Wearing Corky's Hat

In Bay City last July, it was about 94 degrees (34.4 Celsius for our metric friends) and a scorching sun glared across the brown grass of the concert field and onto the stage of the band shell.  It was seven o’clock and though I was certain things would cool down (rooting for a weak breeze off the bay), it was not to be.  The week before with more moderate temperatures the Bay Arts had about 3,000 people attend the weekly concert.  This week only the die-hard lovers of life came out, some with their umbrellas or huddled near a few trees to give them a little shade, others braving the sun but lingering near a beautiful fountain.

In particular, there were two ladies on electric scooters, front and center, their brightly colored umbrellas capable of landing a plane.  One had a little dog that stayed seated between her feet. When we’d play a slow song, they would start up their scooters and drive out in front of the sparse audience.  Then they would “dance,” reversing and going forward like dueling bumper cars, turning and pirouetting as gracefully as ballerinas.  The lady’s little dog sat between her feet all the time, its eyes bugging out and tongue flapping, clearly enjoying the ride.

Yep, it was definitely a hot concert.  Brian and I were sweating right through our clothes as we played 100 minutes straight.  Lucky for me, I had Corky’s hat on to help keep the sun out of my eyes.

Corky was another die-hard lover of life, and like the scooter gals he was the sort of person that you never forget.  He was from the High Plains country of Kansas.  Perhaps it was those years abroad that gave him a bit of wisdom and made him seem like Gandalf the Grey to me.  Or perhaps the wisdom was from living in High Plains country and earning a living from a land that scarcely gets a soaking summer rain.  Brian and I met him at Th’ Gatherin’ some years ago.  He was about my height, with thinning gray hair and a weather-lined face from being out in the sun and wind.  Corky had a great smile that showed a scattering of teeth.  A real can-do Westerner, he helped put Th’ Gatherin’ on the map, working alongside Seamus Cleland to create a genuine Scottish Beltaine festival.  His crowning glory was the built-from-scratch wooden Viking ship they called “Boudicca” after the famous Celtic battle queen.

I asked Corky how and why he and Seamus could build a ship from scratch.  He replied in his long High Plains drawl, “It was Winner, and I called Seamus up and said, ‘I’m gonna beeld a she-ep an attack ye-ew’.”  Seamus surrendered to the idea right away.  Corky ripped a page out of the dictionary that had a Viking ship on it and he, Seamus, and some other die-hard lovers of life aided by a few cans of beer sailed out into the unknown.  All during winter in a garage on the snow-blasted plains of WaKeeney they worked on creating a ship where a ship shouldn’t be.

Boudicca turned out to be a beautiful boat and they sailed her a few times on the reservoir. But her magnificence can truly be appreciated when she is mounted on an old buckboard wagon frame.  The wheels are brightly painted and she rides high above the crowd.  When it comes time to light the great bonfire, she is pulled like a true boat of the plains, her sail unfurled and with all the little kids riding on her.  The crowd gathers around her and the fire dancers dance and the bonfire is lit.  Corky would hang back at times like that and just watch, a grin on his face.  He was a magical person and was enjoying the spell he had just cast.  Brian and I would look forward to each May and the chance to see Corky.

Then the year came when he wasn’t there.

Corky passed away during the dark of the year.  At his funeral they placed his coffin on Boudicca and slowly led him to the cemetery.  He was buried with military honors.  Seamus lost his best friend and we lost our Gandalf.  His name was written on a ribbon and tied to a branch on the Tree of Remembrance on Th’ Gatherin’ grounds, that ribbon joining so many others that had come and gone.  The winds play with those ribbons, eventually fading and fraying them until at last they are airborne and carried off to rest in some far field. I imagine some enterprising bird taking one for its spring nest.

Lucille is Corky’s wife and just as much a Westerner as Corky.  With his passing she works now at the truck stop pulling the late night shift.  I was so happy to see her at the festival and of course amazed that she could attend all day and then head off for a full night of work.  The last day of the festival, I watched as Boudicca was readied for the bonfire lighting.  Lucille came up to me and we talked a little bit about her horse, about Corky’s passing, and how she was faring with him gone.  I asked her if Corky ever owned a cowboy hat.  “I have a hat that he wore a few times,” she said with a sly smile.

The next day, Brian said to me, “Lucille has something for you.”  I walked over to her truck and she presented a black felt cowboy hat of Corky’s.  It was a little bit big on my head, so I stuffed some Kleenex in the band and tried it on.  It felt just perfect and I thanked her for the gift.

The grounds were empty of everyone except the die-hard workers who were busy putting away all the effects needed to make Th’ Gatherin’ a success.  At last Boudicca was rolled to the old semi-trailer and gently lifted, carriage and all, and placed inside.  There she sits, waiting for the next festival.

I decided to wear Corky’s hat at some shows when it’s outside and sunny, and especially when I am feeling challenged in my career.  It’s there to remind me that a very soft-spoken, humorous man created art but never said he was an artist, wove magic but never claimed to be a magician.  He was just Corky.  But to me he was Artist and Wizard.  He helped create something people will continue to love for a long time.  People who never met him will attend Th’ Gatherin’ and will still feel his touch, his work.  To me, that is what living is all about, building a ship where it shouldn’t sail and making it sail anyway.  Corky was not a celebrity but just a simple man from the Plains.  I hope he likes that his hat continues on an adventure worn by a person who also strives to be a die-hard lover of life.

Marty's Ireland Journal Day 3

Friday, September 23, 2011

Day Three

Woke up this morning to a light misty rain.  The Irish have all been complaining that they did not get a summer this year and today looks like they will still be denied one.  But a good Irish breakfast of sausages, fried tomatoes, eggs, blood sausage, rashers and beans can get one all the inner sunshine necessary.  Now Irish sausage is not like American sausage.  It is more of a mixture of meat and meal, with a slightly sweet taste.  Brown sauce, which is a mild mustard-ketchup combination, goes great with it.  Blood sausage is not bad in spite of its name.  It is indeed made from pig blood and mixed with barley.  Grilled, it tastes close to sausage patties back home without all the greasiness.  Rashers are nothing but bacon closer in style to Canadian bacon.  There is really no such thing as American bacon, and in fact the Irish would look upon such bacon with disdain, as it is filled with fat and very little meat.  Rashers are somewhat thicker and have a good, meaty quality.  Add to it a pot of tea and your Irish breakfast can keep you running pretty much all day, which was a good thing for us as we headed down toward Leenane and a tour across the Killary Fjord.  

