Amazing Grace Recording

This morning I received the following email from my step-daughter, Annie. The last time we were in town for our family reunion I had a chance to meet her girlfriend, Rebecca. She is such a sweet girl and so incredibly young to be burdened with such catastrophic health problems. I honestly do not know how they managed to sing this all the way through without breaking down. I’ve listened to it twice so far and each time, I end up sobbing like a baby – both over the sheer beauty of the harmonies and because of the emotional impact of the lyrics, given the circumstances.


So my friend Ryan, Ashlynn, and I recorded this today for our friend Rebecca who has colon cancer, you met her…IT SOUNDS AMAZING!!!! Ashlynn is only at the end, mostly it’s Ryan and I. It’s a surprise for Rebecca so please don’t say anything on Facebook just yet. I almost cried when I heard it I love it so much!!!


Amazing Grace Recording

The arrangement is just lovely. In fact, the addition of the bridge really heightens the emotion of an already deeply moving and spiritual song. Naturally, as I listened, I couldn’t help singing along.

Then an idea came to me: What if we collectively formed a Facebook Group and uploaded the track to Facebook and YouTube and any other platforms devoted to promoting music, inviting singers and musicians from all over the world to collaborate by adding their unique voices to the original recording.

Imagine it growing into a worldwide phenomenon! Several years ago, a musician from New Orleans I think, had the idea of creating a giant International montage of various musicians presenting their personal interpretations of the classic ballad, Stand by Me. Instead of doing it exclusively online, he actually traveled to different cities and filmed an eclectic assortment of artists, both professional and amateur, performing their renditions of the timeless masterpiece.  He turned the entire project into a documentary as it was happening. Then, upon returning home, he assembled his footage into one long amazing music video.

I think this particular song has the potential to reach a far greater audience. Everybody knows it, we’ve heard it sung in churches and at funerals and countless rehab centers and AA meetings all over the world for as far back as any of us can remember.

If we can get a few friends together who would be willing to contribute a couple of dollars apiece toward “boosting” the original Facebook post to reach the widest possible audience, this thing could easily go viral. The goal would not be monetary, or to launch anyone’s career in the entertainment industry. It would simply be to spread as much Love, Joy, Healing, and Peace as possible to as many people as possible while we still have a habitable planet.

Peter Glass, bless him, will probably be the first to inform me in painstaking detail why such an idea can’t work, or it’s already been done, or the investment in time and money required to edit and compile hundreds of video and audio clips would be a far more complicated project that I am imagining it to be. Over the years, I’ve come to expect such in-depth analysis from my dear, Virgo Rising ex-husband. And he may very well offer a critique that ultimately causes me to reconsider.
I will be the first to admit my proclivity for manic, middle-of-the-night flashes of insight which seem absolutely brilliant to me at the time. Then, when looked at in the sober light of day, I begin to realize I don’t actually have the sustained motivation or the resources to promote such a huge undertaking. And, so it becomes just another unlived fantasy from a Jupiter-inflamed Sagittarian with an over-active imagination.

Listen to the recording. If you like my idea, share liberally with your extended contacts.

As always, comments and suggestons are welcome.


My Birth Defect and its Impact on My Life

Spica Cast

As usually happens, this blog article started out as a comment in response to someone’s Facebook post and metamorphosed into the following essay.

Fifteen years ago, I underwent double THR (Total Hip Replacement) also known by medical professionals as Arthroplasty.

I entered this lifetime in the year 1948, arriving with a yet invisible Karmic defect: congenital acetabular hip dysplasia (the ultimate “pre-existing condition”). Unfortunately, no one discovered the problem until I started walking. By then, the cartilage had ossified, which meant that to realign the joint, I, and by default my parents, faced an undetermined period of corrective therapy. (Today, a simple physical examination performed at birth can usually identify the condition) My pre-school years were unquestionably more of a trial for my long-suffering parents than for me.

