My Two Cents

      On Saturday I flew home from Minneapolis to New York City.  As I walked from the plane to the baggage claim area I became aware that the corridor was empty, and I wondered, “Jeez, where did everybody go?”  The plane had been packed and the airport seemed to be its normal bustling self.  It was odd. The hallway narrowed and I found myself alone.

        But not really.

        Suddenly I was five years old again.  No joke.  Five years old.  I was waiting for my father to return from a trip.  My whole family was there.  We were excited to be at the airport, there was something thrilling about watching the planes pull in and out of the gates.  La Guardia Airport was spiffy then, and my father had told me it was named after the mayor of New York City.

          I saw him ~ I was him ~ as I walked.   For a few minutes I could remember Jack Roche clearly: young, confident and happy to see us all.  He had black hair and wore an overcoat.  He held a briefcase.  I have no idea where he was coming from, what business he might have had.  In those days, flying was a big deal, as a little girl, it was a wondrous mystery.  

           I haven’t thought about my father in a while, which is shocking to me.  He would be a hundred and one years old.  When he died, almost twenty years ago, I didn’t know how I would live without him.  He was the only one who really loved me, I thought.  Death is strange ~ I suppose that’s an understatement ~ life really does go on.  But I’ve had these visits from him, once in a while in a dream, sometimes it’s a fleeting moment, and when I do it’s as if he’s very much alive in me and around me.

               My dear father.  I love you Dad, and always will.  Thanks for dropping by.  You remind me that life is a circle, a spiral, and your soul echoes again and again through mine. 

www.suzzyroche.com          

         I swore I wouldn’t shop this year.  Surely, the gifts I’d like to give couldn’t be found in a place called Uniqlo.  And yet, I’m embarrassed to report, I actually went there ~ all the way to Thirty Fourth Street no less ~ and I went TWICE. Believe me, I was not alone.

     For those who haven’t been to New York City, Herald Square is where the grand old Macy’s is. And these days there’s an H&M, a Forever 21, a Victoria’s Secret (I remember when that one was a risqué shop for dirty old men), and every other store you’ve seen in countless malls across America.  Usually, I’d do anything to avoid these places, but I charged forth.

     Lo and behold, I bought something.  When I got home, I lit a candle and lowered the lamp, ready to wrap my gift in the rosy light of my living room ~ with my incredibly warm and generous heart ~ I nearly sprouted angel wings. 

     Momentarily, I realized that the wonderfully perky checkout girl, who had referred to me as a guest, had forgotten to take that “thing” off the item ~ you know what I mean, right? ~ the device that explodes ink all over your item if it’s not removed. 

     In seconds I morphed.  I went from being a jolly little Christmas elf to the worst kind of Scroogy crankpot.  I was in a rage when I realized I had to go all the way back up to the store in order to get the “thing” off.

       I decided that if I were going to do it, I’d really do it.  I mean, I’d really experience Herald Square at its holiday peak, not just put my head down and run like a crazed quarterback down the Christmas football field.  So I lingered in the most annoying spot, right outside of Macy’s, where cops were shepherding the weary flocks of pedestrians across the street.  A melismatic version of “Oh Little Town of Bethlehem” blared from a brassy speaker as hordes of us carried our bags through the square.  

     As soon as I stopped to have a look, I was amazed.  I couldn’t believe what was actually happening around me, and in no time I felt like a scrawny Santa, mustering up the courage to look right into people’s eyes.  Not everyone, but most returned my smile.  Every face was different, every gait was quirky ~ all ages and races rushed along ~  I encountered countless set of eyes, and heard the sound of many languages.  It was chaos, but it was so human!  Full of ornery cheer.

     I wound up hanging out with a homeless vet who was sitting on the ground with a sign that said HELP.  He was singing along to the carols that were resounding across the mall.  He told all about his three tours in Iraq. I gave him five dollars, saying, “I wish I could do more. He said, “Aw, come on, thanks for talking to me, made my day.”  I said, “You’re the one who made my day.”

     When I finally arrived at the store to get the ink device removed, three checkout girls gathered together, like a small group of carolers, and said, “We’re so sorry, ma’am!”  And it seemed as if they meant it.  My heart softened up a bit.  “No big deal,” I said, “No big deal at all.”

      I know it’s a weird time of year.  There’s an awful lot of sadness in the air. But the bells still ring and it’s the little things, the little things, the tiniest little things.

      Happy Holidays to you and yours, my friends. 

www.suzzyroche.com   

Dear Friends,

First, let me say thank you for your wonderful comments and encouragement as I make my way through the publication of my first novel - a rockin’ mother/daughter love story -WAYWARD SAINTS.

Nowadays one’s publisher asks you to urge your community of friends and supporters to “pre-order” the book, by Amazon (or your favorite retailer).  Seems the other retailers look to these pre-orders to see if the book will soar in the marketplace.  

