Write FAST and Furious! Learning to Outrun “The Spock Brain”


Writing is a mystery for me. Sometimes it flows and sometimes it blows. Kristen Lamb gives a thorough Star Trek backed approach to the benefits of just going for it at full speed ahead.

Author Kristen Lamb's avatarKristen Lamb's Blog

Many new authors slog out that first book, editing every word to perfection, revising, reworking, redoing. When I used to be a part of critique groups, it was not at all uncommon to find writers who’d been working on the same book two, five, eight and even ten years. Still see them at conferences, shopping the same book, getting rejected, then rewriting, rewriting…..

Sigh.

Great, maybe Kathryn Stockett, the author of The Help took five years and 62 revisions to get her story published. Awesome for her. And yes, her book was a runaway success, but this isn’t the norm. It’s playing Literary Lottery with our careers.

For most writers, it will be hard to have a long-term successful career if our pace is a book or two a decade.

Most authors who’ve made legend status were all talented, yes. But many were (are) also prolific. 

Does Writing Quickly Produce…

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The Currency of Hugs


Sometimes when my son speaks to me, I feel like I am the grasshopper and he the master. It is not for the clarity of his statements that I feel this way, but for the oxymoronic riddles he weaves. For example, he was sad that he only had two Father’s Day presents for Arie Jan.

“I only got two presents on Mother’s Day,” I offered, suggesting that two is a reasonable sum.

“No. You had a third present. I gave you a hug,” he recalled in all seriousness. This is a child who knows how partial I am to his hugs. Armed with this knowledge, he has even tried to bribe me for more iPad time or a second helping of dessert with the currency of hugs.

Later in the morning, he was giving Arie Jan a hug on Father’s Day after the presents were already opened.

“He’s giving you another present,” I wisely informed Arie Jan. “A hug.”

“No,” corrected Ezra. “A hug isn’t a present. A present is something that lasts, that you can continue to do something with.” I tried to process his double-standard change-of-heart over the value of a hug. But then it hit me; he thinks there are different exchange rates at play in the currency of hugs: mom goes all weak-kneed and teary eyed when he hugs her, whereas dad quietly takes it in stride.

Arie Jan added his two cents into the equation, making the Oh Grasshopper lesson twist further into itself.

“Well, in that manner of thinking, would the candies you just gave me really be a present? They were here one moment and eaten up the next.”

“Hmm. Well, yeah. They’re still a present,” Ezra decided.

“Yes, and hugs may last a moment, but they stay with you in your heart. They may not be there any longer, but their presence lingers.”

My interpretive filter kicked in once again; whereas I smother my husband and child with kisses and hugs like a good American, Arie Jan has a more Dutch approach to affection. He is not one to loosely scatter I-love-yous throughout conversations, or randomly kiss and hug his family members. Earlier on in our relationship, I mistook this sparseness as a difference in how we felt about each other. But I couldn’t have been more wrong; his love for me was deep and real and his love for his son is profound.

Unlike me, Ezra has never misinterpreted his father’s level of affection; he can feel its immensity. But just as a teacher who is as sparse with his compliments as Hemingway was with adjectives, Arie Jan has taught Ezra the value of quality over quantity.

This is a lesson I cannot learn. I will continue to hug and kiss my men whenever given the chance. They may roll their eyes and look at me like I’m goofy, but I’m going with the premise that they would be both concerned and disappointed if I acted any other way.

Kievit


After attending a fabulous lecture about organic food at a Connecting Women event, I signed up for the Dutch equivalent of Community Supported Agriculture. Thus every week, we have several bags of fresh organic fruit and vegetables delivered to our doorstep by Kievit. I know this sounds rather extravagent for a full time grad student with no time to contribute to the household income and a part time church manager. But I am a master justifier when it comes to making healthy choices that bite into our budget. Here are the points I used to convince my husband:
organic is healthier
we hardly ever eat out
we make 90% of our lattes at home (except for that one I had yesterday on a terrace in the sun as a means of bonding with husband)
they deliver to your doorstep (less trips to the store)
we don’t own a car Continue reading “Kievit”

Old Books versus Mother Nature


Usually I love nature. Just last week I was saying to my husband how much I want to live in a natural environment, away from the screeching sounds of the tram rails, the bricks and concrete and the compressed feeling I experience when I’m among the crowds in the shopping district.

