The Sounds of Summer: The Dylan Concert

Bob Dylan at the Berkeley Greek Theater

June 16 marked a special day on our family calendar this year, since Dan would be celebrating his 75th birthday. But he wasn't alone. In May, Bob Dylan would also turn 75, so what better way to commemorate the two milestones than to attend a Dylan concert? And while we were at it, why not turn the event into a trip? That's exactly what happened when we bought tickets to hear the 60s bard at the Berkeley Greek Theater. It was the start of a summer of memorable music.

First stop, an AirBnB place in Santa Cruz, that island of 60s nostalgia along the Pacific shore an hour south of San Francisco where you're likely to spot a VW van painted in colorful psychedelic designs. Our sunny room opened onto a spacious deck that overlooked an outdoor aviary, rambling gardens bursting with exotic plants, and a circular paved labyrinth embedded with artistic tiles. After checking in, we meandered to downtown Santa Cruz where a Bernie Sanders group marched along a leafy commercial avenue, and street musicians sang and performed with steel guitars, a washboard, and additional instruments. A gallery opening beckoned us to admire beautifully crafted pottery, glass, and paintings while a more modest shop displayed healthy gourmet products and crafts produced by homeless people. Lillian's Italian Kitchen, in a converted warehouse with a modern vibe, served generous portions of fine dining cuisine, the nightcap to a perfect day.

The next morning, we flew from Oakland to Portland for a visit with Dan's brother, Tom, and his wife, Nickie. In June, their delightful home in the small town of Forest Grove features a double lot ripe with delicious summer harvest -- berries, veggies, and greens, which we were delighted to sample at every meal. Day two we visited Nickie's downtown condo, in the Portland walking neighborhood called ABC. The summer weather enticed us to wander and explore thrift stores in the quaint urban setting. The warm breezy night led us to a sidewalk cafe for a tasty dinner before we returned to Oakland the next morning.

Before the concert, Carlsbad neighbors Lynne and Paul picked us up from our AirBnB room at a lovely home in a tree-lined neighborhood of Berkeley to chauffeur us to the downtown Shattuck Hotel for a birthday toast and appetizers. The art deco landmark features arched, paned windows, rich wood carvings, and a black-and-white tiled floor. At concert time, we Ubered our way up the hill to the classical  outdoor amphitheater where the harmonica/guitar/piano-playing legend took center stage.

I first heard Bob Dylan during college days in Louisville, when he performed with the harmonica hung on his neck and the criticism, escapism, and politics of the 60s woven through his lyrics, i.e. The Times They Are A Changing and Mr. Tambourine Man. About ten years ago, he caught my attention again with a Grammy-winning album, "Modern Times," which we loved to play on the road, during cross-country and Canada RV travel. The more current selections reveal a maturity and spirituality that was unexpected, given the fate of so many 60s performers who've faded in and out of the popular music scene. The CD revitalized Dylan's career as a master storyteller and musician, this time with a wistful yearning and appreciation for all that life has given and taken. In a 2015 AARP article he offered as an exclusive, Bob Dylan: The Uncut Interview, he says passion is for the young; wisdom for the old.

That night in Berkeley, the old sage entertained with American songbook standards, What'll I Do?, Autumn Leaves, Love Sick; few old tunes, i.e. Blowin' in the Wind; and one of my favorites, Spirit on the Water, from "Modern Times." The raspy voice adds to the legitimacy of a man who's traveled the long and winding road to share the regrets and riches of a life lived fully. The stance is firm, legs stiff and feet far apart, to sink into the words of a song. You never get the feeling that Dylan is anywhere except in the heart of the music. At the piano, he seemed to relish countless numbers, giving an impression that he could go on forever. Who knew he could play so well and for so long, with a small band for backup? I'd been a casual observer, not a devoted fan, so this was a treat, especially on the slower Sinatra tunes, to whom and to which he pays homage in the AARP interview.

