Lake Minnewaska II

March winds whip
across her slate grey body.
Not a boat afloat or a soul trolling.
Light presses through pinholes in the storm.
Unwelcomed, it shimmers, glances, bounces,
unable to penetrate the stern, icy silence.
The barren lake lies aloof,
shrugging off suitors
with wet shoulders and liquid distain.
No encouragement in her slicing surface,
she slaps the pebbled shoreline.
Icebound, hosting fisherman,
she seems friendlier.
Her virginal white invites extended visits,
she suggests a wedding,
a possible marriage.
Melted, she grows colder.
She distances herself.
She waves frigid fingers, carressing the freezing air.
Thankless, turgid, troubled,
she rocks and heaves.
On the edge,
cautious lovers consider her intentions.


Catalina

Cathleen and Chris

"The painter turns a poem into a painting; the musician sets a picture to music."
Robert Schumann

The Lion and the Lamb

A wide grass plain
Bakes under a searing sun.
An elephant trots, a giraffe sways,
A zebra bolts, a tiger leaps.
Behold, the lion sees the lamb.

A hyena shrieks, a rhino rushes,
A snake slides, a crane glides,
A vulture gazes, a gazelle darts,
The parched soil thirsts.
Behold, the lion hunts the lamb.

Above the plain a mountain rises.
Storm clouds shroud her distinction.
Turning inside out, she melts her collar.
Ice drips down the sides of her cone.
Behold, the lion catches the lamb.

The earth splits with a humble sigh.
The mountain crumbles over the broken plain.
The withered grass whispers silent sobs.
The moon disappears into a starless sky.
Behold, the lion licks the lamb.

A canary sings a clarion call.
The pastel dawn hosts one shear cloud.
White sand shifts under aqua tides.
In the shadows, an orchid opens.
Behold, the lion lies down with the lamb.

Catalina

Cathleen and Chris

"As matters now stand with me I am no longer spurred to creative effort by ambition, but by the urge to communicate with my friends and the wish to give them pleasure: whenever I know this urge and wish to have been satisfied, I am happy and content." Richard Wagner, in a letter to Franz Liszt

Beyond the Dark Blue

A short story

Beyond the dark blue ran a deep purple that bled into a thin white spilling out looking like puddles of blood. Silence. A shadow tiptoed over the puddles and left large tracks that disappeared after the rain. Yes, it poured that day. Poured like water from a faucet on the hill behind the small white cottage on the edge of a Mediterranean sea. Everywhere else it was dry. Dry like salt. Another shadow slipped out the front door of the house and slid down to the sea. Sliding out of nothing, its blackness slid down to the water and then into the water where it faded into the water.

The two shadows knew each other from yesterday, but today they were strangers going in opposite directions. One was headed for the town of two palm trees and a bucket of water. The other was headed for an island of one beach and a small coconut tree. A monkey beckoned the water shadow to come up out of the water and sit on the sand. The black shadow slid silently over the low tide and lay quietly by the monkey. The monkey tried desperately to caress the shadow, to make friends, to have a conversation, to make a connection, to tickle, to snuggle, to kiss, but the shadow slipped away about two yards. The monkey, in frustration, bit the shadow. The monkey with a mouthful of sand ran off to hide in the coconut tree and weep until the sun went down.

Ciao!

Catalina

Cathleen and Chris!

"For is not music a language? And of what is it the language? Is it not the language of the dream world, the world beyond thought?" Robertson Davies, The Lyre of Orpheus

Rose-a-lee

Rose-a-lee sang.

rat ta ta tat
rat ta ta tat
tat tat ta tu

skuba bim bong
socka poka dim
rama rama lop chop
sopa hopa topa top
mama hippy doo…

Skipping over the rough spot in the road Rose-a-lee stumbled, caught herself, fell forward, leaned back, stopped, rolled her eyes and shouted, “ Hi Hoppa!” At that moment, a horned toad scrambled in a slow, side to side waddle to the dry grass on the edge of the gravel road. Rose-a-lee caught a glimpse of the horned toad as she swayed on the threshold of balance. Her giant shadow engulfed the tiny prehistoric survivor. He froze in the eclipse. Rose-a-lee reached out and grabbed the tawny toad. She swung upright and held him up to her face to get a close look.

