So much has been written about the last 16 months that it would be hard to find anything to add. We do want to post a grateful hooray for everything that has brought our communities back to life -- and brought the music back into our communities.

There are so many thanks to be given -- to front-line workers and first responders and medical providers and scientists and public health administrators -- and all the public officials who had to make decisions with ever-changing information, hoping that their policies would save lives while knowing that whatever they chose was going to anger many.

Thanks to all these and others, our world is pretty much back to the way it was in February of 2020.  We just got word that the markets are bringing music back -- a wonderful announcement.

We hope today finds everyone health and well -- and that any needed healing has already started. We hope to hear you and see you and sing with you very soon.


 

I have been lucky enough to do some writing for an on-line bluegrass publication called Bluegrass Solutions. I was honored to be asked to write about Elizabeth Cotten.  We all know her song Freight Train, but fewer know the amazing story of her life and her remarkable success after the age of 60.

Here's to Libba -- and the wonderful women musicians in this, National Women's Month.

 

Free Range went to the desert.

We were extremely lucky to have timed our trip to Arizona and California in time to see the beginning of the super bloom -- yellow and pink and purple and white flowers covering the desert floor.

Aside from the spectacular beautify of the southwest -- not just the flowers and cactus, but the amazing rock formations and glorious skies -- one event stands out in my mind. 

One night, we pulled our instruments into our outdoor shelter and were singing and playing around our propane fire pit (well, it doesn't smell as good as a real fire, but we never get ashes in our eyes, either).

Two men stopped by to listen, and eventually they asked if they could join us.  One fellow is a very good blues guitar player, and his uncle who he was traveling with recently retired after 35 years as a professional bass player.  They joined us on guitar and a handheld acoustic bass, and we played for a couple hours -- everything from bluegrass duets and fiddle tunes to Last Date and Sleep Walk.

The next morning, our neighbor in the next campsite told us how much he enjoyed the music. He had recently gotten into bluegrass and was (and this doesn't happen very often!) delighted to be camped next to a banjo player.  

And here's what he said that will remain one of the favorite things anyone has ever said to me.

"I stayed out here to listen as long as I could.  I'll remember that for the rest of my life."

"If I cannot fly, let me sing." Stephen Sondheim

Singing is the best antidote for overthinking that I've encountered. Now I think that instead of checking my news feed compulsively throughout the day, I should take myself off to sing somewhere instead.

I feel free just imagining this.
 

We've set ourselves a goal of traveling the Columbia River from its headwaters to its mouth over a number of years.  Last month, we started the journey. We drove to the town of Canal Flats in British Columbia and wandered through a residential neighborhood to reach a tiny park and a short trail around a marsh.

After a few minutes, we reached a foot bridge. On one side was the marsh. On the other side, the water formed a small moving stream. That would become the great river that flows a few miles from our home.

Before it gets to us, the little stream will become Columbia Lake, then a free-flowing river surrounded by miles of wetlands, then a series of dammed-up reservoirs and the massive Columbia that flows, albeit much tamer, into the Pacific. We don't know how long it would take the molecules of water that froze Matt's toes (yes, he stood in it) to get to Astoria, or if any of those molecules would make it this far, but it's been fascinating to think about the journey and its implications for our part of the world.

Coming back to Portland, we took Highway 14 along the north side of the Columbia Gorge. We loved remembering the tiny stream and thinking about the massive flooding that created the gorge -- and how it's all interconnected.

As we start our annual farmers market indulgence, we're excited to have more context about the water flowing into our region. That trip helped us feel connected to our own geography. So do farmers markets -- as what could tie us to our region more profoundly than small-scale agriculture?

We came home to fresh local raspberries. Already we know it's going to be a great summer. Enjoy yours -- and your local market. We hope to see you at one, soon.

Columbia Lake

"February days are a marketing gimmick; love happens every day."

It was written by an Indian film star named Randeep Hooda. Now I have to watch Monsoon Wedding and everything else he's been in, as this is my new favorite quote.

It's February. It's pouring rain. Neither the Steelers nor the Packers made it into the Superbowl. Valentine's Day is one bloated marketing event.

And the world is full of uncertainty.

But love, like music, happens every day.  

Thanks, Randeep.


 

https://www.facebook.com/HollywoodFarmersMarketPDX

We love this market for many reasons: First, we're liable to see many of our friends and neighbors there. Second, the stage is positioned among all the luscious prepared food, and folks can sit at one of the many tables and watch and listen while they eat pastries and berries and drink great coffee.

Third, well, that would be a tie between the berries, the veggies, the salmon, the lamb and the beeswax candles.

As always, we are delighted to be performing at the Holllywood Farmers Market this Saturday from 9 to 12:30. We hope to see many of you there.

Claire & Matt

http://www.rediscoverthefalls.com/