But when a biting cold wind ushered in the first of June beneath a pewter gray sky, I wasn’t feeling the love. It’s like this nation is being punished by mother earth for some crime against nature. What? Too many bicycles? All of that public transportation upsetting you? Or perhaps its the recycling they do here–multiple drop off bins for paper and glass in every neighborhood. That’s got to be irksome.

But there’s only so long one can stay inside on the first of June. So, refusing to bow to the cold, I put on a lightweight fleece and announced to my family I was going for a walk. They looked at me skeptically. I set out alone.

I didn’t know where I was headed, but my feet didn’t lead me down my usual route to the forest a block away, but into the city. The city, where the crowds are; where things are happening in warm, brightly or dimly lit interior spaces away from the dreadful cold of nature.

I walked in the direction of the train station in search of adventure. But on the way, a well designed poster caught my eye, and I found myself turning into the smooth glass entry of the Letterkunding Museum. I walked up a flight of stairs. At the top you have a choice of experiences. You can turn right to enter the Kinderboekenmuseum, a fabulous museum where children’s books (all written in Dutch) come alive through a series of interactive exhibits. Or, you can go left through the thick glass doors, which open automatically for you, into an exhibition room that is either a part of the Nationaal Archief or the Letterkundingmuseum. But in either case, it is a surprisingly exotic experience (at least to someone who once worked in a bookstore in the rare book section, and whose mother was a librarian).

The room was dark, save for blue lighting that gave the space a retro-futuristic glow reminiscent of the starship enterprise control room. The entire left wall acts as a projection screen, the contradictory images of old and new merging into one another. This exhibition space is filled with small glass cases on columns, each holding a rare book or book-related antiquity, some close to 600 years old. I gazed at the gold, ruby and sapphire blue illustration in an historical bible from the 1600s surrounded by Latin text. Would those monastic scribes have brought their quills to the page with even more precision had they known the copies they were making would still be on display half a millenium later? Talk about pressure.

And then there was the book Max Havelaar, by Multatuli, the pseudonym of Eduard Douwes Dekker. Up until that moment, I’ll admit, I only knew that Max Havelaar was a brand of Fair Trade products for sale in Europe. I didn’t know a cultural history was tied to the name, originating from a work of fiction that criticized the Dutch East India Company’s (VOC) treatment of the natives in Indonesia.

It was here in this darkened room, gazing at the treasured books resting on velvet cushions beneath protective glass that I had a realization; nature isn’t the only object of my desire; culture, in all of its lushness, absurdity, timidity or boldness also has me entirely smitten.

The walk home through the crisp air synergized my two loves, the cold snapping me into mental and physical alertness, the ancient books filling me with a lust for knowledge. Perhaps such dark and miserable weather, combined with mental acuity is what drove all of those brooding European philosophers to greatness over the centuries.

Over dinner, I talked to my family about the books I had seen. My husband, a brooding philosophical type, related to my excitement. My son related to his pasta. And then the sun broke through the fortress of clouds, blasting its happy beams through our window onto the dining room table. Thank God for the sun.

The Veluwe and other things that make my son run


The Dutch are a hardy stock not easily deterred by harsh weather. They can tolerate high winds, freezing cold and overcast skies for days on end without complaint. But there comes a time, such as the beginning of May, when they feel entitled to better weather for having endured the long, harsh winter. If by mid-May the weather hasn’t improved, they begin the downward transition from Dutch indifference to mild frustration, their countenances gripped by a look that says enough is enough. By late May, if the weather is still not cooperating, meaning the sun isn’t out, it’s still cold, wet, windy and gray, they begin to act like Americans–profusely complaining about the Dutch weather.

And no wonder; they haven’t had a spring this cold since 1900. Thus not a single Dutch person now living has ever experienced a spring this cold. (If you are a 113-plusser of Dutch descent and you remember how cold it was the first few years of your life, my apologies for getting this fact wrong. And thanks for reading my blog).

