It feels so natural

"These four years (2011, 2012, 2013, 2014) are the critical, pivotal years when the tide must turn and the years when the conditions favorable for such a turn are arising. Step up, take your stand and be part of this special time in history." - Four Years. Go. Campaign website

This week, I stood at work chatting with a coworker about the beauty of alternative transportation. While right now, the combination of the weather/the time I've been working isn't really conducive to doing anything but drive myself, it would be wonderful to explore what options there were here in Knoxville. So let's explore.

Chats with some coworkers led me to believe that the bus system was minimal. But it seems like Knoxville Area Transit system does a pretty decent job considering it caters to about five counties. (Metro Pulse had an interesting read about this a few years ago. Check it out if you are super curious about bus transit.)

My main purpose for the post is really to talk about bikes. A good chunk of the conversation with my coworker dealt with bike commuting in cities. Both of us have at one point in our lives experienced the bike-share system, myself in Denver, CO. In a bike-share, there are essentially bike stations throughout the city where you pop in your credit card to unlock a bike and ride around for however long you would like. When you are finished, just find any bike share location and drop it off. I found this to be a unique and exciting way to explore the city, not to mention helpful for those without a bike looking to get to work a couple days a week this way.

But what about just general biking here in Knoxville? Is Knoxville a bike-friendly community? In my opinion, I feel the downtown area would definitely benefit from something like a bike-share system. Heck, it appears there has already been work done to begin that bike welcoming process. For commuters, a couple of bike corrals have been placed in the downtown area to allow for safer bike parking, and last Friday, city crews actually completed a bike route from Gay Street downtown to Knoxville Zoo. Pretty cool! That brings the grand total of bike-friendly routes in the city to 25.5 miles.

Checking out the city's bike map (found on the knoxtrans.org website), there seems to be a ways to go in terms of making many of the main streets safer for bicyclists. Most don't have bike lanes and there really aren't shoulders on many for bicyclists to venture in to. But it definitely appears that there has been progress. Evidently, the City Council passed a resolution in 2009 endorsing a complete street policy, you know, one where the road is friendly to more than just motorists. The listened to a presentation from a group on this very topic at the end of February pushing for more progress on that front. And it seems a lot of work as been put into the greenways, which according to one of the city websites, link much of the city and from personal experience are perfect for biking.

I honestly cannot wait to see how this bike-friendly work progresses. I'll be keeping up to date on things here, at the Knoxville Regional Bike Program's site. Check it out to find out more.

Happy biking!

Ithaca. Troy. Now, Knoxville. Somehow I've lucked out in my life to have fabulous downtown areas characterized by pedestrian walkways, farmers markets and festivals, and some really great food. Why lucky? Let's journey together on this one....

It wasn't until I started some classes in Environmental Studies in college that I realized just how much of a gem these places were. Why, I even wrote a "Pulse of the People" for my hometown newspaper about it, "The gems of downtown." Surprisingly, it was met with negative commentary. I'll never forget it. 

Downtowns are gems indeed. More often than not, they hold with them so much life and tales of our history. Of times before ours that were once the focal points of our cities. They were what made our cities thrive. 

I did a smidge of research about Knoxville's downtown, specifically Market Square, and here's what I could muster up in a short period of Google-enduced research. According to the Market Square Design Guidelines and Designation Report, put out by the Knoxville Historic Zoning Commission, Market Square made its debut in 1854 on land that was actually donated. It was the perfect spot for farmers and sellers to showcase and sell their product. Aside from not only the "Market House," Market Square originally housed the police and fire departments, as well as City Hall, making it a focal point of the city, the report explains.

in 1960, the Market House was demolished due to a fire. A 2012 Knoxville News Sentinel article looked back on the night of the fire, and it's certainly interesting to hear that certain folks found the fire coincidental considering city officials were at the time tired of the decaying Market House and wanted to tear it down. The fire ended up being caused by a 14-year-old attempting to "sneak a smoke," the Sentinel wrote. But Market Square continued to be a topic of debate among city folk. If you have a moment, check out the article, it's a great read.

While businesses on the edges of Market Square, like many in these types of downtown neighborhoods, came and went, some stayed for years. And even though work has been done on the buildings since the 1800s, the structures still emit the sense of place and history. 

I know there is so much more to learn about this beautiful city's downtown, but I hope that gave you a taste of the rich history that can be found in our downtowns. Do a simple Google search; you'd be surprised what you find. At the risk of this sounding like my "Pulse of the People" speak out, they really are gems, and I can't wait to be there this weekend to explore more. 

Oh! And if you are interested, I'm about to purchase this book by local writer, Jack Neely. It's all about Knoxville's Market Square. I can't wait to read (and discuss if anyone is interested).

I stood in a crowd of brand new coworkers yesterday soaking in their knowledge of my new home. I wish I had my recorder, I thought to myself. Best places to eat. Great hikes. Tubing in rivers. And the greenways. I had mentioned my love of running and the Knoxville greenways came up more than once. So this morning I tried my hand at the closest one and was quite pleased with what I found. 

