Back in 1995, Molson Brewing Company held a concert in Tuktoyuktuk, Iceland called the Polar Beach Party.  The show feature a great lineup of bands and it sounded like it would be an amazing trip, but it wasn’t easy to get to the show and it just didn’t happen for me.  However, it registered in my mind so that years later when another beer company, Rolling Rock, decided to sponsor their own concert in Latrobe, PA I knew I wanted to go.  Better still, I knew someone who worked at a Rolling Rock distributor, so I asked her if she could get me tickets to the concert and in a few short days later I had them in my hand. This was yet another favor that I will probably remember for the rest of my life.

I certainly didn’t expect the Latrobe concert to compare with the concert that went off in Iceland, but it didn’t require time off from work and there were several major acts that I really liked, including the Red Hot Chili Peppers, Moby, Filter, and Our Lady Peace.  I had four tickets, so I invited my friends, Pat and Mike, and my sister Ellen.  We shopped around for the best (i.e., cheapest) way there and ended up ruling out plane, train, and bus, which really only left us with driving down ourselves.  We decided to rent a car we could all fit in comfortably and drive down together, but two days before the show, Ellen and Mike dropped out and all was lost.  I was disappointed to miss the show, but I managed to convince myself that it probably wasn’t going to be that good anyway.

I called Pat and broke the news to him: the show was off.  I was disappointed and a little angry, so I wasn’t thinking clearly until Pat asked if he could still have his ticket.  He said that he’d drive down in his car, and if I didn’t want to go, he’d still go it alone.  I was a little embarrassed that I hadn’t even considered any other possibility.  I allowed my disappointment over a little setback from what I considered the ideal situation to blind me from realizing there were other possibile scenarios.  I told Pat he could certainly have his ticket, but that I wasn’t going to let him drive 1100 miles round-trip alone.  I was going, too, and I wanted to help with the driving.  He was happy, I was happy, and now our trip was back on.

We packed up and left Friday after work and drove all night, through Massachusetts, Connecticut, New York, and Pennsylvania.  Pat drove the whole way down, but I stayed up all night and kept him company.  Even at night, but especially at sunrise, Pennsylvania was gorgeous, covered with lush, green woods, and long winding roads up, down, and even through mountains.  I remember one thing in particular Pat said, because I felt the same way. After remarking how beautiful Pennsylvania was, he said that he wouldn’t mind living there, but that he could never live too far from the ocean.  Neither of us surf, own boats, or fish much, and the last place you would find me would be frying myself on the beach, but there’s just something comforting about the ocean. To me, looking out over the water is like looking out into the stars.  It makes me feel tiny and yet connected to everything all at once.  There’s just something comforting about the ocean.  When I was first driving and wanted to explore the highways and back roads of Massachusetts and New Hampshire, I always knew I could just head east until I hit the ocean and then find my way home from there.

We arrived just outside of Latrobe at about 6am and stopped into an IHOP for what seemed like the best breakfast we had ever had.  The restaurant was pretty busy for that time of morning, but we were probably the only non-locals there. Most people were ordinary folk, probably with ordinary jobs, but to us it was like another world: a place where people raised livestock and grew food on land where we could only marginally grow grass.  It may seem like a silly thing to be in awe of a farmer, but that’s really the only way I can describe it.  I could just as easily dismiss it as the results of a long, sleep-deprived night, but that morning just felt special, so we treated it and everyone around us with a kind of reverence that continued for the rest of the weekend.  And, just by treating it special, we made it special.

We drove on to Latrobe and down to the fairgrounds to get a good look at the venue.  The Rolling Rock Town Fair is held on a massive fairgrounds with what appears to be a fully working farm.  There were throngs of people everywhere and we could see buses shuttling people to and from the satellite lots, so we double-backed and parked at one of the satellite lots, really just an open grassy field.  Pat and I hung out at the car for a few hours, took some pictures, drank some beers, and bought what has turned into a contest for the wildest tie-dye concert t-shirt.

At the show, the bands were fantastic and the crowd was wild.  The temperature began to rise, so the concert organizers set up pump trucks to spray the crowds with water.  Where there’s water and dirt, there’s mud, so before long we started seeing what can only be described as the “mud people:” men and women covered from head to toe in mud.  I’ve seen the mud people reemerge at several concerts since then, and I knew friends who were present both at Green Day’s free concert at the Hatch Shell in Boston and at Woodstock II. During both Green Day concerts, clumps of mud and ripped up turf were hurled at the band, but here in Latrobe the mud people weren’t out of control; they were just happy to be cool and covered in mud.  I guess you can even learn from a pig.