And who would've guessed he stowed away so much from a six-decade career, to document the arc of the artist? In March, before concert tickets were purchased, the New York Times ran a feature story and half-page photo about Bob Dylan's Archive. A very private person, he not only acquired a mountain of memorabilia, but he chose the University of Tulsa as its final resting place, alongside Woody Guthrie's archive. What better way to display the voice of the 60s generation than to couple it with the voice of the Dust Bowl era?

Dylan continues to draw flocks of pilgrims, old and young, to what has been called "the never-ending tour." How lucky were we, under the starry starry night of a Greek amphitheater in Northern California, to revisit our own history through Bob Dylan's music? A night to celebrate a special birthday, a seasoned artist, and a walk down memory lane, complete with the people and places of our own past that the music evokes.

February/March 2015 AARP Magazine

YA Novel Contest -- Deadline Today!

In case you're interested, see the information below about a contest for YA fiction.  But so sorry, the deadline is today!!  You still have time if you can send the first 150--250 words of that awesome final draft in your computer.  Good Luck!


New FREE contest for writers of Young Adult: 

Go to:   http://tinyurl.com/z7e9rsc 

Judged by agent Andrea Morrison of Writers House, via @chucksambuchino

Remembering Daddy

Marvin Luther Hale
August 22, 1922-January 20, 2008

(These are edited comments I offered at my father's funeral.)

When I think of Daddy, I recall the many memories that defined my childhood, as well as my siblings' and even some of my cousins'. He was a prankster and tease with my mother, and a strong disciplinarian with his kids, but he had a soft side, too, which had already weathered a few storms by the time he became a father. For starters, he was raised by a single mom who divorced his dad when Daddy was two years old. She went on to graduate from law school and become an attorney. After World War II, when Daddy returned from his service as a Marine on Navy ships in the South Pacific, his mom died in a car crash. He and my pregnant mother survived the crash, as did my maternal grandparents, but Mother suffered two fractures to her pelvis and was ordered on bed rest until my sister was born, six weeks early at three pounds, fifteen ounces. Daddy's father, whom he called Luther, ran a successful bookie business, upstairs in his popular Sycamore Cafe near Churchill Downs. As a youngster growing up in Louisville, Daddy stopped by the cafe after school to visit his dad, and traveled with him to French Lick, Indiana a couple of times to spend the night at a resort where Luther had spa treatments. My father's early life experiences involved some bumps in the road, which gave him a sense of compassion and tolerance for less fortunate people he would encounter throughout his life. It was easy to miss this sense of justice in our dad during the early years of fatherhood when he stood out as a bigger-than-life character and strict parent. But later on, when he marched to the beat of a slower drum, and I'd had some life experiences, myself, I came to appreciate even more the father I already loved and admired.

As four kids born in a span of eight years, we reveled in the colorful stories our dad told at the dinner table. He painted a picture of himself as a child escape artist with babysitters while his mother worked at the downtown courthouse. We wouldn't have dreamed of climbing out of a bathroom window to jump on a bike and take off for the rest of the day, like he did, but we laughed every time the master storyteller entertained us with his pranks. We considered him our very own grownup “little rascal,” like Spanky or Alfalfa, on the “Our Gang” TV series.

Always athletic, he prodded us to follow in those footsteps. When we spent an afternoon at  Lighthouse Lake, Daddy was the one who swam in the chilly quarry water with three little kids clinging to his back. When we were older, during family camping trips to Dale Hollow in Tennessee, he yelled instructions to us from the back of a buzzing speedboat as we bobbed in the water, a crossbar in our hands and water skis on our feet. And it wasn't unusual for him to rouse us up on a Saturday morning for calisthenics in the living room -- USMC style. We knew how to "ride a bike" on our backs, and jump in time for "spread eagles" until we were out of breath. He was the coach, MVP, and referee for baseball, basketball, and badminton games during warm summer weekends. With his enthusiastic example, we didn't need President Kennedy's advice about physical fitness. We played hard and loved it, hanging on as long as we could, our faces beet red.   