The chocolate animal was far more excited than I ever thought he would be. Cooped in a hotel room the past handful of days, he was eager to gallop. So we headed over to Turkey Creek, a consumer hotspot in Knoxville, and low and behold my coworkers were right:

a greenway did exist there! Smack dab in between a busy highway and the back of a shopping complex, the Turkey Creek Greenway spans for a couple of miles, and while you get some great views of the consumer hotspot, if you venture a little further, you find a sanctuary. I can only imagine what it looks like in the summer. 

According to the city's website, the greenway runs through the Turkey Creek wetland. Managed by the Tennessee Izaak Walton League, the wetland is the largest in Knox County. The league, which represents about eight counties in East Tennessee, "strives to use common sense conservation policies and methods to conserve, maintain, protect and restore soil, air, woods, water and wildlife," as their mission says. It was incredible to see this happening in a section of town seemingly unoccupied by wildlife. 

"Protected land" signs were visible every couple hundred feet. Bird feeders spanned the length of the greenway. And small signs of wildlife showed their face to me. 

More than 1,000 people gathered in Albany Monday to send a strong message to Gov. Andrew Cuomo that they don't want fracking in New York.

I found out about the rally Sunday afternoon through Twitter and was hoping that I would be able to go Monday, even for a short while.

Luckily, I was able to. And it was a pretty awesome experience. 

Signs were held left and right saying "Don't Frack New York," "NY Says No Fracking," "No Eminent Domain, No Pipeline Period," and "No Drill, No Spill."

T-shirts, buttons, and stickers portayed many other slogans.

Well-known activists, like Sandra Steingraber, Bill McKibben, and Josh Fox, joined them.

And the people were yelling about what they fear will happen to their communities if fracking is allowed in the state.

It reminded me a lot of Ithaca, from covering the the anti-fracking rallies in the city to the topic just constantly being on my radar when I was there.

This year has been interesting since graduating. I've moved into the journalism field and have had little time for my other degree...my other passion...environmental studies.

Being at the rally today, even though I couldn't be there very long, was a reminder of not only how important our health is, but how important Ma Earth is and all she provides.

I have to commend those who rallied in the capital today to show Cuomo just how important this decision is.

So do we frack New York? Or don't we? I guess we'll see.

I sat on the porch reading my book.

The chocolate monster was at my feet.

The air was light, the sunset was breathtaking, and it was quiet.

But not too quiet.

The sound of cicadas calling out to one another filled the air.

And in the distance I heard the dull whoosh of what I knew to be cars.

But as I closed my eyes, my location had transformed.

My sister is in Maine now, a place I love, and as I closed my eyes I felt I was there.

The sunset over the trees nearby became the sunset over the glassy water.

My light sweatshirt and the comfy chair I was sitting in with my feet up became my beach chair on the dark sand and the perfect outfit for an evening stroll on Long Sands.

The whooshing of the cars became the sound of the waves as they crashed against the rocks.

And of course the smell.

Now this smell was legitimate.

It was of seawater and lobster, probably a neighbor having a lobster bake for dinner.

But it made the scene complete as I closed my eyes.

It was perfect.

And the fact that my memories of York Beach, Maine can bring a sense of piece to me and a smile from 5.5 hours away from it, makes me happy and grateful that I was ever introduced to it in the first place.

I'm sitting on the ground where she used to sit. It's right next to the new couch. She got mad when the new one came because it meant she couldn't have "her spot" anymore. "Her spot" was the end of the couch closest to the television. Curled in a little ball, she had the perfect spot to survey the living room but keep tabs on the front door. If you were sitting in "her spot" she would stare at you until you moved. It was her spot after all.

By the photos and description, you can can probably tell by now that I'm talking about a canine. But not just a pup. She had a personality. She had a character. And it was a personality and character that helped my family through some of life's most difficult challenges.

It was the year after my dad passed away. The whole family had been bumming pretty hard that year. There was a presence missing in the house. A silence. Not that dad was loud, but he was there and we were comforted. But that year was different. About 11 months later, a woman came in to our living room with a box of huskey-wolf puppies. We picked up the little golden one in the box and we knew she would fit in perfectly here.

We named her Bailey and the rest, you could say, is history. 

For some people it's hard to understand how an animal can become another member of the family. To some, a dog is just a dog. But not Bailey. She brought smiles and laughter to our home at a time when we needed it. The house was no longer silent. The tap of her feet. The jingle of her collar. The ferocious bark when she heard a loud noise. 

When mom got sick with breast cancer, Bailey was the one who gave her something to hope for. Curled up between her knees when mom laid on the couch in pain. Following her everywhere in the house when she was moving slower than she ever had. Mom called Bailey her "therapy dog," and soon we all called her our "little miracle."

Bailey, or Bailey-girl, or puppy-girl, or Baila as I often called her, was indeed just that.  She loved each and every one of us and we loved her. She cared about us. And we cared about her. She was the one who would be up for any adventure with me, when no one else would dare. We would hike and run, snowshoe, and play together.

