My father has always been a snappy dresser. He thought nothing of pairing a garish paisley tie with a striped shirt. Pull up his suit pants and you might discover lime green socks hiding underneath like an obnoxious polka band that you can’t quite ignore. Wore a suit everyday to work and belted slacks in between. Like I said, snappy.

Karl Frederick Wojahn was born in 1926, the son of a German immigrant. My grandfather Emil had done well farming the Minnesota earth with his brothers and, after marrying, took a job at a brewery earning a good wage and plenty of free thirst-quenching beer on every shift. But the call to work the land was in his blood. So, in the 30’s Emil moved the family to just outside tiny Wibaux, Montana. Know it? I thought not. Wibaux (pronounced Wee-bow) is the easternmost town in the state. Population under 600, not counting the cows. Its heyday was probably the late 1880‘s as a way station for large cattle drives and for a legendary incident that is said to have bestowed the nickname “Old Four Eyes” on Teddy Roosevelt, who had just moved to the Badlands from New York. 

 

My grandfather bought a homestead in Wibaux and launched a small family farm. Despite most all the good land having been previously snapped up, he made a go of it. Of course, the decade brought a full order of biblical-scale disasters complete with the dustbowl, drought and grasshoppers. They had to give up the farm. My dad says he can remember as if it were yesterday the auction and the last item to go, the family tractor, its loss the symbol of his father’s wayward choice and misfortune.

 

The family moved west to Oregon, acquired some acres in the lush Willamette Valley and began again. Emil built a house and finally found his farming niche in the green, moist land of Hillsboro, where young Karl attended Hill High School.

 

Everyone has an older relative with stories of hardship unappreciated by the younger generations. “You kids today have it so easy! I had to walk three miles in the snow to school and back - uphill both ways!” Karl has a story like this. But it’s about clothes. He tells of how his family was able to afford for him only two pairs of pants per school year. Each fall, my grandfather would take my dad to buy new pants, always corduroys. Dad loved how the new fabric “whisk-whisked” as he walked. He would wear one pair while the other was in the wash. Worn thin and threadbare come June, the tradition would be repeated each September. My dad never wore any other pants to school but those corduroys. And I never thought too much about it. After all, they were a frugal, depression era, dustbowl-suffering, farming family.

 

But I learned yesterday the “rest of the story”. 

 

The reason my father always wore cords to school wasn’t because of the comforting, familiar sound. It was because he refused to wear jeans, which were the trousers of choice for the farm kids at Hill High. Blue jeans stood for helplessness against the elements. Blue jeans meant struggling families, dreams lost and buried in the dust. Blue jeans meant the heartache of beloved loyal tractors removed from your own property by strangers at public auction. Blue jeans represented everything my dad, deep inside his 14 year old heart, didn’t want to be. He loved his father but had already made a silent vow never to become a farmer himself. Karl Frederick Wojahn would wear cords instead of blue jeans. And to this day, at 85 years old, he always has.

A 70-plus-year-long silent commitment to something better. Pretty impressive.

A Hard Rain’s Gonna Fall

The Union Jack was flying. John Lennon’s “I Am The Walrus” pumped up the current as I called for a Pimm’s Cup from the bartender and chatted about draft card numbers. Over my left shoulder was Andy Warhol, complete in black turtleneck. To my right, Abbie Hoffman held court with a bevy of impossibly young, beautiful ladies, all dressed as though they hoped to be the next Twiggy. Freshly fried fish and chips wrapped in butcher paper passed by every few minutes. This was gonna be a great evening.

In truth, it was 2012 rather than 1968. Terri and I were attending a 30th birthday party with a Beatles’ theme and everyone, everyone, leaned into the spirit of the event. We had a blast. In fact, it was one of those evenings that turned out to be even better than anticipated, despite us being a generation older than most of the crowd. We can hang, you know?

The end of the night brought the most interesting moment as I made my goodbyes to a fellow and his two sons. The older boy (24), dressed in spot-on hippie fashion with headband and peace sign necklace, shook my hand and with a wry smile said, “Nice to meet you. Let’s do this again sometime. Then you and my dad can sit around and reminisce some more about how great the ’60’s were”. 

Ouch…

I smiled, took note of his tender, unlined face and said simply, “You bet. It was great meeting you, too.” But on the drive home, I thought more and more about his sarcasm and wondered if it wasn’t wrapped in something else. Something more complicated. A yearning, or even a bit of resentment? 