Daddy was a self-made man. During high school, if I woke in the middle of the night, I might catch the glow of a light still on downstairs. On more than one occasion, I spotted him in the wood rocking chair (he sneaked it into the house as a surprise Christmas gift for Mother one year) reading one of our textbooks. Ever curious, he yearned for what he’d missed because he left school after ninth grade. In 1946, when his mom died, Daddy used the inheritance from selling his mother's apartment building to buy a dry cleaning business. A few years later, he studied for a real estate license so he could contract and sell houses, and eventually he hung his own shingle as a broker. Full of energy and ambition, he learned from his cousin, Irvin, how to design and build houses. On many occasions, he worked through the night in his home office to draw blueprints for the houses he'd build and sell.

The stories of Daddy as a landlord are legendary. In many ways, he was more of a real estate guy with a minor in social work. Sometimes, to close a sale, he'd accept low-rent property as full or partial commission. And sometimes, when a tenant couldn’t pay the rent, he'd buy and deliver groceries to them. In at least one case, he bailed an irresponsible young tenant out of jail because of a run-in with the law. But more than anything, Daddy loved turning a tenant into an owner through his infamous lease option (to buy) deals. He had his own rules, but roughly, the tenant signed a lease that allowed a certain percentage of the rent to be applied toward a down payment for purchase of the property.

Some of the best memories were in the kitchen with Daddy. As long as you ignored his non-housekeeping practices, you could enjoy a fabulous breakfast that left the entire house smelling like bacon, or a lunch or dinner of homemade vegetable soup or chili, courtesy of the chef. As he grew older and made fewer trips to the basement office, the kitchen table served as his desk. From it, he made regular donations to worthy causes, including everything from the World Wildlife Fund to the American Veterans, to the Democratic Party or whatever list he was on. He sent a couple of dollars to each to cover postage, and regretted he couldn't afford more. Calendars, recycle bags, and personalized return address labels from nonprofit groups were stacked high on kitchen chairs.  

Daddy was never one to plan travel beyond his business trips around the Louisville vicinity. When he visited us in California, we bought and sent the airplane ticket to ensure he didn’t back out. The times Dan and I spent with him were a total treat because he always enjoyed himself once he arrived, and we loved having him around.  

·               In 1986 in Manhattan Beach, he and his WWII buddy, Warner, met up for a long overdue reunion that included both my mother and Warner's wife. For two nights in our family room, Daddy and Warner reminisced and filed through old scrapbooks to recall the life-shaping events they shared as Marines, members of “the greatest generation.” Afterwards, the two couples when out to dinner for a few drinks, extended conversation, and more updates about their families and lives since WWII. 

·               In New Mexico, Daddy joined me for a work event and took in tourist sites with us. He beamed with pride as I welcomed reporters to a University of New Mexico press conference, to announce the launch of a state pedestrian safety campaign on the July 4th weekend. He hiked trails at Bandelier National Monument near Santa Fe where Native Americans lived in cliff dwellings, and he scaled the ladders to peek into the unusual homes carved out of solid rock walls. At Acoma pueblo, where Native Americans lived in a small town on a high plateau, Daddy posed with a tribal elder in front of an ancient adobe home. Always a dog lover, he heaped tons of attention on the scruffy canine population at the pueblo. The last stop before he flew home was a tailgate dinner and champagne party for the opening of the Santa Fe Opera season. His take on it? “A little bit of opera goes a long way!” 

·               In Atlanta, Daddy hiked along the Chattahoochee River with us, and for a Christmas holiday in San Diego, he stayed in a timeshare that overlooked the ocean and hosted sunset cocktails on his deck.

·               In 2006, we bought an RV coach near Nashville and drove it straight to Daddy’s house in Louisville where we parked it in his yard. He was 84 by then, but eager to help us stock it for the journey home. We were surprised the next morning when he knocked on the door and offered to assist Dan to put air in the tires for the trip. A habitual night owl, his usual wakeup time was around noon. 

·               In 2007, we made another RV trip to Kentucky and spent an entire week visiting family. One night we invited him to join us for dinner at Captain's Quarters, a popular spot on the river he and Mother enjoyed during the houseboat years and beyond. Since he wasn't known for being on time, we got to his house early and were shocked to see him ready and waiting when we pulled into his driveway. Weeks later, I wondered if he knew his time was near and he might not see us again. 