Just a few days ago I left to visit a friend for the weekend. I told her goodbye and that Jess would be back shortly to let her out. She was fine. Normal spunky Bailey. Well, within a day or two something wasn't right. She whimpered when she jumped off the couch. When Mom got back from her trip, she hopped in the car and took her to the vet. But within hours, Bailey got worse, to the point where she couldn't jump into the car herself. She hurt. 

After another trip to the animal hospital later, Bail was diagnosed: she had been bit by a tick. Her platelet levels were very low. She had lyme disease. She had eherlichia, an awful bacterial disease. Her kidneys were 75 percent shot. In just hours, she was not the same dog. The color remained in her eyes, but her body was the body of a very old dog. Bailey was only 6.

I rushed home from my trip and when I walked in the door, she couldn't greet me at the door, something that was just not like her. I walked in and said "O Bailey-girl" as I cried. Her ears and legs twitched with the little strength she had. And I just laid in front of her face thanking her, telling her i loved her, and reminding her how beautiful she was.

Within three hours I found out my dog was dying, said my final goodbye, told her I loved her a million times, and sat with her at the hospital when it was her time. 

I'd like to think that my dad now has a little companion. That they will watch over us together from above as they both had done when they were here. Baila is no longer suffering, and that's all that matters. Sure, I question why such an awful thing had to happen to her in the first place. But I have to keep positive with the fact that she was our miracle and we were so incredibly fortunate to have her for the time we did.People can go years without feeling that kind of love from a dog. And I feel lucky that I wasn't one of those people.

So this is a long post dedicated to a beautiful golden house wolf who I miss and love more than she will ever know.

I love you Bail. I hope the walks and people food are plentiful where you are. <3

When I went to school in Ithaca, one of the few places a I grew to adore was Castaways. A dive bar/ music venue with a whole lot of character (and even better music and staff), Castaways has been an amazing part of the Ithaca community. I bring this up because I just found out that their lease is not being renewed, so their perfect little spot on the waterfront will no longer be theirs come summer. Very sad news to hear. 

I spent a great deal of time there during my second semester senior year, as I chose it as the place I wanted to have my immersion journalism experience. I spent any time I could there, alone or with a group. I grew to love the atmosphere and the people.

In honor of this eclectic piece of Ithaca, I thought I might share a never before published piece that I wrote about it, the result of my immersion into its culture.

Cheers, Castaways; you won't be forgotten.

It’s All Love in the House Tonight

By Rebecca Webster

May 2011

  Josh Lambert knew this day was coming for a few weeks. May 3rd, the day he would certainly never forget, dubbed Slamfest 2009.

            Castaways was filled with people by 2pm. The bands were setting up on the stage across from the bar. Icicle lights strung behind the stage matched the string lights that wrapped around the outer dock entrance opposite the main parking lot. Inside, a merchandise table was set up with shirts and stickers. Outside the grill. Everyone was preparing for an epic event.

Josh’s two sisters, Mama and Papa Lambert and some of his extended family had been planning the benefit for weeks. But not without the help of the Castaways crew, specifically Elliot, event booking guru at Castaways, and one of Josh’s best friends. Benefit concerts are quite frequent there. Josh would normally help in their execution. But on that specific Sunday, the Slamfest benefit was for him. All he had to do was show up.

***

“Rum, coke and a lime please,” shouts a stumbling brunette at the bar. “No spiced rum, a lighter one.”

“That’ll be five dollars.” Josh shouts back, leaning over the bar with a snow-white towel over his shoulder. The towel’s a staple when he works.

A tiny sip. “Mmm yea, I’ll have two more of those.”

He glides back to the cocktail glasses stacked next to the 12-inch 1970 Panasonic TV behind him. Its glow mimicking the neon Castaways sign outside atop the building.

His movement behind the bar is fluid, every step transforming into the next, hair never moving in the process. Every night the bartenders are first-on, second-on, or third-on, depending on skill level and time they’ve been there. Josh has been bartending for about nine years, six of which have been at Castaways. Naturally, tonight he’s first-on.

Within 30 seconds, the drinks sit in front of the brunette, Josh’s hand out waiting for the crumpled dollar bills. The sound of the cash register is silent, blurred underneath the roar of a growing crowd of nearly 200 people and the deep bass of the opening local reggae band on stage.

It’s going to be a big show tonight. The Skatalites, an internationally known ska band who’ve been playing since the 60s, are the main performance.

But first the openers play on stage, hyping the crowd of dread locks and fedoras, face tattoos and leather jackets, for the main attraction. Opposite the bar, the usual hollow semi circle forms on the rough wooden dance floor in front of the band. No one ventures in to dance just yet, as an overwhelming fear of judgment infects the crowd.

The blond in the group of three college-age girls to the right of the stage sips a brown cocktail in the outer layer of the circle, shifting awkwardly from one leg to the next.

Across on the other side, one of the two young guys in white t-shirts and jeans, stands looking compulsively at the surrounding crowd as he pushes his shaggy dark brown hair out of his eyes. No dancing yet. Give it ten minutes and the crowd begins to slowly move into the their own versions of the reggae bob.