This is a bit awkward for me, but I may as well do what I’m asked and suggest to you - my friends - that if you think you ‘d like to read WAYWARD SAINTS, please consider pre-ordering it.  I hope you enjoy it!  (might make a good gift, too)

LINK TO PRE-ORDER:

 http://www.suzzyroche.com/www.suzzyroche.com/Wayward_Saints.html

 Oh, and you can click below to read an excerpt from, Wayward Saints, and get a free download of Song for Wayward Saints, a duet with my daughter, Lucy Wainwright Roche.

  http://www.hyperionbooks.com/waywardsaints/

www.suzzyroche.com

         I’ve been onstage all my life it seems.  Odd, because I was one of those excruciatingly shy kids who couldn’t even say her own name out loud.  I never dreamed of being a star, or a person in show biz, and it’s a good thing because I never became either.  Instead, I’ve been a working artist, and though I’ve made my living by the seat of my pants, the skin of my teeth, and have hung by the barest thread, I consider myself to be lucky – beyond belief.  

        Last night I had a gig with my sister in a tiny Pennsylvania town.  You show up at these places not knowing quite what to expect.  After thirty-five years, let’s face it, some of the petals have fallen off the rose.  Many venues are practically out of business, and most of the upcoming acts on the marquee have been banging around for decades, just like us.  

       We come stumbling through the door for a sound check– middle-aged, doddering, and bespectacled – who knows what’s going through the young soundman’s mind?  He’s patient as we work to get used to the sound and fix the levels in our monitors.  I think he even says “Yes, ma’am” at one point.

     Then we’re led across the way into another building. Brrrrrr. Two ladies (upwards of 55) step into stage frocks in a freezing cold bathroom (back behind a broom closet), tremble in a frigid dressing room, and gratefully get served a slice of warm pot-pie, while waiting for the 8PM curtain. We’re laughing!

         Time to scamper back across the windy parking lot – guitars in hand, buttoned up in scarves and winter coats – through the back door of the club, where lo and behold, a full house is there to greet us.  We take off our coats and throw them on the stage. 

         Let’s sing. 

        And this is where I become overwhelmed with a mishmosh of feelings.  Sometimes I’m afraid I might even bust into tears.  Who ARE  these people in the audience?  I can’t believe they’re there.  They have also braved the chilly night, parked their cars, paid for tickets (in a recession) and they’re glad to see us.  It’s as if we’re all old friends.  And in a way we are.  We’ve shared a lifetime of concerts together. The music belongs to them. The ones that still come to the shows seem to accept whatever we offer, glad to hear their old favorites and interested in the new songs, too.   I would have never had a career without them, and yet, I don’t even know their names. 

         Last song.  Come on up on stage everybody and sing a Christmas carol! 

         And they do, and it’s fun, and it’s genuine.

         After the show, we shake hands and sell a few CDs.  There’s a sense of gratitude that goes both ways:  somebody met their husband at one of the concerts, two people drove down eight hours from Toronto, a few brought their grown children, one guy says he’s a brand new fan.  I scribble my name on CDs that are nearly impossible to tear the plastic off of.  We shake hands, or even hug.  One person asks, “So, do you have a retirement plan?” and I say, “HUH?”  Somebody else says, “You’re music has meant the world to me.”  

         I say thank you for listening to the music, thank you for coming to the shows, thank you for keeping in touch.  After all these years, it means so much.

photos courtesy of Ed Calhoun                  www.suzzyroche.com

         Last night I sat by the window of a café in Greenwich Village in the pouring rain. I guess I had the blues, but slowly the strangest, most wonderful feeling came over me as I looked out at my neighborhood.  Traffic lights turned from red to green, cars slowed, their headlights blurred by the rain, people hurried by holding umbrellas against the wind.  Everything seemed to slow down for a minute.  Drops of rain rolled across the window of the café, and in the street it was really coming down hard.  My friend said, “It’s crying outside.”  And it seemed true! 

        This has been a tough year, one thing and another.   Aside from my own intermittent (blah, blah, blah) despair, dear friends have had heartbreaking hardships, much of the world seems to be gripped by anger and blame, a bad economy has spread fear and poverty.  Everyone seems terribly worried about something. So, why I was all of a sudden overwhelmed by a feeling of wellbeing and gratitude?

       For a little while, my own preoccupations were mysteriously lifted, and I was awed by the beauty that is literally everywhere ~ free for all.  We’re in this thing together, strangers, friends, cities, countries, neighbors, families, animals, and enemies.  If the world is crying, I’m crying too. 

       More and more I think about dying.  Makes sense, I’m older now.  The life I’ve lived has already faded, I can hardly remember who I was!  Most of what I used to crave is meaningless to me now.  But there is something that still interests me.  Whenever I get a glimpse into the bigger picture, just the sheer beauty of it, I am alive as if for the first time.  One thing I suspect is that whatever is giving me grief is just a tiny piece of the big fat it.