We all got on the coach that Dave was driving this morning.  He has lived in the south of Ireland near Cork since 1972 and grew up in England.  It turns out he has a great affinity for plants and history, the former suiting my wife Annie, who is an herbalist and the latter myself, a history buff. We rolled through the back roads of the northernmost reach of the Connemara.  There in the distance looming over the other mountains stood Croagh Patrick.  The reek (an Irish word for mountain) has a slash up its side, which is in fact the final shale pathway up to the top of the mountain.  My cousin Mike used to climb it in his bare feet every Reek Sunday, which occurs in August.  For now, it stood in the distance, the top of it obscured in cloud.  

We pulled into Killary Harbor and got on the boat.  We were running a bit late, in part as a result of our policy that no activity takes place until 10 a.m., so everyone can get a restful night of sleep.  Already there were some couples waiting on the ship, but for the most part the ship belonged to our tour group.  We started out in the only fjord in Ireland.  On both sides of the fjord, the mountains reared up, showing on their lower slopes the old lines of the “lazy beds,” the spots where the pre-famine Irish lived and raised the chief crop of the peasantry, the potato. The boat pulled into a pretty strong wind and we all worked our way to a bit of shelter, with a few of our group determined to hold out in the gale.  I took out a video camera and captured some of the clouds being dragged along the mountaintops.  The area here is very dramatic and desolate looking which has drawn a lot of artists, writers, and philosophers to it as it is a welcome respite from the rest of bustling Europe.

As we sailed toward the mouth of the fjord, we were told about the mussel farming that takes place along its banks.   On a bit of the shore there would be 40 to 50 floats with a rope and little floats between each.  Under each float runs a rope that is anchored to the bottom of the fjord. On it little mussels are placed and there they grow.  When they reach maturity, they are pulled up and cleaned off the ropes.  They are then bagged and dragged to the side of the road where they sit waiting to be brought to a shop or restaurant.  (In fact a few hours later we drove by about 20 such sacks sitting alongside the road.  Ron asked Dave, “How long can those mussels sit there?”   Dave looked back and said, “Well, as long as they like I guess.”)  

We passed next a bunch of salmon farms.  I was surprised to hear that they were farming salmon on Killary Fjord as early at the 1870’s.  I had thought this was a recent development, but here we were, going past these large cages that were about 10 feet above the water and completely covered in mesh.  These go straight down into the water and are about 150 feet across.  In each are hundreds of good-sized salmon that would break out of the water and leap into the air as they heard the sound of the boats motors.  Obviously they were expecting to be fed.   Being an avid fisherman, it was quite a shock to see such trophy-sized fish all in one spot. It also made me think about how wonderful Irish salmon is to eat.  I was hoping that the ship would have that or mussels for lunch.

Some Irish history concerned the grave of Diarmuid and Grainne, who were Irish folk heroes. There up on a cairn looking over the waters was the reported tomb of the great Irish warrior. Some recent history was even more spectacular.  Back in World War II, neutral Ireland was visited by both German and British warships.  On one occasion, a terrible storm was taking place off the west coast of Ireland, causing both a German submarine and a British destroyer to be drawn into the fjord for safety.  There to each other’s surprise they sat.  Instead of firing upon each other, they chose the more prudent route and decided to ignore each other, thus avoiding an international incident.  After the storm cleared, the sub quietly made its way out of the harbor and well away from the destroyer.

Occasionally the sun would break out of the clouds and race over the mountains and the fjord, which caused a breath-taking change to the cold gray Irish weather.  We turned around at the mouth of the fjord and made our way toward the mooring.  We all were expecting lunch and were quite surprised to find out lunch was not being served even though the dining area was set for a meal.  Everyone including Dave was a bit bewildered at that, and Dave called Mick back at the hotel to see what went wrong with the plans.  Turns out the ship forgot about our lunch and everyone was credited for the gaffe.  But we were without sustenance and so we headed into Leenane to see what was available for a meal.  That in turn was a blessing as it seems that what we were able to get in town was far superior to what the ship could have offered, for there was a bit of a competition between the pubs in Leenane, with each offering a lunch special for around 10 Euros.  In fact, we came across Gary and Linda, sitting outside and about to get into big bowls of steaming mussels that were smothered in a creamy garlic sauce.  When I found that the meal also included a pint of Guinness, I was hooked.  So Annie and I went in and we ordered the same meal.  Gary counted his mussels and there turned out to be more than 75 of the tasty little creatures in each mixing bowl-sized serving!   We ate that along with thick cuts of home-made Irish brown bread and deep draughts of cool Guinness.  Others had the competitions’ fare:  for 10 Euros they ate fresh whitefish in a butter broth with home-made brown bread and a pint of choice.  It was a great meal and we became very sleepy as we made our way through the historic town of Louisburg and back to Westport.

After about an hour to get freshened up, we all hopped on the buses and headed over to Castlebar for our first concert.   The girls from the Kosier Studio of Dance were very excited as we drove toward our venue.  Right outside the town at the first roundabout we were flagged down by Michael Feeney, who was the coordinator of the evening’s concert.   We parked the buses and walked over to the Mayo Peace Park so that each of us could get a better idea of what the evening was all about.

The Mayo Peace Park was created by Michael, whose grandfather had served in World War I for the British Army.   With the creation of the Republic, it became clear to him that there was not a proper way to honor the Irish soldiers who served not only in the British Army, but also the Irish who served in the American, Canadian, Belgian and other armies.   His research revealed that County Mayo had contributed a significant number of soldiers and many who lost their lives. They were all heroes, not only for the respective country they served but specifically for Ireland and County Mayo.  So the Peace Park was created.  The main marble slabs are shaped like an eye on the ground.  From each eye flows a tear that becomes the walk that people make along the path.  Little “eyes” on each side commemorate the other countries for which the Irish soldiers served.  The symbolism of course is weeping over the folly of war and the loss of these men who gave their lives so far away from Mayo.  But also, as Michael’s friend Ernie pointed out, “that these children, for they were no more than 16 or so at the time, made it possible for all of us to live in freedom.”  The culmination of the visit was to be the placement of a wreath by Brian and myself at the American memorial.  Instead, I suggested that we have the youngest of our tour group, Gabby Scott, bring the wreath over and place it.  As a nine-year-old, she was skipping around while the talks were going on and so, when I called for her, thought that she was in trouble.  But she was a real trouper and brought the wreath over and placed it there.  We took some group pictures and headed back to the coaches.