The most sporadic movement comes from a woman with long gray hair by the bar. The bar is generally not a dancing zone, but she doesn’t care. She waves her arms in a flowing motion and with each beat of the bass drum sticks her chin out and lifts one leg. It resembles a very well-choreographed chicken movement. 

“How was your party last night?” says the second-on bartender cleaning a few glasses.

“You went home!” Josh’s throw his hands into the air and his head jerks forward. The movement doesn’t move his hair though. It’s a perfect replica of the iconic Elvis quaff. It competes with the Elvis bust sitting at the end of the bar. It’s certainly one of the first things people notice about him.

“Yea man. I know.” His voice sounds ashamed as he takes an order.

Josh fake dances with him from behind, arms waving as he does a hip-thrust in his friend’s direction, snickering silently as he does. A lull at the bar when the bands start always means time for play.

Watching from the door, Bill zips up his faded black Carhartt jacket as he looks at his 200th ID for this 20 degree, snowy night. Four or five nights a week he’s the gatekeeper for Castaways, marking visitors with a green dragonfly stamp if you’re over 21 or an X if underage. He goes through IDs and stamps quickly so as to get visitors out of the cold and into the stuffy, muggy air of the venue. They’re sent to the visiting cash register at the end of a makeshift barrier. Crumpled $20 bills only accepted with a stamp or an X.

As the space on the dance floor shrinks, the unique scent begins to take its form for the night. Tonight it’s a mix of cologne, alcohol, weed, and incense. It’s heaviest near the band. The dance floor is now in motion, like growing waves about to be unleashed by a coming storm.

The thunder of bass shakes the tattered sheets above them on the ceiling and forces the corset shaped lamps near the bar to shimmy. Behind the band dance rows of twinkling icicle lights. The glimmer of each jumps from instrument to instrument, creating a sparkling aura on the stage. 

            “Yo Ithaca! How you all feelin’ tonight?” The screams of a few pierce the dull roar of the cramped venue.

“Comin’ at ya!” The Skatalites take the stage, the two lead vocalists with white beards and aged faces enter last. One with a knitted sweater on. The other with a button up shirt.

“The two vocalists are around 70,” Mariah, the PR rep says. It’s her job to know everything about the bands before they come. “This will probably be the last time they play here.” Not because of disinterest, but because of age most likely. She’s done her research. She was sure the show would sell out.

She’s really only worked at Castaways for five months, since September, but she’s been frequenting here since she was 16 as an Ithaca native. It’s like a second home to her and it’s one of the reasons she left her full time job in Albany for a part time PR job here. It’s in the family.

***

It was around 3pm when Josh got to Slamfest, a benefit to raise money for his future medical bills. A little over two years before tonight, Josh “Slambert” as some of his friends call him, was diagnosed with Hotchkins Lymphoma, the “good kind” of cancer he thought.

If it had a name, it meant it was treatable. 98 percent cure rate. He knew he was lucky too because he neglected that weird lump in his throat for about a year and a half before seeing a doctor. 

His sister, aunt, and uncle arrived with him. All paid donations as they walked in, except him of course. And even though Castaways was already full of all his family and friends and he knew he’d be the center of attention, he never hesitated.

Technically, Slamfest started at 2pm, but the music wouldn’t start until around 3:30. His hour late arrival allowing the Lambert family to have a little more time to finish setting up.

Josh knew he would spend the entire benefit thanking people for coming out, shaking hands, kissing babies, and throwing his sweat rags on people that they would then sell to benefit him for the fight against cancer. Okay, so the last part wasn’t realistic, but certainly a funny thought that passed through his mind.

With a white button up shirt and a dark pair of aviators, Josh entered the bar with a slightly different look about him. The clothing was normal, but if you weren’t a regular and hadn’t seen the chemo’s impact, the hair might look different.

Elvis was gone. His hair was buzzed thin, though sideburns still crawled down is face, down past near-invisible eyebrows. And then there was the burn.

  *** 

Everyday throughout the week, nearly 200 liquor bottles span out on either side of the basketball game playing on the Panasonic behind the bar. Among them, the knick-knacks. A Pope figurine. A cowboy doll. A maraca. A pink stuffed gorilla. A few troll dolls. Mimicking the toys, sits a human size Barbie doll on a waist height stool at the bar, sipping her cocktail.

“My friend came earlier and dropped off some of my stuff, which happened to include this and my Halloween costume,” Mariah says snickering, glancing at the wig. She pats the fly aways of the blond wig to put them back in place and decides to wear the wig for the rest of the night.

Which one are you going to be?

Which one are you going to be?

It’s a slow Wednesday night, with an artist that doesn’t really have a following around here. Mariah teamed her up with a local accapella group, hoping to bring in some new fans. The result was less than desirable: 13 people. Maybe it was the snow outside.

But whether it’s 13 visitors or 300, this is what Mariah wants to do: help out local artists to get their jump in the community. During her college days, she founded and ran the Rebels for a Cause radio show to do just that. 

“I wasn’t just playing music,” she would say later. “I worked really hard to make sure every week I had a local band in there and I was doing live performances at the studio and band interviews. I like really trying to connect the local community.