After all, have things really changed that much? Headlines are familiar. Unpopular wars and presidents. Polarization. Protests of injustices on the part of the ruling class, etc. Each generation conducts its search for liberty and truth. And yes, sometimes boomers are guilty of wearing the sixties like a badge. It can be an annoyance, like the honking voice of Charlie Brown’s schoolteacher. No doubt, that period of tumult and upheaval is too often romanticized. But it was ugly and hard. A groundswell of demand that we rethink the tenets of our very mores. Social contracts torn apart. Burned up. An almost universal “seeking for better”. Tough for a young person to navigate. And it was the music that gave voice to our common yearning and separation and indignation. Thank God we had Dylan, Stephen Stills and Jimi Hendrix to hold the elbow of Martin Luther King, Malcolm X and Mahatma Gandhi.

“I’ll tell it and think it and speak it and breathe it,

And reflect from the mountain so all souls can see it,

And I’ll stand on the ocean until I start sinking,

But I’ll know my song well before I start singing,

And it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard, and it’s a hard,

It’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall.”

Perhaps we oldies cling too much to the good old days. Perhaps there’s so much societal din anymore that little of importance can be heard or recognized. But I honestly wonder, if you’re today’s 24-year-old Berkeley grad, whose voice is ringing in your ear? Which artists, public leaders, writers and thinkers are lifting you up and calling your name in a timbre that burns to your core and compels you, requires you to listen, hear and act? 

What’s going on right now that will cause you to grin, clasp hands and nod in welcome understanding when your 56 year old self can’t help but remember as if 40 years ago were yesterday?

If the answer is Kanye West, I’d probably be a little bitter too. Tell you what, I’ll share my Dylan with you…

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NATIONAL PIE DAY

My friend Monty is what I call a “liver of life”. He grabs on. He adds extra sauce. His easy, open laugh can’t help but make you smile and want to join the parade for awhile. Plus, Monty’s as short as I am. That’s a nice trait.

Monty Lunn and I met when our daughters were both in the first grade and a group of us dads from the elementary school started an unofficial “Indian Princesses” group. Sort of a “girl-scouts-with-native-American-accoutrements” type of thing without the dues requirement. The girls did crafts. The girls made a giant teepee. The dads poured good wine. 

Monty knows good wine, as he hails from Southeastern Louisiana and owned a couple of watering holes off Jackson Square in New Orleans. This guy is a true native. Aaron Neville sang at his wedding from the rear balcony of the famous St. Louis Cathedral. Monty also knows and cooks good food. I once took a camping trip up the coast toward the Santa Barbara wine country. Monty flew in from Philly to meet us, drove up from LA, stopping along the way for supplies, and surprised us as we returned from the horseshoe pits with a memorable batch of crawfish pasta bathed in a spicy cream sauce.  

Through his food and bar businesses and infectious personality, Monty met all the local restaurant royalty, including Ruth Chris, the original owner of the famous politico steakhouse, now with locations from Beverly Hills to Tokyo to Dubai. Monty’s love and appreciation of good, full-flavored food is irresistible and when I first traveled to the Crescent City to attend Jazzfest, he insisted I take along a list of required restaurants, joints, dives and bars through which to taste my way. Over the years, I have tried them all and gone on to patronize most of the revered spots: large, small, expensive, affordable, new, old, traditional, trendy. One thing is sure; it’s nearly impossible to have a bad meal in the Big Easy. 

Still, there are three places that I make sure to visit every time I’m, well, visiting. Three restaurants that define and outline the best of New Orleans cuisine. Each in its own way provides an honest, authentic and extraordinary feast. So here, listed in strongly advised visiting order, are my top picks.

Begin with oysters and a bloody Mary at Felix’s on Iberville, just at the edge of the French Quarter. People will tell you to eat at Acme across the street. Indeed, the line at Acme will be long and the food is excellent, but Felix’s is one of a kind. The joint is probably 70 years old and feels like it could be 100, with a “belly up to the bar” madness, an impossibly weathered vibe and the fattest, juiciest, freshest oysters imaginable. Fight your way in and bypass the menu. Get ‘em raw, mix your own cocktail sauce, grab some saltines and keep your elbows wide, so you don’t get pushed from your spot. When you’re filled to the brim, simply give the shucker a nod, he’ll count up the empty shells stacked in front of your little piece of real estate and write you a ticket. You’ll walk out with the Funky Meters grooving in your head.

