the crash of the drums create the crash of the storm on “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald”.  He released a dozen or more other major hits across Canada, America and the rest of the world over the years, every one a masterpiece.  My personal favorites are “Canadian Railroad Trilogy” and “Song For A Winter’s Night”.  

I had tickets to see Gordon at the Berglund Center in Roanoke in 2020, which was postponed due to COVID until August of 2021.  I was all set to go to the rescheduled show in August of 2021, but Gordon broke his wrist and the show was again postponed to February of last year.  On the night that he was to play, I had a gig so I missed out and gave the tickets to a friend.  Gordon had scheduled another U.S. tour for later this year, but canceled it just a few short weeks ago.  Gordon died peacefully on Monday, May 1, 2023 at 730 p.m. at Sunnybrook Hospital in Toronto. He died of natural causes. He was 84 years old.  He may have passed, but his music will last forever. He'll remain as the Mount Rushmore of songwriting long after I'm gone.

Thanks to those who followed my blog in April.  I hope to make it worth your while.  If you enjoy my little musings, I hope that you too will hit the follow button.  This month, for every new “Follow”, I’ll be donating $10 to an organization I love to support, Feeding Southwest Virginia.  Hit that button and help us feed our less fortunate neighbors and friends.