We arrived at the Linenhall and were quite happy with the stage.  Oisin was there to meet us and help us with the sound.  We were set up quite easily and Takeshi, Brian, Nick and I went through some numbers to make sure we had everything in order.  In addition, the Kosier girls ran through some songs.  We had to determine whether or not the girls should use their taps for the clogging as they were able to create quite a sound.  At first, we thought only one girl should use the taps, but the moms in the audience said that all the girls should tap away with the band. It was that sort of tweaking that helped the show come alive that night.

 
After sound check, we ate some curry that Maggie and Annie picked up at a pub.  It was very good and we were eating when my cousin Seamus came backstage with Liam and Kay Lyons. We had a quick hello and pretty soon it was time to go out and do the show.  The Mayor of Castlebar Gene McCormack made a nice introduction and there were representatives from the British Armed Forces and the American Armed Forces.   It was also noted that we had the senior club from Kiltimagh there as well.  When we got on stage I said, “I was nervous when I heard about all these dignitaries, but got really nervous when I heard the Kiltimagh Senior Center was here.”

The high point for me was singing Bolinree and dedicating it to Seamus, but the whole evening was quite wonderful.  Mary Babic, who came to join us from Serbia, was moved the most by the song “Far Away from Where the Fighting Is.”  She said she cried through it all as it reminded her of the horrible war that she lived through in the Balkans.   Other people had songs that meant a lot to them and the Irish were very taken with the American clogging.   When I introduced the Kosier dancers, I asked each one a question about their thoughts on Ireland.  The first girl got a roar out of the crowd when I asked, “What do you think of the Irish people?”  She looked at me and said in a very small voice, “I don’t know!”

We were presented with certificates and a book about the history of the Mayo Peace Park by Michael Feeney.  Each Kosier dancer was given a hoodie from the Castlebar Town Youth Soccer League, whose benefit we are to do tomorrow night.  If our tour thought the entertainment was over, they were greatly mistaken as we were brought over to a post-party at a nearby hotel.  There we had sandwiches as well as drinks.  A husband and wife musical team gave our tour quite a show with an introduction to Irish country music which draws mainly on a style that is closer to 1960’s style American country.  That era had more ballads and some pretty good entertainers, including Johnny Cash.  It was fun to hear everyone start singing, “I’m on the top of the world, looking down on creation and the only explanation I can find…”   Just when we thought this duo was going to take a break, out jumped a bald-headed man, who grabbed the mic from the lady and yelled, “How’s everybody doing?”  He immediately launched into the song “Where’s Your Momma Gone?” and had everyone clapping along and pretty amused by his antics.  He was a one-man cheerleading squad and everyone was really revved up after he finished his act.  It was a tired but happy pair of coaches that made their way back to Westport tonight.  We sat in the bar at the Clew Bay and drank a couple more whiskies and called it a night because tomorrow, I have to be up rather early to head over to the dedication in Bekan. 

Marty's Ireland Journal Days 1 & 2

Wednesday, September 21, 2011

Day One

I know I drive my wife nuts. It must be some weird Irish custom that is deeply embedded in the genetic code. Every time I get ready for a trip, especially a trip overseas, I do what I call my “death clean.” I have this overwhelming urge to clean the house spotless. All dishes done, all dried and in the cupboard. All the trash and recycling out and in the alley. All carpets vacuumed and all specks of dust removed. I guess in the back of my mind, I hear the turn of the key in the door and the people coming in, mournful over my untimely loss. Then I hear the gasp as they survey a house totally undone and unkempt. “Oh, I thought he was such a good, clean man,” I hear them say. “Now we know; NOW, WE KNOW!” The prospect of such an indictment makes me get the house looking as good as I can get it, before I leave with Annie’s and my carefully weighed luggage off to O’Hare and on to Ireland.

We meet the FitzGeralds and Arnolds at the airport. Nick, our drummer, has been patiently waiting for us as we finally pay off the cabby and run into the international terminal. There we meet all the other people for the tour and hand out the special Switchback hoodies that were made just for this tour. It is a big tour that we are bringing to Ireland this year, about 60 people who are coming not only from the US, but Japan, Serbia, and Canada. It’s a wonderful affirmation that our music is reaching out to people from around the world. I can’t think of a better place to meet those people than here at the “home base” of Ireland.

The plane takes off from O’Hare and I switch on the screen on the seat in front of me to see where we are traveling. “You are such a geek,” says my wife Annie, who is watching some melodrama on her screen. But I am watching the flight for several reasons, mainly to time when I need to “sleep” on the plane. Usually that takes place after dinner, when others are settling into their films. The secret of east-bound flying is to get as much sleep as possible to cheat the body’s internal clock when you arrive six hours ahead of the time it is keeping.

But I am delayed over Canada. There is a dramatic electric storm outside the window. The thunderheads light up across the sky. We are cruising several thousand feet above them. One brain-shaped cloud pulses with light, like neurons sparking with some illuminating rumination of a thunder-being. It is powerful in its aspect and the modern 21st century planes pay homage by skirting around the front, their contrails and outlines sporadically made visible by the sharp flashes of light.

So after the light display I concentrate on dinner, which of course in airline-speak is always “chicken or beef?” One of these days, I long to hear “leg of lamb or rainbow trout?” but I am afraid that this will never happen. I am now attempting a gluten-free existence, so that quickly rules out half of what has been presented to me. But no fear, I find enough to make a satisfactory meal and then pull out my eye-patch and ear plugs and attempt to find a comfortable position to fall asleep in the economy section of the plane.


Thursday, September 22, 2011

Day Two

We land early in Dublin. The airport has finally completed its remodeling after years of our watching the construction. I am impressed, but our drivers Mick and Dave are a bit more jaundiced about the whole layout of the place. “It doesn’t cater to moving people,” Dave says. And I have to agree as we trundle out of the airport and have to walk a good distance, luggage in tow, to board the coaches. But that is not even a slight concern of our group as we happily pull our belongings, stow them with the help of our drivers, and begin again traveling down an Irish road.

We stop once in Longford and I am surprised and happy to see that the Paddy Keenan Banjo Festival is underway. Our friends Jeff and Vida from New Orleans regularly play the event, but they are not on the list for this year. Still several bands from the States, Canada, Ireland, and elsewhere are converging to celebrate the African instrument. The main thing we are aware of in Longford is watching for the stray splotches of doggie-doo that pepper the sidewalks. That’s hard to navigate on jet-lag, but after a good cappuccino, we are ready to head to Mayo.