Alice and Norman, pioneers that they were, envisioned the grand adventure of traveling to Australia to raise their family. I was a toddler at the time, but I seem to remember the two of them sitting at the kitchen table in Jonesville, New York, poring over maps and brochures, excitedly picturing the possibilities. Later I learned that they also considered settling in the mountains of Colorado until my prognosis dashed their dreams.

The underlying deformity (an abnormally shallow acetabulum coupled with a flattened, severely misshapen femoral head) turned out to be not only serious, but rare. A total dislocation of the left joint forced a noticeable and potentially problematic size and length disparity between my left leg and my right. Early onset of osteoarthritis is common with this type of birth defect.

Wikipedia explains that this condition may be due to a hormone imbalance carried down through the generations. Now I am more eager than ever to receive my DNA results from, although it may not include the details I’m hoping for since I chose not to order the extended report which focuses primarily on health issues.

Reading over Mom and Dad’s extensive hand-written notes, I learned that my first harness was the kind with the giant padded pillow between the legs to keep me from bringing my knees together, which would have caused further dislocation of the joints.

I soon graduated to a full cast that encircled my waist and extended to my ankle on the left side and to my knee on the right, completely immobilizing my pelvis and both legs in the “frog-leg” position. The doctors put me to sleep for the procedure. When I woke up and realized I couldn’t move, Mom reported that I cried. I cried all the way home in the car. Not until we returned to a familiar setting did I begin to settle down. Eventually, I accepted that I was not going to be able to move my legs and figured out how to fall asleep on my back.

Later, a new, less restrictive cast (called a Spica Cast) allowed me to move my right leg while the left side remained immobilized. Changing the cast proved a traumatic event for me. I became convinced that the doctors would accidentally saw off my leg during the procedure, causing me to scream pitilessly for my Uncle Eddie until they finished. (Why Uncle Eddie and not Daddy? This I can’t explain.)

The Orthopedic Pediatrician gave Mom and Dad the grim news that I would need to wear a cast for a full year. I can only imagine what parenting an active toddler in a full body cast must have put them through. Understand that this was the era of cloth diapers, long before the advent of Huggies and Pampers!

I vaguely recall a series of harnesses, slings, and splints which followed the cast, along with an unsuccessful trial pair of crutches. The apparatus I remember best was the hip abduction brace which encased my left leg from hip to foot and allowed a greater range of motion than any of the earlier contraptions. The doctor recommended I wear the brace at all times, except bath time.

During my frequent visits to the Hospital for regular progress exams, the doctors always told me that someday I would need hip replacement surgery.

An employment opportunity arose for Norman in Fort Lauderdale, Florida. Due to a recent housing boom, construction jobs were plentiful. A buddy of his, excited by the prospect of good paying, steady work, encouraged him to leave New York State and join him in sunny Florida. So, he and Alice bought a trailer, hitched it to their station wagon, and loaded up the back with me and little brother Stevie along with all our possessions, and off we went on a quest of another kind.

I clearly remember the day the brace came off for good. I think I was four years old.  Standing on the hospital bed looking down at my mother, I obediently kept the weight off my left leg as I had been taught. “You don’t have to do that anymore,” Mommy explained cheerfully. “You can put your foot down; it’s all right!” Tentatively, cautiously, I lowered my left foot. Mom lifted me down from the table and together, hand-in-hand, we walked out of the hospital unaided.

For the remainder of the afternoon, I worked on perfecting the art of running, dashing from one end of our patio to the other until a crowd of curious kids gathered to watch. My only regret was finding that my ability to “gallop” no longer felt the same.

Being more the artistic type than the physically active athlete allowed me to get by without too much pain and suffering as I matured, other than the occasional bout of sciatica and a goofy little limp, which I always considered part of my charm. My friends told me I walked like Charlie Chaplin.

By my late forties, however, things were starting to get bad. The cartilage had all but disappeared, leaving me with excruciating bone spurs and advanced osteoarthritis. I used to tell people it felt like driving around in an old beat-up car with no rubber left on the tires – just the metal wheels. After a while, the rims themselves bent and rusted and the Old Gal became destined for the junk yard.