I'm grateful that my daughters and grandsons got to know my parents. Betsy and Amy visited Mother and Daddy when they were young, and both went back with me for Kentucky Derby trips when they were older. Several years after Mother died, all of us, including my three grandsons, returned to Louisville for a family wedding. It was touching to see Dane, Westin, and Riley line up in chairs to talk to Great Popa, who held court in his Lazy Boy lounger as his dog, Duke, kept a watchful eye on the strangers in the house. The boys wanted to know about Daddy's role in World War II. They were fascinated by his stories, especially Riley, whose middle name is my maiden name.

I’ll always be grateful for Daddy’s example, compassion, and thirst for knowledge. In my last conversation with him, the week before the 2008 Super Bowl, I told him I was working as a consultant to develop an educational campaign about stem cells. He read the newspaper daily, front to back, and seldom missed an evening news broadcast, so he responded immediately with information about the latest advance in stem cell research announced just that week. He said he hoped it would help my aunt, his sister-in-law, who suffered from lung cancer. He didn't mention his own battles with arthritis, heart disease, and diabetes, which led to his death a week later. It was always fun talking to him, but it was also frustrating when I tried to get him to do all the right things for his health and safety. When I suggested assisted living, he told me, "Vicki, I'm gonna die in my boots." I have to admit he always did it his way. As a result, Daddy's life had more than a little bit of opera. It was a sweet thing to behold, and we were so lucky that it really did go a long, long way.

Bill Walton: A San Diego Hero Who Keeps on Giving

In 1983, I accepted a position as communications director for the San Diego-Imperial Chapter of the March of Dimes. Over the next three years, I would work with numerous celebrities like Jonas Salk, Marion Ross, Hal Linden, Tom Selleck, Dan Fouts, Steve Garvey, TV news anchors, and elected officials, who donated their time to charity causes. But it was during my first week on the job, when I delivered an award to an athlete unable to attend the annual dinner, I met perhaps the most impressive celebrity I would encounter throughout my career. Bill Walton, who played basketball for the San Diego Clippers from 1979-1985 (Bill Walton NBA Bio), was a giant at six-foot-eleven, but his height shrunk in comparison to his heart. I was thrilled when he gave me tickets to attend the game that night. Little did I know, he was the one who always gave, still gives, and will never stop giving.

Charlie Neumann: San Diego Union-Tribune

Walton's astounding career achievements were the result of years of blood, sweat, guts, doctors, and broken bones. He entered the pros as a stand out player with enormous promise, but dozens of injuries starting at Helix High School in La Mesa and continuing for decades throughout his career (and beyond) led to one of the most acclaimed, but erratic bios in NBA history. The professional arc is littered with absences caused by the injuries and surgeries, but propelled by superhuman courage to rebound. Underneath it all, Walton never allowed the setbacks to stop him from giving his all, at the goal line or the donor line.

The recipient of countless awards and accolades, he's often remembered as the UCLA superstar and boisterous, outspoken redhead and Grateful Dead super-fan who wore tie-died shirts before he evolved into the more mature man of legendary fame as an uncompromising competitor and community icon. Never one to seek recognition for his charitable work, Walton's passionate support of other athletes, local charities, and scores of people whose names you've never heard reveal the true man. For so many reasons, it's pure gratification to see the Bill Walton bronze statue unveiled this weekend in Mission Bay. An exuberant figure stands next to a bicycle with arms outstretched. The image is one of sheer joy, a symbol of Walton's love for San Diego and the golden athlete with the big heart. See the U-T story: Bronzed Bill Walton Is San Diego Gold Standard.