Our driver Dave does a wonderful job of describing the Irish landscape and history, but he is pretty wise to well-worn Yanks and soon, in spite of our best intentions, the majority of us are dozing on the bus as we roll across the midlands of Ireland. We arrive in Westport, County Mayo around 3 p.m. and get settled into the Clew Bay Hotel. We haven’t stayed here before, but it is a wonderful place with a lot of space and a great, welcoming staff. Maggie, Annie, Takeshi, Brian and I decide to take a walk around the town and are very happy to see that the picturesque Croagh Patrick has shed her shroud of clouds, except for one trailing bit that looks like a feather boa being teased by a dancer. We aim to climb her this tour. Our hope is that we can reach the top on Sunday, but that remains to be seen.

We head back into town and who do we see but Joannie Madden of the group Cherish the Ladies. We have shared the stage with Joannie only once, performing a concert for the Northwest Indiana Symphony. But we had a great rapport, and with Joannie, a true professional musician, it only takes once to make a friendship. We welcome each other on the street and talk about meeting at Matt Malloy’s on Sunday. She is on tour with her group, playing a string of dates throughout Ireland. “Not much pay,” she says, “but a bit of craic.” Knowing Cherish the Ladies, that is an understatement on both accounts.

Our dinner at Clew Bay Hotel was wonderful. I had baked cod, resting on a light bed of potatoes, and supplemented by a savory mix of baked cabbage and carrots. That, along with a great smoked chicken salad and a fantastic dessert of ice cream, profiteroles, jello, and cheesecake made a more-than-sufficient welcome to Ireland. The tour group is very happy and seems extremely excited about the opportunities that await them over the next few days.

Michael Feeney, who is helping coordinate our concerts in Castlebar, stopped by the pub to go over logistics for the next two nights. A Member of the British Empire, he has spearheaded a campaign to bring honor to all the Irish citizens who sacrificed their lives for freedom. Throughout history, many of those served in armies from other countries, including the U.S. Army. Michael has helped find these graves of soldiers who have been buried in absolute anonymity and bring a dignified acknowledgment of their sacrifice for freedom. Many a Mayo soldier has fought and died in wars over the centuries. For this a beautiful Peace Park has been created in Castlebar. Tomorrow night, we will do a benefit to help raise money to help Michael and his folks continue the campaign to bring dignity and respect to these selfless soldiers. One person he tells me about is a Catholic priest, who entered as an army chaplain in the British Army during WWI. He persuaded the draft board to take him in lieu of his brother, who would be the only one to take care of their mother. This priest was killed on the last day of the Great War. He was returned to Ireland but was buried in an unmarked grave. For almost 100 years, he has laid, unknown and unhonored. But Michael and other volunteers have helped bring about acknowledgment through their work. So tomorrow, we play for these volunteers and indirectly for those others who have given the ultimate sacrifice.

Stay tuned for more installments of Marty's Ireland Journal!

http://www.waygoodmusic.com/

Let the Bon Temps Roulez

The first song Martin McCormack and I set out to write together was a thing called "Banshee Gumbo." This song was written over 20 years ago in the first apartment that my wife Maggie and I occupied early in our marriage.

The apartment was located in a building that my father and my brothers had bought next door to their club FitzGerald's in Berwyn, IL. At the time we lived there, my German friend Otto had a small appliance repair shop at the rear of the first level of the building. The front of the lower level was occupied by my Korean friends who had a dry cleaning business complete with seamstress.

In a concerted effort one night, Marty and I set out to write "Banshee Gumbo." The song describes an Irish band attempting to perform Irish music after having ingested Cajun food. A gastronomical mayday ensued, "from 'Saddle the Pony' to 'Galway Bay,' it all came out bon temps roulez."

On August 13, 2011, Marty and I along with my siblings and their spouses attended a surprise birthday party for my eldest sister, Mary. Mary has been a long-time supporter of Switchback, having hosted us in her home when she lived in Florida and also traveling with us to Ireland twice. In fact, she is planning to join us on our trip to Italy next year. With seven of the nine children born to Margaret and Chris FitzGerald in attendance, it was a good sized group at Quartino, a downtown Chicago Italian restaurant, that awaited Mary's arrival. When Mary arrived she was accosted by the sight of her oversized, Irish Catholic family. Mary's husband Matt and daughter Madeline led her like a lamb to slaughter.

The restaurant was noisy and crowded. We wondered how we could converse over such a din. After a few drinks, the noise level at our table insulated us from the noise from surrounding tables. Thanks to Marty, I didn't mix the grape and the grain. He also gave me a quick elbow when it was time to stand and give a toast to Mary. For dessert, a large platter of cupcakes was passed around. These were of the decadent variety. They were all so uniquely tempting, which one to eat? Well if you're me, you can only eat one. Marty somehow finished off two.

After dinner we all headed over to FitzGerald's in Berwyn to catch C.J. Chenier and his Red Hot Louisiana Band. C.J., an old friend of the family, once explained to me how musicians in Louisiana go about "sitting in." C.J. said, "Back home when you want to sit in you just go on stage and tap the guitar player on the shoulder." That is exactly what Marty and I did that night. We performed "Banshee Gumbo" and dedicated it to my sister Mary on her birthday on a stage a stone's throw from the apartment in which the song was penned.

~Brian FitzGerald

Click here to listen to an MP3 of Brian telling the story of how he and Marty wrote Banshee Gumbo.

Click here to view the live performance of Banshee Gumbo.

Click here to view another live version of Banshee Gumbo including trumpet player Kevin Gallagher

Lyrics to Banshee Gumbo

On a rainy night not long ago
We were doing some cookin' before the show
Of sick boiled potatoes and cabbage greens
Had a taste for somethin' from New Orleans
Like a bolt of lightning and a thunder clap
Les haricots we began to snap
The Queen whipped up a mighty roux [1]
While humming a bar from the "Foggy, Foggy Dew"

Verse 2
A pinch of this and a dash of that
De cayenne pepper et le cochon fat [2]
Fill me up with the rice and beans
Add to the fire of the sweet poteen [3]
We were feeling good when we hit the gig
The crowd was ready for an Irish jig
But from "Saddle the Pony" to "Galway Bay"
It all came out a bon temps roulez [4]

Verse 3
They were kicking tables and shovin' chairs
Folks were dancin' everywhere
No stack of barley, no dosey doe
Et mon cher c'est le Banshee Gumbo, et mon cher c'est le Banshee Gumbo [5]

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[1] The Queen was a nickname for Mary McDonough, the fiddle player for the Wailin' Banshees.
[2] Cochon is French for pig.
[3] Poteen is Irish for moonshine.
[4] Bon temps roulez means "let the good times roll."
[5] "And my dear it's a Banshee Gumbo."

http://www.waygoodmusic.com/ 

Why Rondy?