It was in such forlorn May weather that we were given the gift of lodging in a vacation house in the Veluwe, an expanse of forests, heath and sand drifts in the center of the Netherlands. We were on the freeway for an hour and a half before we pulled into a rural area surrounded by open space, forests and lush green pastures dotted with picturesque sheep and cows. My son sat in a child seat in the back, offering a commanding view of the surrounding countryside. It was from this throne-like position that he offered up a running commentary of everything outside with an enthusiasm that had us deeply immersed in vacation mode despite only being on the road for a relatively short time. His anticipation grew as we got closer to our destination.

I had no idea what our temporary home would look like, but unbeknownst to me, my mind had been quite busy constructing it in my head: a seventies style wooden structure with a rough-hewn floor and compact rooms, a series of matching Delft blue plates and cups in the wooden cupboards,  a gnome statue in the front yard. As we followed the instructions of the female voiced GPS unit into a vacation home park, we passed a number of homes that fit my expectations. But when we reached the home where we would be staying, all bets were off.

Instead of wooden walls and gnomes, we were met by an elegant residence with a white exterior, steeply pitched roofs and ample windows. The landscaping surrounding the home–pleasant and inviting instead of cropped and contained–was a reverse shock to my system. The lush vegetation flowed into itself, presenting delicate layers of trees, ferns, flowers and grass that breathed ease and grace. It was this master crafted garden that spoke its silent words; you can relax now, you have reached your vacation residence.

My husband must have had similar seventies wood cabin expectations, because he too stared in pleasant surprise at this white house reminiscent of the French Countryside. If we had let logic guide our expectations, we would have pictured nothing less from the owners, a couple who offer a complex blend of Dutch pragmatism and understated elegance.

As we brought in our bags, our son asked if we had the place all to ourselves. When we answered yes, he did a little happy dance. Now truth be told, our son prefers sitting around and playing with legos or watching dad play chess online over playing soccer or running around outside. But that was before we got to the Veluwe.

Ignoring the inclement weather, we walked down the gravel road to a path that entered the forest and our son was out in front, leading the charge. Apparently emboldened by the natural surroundings, he began to announce which direction we would be taking at every fork in the path. A long road between two stretches of forest led to a low hill that beckoned us forward. Clearly, there was something of interest beyond that rise. Ezra ran ahead with dad, and low and behold, a desert! It wasn’t actually a desert, but a wide expanse of sand dotted with little tree-lined rises. Forest surrounded the desert hill landscape on all sides. Within a few minutes of exploration, we came to a group consensus that this was perhaps the most exciting hide-and-seek area ever. And thus began a marathon of hide-and-seek adventure.

Despite just having recovered from a minor surgery, I found myself walking as quickly as possible to hide among bushes and sand, my heart pounding as my son and I waited for my husband to find us. We took turns peering through the brush to see if he was getting close. I observed the mix of terror and joy on my son’s face as he played hide and seek in nature, not a building in sight; his screams and fits of laughter did not bounce off the walls of an urban dwelling to hurt my ears, but were as much a part of nature’s soundtrack in this windblown expanse of desert as a bird’s call or the hum of wind through the surrounding trees.

When our hiding place was on the verge of being discovered, he fully exercised his newfound ability to keep on running and hiding. Every morning, he couldn’t wait to go outside and run, explore and play some more–even though it was cold out there, and raining. Where was the boy who isn’t willing to walk for more than 10 minutes in the city? Where was the boy that refuses to go outside on weekends to get some exercise and fresh air? Not here. And the air quality in the moss lined forest was clearly different. As we breathed in the air, it felt like our lungs could take in more oxygen, causing us to feel more awake and invigorated.

This got me to thinking about the correlation between open space and physical activity. I grew up in the countryside and my life was full of active verbs like run, climb, dig, build, spring. I only had time for the more passive activities of reading, drawing and watching television after I had burned through my child energy with the aforementioned set of verbs. Could it be that the reason we have a “let’s stay inside” guy is that a cityscape of tall apartment complexes, skyscrapers, and a cross-hatch of roads, tram lines, biking paths and brick sidewalks are not doing it for him? There are trees in the city. Parks. An urban forest with small lake within 10 minutes of our house. But it can’t replace uninterrupted nature, stretching off into the distance, calling you to explore its hiding places.