I delayed surgery because of a lack of decent health insurance. When I could no longer tolerate the chronic aching, grinding and clicking, and the cramps that aggressively clutched at my calves and my toes, I finally summoned the courage to call my local Social Security office. I remember crying as I described my predicament to the hapless clerk who picked up the phone that day.

Horror stories abounded about people with disabilities not qualifying for benefits. I worried I would need to hire an advocate to fight on my behalf. Fortunately, my Mom took meticulous notes from the day of my diagnosis and kept track of every X-Ray and doctor visit throughout my childhood. In addition to her excellent record-keeping, I also had archives of old black and white photos of me in my cast, me in a succession of harnesses, slings, and splints, and me in my full leg brace with the 6” tall shoe my Daddy built for the opposite foot – all to prove to the government that I was no deadbeat.

I compiled pages of detailed background information on every doctor I had visited over the past decade, including names, addresses, phone numbers, and appointment dates, and whether they took X-Rays. I filled out all the SSI forms exactly as instructed and made sure to use my best penmanship. I documented every step of my harrowing life’s journey, and chronicled the emotional and physical ordeal my suffering imposed on my friends and loved ones. I pleaded for the faceless administration clones to show compassion and grant me my earned government aid.

My next-door neighbor, a former IRS employee, guaranteed that while she personally could not grease any palms for me, the typical social worker would be happy to receive an application packet like mine.

She was right. My submission sailed through the red tape, and even though it seemed to take FOREVER before I started receiving Medicare (I was only 54 at the time) the day finally arrived when I could confidently schedule an appointment with the best Orthopedic Surgeon in the state – indeed, the country.

After marking the date in my calendar, no amount of poverty or despair had the power to dampen my spirits. The first surgery was a success. I had to wait over six months for the second operation due to a delay in my Medicare Insurance, but it was worth the hold-up to get the doctor I wanted. I didn’t gain an inch in height, but my legs are finally the same length. The casual observer would undoubtedly notice that I still tend to walk with a slight waddle – a little like a Penguin, I suppose.

I have stayed healthy these past fifteen years without having to give up things I enjoy, like playing the piano, and indulging in my many creative activities. While I do suffer from continuing lower back pain and peripheral neuropathy (a condition which causes a sensation of intense burning, tingling, and itching in my swollen ankles and feet) I still have the stamina to run the vacuum occasionally, spend over an hour pushing a shopping cart around my local Costco warehouse, and devote hours to revising the first edition of my medieval fantasy novel in addition to working on the sequel and hammering out memoirs like this for my blog.

Though separated by nearly 3,000 miles, I treasure any time I get to spend with daughter and baby granddaughter. I even experienced RUNNING through Grand Central Station a couple of years ago while delighting in a brief, but exhilarating, summer vacation. And that was after a full day of shopping in downtown New York City!

Before Diagnosis



I dreamed about sleeping.

In the dream, I had a revelation about the concept of sleeping: I understood at a fundamental, archetypal level how to organically facilitate the process of falling asleep, how to achieve deeper levels of REM sleep, and how to easily navigate through the various stages of sleep. My Dreaming Self seemed to be saying, “Oh, I totally get how this works! It’s a simple matter of following a few basic steps.” I was able to grasp the meaning and purpose of sleep in a profound way.

As my consciousness gradually began to shift from the dream state to the hypnogogic “twilight” of half-sleep, I continued to reflect on the concepts I had been dreaming about.

I soon realized that I was no longer sleeping, nor was I dreaming. I became aware that I was now thinking about dreaming about sleeping.

My Introduction to Seattle Nightlife

Cabbie at 17

My introduction to Seattle nightlife came through a loose-knit, rowdy bunch of Catholic Prep School boys with family ties to the happening coffee houses of Pioneer Square during the late 1960’s.