In a few days we will be holding the 9th Annual Haybarn Rendezvous. When Brian and I first started the “Rondy” we wanted to create a festival that would draw Switchback fans from all over. Our first attempt was at The Natural Gait grounds. It was early fall and though it was warm enough during the day, it really got pretty cold at night. Still we had a great time with fans coming from as far away as Tennessee.

The next year we moved the Rondy closer to Chicago to the farm of our friends and Switchback Team members Mary Anne and Jerry Duve. There it started to grow, gathering in more fans and also serving as a chance for Switchback STeamers (our volunteers) to meet and greet. Many of them only knew each other through email, so it was a real pleasure to get to see them meet in person for the first time. STeamers like the legendary Soupbone and Monica, who are both blind, rode the Greyhound all the way from Cincinnati so they could be part of the fun.

We started inviting musicians like singer-songwriter Karen Reynolds of Tennessee and Prairie Home Companion veteran Dave Moore to play for the audience. Who could forget Dave’s famous harmonica solo done with the harmonica completely in his mouth and resonating on his abscessed tooth? Probably one of the best solos ever.

Pretty soon a sound man was needed and Mike Sharp from FitzGerald’s nightclub ventured out in his 1964 station wagon, crammed with the necessary gear to turn a home-grown event into a real festival. One day wasn’t enough, and so it became two days and threatened to turn into three.

Sure, there were some mishaps, like the time I stayed up past 3 a.m. with the Chardonnay gals the night before the Rondy and found out the hard way why they are called that. I didn’t know tents could spin. Or the time my buddy Norm got lost and had to ask for directions at a rural cross-roads gentlemen’s club called Heartbreakers. He said they were the worst directions he ever had. It took him four hours to cover a mere five miles! But it never rained and we always had a great bonfire to celebrate the end of summer.

By 2009, it became pretty obvious that we were outgrowing the space at the Duves’ farm. So with heavy hearts we pulled up stakes and set out west again to start anew at The Natural Gait grounds. By this time, the Gait had more rental cabins and a path was cleared to the cave. With over 500 acres and the Yellow River meandering gently through the middle, it offered amazing campsites and a chance to kayak the river. Even a small band of wild elk is rumored to have returned to the land. It just felt right. The Rondy had found its home.

This year, we’ve taken on some wonderful sponsors who believe in the Rondy. We especially wish to thank Weis Buick and GMC of Decorah as well Dale Vagts and his insurance company of Cresco. They’re local businesses in Iowa that backed our pleas for support with cold cash. For that we’re deeply grateful.

Why should you come out to the Rondy? I think it is a chance for you to attend an event with your family at a place that is still natural, beautiful, and just far enough to make it feel like a vacation and not just a long weekend. Over the years we have brought in musicians from Canada to Hawaii to provide a diversity of music. This year will also please everyone with music ranging from Czech polkas by the Jim Busta Band to the musical storytelling of James McCandless. And you’ll be thrilled when you experience the precision of the Kosier Studio, performing everything from clogging to modern dance.

Unlike other festivals that have the same acts and are basically carbon copies of each other, just in another town, our festival prides itself on being small and unique. We aren’t looking for a huge mass of people but folks who enjoy being in nature and listening to great music. We offer unusual settings, such as the Cave Concert that takes place in a Paleolithic overhang that is a natural acoustic wonder. After the concert, you can relax under the stars as we treat you to an amazing pyrotechnic display!

You can wade, fish, or kayak the Yellow River. We even have kayaks for rent. For those wishing to get in the right vibe, we have a Yoga session led by the well-known yogi Shiva Singh Kalsa of Spirit Rising Yoga of Chicago. He along with Kundalini Yoga Instructor Surinder Jeet Kaur will be leading us in what is called a “gong-bath” which is a sonic meditation that actually helps tune the body. Chinese and Western herbal expert Anne de Courtenay of Imagine Health, Chicago and native flower expert Howard Bright of the Ion Exchange will lead people on a prairie walk to identify medicinal plants, prairie flowers, and the rare ones that are both.

Another great reason to attend the Rondy is that, unlike Lollapaloozing, we encourage kids and adults to mix and mingle. Take your children over to the puppet show or give them a chance to watch a horse demonstration called “I Love Horses!” (The only horse at Lollapalooza and other such hot and crowded events has a baton waving cop on its back.) This is the environment that will fire your kids’ imaginations and create wonderful memories. You will have a chance to let your child be a child with face painting and pinata whacking to collect some candy.

We have some of the best food available, including the well-known and highly anticipated “Aunt Linda’s Breakfast” featuring heavenly flapjacks and sausage served in an honest to goodness cowboy dining hall. And our campsites offer wonderful views as well as a short walk to a lodge that has real showers and real toilets. That alone should make you want to attend the Rondy.

There’s the great fire ring and the Chinese lantern launch with music and professional fire dancers. It will be the culmination of a day’s worth of entertainment. Sunday morning will bring more music with the Rondy jam, in which all the musicians get on stage together and perform.

The final reason is that Brian and I realize that you have had a busy summer and that gas prices are high, and in order for you to attend an event, it better be an event. We, together with the Natural Gait and our fine STeamers, have put together one of the best Rondys yet. We want you to come out and be part of the family gathering. We hope you will call 877-776-2208 and join us from Friday, August 19 until Sunday, August 21. Or better yet, go to our website and follow the prompts to sign up directly for the Rondy.

 

We welcome your comments here about our blog!

Watch for Deer

Our friend and fellow songwriter John Lamb has a song called “Watch for Deer” and I’ve always enjoyed it because watching for deer is something that we’ve had to do for years. Like small airplanes, deer and musicians just don’t mix. And in the Midwest, deer are the predominant life form, even making their way downtown to the heart of Chicago and happily eating every tulip and tree in Millennium Park.

