My life story goes like this: When I was in my mom's belly she went with my dad to Michigan for a job interview. She saw the waves coming in from Lake Superior and somehow knew we would live here. I didn't speak for a few years and I slept right through my mom vacuuming under the crib. So they thought I was deaf. My first word was "I would like some juice now." My mom dropped something at that moment. It may have been the phone, or a jar of pickles. She makes fantastic pickles.

Music came to me through the records and tapes of my parents and older sister and brothers. The Police, Brahms, Nina Simone, and the Lone Ranger to name a few. I experienced live music when my father would sing to us. He would lean in the doorway of our room at bedtime and sing folk songs that would take us out of the busy day and into that dreamy space where music thrives.

I took piano from the sagacious and jolly lady down the street. And when I was old enough I joined the school band as a trombone player. I was interested in the Blues, and soon infatuated with Jazz, and Bebop. Then I picked out a James Brown CD out of a bargain bin at Shopko. It was about that time that I joined a band that played original music and covers of Pearl Jam, Red Hot Chili Peppers and Bob Marley. In that band I had my first experience singing. I was shy about it at first but after a little prodding I opened up and got to experience music coming through me. This type of thing has happened many times since. One such occasion was a Winter night when I was 22 years old.

My girlfriend was pregnant with our first baby, and I was heavy with responsibility and wondering why I was in music school. I went on a walk downtown and stopped at the Washington Street Pub to see how the open mic was going. It was limping along. Most of the dozen or so people in there were seated at the bar while the band labored along on the other side of an empty dance floor. After a couple tunes someone nudged me and sent me up on the stage to sing one. I met the drummer. It seemed like we had met before but I can't remember where. Someone handed me a red guitar and I sang Mustang Sally. Halfway through I went into a scat solo and lost all touch with the known world. I couldn't even hear my own voice. There was a comforting darkness and tiny lights all around me, some of them passing and some fading in and out. When I came back the people who had been at the bar were at the edge of the dance floor, all of them standing with their mouths open.

So I got my answer about music school that way, and graduated as a voice major a few years later. Not that everything you do that gets attention should be taken seriously. But when you find a simple way to link the mundane and the spirit world, you are responsible for having that tool and better learn how to use it. My girlfriend and I were married and had two more babies and built a cabin in the woods, where our youngest was born. We moved back to town this year to allow us to build our dream house. A dream house for us means a simple house near a creek in the Huron Mountains with a dance hall in it. So far we have a roof and walls, something like a barn. I'll be out there finishing every day until we can move in. We welcome anyone who might want to come help for a day or two or forty-two. I'll post building party dates up here if you're interested. More information about the house is at ourhouseonthecreek.blogspot.com.