Rose-a-lee sang.

tanka tanka rah rah
socka bimba doo
sawka sawka ratch ee
moma moma rue…

“Ooo la la, you handsome, tawny toad, let’s dance.” Rose-a- lee clutched the horned toad in her right hand, hopped two stones, then she sat down on an old stump. Directly, across the road from the stump, stood a road runner. His head bobbed a bit then he stood still. He stared at the scaled toad now lying in Rose-a-lee’s lap. Rosa-a-lee stroked the tiny toad head. She whispered “Tonka, that’s your name, you’re mine, forever mine”.

Rose-a-lee sang.

Racka rocka rumble
Kicka kanga bang
Socko blimp blimpa
Loppa doppa klang…

High above circled a hawk of giant proportions as Tonka saw it. He shriveled into his own skin. He was happy to find Rose-a-lee. He loved to dance. She did too. He could feel her rhythm in her songs. He couldn’t wait to dance again. At that moment, the road runner ran lickety split to the other side of the road for a closer look. Surprised Rose-a-lee pulled her skirt up over Tonka to hide him. The hawk circled again then swooped down. He perched on a rock on the other side of Rose-a-lee. He hoped to get a closer look at Tonka. Everyone wanted the same thing. Each one wanted a closer look, to be close to Tonka. Each wanted the same thing with a different intent. Rose-lee wanted a dance partner. The road runner wanted a race he knew he could win. The hawk wanted lunch.

Rose-a-lee sang.

Ringa ronga bongo bink
Simpa upa ding dong
Fropa sinko eepee wop
Clinga kropa fing fong…

Rose-a-lee soused it out. She jumped up, danced a jig, ran thirty yards with the road runner out in front, grabbed two huckleberries from a bush and tossed them to the hawk. Rose-a-lee and Tonka were satisfied, they had their dance. The road runner was happy, he won his race. The hawk was mollified, he had his lunch. Crunch, crunch, the hawk was quick. A thief with expert skill, he grabbed Tonka when everyone else was feeling pleased. No guard, he stole Tonka. He flew higher and higher until he disappeared. Rose-a-lee ran back down the road crying. She disappeared over a low hill. The road runner ran in circles then straight down the road, in the other direction, in a blur. One feather floated down from the big blue and settled on the stump. Slowly the sun dipped. Sunset filled the open sky.

Ciao!

Cathleen and Chris!

"Music and rhythm find their way into the secret places of the soul...Musical innovation is full of danger to the state, for when modes of music change, the laws of the state always change with them."
Plato

Rock Talk

It’s a day to celebrate rocks. Each rock is a friend. Our koi pond is made up of many friends. We collected this community of seemingly silent companions with care and affection. We scoured the county for abandoned, wayward, homeless rocks and placed them permanently in our pond. The pond is a gallery of pals with mysterious histories. Each rock is distinct. Each is unique in color and texture. Each rock’s story is as diverse as its exterior. One large, flat rock tells me it’s pleased with things the way they are. The last location was harsh. She fell several feet to the ground on the side of a back road. She spent a lot of time crying. Her tears were the sand and gravel around the edges. It was a sea of sameness. The rock says she wishes that I could have brought her good friend that was left behind hanging on the cliff, but she understands. She’s made friends with most of her neighbors now. She doesn’t miss her other friend anymore. The rock that supports the water fall tells me he loves it when the waterfall runs. He likes showers and the flow is perfect. The island rocks have started a chorus. When the waterfall spills they slurp in rhythm. The ripples against the rocks are barely audible, but they make a beautiful soft sound. When I sit on the edge of the pond, supported by hundreds of rocks, I hear the language of rock. All the conversations blend together. I hear stillness and peace. The waterfall can drown out the undertone of rock talk, but I still get bits and pieces. When the pond is still, I hear rock tones and see rock colors that rival sunsets.

Rock Song

tumble, scramble, roll, spin,
bounce, thud, crash, split,
bang, crumble, jumble, keel
dive, burrow, dust, dissolve,

crunch, lean, crush, fly,
toss, spin, stop, dam,
hold, grab, dig, bury,
cast, scramble, wiggle, burst,

stumble, crouch, dip, descend,
drop, flop, pitch, sag,
slump, topple, spill, plunge,
yaw, strike, slant, cant,

boom, clang, clatter, clap,
clop, slam, wham, smooch,
smash, crack, chink, blast,
thump, rumble, slip, slide.

