I have always favored the sweet sound of the ukulele since I was a baby, when my Dad would serenade every evening after work. Sitting in a chair, whistling, singing or strumming beautifully, he could go on for hours. Serving in New Zealand on a mission made his playing even more sweet.
A couple of years ago, Randy gave me a ukulele for Christmas. I had learned, through a friend I admire, that she played in a ukulele band. I couldn't get the idea out of my head; this group had my name all over it! I invested in a chord chart, and began the journey.
We meet at the Scottsdale senior center once a week in a conference room. Every other week we play folk songs and golden oldies. The other weeks are spent playing Hawaiian songs and styles. Every chair is filled as we surround tables pulled together in a horseshoe. We each own two 300 page songbooks, which we play random favorite songs from for 2 hours (intermixed with stories in between). Pat, our leader, does his best to inspire us amidst "peanut gallery" comments. He is pushing 80 and plays on a different uke every week, since he collects them (over 60 ukes). He can play beautifully and through his stories you know he has exposed his own children and grand children to enjoy playing together. He's a man after my own heart. Especially impressive is the fact that he is hard of hearing. . . and he doesn't read music. But SO qualified!
I had been gone from the group for 9 months and it felt great to be back today. As I played away, it dawned on me that this is a setting I might have to defend to others that don't have a clue. To understand my part in this, I will attempt to describe the other members:
Warren - Hawaiian native. Wears a Hawaiian shirt every week. Mid 80's. Had his share of medical setbacks. Still plays like he lives under a palm tree in Honolulu. Must strum in his sleep. Plays in a harmonica band. Widower.
Mildred - Classy and well kept. Volunteers, except for Friday ukulele group. Mid 70's. Skin cancer recipient. Plays bass ukulele flawlessly. Taught in Scottsdale School district. Widow.
Tiffany - Mid 40's. Lives in Payson. Travels to uke group every Friday. Not afraid to play the Beachboys "Wouldn't It Be Nice" as if no one else was in the room. Smiles, nods, and sways to the rhythm of every song.
Marie - Classy. Quick wit. Previously a Sweet Adalines alto. Late 70's. Rides a scooter chair. Plays the heart out of her small ukulele, never missing a chord. Widow.
Alona - my friend. Mid 60's. Married to executive secretary in another singles ward. Tempe. Teaches and plays piano beautifully. Is a spearhead in putting this group together. Frequents Hawaii. Sets a peppy, obvious tempo for every song, knowing we can all keep up.
Susan - Mid 60's. Previously a Phoenix Symphony violist. Tempe. Proud owner of a couple of custom made beautiful ukes, one being electric. Wonderful musical knowledge and uke theory. Technology wizard, making her searches for song and info fast. Plays all introductions.
Dan - Plays competitive tennis. Mid 70's. New member to me. A ukulele like mine. Has played for a while.
Butchi - late 70's. Husband comes with to listen along from his wheel chair. Plays extremely well. Cares about musical details. Heart history
2 or 3 others were there today, off to spend the summer in their cooler climates, only to be back in the Fall. It's common for the men in the group to have learned how to play, serving in their military days.
After belonging to the group, I have come to admire and learn from these good people. They are an inspiration and I find myself appreciating their zeal for life as well as music. They are giving me a gift!
I think about my 89 year old Dad. He would bask in their skills, too. I've got to take him with me, and his ukulele. Without him, I wouldn't know all this fun..
Jody - Daughter of ukulele lover. Proud of callouses that come from practicing. Played first solo today, "April Showers", thanks to Pat, who teaches also about sharing to make others happy. . . a piano angle I've used a hundred times.
Friday, May 29, 2015
Tuesday, May 26, 2015
Monday, May 4, 2015
Thursday, April 30, 2015
All That I Am or Hope to Be
I went out to Gilbert today with Francie. That seems to be the day I can take Mom grocery shopping. She makes her list and in between the ailes I put pieces together about life with her and Dad. This week we looked for canned sweet potatoes because Dad likes them. Last week we learned that the 5 lb bags of old bananas Dad loves (not sure if it's because they are $ .25 or because they're not completely brown yet) will no longer be sold at Safeway. They'll now go to the food bank. (We gently broke the news to him!) We also carefully chose frozen entrees to try; Dad, not being a fan of rice. It pleases me the way Mom loves the produce section. I can imagine her little "spreads" at meal or snack times. She still writes out a check for payment, or she'll pull out exactly the right amount of cash Dad has provided for her, with her slowing fingers. She laughs with Francie and I get a glimpse of her upcoming week.
When we got home, there was Dad. He has been down (physically and "in the dumps") because of a very painful shingles episode in his left eye. He always gets up and dressed, but has been unable to drive (I know, he's 89!), or read, or garden, or go home teaching, or church. This eye thing has taken a lot out of him. So, he has been home, trying to stay busy; but miserable. We sat down at the bar and as I fed Francie, Dad and Mom sat across from me. I got ready for his stories. But instead, he began to explain his gratitude for things being done around him that, before the eye setback, had gone unnoticed. How, reaching for a clean towel, it occurred to him that someone had washed and folded that towel. Or someone had put a place mat down before the meal (Dad has a thing for place mats). He was talking about Mom, and all the things in her 84 year old life that she still does for him. Mom angelically smiled.
Next Sunday is Mother's Day. I'm thankful for her example of selflessness, among hundreds of other perfect qualities. And I'm so thankful to call her mine. Don't think I don't still take notes, like on our Thursday grocery shopping trips. I love them and I love her!