Every deer secretly has a death wish, I believe. They sense when a musician is driving and will make a kamikaze run toward that musician’s vehicle, whether it’s a van, tour bus, or bicycle. It is one of the unwritten rules of life on the road for musicians. I don’t know when this struggle began, but it is there. As a musician, you have to be ready for deer and have a taste for venison because they have a taste for heavy metal and I don’t mean music.

Over the years, Brian and I have had our run-ins with wildlife. Sometimes even during a show, a critter or two will steal the stage for a while. One time, we had just finished a set playing at the Rolling Ground in Wisconsin. We were perched on the side of a hay wagon stage talking to our friends when out of the sky came tumbling a sparrow-sized gypsy moth. Attached to it was a brown bat and they were caught in a life struggle. They rolled across the stage for several moments. We all could see the bat trying to eat the moth and the moth kicking the bat off with its tremendous wings. In a flash they both took off into the air and were gone. Nobody said a word. It was one of the most bizarre encores we had ever had for one of our shows.

Another time the insects were our opening act. In this case, we were driving into Austin, Minnesota to play a show in September. Brian had his mother-in-law’s Honda Civic that he kept strewn with half-consumed cans of pop, perfect for the little meat-eating hornets that come out at that time of year. The show was an outdoor party for seniors and their families at the residence and several hundred people were waiting as we rolled onto the grounds. Little old ladies were waving at us as we headed toward the band stand. At that point, two or three little hornets made their way out of these pop cans and up the legs of my pants. Immediately I was stung and started pulling my pants off in front of the crowd, slapping my legs and butt and flailing around in jerks and spasms. Brian quietly exited his side of the car and started taking out equipment as a silence descended upon the festivities and heads turned to watch. It was quite a show.

Late one night, about three in the morning, we were driving along the Mississippi south toward Lansing while listening to Art Bell on “Coast to Coast” AM. For those who have never listened to the show, there are usually stories about aliens, ghosts, Armageddon, or asteroids due to hit the planet. That night they were talking about ghosts as I was starting to doze on the passenger side of the car. All of the sudden, right as a ghost hunter was to play a tape-recorded sound of a ghost “talking,” this huge shape came across our windshield. Wham! A big barn owl flew straight into us and knocked the rearview mirror right off. Brian slammed to a stop and we stumbled out to see what had hit us. There in front of us the unfortunate owl lay dead. We were totally wide awake and I was never so scared in my life. The owl had left a dusty, ghostly image of its last flight on our windshield. It was a sad, but adrenaline-filled feeling.

One fall afternoon, Brian and I were driving across Allamakee County in Iowa, heading to a body shop to get some work done on our van. We had bought the van after it was hit by a deer and repaired at this shop. A young guy came speeding up behind us. Now, we have learned that it just isn’t worth speeding to any place. Getting there in one piece is the way to survive out on the road. But this young fellow was not going to let our van delay his getting wherever he had to be. He started passing us on a curve, and at the same time a huge deer came running from a field. You guessed it. The young guy passed us going full force into the deer, smashing the right side of his car. About ten minutes later, he slowly passed by us with his right wheels pathetically wobbling as we sat at the body shop. There was some sort of poetic justice in it all, but no justice for the deer unfortunately. Of course, I think it was aiming for us.

We have luckily never had a serious collision with a deer, but we came very close on our way back from Colorado recently. It was about 5 am and I was driving near Ogallala, Nebraska on our way east when in the early dawn light came a mule deer. I instinctively slowed down as I watched it cross the road about a quarter mile ahead. It ran across the eastbound lanes of I-80 and into the median. I kept my eye on it as I slowed down and looked to see if there were any other deer nearby. Usually where there is one, there are two. So far so good -- it looked like it was going to cross the westbound lanes. But then it saw two approaching cars. Suddenly it swerved and I could see little puffs of dust from its hooves as it circled back toward me. I knew what happened: It smelled musicians and took off after our van. By now I was slowing down to about 25 miles an hour. The deer came out on the road and ran right into our right headlight. “What was that?” said Brian, popping awake in the passenger’s side. “Deer,” I said, pulling the van over to the shoulder and expecting a grisly scene. Miraculously, the deer was standing off to the side and looking at me. I looked at it and looked at the headlight it had knocked out. The headlight looked like someone had taken a hammer and expertly knocked the glass out. I looked up at the deer again. It gave me an angry look, like “Next time you come through, it will be the whole car” and hopped the fence, trotting perfectly across the field.

The final wildlife story came as Brian and I were down near Alton, Illinois. We were at a family party and staying overnight in the state park. Everyone was asleep when I heard the sound of happy little chattering. I sat up and as my eyes adjusted, I saw a whole family of raccoons on top of our van. We had left the driver’s side window open, and they had managed to get inside and start feasting on trail mix that was in a container on the floor. It was a party. One raccoon was up on the dash, sort of swaying as another one was grappling with the window. It looked like it was trying to open up the door. A couple more were singing up on roof, little peanut M&M’s clutched in their hands. I got up and dashed out there in my underwear. I banged on the window and immediately the whole fiesta dispersed. I rolled up the window and looked in our van. Luckily they didn’t do anything more serious that mix up the trash that we already had from days on the road, but they had almost eaten all of our trail mix. As I fell asleep, I could hear them complaining as they tried to get the window open. They worked on it for about ten minutes and then they took off. I swear I heard one say. “Screw these guys. Let’s get the deer.”

Making It

The day after the great Chicago blizzard of 2011 came roaring through, I found myself in my office working on my guitar when I heard the television in the other room blaring out that unmistakable theme song for American Idol. Now that Steven Tyler was on the show, my wife Annie liked to watch. The show centered around the auditions in Austin and of course was edited perfectly to be entertaining while still tugging at the heartstrings. The contestants were all jittery with excitement. They were around 19 years old and some of them had real talent and some of them didn't. There were tears of joy and tears of rejection and of course some fantastic tantrums too.

I could identify with all of them in that they wanted to "make it" in the music world. Here is a fast track to the top -- or so they think.

Let's be generous and say about four contestants make something out of this show each year. That leaves quite a few people who don't. What happens to those people? Do they keep going? Or do their dreams sputter, lose steam, and slowly become lost?