A small epiphany with a glass of wine


Last Friday I attended a friend’s 35th birthday party. Her living room, with tall glass doors to the garden and a gleaming hardwood floor, was filled with women festively dressed for the occasion. Dim lighting, jovial conversation and a table lined with a selection of wines and snacks created a festive atmosphere. Even though I didn’t recognize anyone besides the birthday girl when I arrived, I knew that I shared the common thread of her friendship with all of the guests, setting the stage for easy conversation among strangers.

I have been to such parties before, and enjoyed them immensely, but there was something that set this gathering apart from my former experiences–they were all speaking in Dutch. I started a conversation in English with the first woman I met and we had a fantastic dialogue that ranged from literature to parenting, to the speed of which our society is changing. But one thing that’s guaranteed about conversations at such a party; if you wander away to refill your wine glass, or snack on the mixed nuts, when you return, the conversation will have switched to Dutch. And so it was.

I joined in a conversation and within a few minutes I received compliments on my Dutch. This launched a conversation about language acquisition and comfort level in speaking in a foreign language. I admitted I didn’t feel comfortable speaking Dutch and both people with whom I spoke couldn’t understand why.

“I understand everything you are saying and you communicate very well. You have nothing to be uncomfortable about,” she responded in Dutch. I understood all of her words and I knew they were not meant to placate my fears. The Dutch aren’t into that. So I had to receive them earnestly. And in doing so, both I and my partner in conversation wanted to get to the bottom of my discomfort.

“Do you think in Dutch?” she asked.

“I think in Dutch when I’m speaking Dutch,” I responded. Others had joined the conversation and they all agreed that this was a very good sign that I had reached a strong level of language acquisition. And then the significance of this realization hit me. If I think in Dutch, my thought process is limited to my current Dutch vocabulary, which is a fraction of the vocabulary available to me when forming my thoughts in my native tongue.

Wow. Perhaps for others this sounds like a no brainer, but for me it was a small epiphany. Those pauses I feel when I’m searching through my limited Dutch vocabulary alter my natural flow of conversation, making me feel like a dimmed down version of myself. I’m not saying that I am always eloquent and witty in my native tongue, but I am definitely smoother and more confident than in Dutch.

As the evening progressed, I forgot about me and just listened and responded to those around me.  With the right mix of alcohol, ego release and a good night’s sleep that kept my brain sharp and engaged, I had moments when I was so emerged in the conversation that I completely forgot about the language barrier or the fact that I was speaking Dutch.

If there was a string of words that derrailed my understanding, I asked for a translation and then just as quickly returned to Dutch. And that is key–going with the flow, interjecting an English word here or there, and always returning to the foreign language.

At one point, I wisely realized my brain had had enough Dutch for one evening, and I started to say my goodbyes. The next day, instead of feeling tuckered out, my language muscle felt stronger due to the cerebral boot camp I had attended the night before. Not only that, but my little epiphany has put vocabulary development on the front burner and the words are bubbling in my mind, finding their place in my permanent collection.

Now if anyone can give me a tip on how to maintain this enthusiasm, I just may reach fluency afterall.

Why do you write?


I was speaking to my brother on the phone the other day about a post on a blog we both follow called Life of Johnston.
She starts her post with the following:
“I only started this online diary as a publicity stunt for my books. Yet fame continues to elude me. It seems that a genius for self-promotion requires something more than a complete lack of modesty. You have to do things, and I’m not sure what. I keep trying to think of ways to become notorious without actually ruining my life. Nothing occurs.”

She has a whole collection of books online, one of which I proudly own (kindle version). Although I have yet to publish a book, I wonder if her ruminations over that elusive fame will also play a roll in my future.

“I liked your last blog post,” my brother said.
“Then why don’t you give it a star, or leave a comment online?” I asked.
“Is that important to you? That people leave comments?” In response to my brother’s simple question, I launched into a long winded answer one might usually reserve for an essay on the importance of blogging. I originally started my blog as a means to share my thoughts and experiences as an American living in Holland. But as my ambitions as a writer have grown, so have my intentions for my blog.

I explained that the more comments and stars I get, the higher ranking my blog will receive, and thus the higher chance of attracting more readers. I told him that I have a goal to make a living from writing, plan to develop a career in that direction and that a blog is a free first step; a tool to practice writing, share your thoughts and develop a following. He promised to give my different blog posts lots of stars after we got off the phone.