Catalina
Copyright 2007

Ciao!

Cathleen and Chris!

“Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endeared,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone.”
John Keats

Tularosa Koi Pond Pleasures

The orient has known the value of koi for centuries. The beauty, the grace, the serene patience in existence expressed in these fish is inestimable. The butterfly koi, with their long veil like fins, move as dancers in a divine choreography. It's true they are catfish in pedigree, but bottom dwellers can often rise to the top with flash and flair. Koi are all about flash and flair. A whip to the left and right with their stout tails can impress anyone who has done laps in a pool. A swimmer's racing turn is awkward and lazy when matched against a playful or hungry koi.

Our Tularosa koi pond is home to one of the Kings of Koi. Big Daddy is his name and swimming is his game. He lolls about the pond tickling himself on the lily pads, or tucks himself away in the pond weeds to find some quiet meditation. When the waterfall is running his steadies himself under the falling water. He gulps water and air with delight.

Big Daddy is a lesson in survival. When we finished the pond we had no clue what the steps were to introduce koi to the new water park. We had expert advice that was all over the map. Like nurseries, everyone seemed to have an answer. The answers were as varied as the advisers, so we set out to find our own way following guidance from a variety of sources. First we added chemicals, but that killed the fish, even though the directions said it was safe for koi.We would see our error and start again and there, in all his colorful presence, was Big Daddy, Survivor, a small fry by koi standards, but that was in the early days. He kept his head down, so to speak, and each disastrous attempt to keep the pond clear left him undeterred. He would swim with complete equanimity. He never missed a meal. Now, large and in charge, he commands the leading role to four other koi of various shades and sizes, three substantial goldfish and a multitude of mosquito fish. He is safe from our external assaults now that the pond is naturally balanced. It seems true that, if one third of the pond is covered in plants, the fish will thrive. Contrary to many assertions by experts the koi don't bother the plants. Everything seems to be set in balance with the simple plant to pond ratio in place. No expert, I recommend this approach to anyone seeking to naturally balance their pond. Also, having no filter is no problem. It's been five years since we filled our pond. Our koi keep on treading water with no signs of distress.

Finally, we arrive at the whole point of this koi pond blog entry, the beauty of koi with no signs of distress. Big Daddy, the master of the Zen of pond life is my hero. Everyday I walk out and witness perfect beingness. No rebellion, no restlessness, no moving away, no grass is greener, no impatience, no puffing up, no nothing, but the quiet assurance that all is right, right where he is. Having a pond with fish is the perfect lesson in moment to moment living. There is no struggle to bridge moment to moment. Big Daddy demonstrates a seamless existence that hints at a better understanding and sets an example for us all.

Ciao!

Cathleen and Chris!

"Sibelius justified the austerity of his old age by saying that while other composers were engaged in manufacturing cocktails he offered the public pure cold water."

Neville Cardus

Phrygian

Take Note!

Phrygian and the Modes.

(Disclaimer - the following information could be hazardous to your health.) The song Phrygian, is actually based on the HypoPhrygian Mode. With all things being relative to the Key of C Major, the Phrygian Mode is based on the 3rd degree of C Major, or the note E. The HypoPhrygian Mode begins on the 7th degree of C Major, or, the note B. Whereas the Major Scale, whether it is based on C, E or B is always comprised of 2 whole steps, 1 half step, 3 whole steps and 1 half step. The HypoPhrygian Mode is always comprised of 1 half step, 2 whole steps, 1 half step and 2 whole steps. Based on these scale degrees, the HypoPhrygian Mode contains the Tri- Tone between the 1st degree to the 5th, whereas the Major Scale contains a Perfect 5th between those same degrees. Thus, the HypoPhrygian Mode, with it's Tri-Tone (or augmented 5th) lends itself nicely to a particularly dramatic quality of the 18th Century musical practice of "sturm und drang" (storm and stress). Theoretically then, the song Phrygian, even though it is composed in the HypoPhrygian Mode, with it's "sturm und drang " qualities, could be classified as a Neo - Classical composition. Personally however, I think it belongs in the category of a Driving Rock song!!!! To continue, once the main musical statement of Phrygian is presented in the HypoPhrygian Mode, the composition then modulates into the Parallel Minor Scale of the Phrygian Mode (otherwise known as E minor). However, as one might expect, at this point in time, there are some harmonic adjustments that need to be made. Normally the ascending 7th degree of a Minor Scale is raised (Melodic Minor) and the chord built on that scale degree is Diminished, but now the 7th degree is not altered, and the chord based on that scale degree is Major. Normally the chord built on the 5th degree of the Minor Scale is Major, (or the Dominant) but now the chord built on the 5th degree is Minor. Normally the 2nd degree of a Natural Minor Scale is 1 whole step, but now it becomes 1 half step with the Major chord built upon that scale degree in second inversion (otherwise known as a Neapolitan 6 Chord, with absolutely no relation to the ice cream!). Finally, the Dominant Chord does have it's 3rd raised 1 half step to become a Major Triad, thus leading the harmonic progression to a dramatic and powerful climax! Whew!!!!!! Then there is a recapitulation with a statement of the HypoPhrygian Mode in diminution followed by a short coda consisting of material from the Parallel E minor section. Let me know if this information helps you enjoy listening to Phrygian, or if you are running out of the room screaming with a migraine!?!?!