Back in 1985, I graduated from college and had no idea of what I was going to do. I knew I wanted to be a musician but had no idea of how to get there. There was a show on television at the time that was very similar to American Idol called Star Search, which was a more upscale and dignified version of The Gong Show, its crazy 70's cousin. Ed McMahon was the host of this talent contest and like Idol there were cattle call auditions for talent. My mother saw an ad for it in the paper and encouraged me to give it a try.

So I found myself in line outside the Park West one chilly October night with thousands of other hopefuls for Star Search. I remember my brother Colin came along to keep me cheerful and awake. We all shivered as it got colder, waiting for the doors to open. My big army jacket that I kept on all night kept me warm and under that I had a sharkskin neon blue blazer that my Uncle Bob Dunn wore to his prom back in the 50's. I was ready. The hours crept by and with it the unrelenting cold. It was a real character builder.

The rest of the story is pretty easy to tell. I slumped along with other people in a long line. As I neared the door, I could feel my heart starting to pound. My hands and feet were numb, but so were everyone else's. I was granted a 15-second chance to sing. The tech guy bungled my tape of "I Only Have Eyes for You." It started at "I don't know if it's cloudy or bright" and was barely audible, but I sang my heart out through the 10 seconds. I remember one of the judges looking at me. She definitely liked my 1950's sharkskin jacket. But that was it. By the time I finished, I heard the words "thank you" from some guy not much older than me. It sounded more like a derogatory expletive. I was ushered out of a door and back onto the street. I felt used in a way, but I also felt like I had let everyone down, including myself. I had won awards and scholarships for singing and all I got was a "thank you" from the judges. It left a bad taste in my mouth, but I shook that off and figured I would find a way to "make it."

During this time my brothers and I formed the latest and last incarnation of our family singing group, the rock band Beyond Blue. We practiced in an ancient manual pin bowling alley that was converted into a rehearsal space by the Chicago band Ministry... at least that is what our landlord told us. At this time, five of us McCormack boys were living together at the corner of School and Greenview Streets.

We did the band thing that bands do. We courted jaded club managers. We mailed out postcards. We hauled our equipment up flights of stairs (I hated the now defunct Avalon nightclub for this reason) and down again after a 45-minute set on an evening shared with three bands. We drove out to Woodstock from Chicago during the winter, taking turns riding in the back of our pickup, the extra bundling not making any difference. We practiced in our parents' garage, with drifts coming in under the door. We begged our friends and family to come out on a Monday at 9 p.m., knowing that it would never ever start at that time. We put up handmade posters of ourselves all about town. And we made cassettes of our music that we mostly gave away. My brothers and I were paying our dues. But there was a hitch. All of them were either finishing law school or medical school. The pressure to "make it" was a bit more intense for me, I felt. I had decided to burn my bridges and not go on to any further schooling. My brothers worked as hard as could be expected. Now looking back, I am amazed they juggled medical school and law school and had a band. We hoped we could "make it," but time was ticking forward furiously toward their inevitable careers.

I forget who got it rolling this time, but we sent in a video tape of us playing and were accepted for the band portion of Star Search. I was gobsmacked. How could this happen so quickly and easily? Here was my second chance. One doesn't get another chance in this business. Surely God wanted me to "make it!" It was a sign that all our sacrifice was about to be rewarded. I was in a trad Irish band with Brian at the time and he wished me good luck. I could hardly concentrate while playing our gig that night. I remember thinking that I was soon to be out of a little Irish band and onto a big record label.

My brothers and I gathered after our last rehearsal and said a prayer together that we would "make it" on Star Search. And here, right on the cusp of fame, I found myself thinking as we prayed, "I don't know if I want to 'make it' this way." Immediately, I felt like I had let a genie out of the bottle. I backpedaled with God. "Of course I want to win Star Search and I want to be a full-time musician!" I pleaded.

Two days later, my brother Fran received a phone call from Hollywood. The producers regretted to tell us that due to falling ratings, Star Search decided to cut the band portion of the show. It was the most expensive part to produce and "we are very sorry" and "thank you." I don't remember if Fran felt that the "thank you" sounded like an expletive. But here we were again. And here I was again, sucker punched by the fickle business called music. And guilty that I had not conveyed to God my complete faith that we were going to "make it." I had betrayed everyone again, including myself and the Almighty to boot. I was a loser.

My brothers and I argued about what to do next. One studio wanted to record us and then pitch our music to L.A. Of course, it would cost some money. My brother Dave wanted to go into country music and just got a job offer with one of the top law firms in Chicago. My brothers Tony and Fran were full time medical residents, pulling 36-hour shifts. The writing was on the wall, and we quietly disbanded Beyond Blue. By now, I was working in marketing for a hospital to pay off my student loans. I continued playing in the Irish band with Brian. I felt even further from the goal of "making it."

I didn't realize at the time that I had been "making it" all along. There wasn't any one-shot or two-shot deal. The whole contrived contraption of the Star Search and the star-making machine had really, truly nothing to do with being a musician. I started writing with Brian. And we started at the very bottom, touring nursing homes and playing prisons. My marketing job was cut and I had a choice, find a new job and continue to stay in the business, or play music full time. I took the leap and moved full time into music, forming Switchback with Brian.

We continued down the path of adversity as we slowly built a fan base. And along the way, I found that "making it" was the joy of making music. "Making it" was being in the moment and had nothing to do with fame. "Making it" was really about touching souls. We did that, playing nursing homes and then clubs with the disgruntled and jaded owners.

My mother called me and said, "Are you going to play nursing homes all your life?" I remember telling her, "Perhaps that is what God wants me to do, to reach these people who have no music and very little joy left." It was then that I felt that a shift occurred. I was a musician and I didn't need a cattle call or a television show or a producer to validate me. My experience was enough.

Now, 25 years later, I look back and see that climb still taking place. We have specials on PBS. We have 13 albums. We tour Europe and North America. We've shared the stage with heroes like the Moody Blues and Leon Russell. We bring fans on trips to Ireland and Italy. We've made a career for ourselves in music. And yes, we still go and play the occasional nursing home.

I didn't know what I was looking for when I went looking for "it" all those years ago. I had no music person in the family, no professional whom I, as a kid, would be able to follow around as he or she hit the honkytonks. My story was completely white bread Midwestern middle class. But somehow, I managed in spite of myself and others to "make it."

So I will look at American Idol, but I can't really watch it. I cringe for the starry-eyed hopefuls who are rejected, and I hope that they realize that they do have the power to become the musicians that we as a society so desperately need. I certainly hope they don't allow their dream to idle because someone else felt they don't have what it takes. Even Elvis was told to keep driving a truck.