Creativity runs in the family. My brother is an artist and we have four of his paintings in our flat in the Netherlands. Nevermind that the beautiful landscape paintings of Southern California painted in the rich palettes of a sun-kissed land give me bouts of homesickness. They also bring me joy in a way that flowers do–they exude beauty and remind me to take a breath, visit nature or call my family.

But in answering his question of why I write, I started to second guess myself; was I writing for myself or for other people? Or both? I have written short stories on and off my whole life, most taking a few kb of space on a computer or disc, never seen by others. Thus I write for myself. But whenever I had articles published in Food and Home magazine or regional architectural magazines, I shared them with friends and family alike, looking forward to their comments, and yes, hoping they would be impressed. There. I’ve admitted it. I like to hear what people think of my writing. I think most authors do.

Like the author of Life of Johnston, I also self promote my blog. I share certain posts on Facebook or twitter or mention them to friends. I even have a personal business card with my blog address on the back.

“Don’t you get excited when your paintings are in a show and people see them?” I asked my brother.
“Well. Yeah. Of course,” he responded. “But I don’t paint for other people. I paint because I love painting.” But a painting stands on a wall in someone’s home for years to come. It is an art piece that draws attention, changes with the light; is attached to that period in life when the painting was acquired and gains both monetary and emotional value over time. An artist’s creative work endures.

Writing on the other hand, has both ephemeral and long-lasting possibilities. An article written for a newspaper may be read the day it is printed and is soon forgotten if no online counterpart exists. But writing also has longevity. Take Jane Austen’s works, for example, which remain a staple of English literature close to 200 years after her death.

As I work on the final draft of my first novel of 300 pages that I hope to birth into the world this September, I too have hopes; hopes that people will not only read it, but enjoy it; that they will not be shy to share their comments with me and will whole-heartedly recommend it to others. One can only hope. And self-promote.

Boston Marathon, Interpreter of Maladies, Displacement


I woke up early Tuesday morning to the screeching of trams rolling along the tracks mixed with the pleasant chirping of birds. After a thirty minute meditation, I eased into the morning routine of making breakfast, packing lunch for my son, getting my own bag ready for my Tuesday morning gym class and kissing my husband goodbye. The whole morning went smoothly and I felt calm and at ease with the world. On my way out of the gym, I decided to take a minute to read the headlines before heading to work. That’s when I first encountered the words Boston Marathon Bombing.

As I read through the Dutch article, my body pulled inward, the calmness that had settled within me ebbing away. I struggled with some of the vocabulary in the article and even considered stopping fellow gym goers to ask them to translate a few key words for me. That’s when I realized that no one else seemed to have Boston on their mind. I was surrounded by foreigners on foreign soil, and everyone was moving about as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

I wondered what it was like at home. Were people glued to the television, following instant tweets from people in the area or calling friends and family to check on their well being? What was going through the minds of the runners? Family members of those running? The crowd of people there to cheer them on? And who would do such a sick thing?

No one mentioned the tragedy to me the whole day. In all fairness, I didn’t encounter that many people, but it feels so weird to be disconnected from your homeland at times like these. It’s not like if I was in California right now I could be making a difference, but at least I’d be talking about it, and hopefully process the sadness and fear it plants in our hearts.

I recently read Interpreter of Maladies by Jhumpa Lahiri. In this collection of short stories, she writes about Indian people in various situations: a young Indian couple both born in the U.S. on vacation in India, who no longer relate to their Indian roots, young couples formed through arranged marriages who start their lives together on U.S. soil; a woman who comes to the U.S. to be with her Indian husband and pines away for fresh fish so readily available in her homeland, for the local customs and flavors of India. Even though every story had Indian people central to the plot, the themes of loss, displacement, sadness, new beginnings, making your own way in a new country–are universal.
One story that particularly stands out for me at this time is When Mr. Pirzada Came to Dine. In this short story, told from the perspective of their 10 year-old daughter, Mr. Pirzada, a man from East Pakistan, joins her family regularly for dinner and to watch the news. It takes place in the Autumn of 1971 during the time that East Pakistan fought for sovereignty. Their eyes were glued to the television, seeing the future political state of East Pakistan unfold before them, while the Americans they knew seemed to be oblivious of this world event.