The most happening place of them all was a folk-music joint, coffee house/pizza parlor with an address for its name: 92 Yesler.

Affectionately known as “92” by customers, servers, and entertainers alike, the club presented a kind of subterranean ambiance owing to its rumored history as a Speakeasy during Prohibition. It’s modern-day incarnation quickly earned it the reputation of a trend-setting hangout where mature teens and young adults could enjoy an evening of live music and refreshments in an alcohol-free environment. (I seem to recall no shortage of cigarettes, however. Hey, it was the 60’s! Everybody smoked.)

The casual passerby, out for a pleasant stroll through one of the city’s oldest and most storied communities, perhaps planning to join a tour of the famous Seattle Underground with its dimly-lit boardwalks and dusty storefronts of a by-gone era, would find themselves accosted on the sidewalk by a spirited Rudy Valley look-alike sporting a raccoon coat and barking a fast-talking stream of witty verbal enticements through a giant, hand-held megaphone. What made this a such successful marketing tool was the fact that the boys who took turns stepping into the 1920’s doorman persona were all part of their school’s Drama Club and came armed with a seemingly limitless supply of thespian’s tricks for getting into and staying in character. My favorite was a strikingly handsome, black-haired young actor named Mike. I developed an instant crush on him.

I will never forget the time my best friend finally screwed up the courage to audition for a coveted slot on stage as a folk singer. Robin possessed an angelic voice and even trained as an opera singer, but she was exceedingly shy and dreaded facing the possibility of rejection. The night of her interview, she took cover in the shadows until nearly closing time after all the Bob Dylan-wannabes and Joan Baez clones had gone home.

At the urging of another of our friends, Robin timidly approached the owner/manager, guitar case in hand, and asked if he might squeeze in a few minutes before locking up to hear her play. She was utterly unprepared for his reaction. The first notes out of her mouth were enough to convince this business-savvy entrepreneur – an engaging, humorous fellow not much older than ourselves at the time – that he had stumbled into a gold mine, or, more accurately, that the Golden Goose had walked into his office and placed the Golden Egg directly into his hands, dazzling him with possibilities. He hired her on the spot.

The weeks and months that followed changed our lives for all time. To a couple of middle-class Bellevue High School girls with oversized crushes on The Beatles and a shared aptitude for songwriting, the prospect of landing a regular Friday night gig at a popular Seattle coffee house could not have been more exciting.

In fact, we were convinced it was the coolest thing either of us had ever done. We got PAID to stay out past midnight and perform some of our own material in front of a live audience. During intermissions, we flirted and laughed with the cute 16 and 17 year old boys who worked there part-time as waiters, busboys, ushers and bartenders.

Driven by a desperate longing to flee the unbearable monotony of the affluent, WASP-ish Eastside, the two of us seized every occasion to practice our repertoire and learn new ballads and classic folk tunes. My alto when combined with Robin’s clear, bright soprano produced musical duets equivalent to the female Everly Brothers. Blending our voices became such a natural process, we would spontaneously launch into a chorus of the #1 Top Forty Beatles’ tune, or start singing Donovan’s “Catch The Wind” in the same key in perfect 2-part harmony.

Thrilled, excited, grateful, and poised to spread our wings as young women, we essentially lived from Friday night to Friday Night, dragging our asses through the excruciating tedium of another week at Bellevue High School. We walked like the Living Dead among the endless plastic smiles, the expensive wardrobes and sports cars, the agonizing pep rallies, the attitudes of “entitlement” and the hypocrisy, restlessly counting the days, the hours, the minutes leading up to another fun-filled night in Pioneer Square.

92 symbolized for us a metaphorical magic portal into a realm of self-discovery, romance, fantasy, folk and pop music. Our Irish boyfriends all secretly dreamed of joining a band and touring the world, following in such illustrious footsteps as John, Paul, George, and Ringo. The friendships forged during those heady weekends have indeed lasted a lifetime and the memories of those youthful escapades will forever endure in our hearts.