Next, reserve a spot for brunch at Commander’s Palace, the flagship restaurant of the storied Brennan family. Derided as a tourist trap, brave it anyway. There is good reason this venerable eatery is so reviewed and revered - they simply do everything right. From the moment you enter across from the cemetery, passing under the brightly striped awning that looms over the creased, wooden veranda, you will feel as if you have returned home and been welcomed as a long lost relative. And these folks will kill and serve to you the fatted calf, pig, fish, turtle and anything else that flies, swims or has a gait. All of it with a gentleman’s care and loads of butter, cream and spice. Saturday and Sunday brunch are especially elegant with the strolling jazz musicians. Wear a jacket and loosen your belt, for subsequently you will be so full of contentment as to ask which papered hallway leads to the sleeping rooms. 

The final stop will be dinner at Brigtsen’s, uptown near the riverbend. Set in a small Victorian cottage, Frank Brigtsen is at the helm every night, serving the most satisfying Cajun/Creole dishes imaginable from his tiny kitchen. Each dining room is a humble, former sitting area or parlor with few tables, warm, kind lighting and intimate setting. The menu is not large, but rich, earthy and deep with flavor. This is hardly granddaddy’s gumbo, but it’s not high falutin’ either. Shrimp bisque with butternut squash, pork tenderloin with sweet potato dirty rice and a sauce made from the pork debris, and pecan pie. Frank tutored as a youngster under Paul Prudhomme, who was then chef de cuisine at Commander’s Palace in 1979. The following year, when Paul left to open K-Paul’s in the Quarter, he took Frank along, eventually helping him set up his own restaurant, where Frank earned a James Beard award. The flavors of a revitalized, accessible New Orleans in every bite makes Brigtsen’s my favorite tasting experience anywhere. There is nothing brash or self-serving here. There is no chef’s menu with wine pairings. But it is a diamond. It is a perfect blues solo. It is a must.

I had a serendipitous discovery a few months ago. While searching online for some news of Frank Brigtsen, I came upon a video in which he teaches, in fine detail, the preparation of his pecan pie. A sumptuous, intense but ultimately simple handmade pie I have eaten on every visit to his restaurant. Every one. And now, I joyfully make it at home. But beware the inexorable pull of this pie. Even after serving it to guests, when the house is again quiet and the kitchen cleaned and restored to order, I stand, with a full stomach, overeating yet another piece right from the pan. It is that good. With kudos to Frank, I pay it forward to you. Happy National Pie Day…

 

 

http://tinyurl.com/d58xry 

The Things We Need

 

 

In the early 1980s, the Los Angeles Times published the results of a survey. Graduating high school seniors all over California were asked to answer one question, “What would you like to accomplish after graduation?” The vast majority had the same goal, “I want to make a lot of money”. 

 

Of course they do.

 

Terri and I recently spent New Year’s Eve celebrating quietly with a small group of old friends. Each of us, in some way, felt ready to turn the final page of the calendar. 2011 had delivered difficulties all around: cancer diagnoses, unemployment, loss of a loved one, physical and emotional struggles. We chatted around a copper fire pit while even the flame itself sputtered weakly, as if uncomfortable amidst the exchange. But we spoke together warmly, wholeheartedly, taking stock, encouraging one another, toasting the value of our long friendships in the face of difficulty and how life has a way of equalizing us all.

 

The spirit of the evening lingered and as I thought about that which is important to me now and how that which is important to me has changed over the years, I was reminded of another survey that left a large impression. One worth sharing with you.

 

Around that same period in the 80s, I was in a doctor’s office waiting room, meandering through an issue of Psychology Today, and stumbled across the results of a very large study. In this one, thousands of elderly men and women were surveyed, all at least eighty years old. The survey consisted of only one question; “If you could live your life over again, what would you do differently?”. Pretty interesting, I thought. We probably don’t heed the wisdom of our elders as did previous generations, but here was a large group of folks that undoubtedly were spending a fair amount of time reviewing, pondering, considering. And, current data puts the average life expectancy in the US at 78.3 years of age. So every single respondent in the Psychology Today survey had already beaten the odds. Worth hearing them out, wouldn’t you agree?

 

Much like the graduating teens in California, the vast majority of our oldest Americans, when asked how they would live life differently, answered in one voice. Of the tens of thousands of answers, these three things were cited again and again, rendering all else statistically insignificant.

 

So what did this group of octogenarians have to say?

 

1. If I had my life to live over, I would have taken more risks.

2. If I had my life to live over, I would have spent less time pursuing the almighty dollar, and more with family and friends.