That is what it feels like to live on foreign soil; those around you are naturally concerned with the events in their own countries, not in something happening across the world. And more strange, is that The Hague is an international city with people from just about every country in the world living here, be they foreign diplomats or asylum seekers. Thus, my experience of cultural estrangement probably unfolds on a daily basis. But as an American, I grew up with the perspective that our news is world news to be heeded by all. Strange to have such a wake up call.

Another memory that percolated into my thoughts a few hours after reading about the Boston bombing was an experience I had two decades ago, ironically, in a movie theatre in the Harvard Square area of Boston, Mass. I went to see Schindler’s list with a friend. I was so immersed in the film and the atrocities it presented, that when I came out of the theater and stepped into the cold afternoon sunlight, I was shocked that life was carrying on normally all around me. How could anyone be jovial? Laughing? Shopping? Playing chess in the square? Didn’t they know what happened? Sure, the atrocities of WWII happened 50 some years earlier (I saw the film in 1993), but the experience had so fully consumed me, that it took me some time to adjust back to reality.

I say now, like so many from around the world have said before me, that my heart goes out to all the victims of the Boston marathon bombing. And rather than being completely downcast about the sinister side of human nature, I choose to focus on those officers, immigrants, and others who ran not toward safety, but in the direction of the blasts to help their fellow human beings. I suppose my choice to find something positive to focus upon is a luxury of distance, of experiencing something only through papers and videos. But I hope those who are in the midst of it know that they are loved and supported by people from all corners of the globe.

Strange Things the Dutch Don’t Do


The Napkin

A few weeks ago a beam of sunshine cracked through the thick layers of gray and we celebrated by going out to a cafe. Our son ordered a tosti (a diminuitive of the grilled cheese sandwich) and Chocomel (chocolate milk that is so well branded, it dominates the market, and is a staple in every restaurant). Our son’s tosti arrived on a plate with the napkin placed under the sandwich.

“Why do they always do that?” my son asked, annoyed that a string of melted cheese had soiled the napkin. I’ve run into this scenario time and time again; food placed on top of a napkin, negating it’s function, rendering it useless.

We are napkin users, my son and I; breakfast, lunch and dinner a cloth napkin is placed beside our plate. And we use them to wipe our faces and our hands. My Dutch husband, on the other hand, uses a napkin so rarely that I’ve stopped placing one on the table for him. Only in extreme cases, such as sauce dripping down his hands, will he ask for one.

My husband’s napkin patterns seem to be representative of the Dutch. If you go to an upscale restaurant, the cloth napkins are a compulsory part of the set up, but the Dutch let them lie on the table. Dinners with friends are napkinless. And if my son or I ask, our hosts head bewildered to the kitchen, going through drawers in search of fancy paper napkins left over from an event a few years back, or if these are not to be found, guiltily hand over a paper towel. When did napkins go by the wayside?

Peanut Butter and Jelly

When I was staying with my brother and his family in the U.S. last summer, there was one morning ritual that brought joy to my heart; a hot cup of coffee or tea, and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on toasted bread. This combination was a staple in my childhood diet, the theme of 6th grade science camp campfire songs and on many kid’s menus in restaurants.

But what do the Dutch think of our prized PB &Js? I was working with a group of Dutch people in the church setting up a big event. When we sat down together to take a lunch break, everyone got out their sack lunches. I retrieved my PB & J and started eating. Several people asked about my sandwich and when I explained, they looked at me like I was crazy. They certainly take jam on their bread, and kids usually like peanut butter on bread, but never shall the two meet–unless that bread is in the hands of an American. Do Canadians, Australians, Brits or others also know the joy of a PB & J?

You Rock Luther Richmond!


I’m getting a little tired of awesome people I know passing away. And I’m even bummed when even not-so-awesome people die. I know death is part of life, but what I find strange is the gush of regret-laden feelings that comes to the surface at funerals; “I wish I’d told her how much she meant to me,” or “I wonder if he knew what an inspiration he was to those around him.”