A degree in women’s studies with a concentration in media justice, led the way. She’s passionate about keeping independent music alive, even if there are more empty wooden floors than people sometimes, like tonight.

By the time the short brunette on stage finishes her last song, the crew has already begun to goof around.

“Check out the back!” Josh suggests from the bar.

“Fishes.” Mariah lifts the back of her shirt as the others gather around examining her tattoo. “Look at the detail! Carol spent a lot of time on that.”

Immediately another bartender, Paul, hops onto the pool table behind him and strips his shoe and sock off. 

“My buddy drew that one. That’s my favorite,” he says enamoring over it.

“You going to my art show?” Mariah asks. She makes eye contact with him, but glances down every few seconds to take a look at his foot art. The show is an opportunity to showcase at Castaways the work of a local artist, accompanied by some tunes by a local DJ. The combo is Mariah’s brainchild.

“What time?”

“Five to Eight.”

“That’s when I work!” Paul jumps up and claps in excitement. Double win: gets paid and gets to support part of the crew.

***

The radiation did a number on the left side of Josh’s neck. The skin looked a dark tan, but treatment had finished and it would soon turn to a normal tone. The missing patch of hair on the lower back of his head that had been burned completely off by radiation would grow back soon.

It was overwhelming and kind of surreal to have everyone there because of him. And everyone there was family: Mama and Papa Lambert, sisters, aunts and uncles from out of town, cousins young and old, friends, and the Castaways crew.

He said some hellos and went to the bar to grab a beer. Guinness. He knew he’d be drinking this most of the night. During chemo and radiation, his taste buds were affected and shit got fucked up. Hops tasted like garbage, red wine like iron. It just had this metallic weird flavor to it. 

But somehow Guinness tasted amazing. Jameson Irish whisky, too. That’s what he planned on sticking to for the night, knowing everyone would continue to be impressed by his drinking ability with having just finished radiation five days ago.

***

            “What can I get for you guys?” Josh asks the three band members in fedoras at the end of the bar.  They speak in soft tones, muffled even more under the loud Pandora station playing from the speakers above. He returns in an instant with three beers, all dark amber, a quarter of an inch of foam on each.

            He chats with one of the tech guys about the mood lighting for the night, essentially no different than other Saturday nights at 8:30. It’s dimly lit, the bar with the most light so the bartenders can see their work.           

“You want a drink?” he asks, leaning on the bar toward him.

“Sure,” the tech guy heading toward a seat at the bar.

“I’m gunna come and join you.” He’s on break. The bar is dull at this time.

Mariah walks over giggling, “Some girl just wrote ‘Yea Josh…’ with a heart around it and her number in the bathroom stall.”

“O yea? She leave her number?”

Josh and Mariah’s relationship is essentially a Castaways romance. It actually made those who worked at Castaways a little hesitant about letting Mariah on because they thought if they broke up, it would mess up the dynamic of the work environment. Jobs at Castaways are normally given to “family."

Elliot convinced them she was a good fit though. “You want Mariah,” he told the owners. “She’s gunna kick ass, and I’m sure if her and Josh didn’t work out, that would be fine."

Fortunate for Mariah, everyone said yes, because if she didn’t work at Castaways hers and Josh’s relationship would be near nonexistent. Her regular workday as an elderly dog sitter for a nice lesbian couple in town runs from 6am until 6pm. Two hours later, Josh starts his shifts bartending, on busy nights, until 4am. Their relationship is able to exist because of Castaways.

“In that sense its like us working together here really makes it work,” she says. “Basically, I just walked into town, got an awesome job at Castaways, get to chill with my boyfriend, and it’s not usually that easy.”

*** 

All through his treatments Josh was never one to feel bad about himself. He would later say he buzzed his head because he felt bad going into the chemo ward with everyone who had lost their hair.

“I felt like a fucking asshole. I have a lot of hair. Six rounds of chemo is nothing compared to the people who are on it for a year.”

But his Medicare was up and he still had two years of check-ups to pay for. That’s where the benefit came in. As he looked around, Castaways had truly transformed into Slamfest. Nearly half the people there were wearing light gray “I <3 Slambert” t-shirts that his sister made and sold for $10 each. And stamped across pants and t-shirts were white bumper stickers with black letters that read, “Cancer can suck it!”

That made him laugh. The year before when he called his sister and told her he had cancer, she started crying on the phone. Josh, from day one, tried to stay upbeat about things. “Cancer can suck it,” he told her. His motto was sold that day for $5 each.

*** 

It’s 12:04 am on a Friday night; the smoke from the fog machine lingers in every nook of the venue. The air is thick, surrounding the band members with a hazy glow of red, blue, and yellow that strobe infrequently. Another show of the Gunpoets at Castaways. 

Mariah, in short jean shorts and stockings, walks aimlessly carrying a tray of piping hot fries, the stream of steam quickly dissipating behind her. She hunts for the fry owners on her toes, her neck arched. Without luck she shrugs and turns back to the bar.

