March Madness -- Smiling Through The Tears

Huge thanks -- HUGE -- to my band-mates, for getting me through the toughest time of my life ... you smiled, you made me smile, and together we created happy memories for our audiences, even as our own memories of March Madness 2015 will be bittersweet. Kate Valley, Don Pigeon, Matt Miller,  and Ann & Cal Lloyd: I love you! 

Thanks, too, to Rob Adolph for being our wonderful sound support, and thanks to Tam Smalling for merch sales and everything else. I am sure Greg is smiling -- Long Live Celtic Heritage!

To Memorialize Greg

Hey friends, letting you know I’m doing fine. Carrying on, just the way that Greg wanted me to do.

In his last few days, as we faced the reality of his passing, I asked Greg, “You know I’m not a flowers kinda gal. Is there some charity or something that you’d like people to contribute to in your memory?” Without hesitation, he named New World Celts, as they too have a mission to share Celtic culture. When I contacted our home chapter, New World Celts - (Asheville Chapter), they said they’d been considering establishing a scholarship in his honor/memory. Obviously, it was meant to be!

When I shared this with Greg, he was immensely pleased. A scholarship, for the exploration and study of Celtic music and dance. I can think of no more fitting tribute to a man for whom music was not just an interest, but a passion and indeed a way of life.

So it’s with great pleasure that I call your attention to the Greg McGrath Memorial Scholarship Fund. New World Celts, Asheville (NC), a chapter of New World Celts, a USA 501c3 charitable corporation, will administer the fund. (For those unfamiliar with the New World Celts, their mission statement appears at the end of this note.) I’ll be involved with the scholarship every step of the way. Details, including announcement of a selection/steering committee, eligibility, and application process will be forthcoming. I’m very excited about this! Though it’s a big task, I’d love to name its first recipient by summer’s beginning.

You may send and make donations payable to:
New World Celts Asheville Chapter
P.O. Box 1681
Asheville, NC 28802
attn: Greg McGrath Fund

Or, if you prefer, you may donate online. Here's a link to the tribute page found on the Celtic Heritage website; from there, you can follow the link to a secure donation site:
http://www.celticheritageproductions.com/mcgrath.htm

Thank you all, for all that you have meant to Greg and me, both personally and professionally.

Mission Statement of the New World Celts: To promote awareness of the outstanding contributions and history of the Celtic peoples in the formation and continuance of the New World. To provide a forum for the exchange and promotion of Celtic cultural information between the Celtic Associations of the New World; To act as liaison for coordination of and assistance to these Organizations. To provide a vehicle for charitable donations to promote Celtic culture in the New World in the areas of Cultural awareness, music, dance, athletics, re-enactments, and other areas deemed appropriate by the International Execute Committee. To support all Celtic cultural non-political, non-religious, non-racist organizations that espouse the same high ideals as ours, regardless of whether they are Scots, Irish, Galician, Manx, Welsh, Breton, or Cornish. To perpetuate Celtic Culture and history in the New World. To provide a fraternal atmosphere for members.

I am sitting quietly, quietly at the Hospice Care Center. It is a beautiful place of love and light. And I am watching Greg sleep. I've watched him the last few days ... no matter how much pain he is in or how visibly agitated, he always has a compliment and a kind word for his caregiver. He always thanks them. And they all love him; you can tell he has a positive influence on them; even though they treat thousands of different people with hundreds of different concerns they clearly regard him as someone special.

I think: Where have I seen this before? And I remember: my father. Greg is so very like my father in that regard. With both, there were those quick and fearsome flashes of temper when someone or some situation had just gone too far. But never, ever failing to give credit where credit was due.

Even in sickness, helping those around him to feel good.

Miracles

Brrrrr!  It's cold outside!  I'm in Asheville, NC, to produce tonight's Celtic Winter Blast ... just checked the outdoor temp and it's already at the forecast high for the day: 39 degrees. Although I've got the heat on, I feel the cold creeping toward me!  And I'm reminded of a time, many years ago ...

Back in 1976, when my dad was 50 years old, he developed Myasthenia Gravis, a neuromuscular disease that in his case was characterized by debilitating muscle weakness.  Searching for relief, by January 1977 he'd ended up in Shands Hospital, Gainesville, Florida.  My mother and I had gone back home to Arcadia, to work during his hospitalization.

January 19, 1977: The Day It Snowed In Miami

I was working as a teacher's aide in Arcadia, in a moden, practically windowless building.  The extreme cold in Miami had put a tremendous load on the power grid, and rolling power outages were the order of the day.  Imagine a building full of squirrely adolescents with only emergency lighting and no heat!  Since they were already in school, special preparations had to be made to call an early closing, so we were all stuck with each other for a few hours, at least.

And then the unexpected call came from my father.  "Please come get me.  They are discharging me today, because there's nothing they can do for me."

Sitting at my desk in the semi-dark, I felt the cold creeping toward me.  Was it physical cold?  Or was it the cold, empty feeling of "there's nothing they can do for me."  Time seemed to move unnaturally slowly as I contemplated my father's hopeless case.  By the time my mother and I were finally able to get on the road for Gainesville, we were both numb from cold and worry.  I still remember that drive ... occasionally touching the window glass of the car to feel how much colder it had gotten outside ... seeing great icicles dangling from tropical plants ... and I remember seeing my father's pale and grim face as they brought him in a wheelchair to the car.  "There's nothing they can do for me."

He lived another 27 years.  Most of them were fairly healthy years.

I'll spare you the details of the series of miracles that led to his eventual relief, but I will just say how grateful I am to God for those miracles, and for the medical team who were His earthly agents of healing.

It's time for another miracle, God willing. 