      Tomorrow I’m cooking for a small group of people who have had their share of troubles this past year.  I hope I can create a few hours of good cheer and peace for my guests.  Guests are God.  I just read that in a book.  

      Happy Thanksgiving everybody!  (I hope this isn’t too corny.)

www.suzzyroche.com      

     I can’t believe I wrote a novel and it’s being published. 

     I’ve made many recordings, cds, lps, whatever you want to call them, and I’ve held my breath as they were tossed out into the public eye (or ear), but I’m finding myself surprised at the level of anxiety I’m having about releasing a book. 

     Maybe it’s because I’m older now ~ my skin in thinner ~ I’m not as tough as I used to be. Am I afraid of reviews, what people will say?  Ugh, I guess so.  Shouldn’t I know better by now?  In my lifetime my work has been received favorably and unfavorably, I’ve been kicked around the block a bit, ignored, praised, and at this stage of the game, I realize it hardly matters. It’s been my  experience that projects have a way of seeping into the world and finding their audience.  I’ve been blessed in that sense, for sure.

     As soon as something is being “sold” it changes what it is.  Throughout my life, starting at an early age, my creations have been set in a commercial context. I’m not complaining.  Many people ~ much more talented than I am ~ have never had that experience, and that comes with a whole other set of challenges.  After all, these opportunities to “sell” seem to be based largely on luck.  The flip side, of course, is that if you have never been spewed out into the public marketplace, you’ve never been fed through the meat-grinder of public opinion. 

      When I sing for an audience, it’s a communal experience.  We’re all in it together.  There’s a sense of a shared creation, at least I’ve always felt that way.  But writing a book is a solitary pursuit.  You do it in private, you dream it, you live with a whole set of characters who, in the end, don’t actually exist. It’s odd!  I mean, creating anything is weird and strange, but writing a novel is mysterious in a whole new way. I’ve always been in awe of novelists, but now, especially, I understand the particular vulnerability they’re up against.

     I’m trying to wrap my head around the concept of celebrating.  I’m working with my fears, I’d like to say ~ hey little book ~ be on your way.  It’s a little like dropping a kid off on the first day of kindergarten; you realize they’ll never be the same again, you hope they don’t get bullied in the playground, you know they’re on their own, that you can’t go with them.  You want them to do well.  

     Recently, someone sent me this picture of myself as a kid.  I look at the picture and say, who is this person ~ I don’t recognize her at all.   But I do remember the first day of kindergarten, I sobbed when they dropped me off.

www.suzzyroche.com

you are love, i kiss your black feet, smell the rims of your ears, your eyes like oily olives, never have i seen them cry, you don’t have a single word, faithful silence pulls me beside your skinny bones, hanging on your wordless world, you are always asking at my pockets, i turn them inside out for you, you accept disappointment with a hopeful eye, you want all my food but none of your own, i think i make you mad, but what can i do when you forgive me all the time? at night we curl into our dreaming like two orphans remembering the night of being left behind, i could say i rescued you, but you could say you rescued me, i kiss your feet, you are love named sadness, what name do you have for me in the whimpering and barking of your great concern…

copyright www.suzzyroche.com

I just got home from a drive across the country with my daughter Lucy, and a Mystery Guest. We saw the full moon rise over the Colorado River, and we made a special stop at a ghost town, where one man lives.  In the desert, on the way through Tuba City we met a dog who wanted us to take her along, but we left her at the gas station, worried that she belonged to someone else. She seemed so sure that we should take her, it was hard to say goodbye, and for at least a hundred miles we thought about going back to get her. I learned a lot, but not enough, about the complicated situation all around the Navajo Nation.  And, in case you’ve never been, the Grand Canyon is most definitely enormous. It has a way of inviting you to jump right in.  Someday I’d like to get to the bottom of it on a mule and visit the Havasupi ~ the people of the blue green water. We felt like Thelma and Louise at times, and even picked up a hitch hiker, his name was Johnny, and luckily he didn’t steal our cash. A weird thing happened at a hotel, though.  I walked into an open room, thinking it was mine, and took somebody else’s car keys by mistake.  It was awkward because I had to figure out how to put them back into the person’s room without being noticed.  I enlisted the help of our brave Mystery Guest. On the way back home it snowed in the Rocky Mountains ~ whoa!  October is a little early for snow. Did I mention that the music flowed on ipods, radios, and jeez, this pod cast craze is something else.  Lucy keeps me abreast of all the latest trends.  Okay, I admit that the drive through Kansas seemed long, but I did something I haven’t done in over forty years ~ had a sundae from Dairy Queen ~ with chocolate sauce and whipped cream, too.  Don’t get me wrong ~ Kansas, Missouri, Indiana, Illinois, Ohio, Pennsylvania, and New Jersey were all beautiful, but I was having a little tailbone ache by then, and I think we were all glad to see the New York City skyline rise up in the distance.

 So, if you ever get invited to go on a trip with your daughter and a Mystery Guest…go for it.