Tonight she takes on the role of waitress for the few in the crowd demanding food. Not drinks though. She doesn’t venture behind the bar. Josh is working today and on nights like this, when the band is popular, the bar is always busy and he’s first-on, he’s all work and no play.

“I wouldn’t want to work for him behind the bar because on busy nights when there’s like 400 people in here, he’s like scary,” she would later say laughing as Josh brushes by giving her shoulder a rub.

It’s all love in the house tonight.

I looked inside of the heart of an old man,

so drunk he could barely stand.

A white t-shirt with the sleeves cut off and a flat-rimmed hat dances around the stage, hands waving as he raps a simple melody.

It’s all love.

Put your fists up high.

Dozens of powerful fists sore up. The dance floor suddenly resembles a dominant moment in the fields at Woodstock, guests screaming about free love and dancing like no one is watching.

The fists nearly touch the ceiling and the bass vibrates the nose and sternum. The fresh air is minimal as the building is near capacity with sweat-drenched dancers and all sets of doors closed.

It’s nearing 1 am. “Last call ya’ll!” the drenched t-shirt yells into the mic. “So go get your last drinks and be patient, the bartenders are doin’ a great job.”

O, can’t fight it no more.

It’s how we survive,

Livin’ on nine to five.

After a final chorus, the Gunpoets are done. They were technically supposed to end two songs ago, but the shouts of the eager “One more song!” from the flat-rimmed hat in the front of the crowd triggered the encore. One more song always means two.

Within seconds, the lights turn on and doors open, and eyes struggle to see. Everyone has seen nothing but dark and smoke the whole night. Castaways is nearly half empty in a matter of five minutes, the sound of broken glass getting kicked around as people scuffle to get their jackets, purses, and merch.

There are now five working behind the bar, skating around each other to quickly clean up and get out of there, most likely heading to the after party at someone’s house on East Hill. Everyone pitches in.

It’s 1:37 am. No booze. No music. No smokers on the dock. The only people left are Josh, Mariah, other bartenders, the Gunpoets, friends, and a few too drunk to know it’s over. A group of 20 empty beer bottles sit in a clump at the bar, waiting to be packed into boxes for recycling.

“Bar’s closed!” yells Bill. His voice is normally soft spoken, but he’s been a bouncer here for 11 years and means business when he’s on duty at a busy show. “If you’re the band, you can stay. If you’re not, fucking go!”

At this point, it doesn’t matter if you’ve got a dragon fly stamp or not. Party’s over. This is the crew’s first opportunity to breathe and hang all night. Mariah walks out of the bathroom and B-lines for the bar, a disgusted look on her face.

“Girls bathroom? Vomit? Shit? Someone passed out?” Josh asks her.

Mariah is still silent and disgusted, quite different from the same night last week when she exited the bathroom and poked fun at her boyfriend for the ‘Josh is so hot!’ chalk writing on the bathroom stall. No fun sayings tonight though. Just vomit.

“See, I told you the girls bathroom is always more disgusting than the guys!” He laughs as he walks to other end of the bar, wiping a glass dry with his still-white towel. His comments are always light and with a smile. 

***

Throughout the day of Slamfest, everyone who played was a friend of his. If they were going to play at his benefit, than he damn well was going to be there for every second, even if he was still a little droopy from treatments. Makepeace Brothers. Steve Brown and his son and daughter. The Gunpoets. DJ Capel spun for a while. And at around 6pm Papa Lambert sang Beautiful Boy to him while his friend Colin played piano. 

This is kind of weird, Josh thought. But it was solely weird because everyone was crying. He sat up front so no one could see him cry, or at least, that’s what he continued to tell himself as the song continued. He did cry though.

Elliot was the MC for the benefit. Throughout the night he announced raffles that were donated by local businesses, in between band sets. All the money for the raffles went directly to the Slamfest fund. Outside, Josh’s uncle cooked food on the dock, everything sold to benefit his nephew.

As the night dwindled on, drinks continued and memories of the rest of the night got blurrier and blurrier. Hundreds of people poured in and out, right through till 1am.

By the end of the night, the chalkboard walls of the girl’s bathroom were covered in pink words of encouragement for Josh.

“I <3 Bear.”

“Josh, nobody deserves success more.”

“I love you Joshy Poo!”

“I was here. Slamfest 2009. Auntie Tina.”

“Mama Slambert thanks you all.”

And on and on they went.

  ***

            “What’s that called?” The man in the flannel looks quizzically at the beer tap.

            “That’s Cascazilla.”

            “O, Casca..zilla?”

            “Yea we got a gorge and a Cascadilla street here and this is made with Cascade hops from Ithaca Brewery. Not sure where the 'zilla part came from.” Josh pours him a glass just as a man with an Ithaca Beer Company shirt walks in with a box. “O what’d you bring?”

            “I got ‘zilla and Groundbreak.” He pulls a 64-ounce brown growler with the Ithaca Beer Company logo out to show him. After bringing the box into the back kitchen, he comes out a few seconds later with one of the four growlers and tasting cups.

“Would you like to try some Ithaca beer while you’re here?” he asks the blond middle-aged woman at the end of the bar.