Another surreal moment occurred after the concert let out.  We headed to the nearest motel for some long needed sleep and on the drive out of Latrobe, we passed a farm where we witnessed the largest gathering of fireflies I could ever imagine.  They were glowing and blinking all around the car and out across the grassy hill in every direction as far as our weary eyes could see.  I had seen fireflies many times before and since this night, and I don’t think it was simply the sheer numbers of them glowing and dancing as the evening sun began to set that made it so memorable.  I think it was because I felt that this time they were blinking just for us.  They were blinking, “Thank you for coming.  Have a safe drive home.  Come again!”

We awoke early Sunday morning, checked out of the motel, and set out on the open road for the long drive back home, satisfied that the trip was well worth it.  We had spent our time well.  The drive home was just as long as the drive down, but we got to see more of Pennsylvania in the daylight than we could make out in the dark before the sun had come up.  It was just as beautiful as it was on the drive down.

We’ve gone to the Rolling Rock Town Fair several times since then, always driving down and always staying at the same hotel that gave us comfort on the first trip.  A couple times, I drove, and even one time, Ellen and Mike made the trip with us.  The show has grown in the years since the first Town Fair and Rolling Rock even moved to Heinz Field for a year, greatly underestimating the allure of the fairground venue, but none of the shows could possibly compare with my memories of the the first.  And to think, if Pat had been as defeated as I had been, I wouldn’t have ever even gone.

"Remember that your failures are the seeds of your most glorious successes. Be sad if you must, but don’t despair.”
Source Unknown

Christmas was really nice this year.  The holiday itself fell on a Sunday and when this happens, my work has to give us Monday off, creating a three day weekend. Last year, Christmas fell on a Saturday, so in essence we didn’t get any day off for Christmas (or New Year’s Day for that matter), other than the usual weekend. Needless to say, I enjoyed this year’s holiday weekend over last year’s.

More significantly than the day on which the holiday fell, was the inclusion of a new family member: my daughter, Ella.  She’s only a little over four months now and it’s doubtful if she’ll remember into her adulthood anything that occurred this year, so it’s questionable whether our celebrations were for her or for Maggie and me. We dressed her in a Christmas outfit, took photos, and mailed out the best one for our Christmas card.  It actually came down to a choice between two photos, but we picked the one with her head cocked to the side a bit, looking somewhere between exuberant and mischievous.  Another day, we dressed her in another outfit, and took her to see Santa Claus down at the town hall and took even more pictures.  Christmas Eve, we dressed her in yet another outfit, and took her to two parties, one for each side of the family, and took yet more pictures and even video footage.  If in years from now, she becomes a fashion model, I’ll have to think the wardrobe changes and flash bulbs from this Christmas alone would have played a great part.

After all the rushing around Christmas Eve, we spent a nice quiet day at home on Christmas Day.  Maggie’s brother, Eric, came for Christmas dinner, and Maggie cooked a delicious roast beef with all the trimmings.  It was a really nice day overall until evening arrived and Maggie had to dress for work.  She’s started working two overnight shifts a week at a local hospital, sometimes on weekends and sometimes on holidays.  This allowed us to eliminate day care for Ella without dropping the household income.  It’s been difficult for her to manage the nights without sleep, especially since her schedule doesn’t allow her body or mind to truly adjust to the changes.  I try to be positive and helpful.  I do odd jobs around the house to try to make things a little nicer for her when she gets home.  My sister, Brenda, has helped out by watching Ella in her home during particularly tough weeks.  But, the simple fact is that the new schedule is hard on my wife, and as a result, hard on us.  We’re learning to cope, and I’m learning how to be more understanding and give her a little more room.  I think the changes may turn out to be as good for us as we knew they’d be for Ella.

Christmas night, I put Ella down at her usual time, but I knew that her internal clock was a little off-kilter due to the schedule changes and activity of the previous week which reached a crescendo on Christmas Eve.  She had also been suffering under the effects of a cold.  She woke up about 9pm and was still pretty drowsy while I fed her, slipping in and out of sleep, each time looking a little surprised or confused as to where she was.  I tried putting her back down to sleep, but an occasional cough kept waking her until she was fully awake and alert.