Greg can use your positive thoughts and prayers.  Thank you all for holding us close to your hearts.

More Better

Yesterday, returning home from the fourth performance in as many days, I stopped for fast food.  (Don't judge.  When you're as sick of driving as I sometimes get to be, stopping for a sit-down meal is not an option.)

Waiting in line at KFC, I studied my options and made my choice, but when I actually gave my order, the fellow at the register encouraged me to order differently: If you get this heah othah one, he said, pointing to a placard on the counter, it's 'bout the same thing, but mo' cheapah.  He said "No problem" to the substitution I'd have to make in order to eat while driving.  (Again, no judging please.)  And he also pointed out that I'd get a cookie!

Once upon a time, I would've been a little put off by the bad grammar.  Once upon a time, I would've wondered why in the world KFC would have a counter representative -- essentially the front man for their establishment -- who wasn't passably well-spoken.  But unfortunately, in recent years I find myself more and more surprised when I get good customer service.  These days, I'll even take indifferent service over hostile and argumentative service.  This man, grammatically inept though he may have been, was cheerful and caring as he steered me towards that mo' cheapah menu option.

I hope I see him again.  (The food was pretty delicious, especially that cookie, so it's not unlikely that I'll go back.)  

His customer service rating?  An enthusiastic, 5-star, MO' BETTAH!

Tribute to Hughie

Just learned of the death, last Sunday, of friend and fellow musician Hughie Purcell. Hughie, a member of Boston-based band Celtic Clan, was an incredibly talented musician and one of the funniest people I know. Even when I knew what was coming, he was such a clown; he'd have me practically rolling in the aisles with his on-stage antics. And he was SO supportive of me, when I first started playing out. A friendly, genuine individual, who'll surely be missed. Tír na nÓg's House Band is going to sound just a bit sweeter, and the breaks are going to be just a bit more comical ... RIP, Hughie.

Hughie at the 5th Annual Peace River Celtic Festival in 2005. He could play banjo. He could play bass. He could play fiddle and guitar and I don't know what else and he could sing. He could do it all musically, I believe, and he enjoyed it, and by golly he invited you to enjoy it too!

The Day Charley Came to Visit

Ten years ago today. Woo! Do I remember this! 

Greg and I were up in Northern Ohio as we tracked the progress of Hurricane Charley. Friends at home (Charlotte Harbor) had told us there was little to worry about, as the weathermen were predicting the storm would make landfall on Tampa Bay. Other weather gurus were forecasting Fort Myers as Charley's target. "There's a whole lotta real estate in between Tampa and Fort Myers," I fumed. "And guess who's right smack in the middle? I can't believe no one's figured this out!"

The morning of August 13, I touched base with "Uncle Jerry," the man who lived with Greg and me and took care of our house during our long road trips. "Nothin' to worry about, Honey;" he said, "the weathermen are still saying it's headed north of us and they've started evacuations in Tampa. Everybody's headed inland." Thinking to change the subject, he told me about that morning's breakfast, which he always took on the lanai. "It's the darndest thing. None of 'my' birds came into the yard and sang to me this morning. Wonder where they went?"

A cold fear gripped my heart. Because I knew where those birds had gone. They'd evacuated. Charley was headed for Charlotte Harbor.

(If you don't understand what I knew, let me briefly explain: Animals are much more sensitive to changes in barometric pressure than humans are (or perhaps allow themselves to be?). Native Floridians -- and by this, I mean the tribes of Native Americans who originally inhabited the state -- learned to forecast the weather by observing nature. To be honest, I trust their old methods more than I trust modern Doppler radar! I still recall a "legend" passed down to me about a family member who'd learned how to observe atmospheric changes and animal behavior from his Native American neighbors living on Sanibel Island. Their wisdom saved his life from one of those devastating storms that ravaged Florida in the early part of the twentieth century.)

I finally managed to persuade Jerry to leave our house, as it was too late to try to evacuate to a safer locale. But I figured misery loves company, and so I convinced him to go ride the storm out with our friend Vicki, who had storm panels on her windows. At least Jerry would not be home alone!

Greg and I had no TV in our campground (actually located in Western Pennsylvania's Old Order Amish Country). We headed out to a local sports bar near the interstate to see if they'd let us watch the Weather Channel on one of their TVs. And we sat right there, to watch Charley barrel into Charlotte Harbor. The birds knew. Thanks to the birds, I knew.

Jerry told me that it was the most frightening time of his entire life -- and he'd done service in the Air Force during the Korean War era!

Greg and I finished the show then made a beeline back home -- one of us would drive while the other one slept -- to find a mess. But compared to others, our house was relatively unscathed, even with the big gaping holes in living room and bedroom #2 ceilings. "Frances" created even more of a mess, since contractors hadn't been able to patch us up yet, beyond some tarps on the roof.

Funny story from Frances -- we'd hired three college students visiting from Estonia to do some tree removal/yard cleanup. They'd had experience in the forestry service back home, and absolutely insisted on continuing their work through Frances's Category 1 rain, saying, "This is a plain day back home in Estonia. No worries." Wow.

Then there was the time we were headed up to Massachusetts, heard about "Ivan" bearing down on us, rented a storage unit in Columbia, SC so that we could empty the van, then headed back down to Florida to salvage CDs and sound equipment ... because if another major hurricane had hit the house in its unrepaired state, it would've just taken the whole thing down. You find out what's really important to you when you've only got the space in a cargo van to save stuff!

Ivan missed us, though, spreading his brand of joy amongst our friends up in the Panhandle. Ugh. By the time "Jeanne" came around, roofing contractors had been hard at work ... and Jeanne spread our shingles all over the neighborhood.

A wearying summer for sure. Hope there's never another one like it!