Yes, I "made it." And to those judges and gatekeepers? Why, "thank you."

~Marty

http://www.waygoodmusic.com/

Springtime in Paradise

May 21st was Switchback’s annual Spring Concert in a Cave, and it was pretty close to perfect!  When we arrived at the Ion Exchange there was a good sized group gathered to see how Howard’s pulley system would work getting Switchback’s equipment up the bluff to the cave. And I’m glad to say that it worked remarkably well! It was quite a sight to see the speakers, guitars, and everything else suspended in the air while being pulled up the bluff!

The concert was fantastic – the acoustics in the cave are beyond belief, and with Nick Hirka and Takeshi both joining in on percussion, it was a magical night. The evening came to a close with some nearby campers sending up paper bag balloons which were beautiful little lights flickering in the sky. Next, it was time for one of Howard’s famous Timber Run truck rides. This is a ride through the forest, and even through the river, with a spotlight held out into the woods as you go. It was fun until it started storming and the truck stalled, then it became hilarious! The eight of us in the back couldn’t have gotten much wetter. We finally got back to the Ion Exchange and to our bunks for a good night’s sleep.

Sunday morning, we were up early and Marty and I did morning yoga up in the cave – it was beautiful…so peaceful with birds singing and a light breeze blowing as we did yoga among the treetops. As we climbed down the bluff, I realized how hungry I was and it’s a good thing too, because the whole gang was relaxing and cooking a beautiful breakfast on an outdoor stove when we got down from the cave. We enjoyed the fellowship of our friends, then it was time to use the pulleys again, and I went off to take some video of the beautiful grounds and river. As we packed up, I thought of the fun we’ll have at the Rondy there in August. I can’t wait to see our old and new friends again!

~ Chris Pardee

A Patient but Persistent Spring

When Spring finally comes, it often announces its arrival as we play at the Oak Center in Lake City, Minnesota. Driving along the highway from Minneapolis, I look over to see a slight greening of the rolling prairie. Here the hills are bare and the trees start hugging the limestone bottoms. It's the beginning of the great inland sea of grass that stretches to the Rockies. A buffalo herd is standing near a round bale in a field, feeding. The trees are still barren, not even a bud yet, as we are pretty far north.

It's hard to believe a stubborn, sticking snow came down the night before and Winter kept his grip until pushed back by a patient but persistent Spring. The melt off has choked the streams and the Zumbro River is high and gnawing at her banks. A couple more miles and there, on the curve of the road, sits the old mercantile where we will play tonight. An air generator twirls above it, easily moving in the strong north wind blowing from Saskatchewan. Under scurrying gray clouds, Brian and I pull alongside the building. The walls are peeling, the gray wood peeking out here and there as if the paint itself is being slowly melted away. We take out our cases and head up the wide steps to the second floor. The old basset hound slowly rises off his haunches near the wood burning stove and ambles toward us. He decides that we need to be announced and lets out a sound like a geriatric Chewbacca. Three woofs later and he's satisfied that we're announced. He ambles back to the wood stove and goes to sleep.

Brian and I have been playing every spring for almost a decade now at the Oak Center. Usually we're the last show of the season, which actually means the last show before the farmers get out planting their fields. As we open our cases, Steve, the owner of the mercantile and surrounding organic farm, emerges from his apartment after taking a late afternoon nap. He's a bit stooped from years of hard work but still has a warm smile. We all give each other a hug. There's an unspoken acknowledgment that we're together to witness another turning of the seasons.

Downstairs, a couple of young volunteers are at work in the mercantile. Like something that was kept in a pickle jar from the 1890's, there's a preserved feeling of yesteryear. The glass cases, the high tin ceilings, the worn pine floors. A closer look shows a variety of goods right from the 21st century: CDs, cards, books on peace and current events intermingling with oil lamps and farming implements. On the walls the decades unfold, from old buffalo skulls to 60's protest posters to the latest fliers for the next show.

Steve makes no bones about his liberal leanings. In fact, I think only a liberal-minded person could keep a place like the Oak Center going. It has an almost quixotic air about it as I set up my bass and smell the venison stew cooking on the wood-fired stove downstairs. The belief that the world can change if we do our part. That we can stay connected to the earth. That we can learn to live within our means and without the sprays, dyes, distillates and fertilizers that will soon be applied to the surrounding cornfields. Each year we return and it seems as if we are still in the grasp of Winter waiting for that patient but persistent Spring that eventually will come.

The audience arrives and they too are old friends, people coming slowly up the steep, worn steps to the second floor. Some come a bit slower than they had the year before, but they make it to the top and we sit around for a bit, catching up on each others' lives. A popcorn machine starts popping away and under the gleam of oil lamps there's a simple offering of deviled eggs and other homegrown and homemade food and desserts. They rest on mismatched platters and baskets upon a solid wooden table. Everyone nibbles at the food, talks a bit, and spends a bit of time with each other until Steve walks up on stage. The folks head off to claim their auditorium-style wooden seats. Brian and I head to the "green room," a tiny closet-like space to the left of the stage.

Steve starts talking to the audience. It's leaning a bit past center for most folks, but these are Minnesotans, used to such talk and even if they don't agree, they are too polite to raise an eyebrow. Steve winds things up, introduces us and we start playing.

The room becomes one living creature. The pine floor and walls reverberate with our music and the audience softly stomp their feet in time to the songs, sending out shoots of energy that twine around every note coming back at them. We take a light-hearted approach to our Midwest storms by singing "Twister in A Trailer Park." Everyone is in on the joke. The jigs and reels catch fire as the evening quickly rolls by.

I feel that here, in this second-story, worn down mercantile, a ritual as worthy as any sacred rite happens. We share stories, we pass the evening reaffirming to each other that all is still well, that we can still continue along with our aches and pains. Life doesn't have to be too serious after all. I feel that this evening marks the beginning of Spring for me personally, even if the wind outside is still cold.

We finish the night by playing a couple encores, ending with "Muintir Na Sidhe," the Fairy Folk. As I pack my guitar into its case, I glance up at the wood stage wall. On it are hundreds of names from hundreds of performers who have played over the years. I wonder how their evenings went. I wonder if next year, the buds will be out a bit earlier and will Winter be sent back up North before May arrives? Will we all be able to be back here, waiting to reach out and be embraced by a patient but persistent Spring?

~Marty