Ciao,

Cathleen & Chris

"Remember, as you go through life, don't B flat, don't B sharp, just B natural." Mozart - the other Mozart - our Golden Retriever.

Bird Songs

Sunrise at mid-day is easier. Actual sunrise can find me feeding horses, dogs, fish and the cat. Yes, drinking green tea,coffee or lemon water, reading and doing all the activities that get the day up and moving is what claims my early light. Most often it’s not until late morning that a moment arrives when I choose to sit down and tap the keys. However, the writing is all done in the spirit of sunrise and that’s what matters. The hour is immaterial, however, I’ll let you know when you get the real deal, when the sun is actually rising and the spirit moves me to chat, because there is something delightful, even delicious when a person sitting in dimness tries to bring up the sun in other people. A Rooster crows. I tap, tap, tap, tap on the keyboard and wait for the sound to burst into your thought on the wings of words.

Words that now bring me around to bird songs, birds and their houses. On the fence around our place and on the paddock fences are bird houses. To my surprise they have all been rented. Often smaller birds will move in first. Then larger birds will take over. Bullies seem to be everywhere. One lavender birdhouse hanging on a eucalyptus tree hosted a woodpecker. It had bullied its way into the birdhouse. Its red topped head peeked out with contentment. It had to do some work on the opening, but it finally made the house its own. It looked quite pleased with itself. All the houses have had some remodeling done by bird residents, most often on the entrances. The bully birds are numerous. They don’t sing much. The smaller, more delicate ones seem to twitter with the most soul. The other morning I heard a truly unique song from the tiniest throat. It came in through the sliding glass door on the balcony and wrapped around my ears, then slid gently into my head. It was glorious. Better than any solo I have ever heard except from soprano, Renata Tibaldi. I once studied canaries to learn how to sing. Renata must have swallowed a canary. Often, I see red tail hawks soaring over the landscape. Imagine a hawk singing like a canary! What a wonderful world that would be, the large and powerful singing melodies of grace and beauty as delicate as the caged canary.

Ciao!

Cathleen and Chris!

“My things are written with an appalling lack of practicality!”
Johannes Brahms

Sunrise Afternoon

Let's talk about Tango Rose. The song is from our latest musical Clarion Call. Thoroughbred horse racing is heady stuff, and when you get an owner, a trainer and a gambler all locked into the fortune that rests on one horse, Clarion Call, it can reveal a lot about human nature. The pulse and the tension from a day of horse races can spark some unusual lyrics and unique music that brings back stretch life to the stage and transforms the audience into a crowd of cheering fans. The tango of Tango Rose is a dance for the owner, Peter, and the trainer, Ann to spar and embrace without actually betraying their deeper feelings. Like horse racing, the tango is a dramatic event with a flair for the finish. We'll continue to post the songs from Clarion Call to keep you coming back to the track to see the end of the race!

Added note. As a child growing up on a ranch in Ojai, I had a retired thoroughbred with a tattoo under his lip that suggested he had a history. I didn't care what he had done, or where he had come from. I was a kid with a horse and loved to run on the back road up behind Meditation Mount before it became a serene place of quiet meditation. We had bareback horse races on that country road that would raise the hair on the backs of any track trained jockey. One misstep and we would hurl into a tree or land on a rock. But, in that childhood, it was devil may care, and my horse Charlie knew how to run a race. Let me share a poem that captures the time, the place, and the power of running horses that are "seemingly domestic".