Why wait to tell people post-mortem? Now is the time! So on that note, I am starting what I hope to make a ritual–celebrating and sharing now. Even if the person I write about doesn’t read my post, at least I’ve put my thanks out into the universe.

So here goes!

You ROCK Luther Richmond!

Many of my friends know me as a musician. I played saxophone for years in bands throughout the U.S.: Reggae, folk and rock in Santa Barbara, classical and jazz in Hawaii, ska in Boston, punk jazz in Bend, Country Rock in Santa Ynez, and even an international stint of busking on the streets of Amsterdam, earning more per hour for my jazzy notes than any hourly rate in my professional career. But where did this all start? I could herald back to the days of piano lessons as an 8-year-old, or flute in Solvang Elementary School under the direction of Bob Raliegh, or saxophone in high school jazz band under the direction of Dan Neece. But what took me to the next level was Luther Richmond, the lead singer of  Jah-B-One, or Jah-Bone, a talented reggae band from Santa Barbara.

So to understand why Luther gets the honor of the first write-up, I’ll have to start with the rather embarrassing story of our very first encounter. When I was eighteen going on nineteen, I played sax in the Santa Barbara City College jazz band and via friends, learned of a reggae band looking for a sax player. Even though I was not versed in reggae, I went to the tryout anyway. Afterall, I was an invincible, I-can-do-anything young adult.

When we pulled up to the house, my friend led me to a little shack in back. Upon opening the door, I entered a smoke-filled room sardined with musicians, all male, of varying ethnicities and ages. As a caucasian female, I seemed to be the missing link needed to complete the diversity snapshot. Luther, the lead singer, sat behind the drum set. No one needed to tell me he was the leader of the band. His cool cat presence conveyed it immediately. He was all eloquence and tact as he called out the charts, cut it off when something wasn’t jiving, or gave a compliment when it was.

They played a song that made me feel like I had no worries in the world. It had a steady beat that made me want to dance, simple lyrics about rocking a boat, and a sweet horn section throughout the song that sent positive vibes down my white girl spine. When we finished playing, I asked if was a cover or an original. “A cover,” Luther said without cracking a smile. “It’s by Bob Marley.” And with that moment of utter humiliation, a friendship was born.

After a few more tryouts, Luther Richmond and his band of friends welcomed me to their tribe. I not only learned about reggae music, but that friendships were not limited to people your own age, color or background. We played everything from Caribbean restaurants to frat parties, festivals and upscale bars. We had a following. During this period I learned that educated college students, i.e. my peeps, were sometimes among the dumbest people on earth.  I learned that reggae music has a depth to it that you need to learn through exposure, practice and listening; that one man’s drinking song can be another man’s anthem of living a life of integrity.

I was also exposed to great talent; Luther’s voice was one I could listen to for hours. He had this smooth, natural voice that could make men close their eyes and listen intently, swaying to the rhythms. He spoiled many mainstream musicians for me, as their voices couldn’t compare to his.  And despite this, he always remained humble.

Luther taught me through music, but also through his parenting style. His kids were little when I first started playing with his band, but he talked to them like they were adults. At first I found this strange. Most people I knew who had kids this age would  lilt their voices upward into sing-songy notes of affection when they spoke to their children. Not Luther. He listened to their needs, encouraged them to use reason, and used a firm yet gentle tone. And his children always listened to him. They were always polite, yet not afraid to share their thoughts and opinions.

Is it at all surprising that his children grew into successful, confident yet considerate adults? And what resonates in me when I think of Luther is how happy he is as a human being; not happy in the sense of someone who’s always smiling and kidding around, but of someone who’s simply satisfied with the choices they’ve made in life, rolls with the punches and keeps on going. In other words, a man of integrity.

Luther also stood up for what he believed in. One time I told him I wished I could find an office job for him so he wouldn’t have to work so hard. His response surprised me. He never wanted an office job. I don’t remember his exact words, but it was something like, Why would I want to be shackled to a desk?

Although I did use that sing-songy voice with my child when he was younger, I’ve held many an office job and my saxophone is a bit neglected, his positive impact on my life has shown itself in unexpected ways. Ways that speak of integrity. And more importantly, he’s still out there, vibrant and cool, gigging in Santa Barbara with Shades of Soul. You rock Luther Richmond!