"All that I am or hope to be, I owe to my angel Mother" (Abraham Lincoln)
PS. As we visited, we realized that today is her Mother's birthday (Maude Groberg Neeley - Grandma Neeley). I'm pretty sure she was listening in with us, too.
When we got home, there was Dad. He has been down (physically and "in the dumps") because of a very painful shingles episode in his left eye. He always gets up and dressed, but has been unable to drive (I know, he's 89!), or read, or garden, or go home teaching, or church. This eye thing has taken a lot out of him. So, he has been home, trying to stay busy; but miserable. We sat down at the bar and as I fed Francie, Dad and Mom sat across from me. I got ready for his stories. But instead, he began to explain his gratitude for things being done around him that, before the eye setback, had gone unnoticed. How, reaching for a clean towel, it occurred to him that someone had washed and folded that towel. Or someone had put a place mat down before the meal (Dad has a thing for place mats). He was talking about Mom, and all the things in her 84 year old life that she still does for him. Mom angelically smiled.
Next Sunday is Mother's Day. I'm thankful for her example of selflessness, among hundreds of other perfect qualities. And I'm so thankful to call her mine. Don't think I don't still take notes, like on our Thursday grocery shopping trips. I love them and I love her!
"All that I am or hope to be, I owe to my angel Mother" (Abraham Lincoln)
PS. As we visited, we realized that today is her Mother's birthday (Maude Groberg Neeley - Grandma Neeley). I'm pretty sure she was listening in with us, too.
Thursday, April 23, 2015
TBT
Today a piano lesson came. Samantha. I have taught her for years. Now she's in high school. Her mother usually comes in with her, or sits in the car parked in the shade. But today, no mother. I could see the car parked in front of the house. Still no mother. My thoughts soon gave me to know she had driven herself; only having had her license since Tuesday (2 days ago). I was happy for her. Anybody that still takes piano lessons through high school automatically is a good driver (among other good things)!
Then it hit me. On this Throw Back Thursday, I had a flash back to when I was 16. Guess where I drove on my first solo drive?
Piano lessons.
Then it hit me. On this Throw Back Thursday, I had a flash back to when I was 16. Guess where I drove on my first solo drive?
Piano lessons.
Thursday, April 16, 2015
8th Grade Home Ec
When I was in the 8th grade at Ingleside Elementary School, I had my first experience with a home ec class. My teacher's name was Mrs. Welker. She was a big woman (not overweight, just boxy). She had light hair and glasses and was older than my mother.
We learned sewing from her, hence the little gingham waist apron with ties and a contrasting pocket. She also told us a story that will haunt me forever, about her room mate in school that got down on her hands and knees to look for a fallen hat pin and ended up stabbing it right into her knee when she went down. (Maybe it wasn't a hat pin, but the story was so graphic, I only imagined "big"!.) I still think of that poor girl every time I'm tempted to get on my knees for a pin or needle hunt.
We learned how to entertain, using proper etiquette, the Mrs. Welker way.
And at Christmas time, we learned how to make and preserve pyracantha jelly, using our own collected pyracantha berries. My Grandma Ruth was especially impressed. I think she made the little jar last for a long time. She always had toast.
And I'll never forget the day
Mrs. Welker taught us how to make eclairs. It was a tedious project and we took great care. After making and baking, we were ready for the rich cream filling. I held up the fluffy long john so carefully to see the air in between. Then, aiming just right I continued to carefully squeeze the cream inside. My aim was pretty good, except for the little yellow blob that plopped right down my front. I was wearing a navy blue wool-like jumper. It had buttons going down the long waisted bodice on each side. Then there was a belt. That's where it landed; right on the silver buckle, against the fabric. Goop into every nook and cranny of the buckle. It couldn't be washed out easily. So, I rubbed it the best I could and spent the rest of the day looking down at the yellow smudge that permanently marked my front. . . Don't ask me where my apron was!
It's funny what I remember about life back then. That was the year I also gained another little brother, who I knew would be a girl. Such vivid memories. Life was good. Smeared cream filling and all!
We learned sewing from her, hence the little gingham waist apron with ties and a contrasting pocket. She also told us a story that will haunt me forever, about her room mate in school that got down on her hands and knees to look for a fallen hat pin and ended up stabbing it right into her knee when she went down. (Maybe it wasn't a hat pin, but the story was so graphic, I only imagined "big"!.) I still think of that poor girl every time I'm tempted to get on my knees for a pin or needle hunt.
We learned how to entertain, using proper etiquette, the Mrs. Welker way.
And at Christmas time, we learned how to make and preserve pyracantha jelly, using our own collected pyracantha berries. My Grandma Ruth was especially impressed. I think she made the little jar last for a long time. She always had toast.
And I'll never forget the day
Mrs. Welker taught us how to make eclairs. It was a tedious project and we took great care. After making and baking, we were ready for the rich cream filling. I held up the fluffy long john so carefully to see the air in between. Then, aiming just right I continued to carefully squeeze the cream inside. My aim was pretty good, except for the little yellow blob that plopped right down my front. I was wearing a navy blue wool-like jumper. It had buttons going down the long waisted bodice on each side. Then there was a belt. That's where it landed; right on the silver buckle, against the fabric. Goop into every nook and cranny of the buckle. It couldn't be washed out easily. So, I rubbed it the best I could and spent the rest of the day looking down at the yellow smudge that permanently marked my front. . . Don't ask me where my apron was!It's funny what I remember about life back then. That was the year I also gained another little brother, who I knew would be a girl. Such vivid memories. Life was good. Smeared cream filling and all!
Monday, March 9, 2015
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