I’m usually the one to advocate the importance of self-reliance and discipline, but there aren’t many reasons to stress either with a four month old, especially on Christmas, when her mother isn’t home.  So, I dropped my role as the disciplinarian and took on the role of the nurturer.  I stood over her crib, and gently rubbed the top of her head, the back and sides, around her ears, and traced her face with my fingers.  She stopped crying, her arms stilled, and her breathing slowed and became less forced.  I don’t know how long I stood over the crib, but eventually my back to ache, so I squatted by the side for as long as I could.  When my legs began to tire, I pulled over the ottoman from the glider and sat by the side of the crib, continuing to caress my daughter’s head.  She looked as peaceful as I had ever seen her, perfectly still, with a slight hint of a smile on her lips.  Eventually, the power of the situation overwhelmed me and I began to weep.  I cried because I loved my daughter.  I cried because I loved and missed my wife.  I cried because I loved and missed my mother.  And I cried because I finally “got it.” I felt the unbreakable bond between us as surely as I felt the soft skin beneath my fingers.  She’s no longer just my daughter, but I’m also her father.  I can’t describe it any other way.

"The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even touched. They must be felt with the heart.”
Helen Keller

Ellen is single, so it only reasons that I’d have more memories of her during my single years than I would of my other sisters who are married.  That’s not to diminish the times I’ve spent with Ellen, because they have been some of my favorite times of all, but I felt the need to explain why her name continues to pop up with more frequency than my other sisters.

Ellen and I have shared several vacations together, one of which we spent in Las Vegas.  I’ve since gone back to Vegas with Ellen, but our first trip was indeed my favorite.  I’m sure I’ll write more about this particular vacation, but since the current topic is live music, I’ll keep my thoughts to a particular memory of our trip.

Without checking through old plane ticket stubs (I’ve held on to those, too), I’d guess that my first trip to Vegas was in early 1995.  The MGM Grand still had its theme park open, the Bellagio; New York, New York; and the Venetian hadn’t yet been built on the strip, and they were just preparing for construction of the massive roof that would eventually encompass the street downtown.  This trip, we stayed downtown at the Golden Nugget.  It’s a fine hotel, but frankly, we didn’t spend much time there other than to shower and sleep.  We really only chose it because hotel fare was cheaper off the strip but we still wanted to stay some place nice.  The Golden Nugget turned out to be even nicer than I had imagined.

After about our fifth day, the lights, noise, and constant activity that defines Las Vegas began to wear on us, and then we began to wear on each other.  I decided to head out on my own and Ellen stayed in the room.  Before I got too far, only about a block away, I could hear the obvious rhythm of a live band.  The music was coming from a club called The Fremont Street Reggae and Blues, which unfortunately closed only a few years later in 1996 when its owner moved back to Omaha.  The club was dark and I couldn’t make out much from the street, so I started to forgo the ten dollar entrance price and walk away. I only walked a few doors away when the the allure of the club beckoned me back.  There was an adventure to be had and ten dollars wasn’t a lot to risk on a new experience. I walked up to the people collecting money at the door and it was only then that I discovered the money was being raised for a local cause. I reasoned that if the experience didn’t turn out to be worth ten dollars, I was at least contributing to something beneficial.

I walked in, took a seat at the bar, ordered a beer, and watched the show. The band was playing great, but as soon as the song was over, they thanked the audience and left the stage.  My disappointment ended quickly when the MC announced the name of the next band to take the stage.  It turned out that they were hosting many local bands who were all playing for the charity.  I don’t know if I ordered and finished a second beer or not, but I do know that I got my hand stamped at the door and ran back to the hotel to get Ellen.  She seemed a little reluctant to leave the room at first, probably because I had started grating on her even more than I had realized, but she eventually relented and followed me out and down the street to the Fremont Street Reggae and Blues where I eagerly paid her entrance fee.

I don’t know how long we spent in that dark club on that bright, sunny day, because it was one of those experiences where time seemed to have no meaning.  We watched many bands and we drank many more beers.  And when we finally did leave that club, whatever problems we had with each other were long left behind.  In fact, I don’t have the slightest idea what petty dispute or annoying habit caused us to go our separate ways in the first place.  All I do know is that I’m thankful I decided to stop into that bar, and even more thankful that I had the good sense to share it with my sister.  I also know that I heard the most amazing rendition of Magic Carpet ride that day that couldn’t be surpassed if Steppenwolf themselves came and played it in my living room.

"As life is action and passion, it is required of a man that he should share the passion and action of his time, at the peril of being not to have lived.”
Oliver Wendell Holmes