He continues to travel around the bar giving tastings to thirsty visitors. The last time he was here, he also brought free t-shirts for the bartenders, “swagger” as they called it. No merchandise tonight though, just booze.

Things like this don’t happen at other bars in Ithaca, like Silky Jones where Josh works one night a week.

A half hour later, Mariah sits at the bar, grabbing the drink that Josh just put in front of her. “Castaways is not Silky’s or whatever. It’s Castaways. And you have to appreciate it all the way for being a dive bar music venue. That’s what we are.”

A few minutes later Josh emerges from behind the bar to stand by Mariah. “Peel back the layers and you will find a beautiful love story,” he laughs. She does too.

***

At around 1am, Slamfest was officially over. Josh watched as every bartender who had worked for free the whole day, regardless of whether they were first, second, or third-on, dumped their tips into the Slamfest fund.

Anyone left over, which ended up being quite a lot of people, headed over to Josh’s house on East Hill for a small bonfire and more partying. Josh was still drinking Guinness, still shaking hands and still kissing babies.

“They talk about going to support groups, but it was apparent to me that what I needed was to be around family and friends, people that have been around my whole life,” Josh would say later.

The next day, the Lambert family and friends tallied their earnings from the epic Sunday benefit. Through door donations, t-shirts, bumper stickers, grilled food, tips, and raffles, and through the combined effort of friends, family and his extended family at Castaways, Slamfest 2009 raised $8,000 for him.

Walking through a hospital can give anyone a little bit of an uneasy feeling. But for me, the combination of walking through that hospital and the scent it gives off floods my mind with waves of memories.

The memories are the most difficult ones for me to recall, but they are also the ones I have to remember, because without those, I would lose sight of who I am.

The hospital smell is far too familiar to me. It's a combination of sterilized equipment, rubber gloves, and hospital-washed sheets. It's a smell that causes my body to tense, one that causes my eyes to tear up.

And oddly enough it is the smell of my family's struggle, my father's struggle. Because when I was 14, my father died of kidney disease, but that was after years of trips to and from medical centers.

As a kid, my sisters and I spent a lot of time in waiting rooms of hospitals, specifically Samaritan Hospital in Troy, NY, and Albany Medical Center in Albany, NY. The waiting was the most difficult. The smell brings me back to the waiting.

We spent a lot of time in the ICU waiting rooms throughout the years, wondering if my father, my hero, would bounce back, and sure enough, he always did.

The last series of waiting rooms and the smells that joined them at Albany Medical Center were ones I remember the most vividly. 

The waiting room outside the surgical area where the doctor told my mom, "He's losing too much blood," and where he told me "It's going to be okay," though I knew he wasn't certain.

The waiting room outside the ICU where my father wrote to my mother "Girls?" in a quivering hand wondering where my sisters and I were before he could even speak after his surgery.

And the waiting room in the kidney unit, where my mother knelt in front of one of my sisters and I and told us that he wasn't going to make it this time.

The memories flood on and on.

Sometimes the smell of the hospital overwhelms me to a point where I will panic and have to leave for a minute before I venture back in.

Sometimes it leaves my hands fidgeting and my eyes welling up in tears.

But the smell is always a reminder.

First, of the complexities of life that leave us questioning how the worst can happen to the most wonderful people.

Second, of my dad and the struggle he had to go through to make it to 47 years old.

Third, of my family and the strength we gained through the difficult times.

And fourth, of the fact that even though I could say I "hate" that smell, it also reminds me of the hard work of the medical personal who helped save his life time after time.

The sense of smell is such a powerful one. It can take us back to the most difficult times and the happiest of times. But in essence it beckons to our memories to return and remind us of our struggles and the things that make us who we are.

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We all know that The Lorax is going to be hitting theaters next month. I was quickly reminded of this over the past few days. The local theater was speckled with memorabilia. But this season's issue of the Society of Environmental Journalists Journal's first feature explored the Lorax. Sure, it's a kid's film, but this kid's film is bringing with it a great deal of expectation.

I can honestly say that my fascination and love of the Dr. Seuss book didn't come from my younger self. It came from my college years. While working as a content analysis coach for a media and the environment class at Ithaca College, the first class lesson we spoke to the class about was exploring The Lorax and the messages you can interpret from it. Seeing this movie come to theaters and place itself in the national spotlight is exciting and fascinating...exciting because it places a series environmental issue in the spotlight...fascinating because it will leave the books interpretation to Universal Pictures.

Ode Magazine online had a great little article about the movie, but more importantly about how the younger generation is the generation that is questioning how the movie will look and what kind of message it will spread. I won't repeat the article, but to sum it up, it talks about a fourth-grade class who told were concerned because the trailers and website paid little heed to the environmental message of the book. They told Universal, "We’d like to see the movie live up to the potential of the book.” Couldn't have said it better myself. The youngsters movement got about 57,000 signatures for their petition and since then have seen great changes to The Lorax movie website, like the addition of The Lorax project tab.