The timing of the statue coincides with the March 22nd publication of Walton's memoir, which you can hear him read (Coach Wooden and UCLA days) in that unique, broadcaster voice at: Back From the Dead by Bill Walton. The book reveals a lifetime of struggles and recoveries, from stuttering as a child and young athlete, to the nonstop injuries and hospitalizations, to 2008, when a collapsed spine left him crawling on the floor for three years. In 2012, Walton publicly regretted that he hadn't been able to help Junior Seau, a friend whose shocking, untimely death was linked to a chronic brain injury caused by football concussions. In an interview about Seau, Walton evokes heartfelt sadness and a palpable memory of his own near suicide: Bill Walton Sad He Couldn't Help Seau.

A rare and revered champion, Bill Walton personifies what it means to never give up and never quit giving. The city of San Diego and thousands more, lucky recipients of his generous heart, give thanks to Bill Walton from the bottom of ours.

There Are Threads in My Life

In honor of National Poetry Month, I'm sharing my poem, There are Threads in My Life, which is published this month in the San Diego Poetry Annual 2015-16.

VICKI HOFFMAN BECK

There Are Threads in My Life

The early threads are soft,
Golden fiber to the touch.

Unmarked, no judgment, simple needs of 

Baby talk, rocking chair sweet.

They grow into woven fibers that flow

With curiosity and explorations.

Toddler years touch, see, taste, hear, and feel 

Worlds beyond a room and house.

New discoveries sew fabric rich, 

Patterns that pulse and play. 

Colorful, joyful, promises and feats 

Lead to uncharted lands and people.

Bound only by bold imagination,

A tapestry of flowering fields

Morphs into lifetime pursuits, and pauses 

To hold all that's dear.

Blankets over fresh new infants, 
Children to come,
Lives to shape,

Love to share.

The cloth covers and protects, 

Teaches and encourages, 

New worlds to explore
From fibers that flourish.

A woven circle coils into itself, 

Building strength and bonds 

From depth and beauty.
Gifts of the earth and sun.

Life springs into life. 

Love into love. 
Memories into more 
Memories. 

Touched by the Blues: Keb Mo Style

Late Wednesday afternoon I read online that Keb Mo (Kevin Moore) was playing Friday night at the Balboa Theater in San Diego. Fast, I checked with Ticketmaster and Dan, and purchased two seats for what promised to be our birth of the blues with Keb Mo, who is celebrating his twelfth full-length album and the twentieth anniversary of a musical career he launched as Keb Mo. Last summer, before a trip to Memphis and Nashville, I discovered the Blues Americana album on his website. On his home page was a YouTube video in which he played the guitar and sang a song from the album: "Old Me Better" with the California Feetwarmers. Instant infatuation took over. I was hooked on this singer/songwriter musician. Click here to see what I mean: Old Me Better

Photo: La Jolla Music Society

"I like taking it slow," the tall Los Angeles native in a casual suit and hat said in his low velvet voice. That was near the beginning of the show, which lasted nearly two hours straight. The tempo picked up as the night settled in. Half a dozen small square panels, each with a grid of bulbs, hung from the lower back wall of the stage to flicker and switch night club colors with each song. Newbies to a Keb Mo concert, we didn't know what to expect, but the easy-going style of this seasoned performer lulled us into blues euphoria. The music matches the man, a treasure to behold, with three Grammys and assorted awards for further proof.

Slower numbers dominated the first half of the show as he twirled on a low stool for guitar changes on the bare bones stage, except for additional instruments and equipment. Faster tempos picked up the speed for the second half as Keb Mo stood. The three musicians who complete his four-man ensemble joined him. At one point early on, he smiled and said, "now we're getting into my personal stuff." What you quickly learn about the artist is that he writes and sings about everyday life as he experiences and observes it -- relationships, people, challenges, and pursuits. When asked in an interview about his mix of blues with other genres, he explained that he only has two genres -- "what I like and what I don't like." He adapts whatever musical style works for the lyrics and melody. The storytelling comes from an authentic, honest place, which he shares in the introductions to lyrics printed for the Blues Americana album. The playful humor is irresistible in his songs and comes across in the asides to a grateful audience. His BIO describes Keb Mo's unique style and popularity best: his combination of masterful, anecdotal writing skills, distinctive guitar versatility and rich, resonant blues-soaked vocals are a testament to his longevity as a singer/writer.