3. If I had my life to live over, I would have given more of my energy and resources to something bigger than myself, something that will have a lasting impact after I die.

 

Go ahead. Read these again. Then memorize them. Because there’s still plenty of time to embrace that which can help make yours a journey of purpose, fulfillment and joy. 2012 is here. Take a risk, take your foot off the pedal so you can hug someone and, give back.  

 

Happy New Year…

Classmates

Four years ago last week, my little brother was out in public for the last time in his life. His “only the good die young”, truncated, wonderful life. Greg had battled since that spring a rare, aggressive Leukemia called Burkitt’s and was six weeks from dying. Of course, I didn’t know that yet. 

 

Actually, that’s not true. I probably did know. 

 

After months of traumatic surgeries and debilitating, aggressive chemo therapy, released from the regimens and hallways of UCLA, Greg’s cancer had come screaming back into his brain and the doctors began speaking in that sort of veiled way they have of not saying what they seem to be saying. But hope is the buoy bell that keeps a sailor‘s attention, so I never truly heard the words.

 

Greg had come this night to hear me perform at a small, overcrowded neighborhood pub. One of his big toes didn’t work anymore. Just limply hung there, distractedly attached to his foot. A paper filter mask over his nose and mouth, covering his gorgeous, easy smile. His immune system at risk, he was forced to greet friends and loved ones from a distance, shielded deep in a faux leather booth by a small gauntlet of protectors. Greg seemed a bit weary but full of life and his bright, friendly eyes drew everyone to him.

 

It was a magical few hours. Our closely knit band of musicians played with warmth and heart. Music for old souls. We all felt the specialness of having Greg there after such a long illness. He couldn’t stay past the first set. We continued to dedicate music to him throughout the evening. Later that night, Greg entered the hospital with an infection and a fever. It was to be his last stay.

 

He passed on December 5th. 

 

I still try to understand and draw lessons from Greg’s shortened life and as I enter the season of Thanksgiving and Christmas celebrations, Greg’s memory is more central than ever. Beloved, rare, hilarious, he is remembered also as kind, inspirational, loving, sparkly, a “special light”, wise and much, much more. Perhaps the most lasting tribute came from Greg’s long time friend, Dan Miller. Here is a portion:

 

In a self-absorbed, cosmetic-world, Greg was one of the rare ones—- genuine, gracious, so lacking in pretense or pose, so seemingly comfortable in his own skin. In a day-and-age that values, celebrates, and rewards multi-tasking, Greg had the capacity and the desire to be fully present to whomever he was with. When you were with Greg, you knew Greg was with you. And that natural ease made him so easy and so enjoyable to be around. 

The novelist Walker Percy once said, “You can get all A’s but flunk life.” I am so sad, but my sadness is tempered by my gratefulness for the privilege of being Greg’s classmate in the school of love and friendship where Greg excelled, passed with flying colors, and was our valedictorian. 

 

Grateful classmates, indeed. Happy Thanksgiving, Greg. We’re still studying…

 

Brothers

We sometimes wonder if my mom is a bit insane. I maintain that Joanne has every right. She gave birth to four babies in three and a half years beginning in 1955. That’s pretty much solidly, continuously pregnant. Think about simultaneously caring for a handful of toddlers in the “no car seats or disposable diapers” world of the 1950s. Talk about earning your stripes. Not exactly “Mad Men” romantic. 

 

Roger and I were the first of her children to enter the world. Together. Well, technically, he popped out a few minutes before me. But we’re womb mates. Twins. Not the divided cell, identical, wake-up-at-the-same-moment-in-dark-of-night kind of twins, but the fraternal, brothers-from-separate-eggs-who-barely-look-like-relatives kind. We could hardly be more different. Roger is blond, surfer-styled in shorts and flip flops and gets mistaken for Sammy Hagar probably once a week. He could walk into a high school American history classroom tomorrow morning, take a seat at the back and mutter to the teacher how he’s late because he couldn’t get his locker opened. Except for a few wrinkles, no one would notice. He’s also a type A, driven and mercurial, room-filling personality. Roger will slide into the afterlife, out of breath, wearing a big grin, every asset used up and spent. I am… well, not those things.

 

The twin experience is interesting. Yin and yang. One puzzles over the balance of nature versus nurture. How much is learned and how much is simply born in? Roger and I together own and run a small business. We’ve been at it for over twenty years and barely a week goes by when I don’t get asked about how we could be so impossibly different from each other. I shrug and smile. 

 

Because I know.