Not I'm not talking about the edible mushroom. (I don't much care for those.) I'm talking about the mushroom that helps replace harmful shipping materials, like styrofoam. And it's called Ecocradle. 

This innovation is created by Ecovative, a stellar company started by a friend of a friend in Green Island, NY, and ya know, they seem to really have something up their sleeve. They've developed a packaging material using mushrooms because as they say, "Fungi play an indispensable role in breaking down organic matter and are key to planetary health."

I couldn't agree more Ecovative.

Using mycelium and agricultural crop byproducts, Ecovative has created this packaging that you can compost at home and doesn't end up in a landfill. I am all about that. 

Often I will get emails about cool eco-products or places to check out with an eco-focus. I started getting them when I interned at E, The Environmental Magazine in 2010. This one seemed pretty cool.

Element hotels. They are owned by Starwood Hotels and Resorts, which owns just shy of 1000 hotels and resorts around the world. (Probably the most familiar ones are the Sheraton hotels.) Element was apparently announced in 2006 and is Starwood's only hotel string with an environmental focus. Granted the information I'm getting is from what I read online, but they seem to be really focused on balance and serenity. The design of the hotel is pretty beautiful, very clean. It kind of reminds me of something Steve Jobs would have envisioned, just due to his fascination with simplicity.

I would definitely suggest checking it out. I love finding hotels, even larger chains that take the time to really think about what the hotels structure, atmosphere really truly does to the emotions of the guest. I mean, though many aim to create that simple atmosphere, they just aren't. 

I looked it up and though it isn't the cheapest place, I was surprised at how much it was a night, less than I anticipated. I looked up a night at the end of January in the Denver, CO Element for two adults and it was about $129. Check it out! I know I sure will!

Just when you think the organizations can't get any cooler....

I spoke with a woman named Jula Jane a few weeks ago. Jula is a defense contractor for Coggins International, and in 2009 she was in Afghanistan on business. While there, Jula visited a handful of bases and spoke with several deployed mothers. They told her their personal stories.

As she would say, it moved her to action.

Helping deployed mothers was originally a company initiative, but the idea got so much media that it eventually became its own thing, Operation G.I. Jane. Around Halloween 2011, Operation G.I. Jane had their official launch party and raised some money to support deployed single mothers.

"There are a lot of things that can come up, especially if a mother is deployed to a war zone," Jula told me. This is the reason the organization is so fluid, containing programs that focus on everything from communication to healing therapy.

One of the programs she seemed thrilled to talk about was the Necessity to Kids program. She told the story of a 26-year-old mother who lived on a base with her 3-year-old and 5-year-old after she got back from Afghanistan. She was negative in her bank accounts and had no food, so Op G.I. Jane sent her four huge necessity kits, that included long term food, gift cards to area stores, clothes, toys, etc, etc. 

It was a pretty cool story to hear.

"Life happens for all sorts of reasons, especially if you're deployed at months at a time."

Their main mission? "To keep the bond between mother and child strong," Jula explained.

Now Jula's working to get the word out there about the organization.

"They can't ask for help if they don't know we're here."

Remember the time when blogging was a regular thing that I did? I vaguely do. It's been over two months since I posted at all, but the reason is the transition I was hoping for.

I had every intention of blogging all throughout my transition, but I got caught up in...well...the transition. So here is the brief version.

With the horrible fire at Elfs Farm during the summer, I had been working from home for the winery doing basically grant work and festival work. As I began to lose hours on my very part-time job, I was hoping and praying that something would come up. And low and behold...something did.

The little paper in Plattsburgh, the Press-Republican (NOTE: not a Republican newspaper), had an opening for a staff writer. Wow. Didn't anticipate that up here. Just for the heck of it, I applied. I figured these positions don't come around all the time so I knew many would I apply. But I thought, what the heck.

A few weeks after applying, I was told that I was in the top group of applicants. Whoa, really? And they wanted to do trial runs for the position they were looking to fill. The position, by the way, was crime reporter, something I had never EVER had experience with.

After a few trial days of freelancing shifts, covering a fire and a few other things, I was asked to come in for an interview. "It's obvious environmental journalism is your thing," they told me. "Why would you make you a good crime reporter?"

I was honest. I told them they were right, that I don't have ANY experience in crime reporting, but what I do have is a dedication to writing and a drive to work my hardest. I told them I spent the past four years developing my niche in environmental writing and I became very comfortable with it, but now was the time to step out of my comfort zone and strengthen my writing. Or something along those lines.

A few hours later I was asked to come in the next day and that they were very impressed. Less than 24 hours later, I was hired!

Me. In a print journalism job. Not six months out of school! This was too good to be true. And truth be told, it has just continued to be a wonderful experience since that day. My first week I was thrown right into the beat covering a murder retrial and had a front page story every day. Now, exactly two months later, I have tons of clips and am now on a journey to improving my personal editing and writing skills, as they still need some work.

I'm up for the challenge. The beat is hard. It's fast-paced. It's unpredictable. It is a combination of routine and nothing ever being the same, and that's just what I hoped for.

With that, I'm off. Expect more frequent posting. Thanks for reading!