Older songs in the Friday night program included (in no particular order):

"More Than One Way Home," about the people and places he knew growing up in Compton, California.

"She Just Wants to Dance," about a girl whose moves are for the music, not for hanky panky.

"Shave Yo Legs," about a guy who wants the girl to be herself, wild and free, not wear makeup or read the magazines (you already know how to get to me), and you don't need to shave yo legs for me. This song drew plenty of giggles from the sellout crowd.

"One Friend," about the need for that one person who stands by you and never lets you down.

"Suitcase," about baggage and complaints in a marriage, being shown the door, and begging to stay.

Newer songs from the "Blues Americana" album included: 

"Old Me Better:" about the humorous yearning for life before commitments to marriage and family.

"The Worst Is Yet to Come," about sticking with marriage when things get hard, and understanding the meaning of the words you heard at the wedding -- "for better or worse."

"Somebody Hurt You," reassuring the girl that she's been through a lot, but those hardships are behind her, she can let them go, because the guy's there to protect her now.

"So Long Goodbye," about the end of a relationship and the regrets that go with it.

The performance wound down with an encore of still more numbers, and closed with Keb Mo's rendition of "God Bless America," followed by the audience singing the traditional version to the accompaniment of the band. A fitting end to a thrilling concert that showcased the considerable talents of a gifted performer.

Photo: kebmo.com

Providing for Pets of the Homeless

By Bailey Weber (Guest)

For my whole life, I've had a great passion for helping animals that are neglected or abandoned. Since this is my senior year in high school, I'm finally getting a chance to do something about it. I discovered the perfect service project and couldn't pass up this opportunity. I hope you'll join me in this effort, if not now, at some point in the future. 

By working with "My Dog Eats First," I've gained new awareness about a serious problem in our local area and around the country. I've learned that there's a lack of food and supplies to provide for animals, particularly the pets of homeless people. The mission of "My Dog Eats First" is stated on their website: 

Our mission is to provide pet food, supplies, basic vaccinations, and spay/neuter services for the pets of the homeless and underserved within our community. We provide this support in a judgement-free environment for individuals and families who are committed to the health and wellness of their pets and desire to keep them. In doing so, we believe we are:

• Keeping the homeless united with what in most cases is the only living thing that provides  them with companionship, protection and unconditional love;
• Reducing the amount of healthy pets surrendered to shelters because of financial burden; and
• Saving healthy pets from unnecessary euthanasia by keeping them with their families.

I'm teaming up with this organization which works hand-in-hand with other nonprofit groups, volunteering in the community wherever they're needed to provide free pet food, supplies, veterinary care, and spay/neuter services without judgement.

For some, these animals are the only companions they may have. My goal is to gather enough items to help both this organization and the families and pets that benefit.

If you live in the Louisville area, 

you can help me by collecting some of the items needed by March 6. 

If you have any of these items and you no longer need or want them, 

contact me: bweber@holycrosshs.com.

Supplies that the "My Dog Eats First" often needs:

• Dog/Cat Food – Wet and Dry
• Heavy Duty Storage Bins (for their food bank, to keep the mice out)
• Zip Lock Bags (1 or 2 Gallon and Sandwich Size Ziploc Bags)
• Cat Litter
• Animal Food Dishes & Water Bowls
• Collars/Leashes & Harnesses of ALL sizes
• Old Blankets
• Toys
• Treats

I am willing to pick up the items at your convenience. If you're a neighbor who lives nearby, feel free to drop them off on our porch. I've been amazed by the response so far. Many neighbors, friends, and co-workers of my parents have already contributed, so please join us in making this an even bigger success. If you're unable to contribute now, you can always contribute later by clicking on the organization's website: www.mydogeatsfirst.com.

If you live in other cities or states, google your area to find a pet delivery location that is serving homeless populations.

          Note: I will be accepting items until March 6th 

For each item donated, your name will be placed into a drawing for a chance to win one of two $50 Visa Gift Cards. 
Thank you to those who are able to help me help these pets.

Bailey Weber:  bweber@holycrosshs.com