 

Our contrasted roots go way back. 1959. Rural Oregon. A lush, wet peaceful town with berry farms and evergreens in spades. A modest framed house next to my grandparents, built by my father and his father, separated by a well-tended vegetable garden. I’d snack on carrots pulled fresh from the loose, dark soil, washed off under the outdoor faucet. We rode the truck into the forest directly behind and cut our own Christmas spruce. We played on sidewalk-less roads with ditches half-filled with yesterday’s rain water. No play dates. No television. No bike helmets. Just kids running free, using imagination and whatever was available. Roger and I were four years old and the world was our oyster. 

 

One afternoon we were outside together, playing with some small pieces of wood left over from the waning construction project, and tussled over an old style hand drill. Think of an egg beater with a grip on the top and a wheeled handle attached to the side that controlled the auger below. I finally wrested control and, in full preschooler anger, jammed the bit into the top of Roger’s foot, stabbing him. It was an impressive, bloody wound. He screamed like a little kid. Never mind that he was one. I was victorious. David the meek taking down Goliath the strong. I don’t even remember getting punished, my mind held fast by the euphoria of my successful surprise attack.

 

He got me back eventually. With the patience and calculation of Bill Cosby holding a snowball of revenge for Junior Barnes in his freezer from winter to summer, Roger’s attack came when I least expected it. Three years later. Our family had taken a summer in Huron Ohio, 2 blocks from the newly polluted Lake Erie. A bunch of us were hanging out on the roof of our neighbor’s one-story house. The girl next door was teaching me to crochet (I am a full-fledged metrosexual, after all) when suddenly Roger pushed me off my perch into the rose bushes thirteen feet below, slicing open my leg. I first suspected it was because I was planning to tap in the upcoming neighborhood talent show, a skill Roger didn’t share. “Ragtime Cowboy Joe”, sung and danced complete with chaps, holster and pistol. Who wouldn’t feel resentment? But as I sat while the 4-inch gash in my calf was being cleaned, it dawned on me. This was an act of retaliation. Well played, sir. 

 

Nature or nurture? No question in my mind. Roger and I came out of the chute with a built-in makeup. A sort of starter fluid that shaped our character. And we both have the scars to prove it.

Transitions

“All we want is for our kids to be happy, right?”. 

 

Wish I had a dime for every time I’d heard that phrase over the last months. My youngest daughter, Tess, is heading to college in a week or so. She and her pals, many of whom she’s known since kindergarten, are fanning out over the country in search of themselves. The next chapter. Freedom. In Tess’ case, 2,000-miles-away-freedom. I’m having mixed emotions over this empty nest. Nothing new, of course. Parents face it all the time. All through time. It’s our job to raise them, teach them and let them go. This I believe. Most of me, most days, is ready to join that club.

 

Things were fairly different in 1974. I graduated high school, my parents bought me a brown JC Penney’s three-piece suit and I packed my own car (stereo first!) for the solo drive to seek my future and meet my roommate at college in Appalachian Kentucky. That was the old normal. What I didn’t appreciate until later was the implicit support and encouragement shown by my parents. I was going to be, gulp ….. a musician! My engineering-minded father, champion of all things empirical and practical, could have easily dismissed my choice of study and career. Instead, he and my mom drove the hundred miles to attend concerts, cheerlead, and generally let me know that I could be whatever I wanted to be, provided I kept my nose clean, worked hard and saw the world as a place in which to contribute. I’m grateful now. Grateful for their quiet, non-helicoptering confidence and their acceptance of my individuality. Sure, life has dished up my share of pain, failure and hurt. But the core values instilled by my parents have served me and helped me navigate along the way. 

 

“I Hope You Dance”, written by Mark Sanders and recorded by Lee Ann Womack, famously (and beautifully) lays out some important life lessons. Don’t settle, take risks, make mistakes, give faith a chance, be brave. And, dance. Be a life participator rather than an observer. These are ideas worth remembering. I’ve thought about the tenets of life that I want both my daughters to learn and embrace. Things to be chosen. Things to reach for. Things that will help bear the fruit of contentment, reward, fulfillment and, ultimately happiness. It’s not a particularly romantic list. It may be a bit old fashioned. It will never make much of a song lyric, but here goes:

 

Courage

Humility

Spirituality

Hope

Mindfulness

Kindness

Optimism

Gratitude

Personal responsibility

Self discipline

Self reliance

Self respect

Respect for others

 

My baker’s dozen. Oh yeah, and it helps if you can laugh at yourself. And make really good chili…