Seemingly Domestic by Catalina


Tilted, a hoof drops down gently into the soft silt.
The slow swish of a long silk tail chases a lazy fly.

A trace of a trail,
once pawed by a hundred hooves,
that trampled grasses with ferocious strength,
while bucking against twisted tornadoes.

All unable to escape the wild stampede,
that rocked the earth for miles,
rattled stall doors and ripped hinges,
that opened slowly and closed fast.

A hint of the wilderness,
where once splashed a hundred hooves,
into the rushing water of a rising river.
All fleeing a black cloud sliced by lightning.

One, shrieking with a stallion’s call,
darted into the forest,
at the top of the mountain,
splitting rocks at a gallop,
sliding headlong into the wind,
down the steep incline,
devil may care.

Ciao!

Cathleen and Chris!

"Improvisation is not the expression of accident but rather of the accumulated yearnings, dreams, and wisdom of our very soul."
Yehundi Menuhin

Jalama Beach

Right in the neighborhood is a natural wonder of immense beauty and drama. It is a short ride, on a two lane road, off Highway 1. The road wanders through hilly ranch country with cows and deer, then boldly goes over a rise, and, "Wham!" the view fans out into the huge expanse of the Pacific Ocean, off of Point Conception. Tucked into this bay is Jalama Beach, famous for its beach burgers, waves and a frequent blustery wind that draws windsurfers from all over. This is where I took the beach photos for our music covers. It is wild and isolated. The kind of beach walkers with dogs like to "turn it all loose". It's a place to "leave it all behind" and embrace the raw, natural beauty of the California coast, before the crowds arrived.

Jalama beach is a place where the sand and the surf make music. Not serene country folk tunes, but loud pulsing rock music without words. The language of sound is the only talking here. It is mesmerizing conversation. Every time I visit Jalama, I feel purified. When I watch our dog, Mozart, run with abandon at the far end of the beach in either direction, I am free. When I watch the wind take the tips of the waves, I am washed. When I pick up sand dollars, I am rich. When I gather small, twisted, twigs of driftwood and pile them randomly on our glass top coffee table, I am a sculptor. When I smell the sea and taste the salt on my tongue, I eat exquisite ocean air cuisine. When I place the rocks with holes and embedded shells into my garden, I bring home a mystery.

Listen to Phrygian on our space at myspace. You'll be at transported to Jalama Beach by music!

Ciao!

Cathleen and Chris!

"Music is your own experience, your thoughts, your wisdom. If you don't live it, it won't come out of your horn."

Charlie Parker

The Making of Toad Hall

Walking by the bookshelf, at the end of the narrow hall, a small, dog-eared paperback copy of The Wind in the Willows slid forward an inch beyond the other books and announced it was time to read its story. I had tried reading it as a child, but it didn't resonate. I wondered what all the fuss was about. Now, it fairly screamed at me that it was a must read. So I read it. Voila. I was in, in so deep that I couldn't put it down. I kept marveling at the poetry of the words, the magic of the story and the music of its tone. Yes, it was a startling experience to discover a book so full of light that years ago had not been able to penetrate the darkness of my imagination. I mentioned to Chris that I thought The Wind in the Willows would make a great musical, because it was so naturally musical itself. He said, "Sure, Whatever you think". Then like a full moon beaming through the window at night, the story wouldn't allow me to sleep. I stumbled up and out to the studio that was a garage and started the long journey that led to the musical Toad Hall.

At the time, their was a wonderful woman singing in the same church choir. Chris was the Music Director then and she and I struck up a friendship. We talked about working together on a project. I went to her house one day to discuss some possibilities. She asked me if I had any ideas. Immediately, I stated that I wanted to write a musical of The Wind in the Willows. She lit up and said it was one of her most all time favorite stories. We agreed to go forward on the project. I would write the book and lyrics. As an expert in child development, she would explore the education instruction aspect, i.e. music and literacy programs that could stem from the musical, and we were on our way.

We went looking for funding for the idea and came up with sand. Seems we needed something to actually put on the table before anyone would invest. Disappointed, but undaunted, we both agreed to tough it out and go it on our own, squeezing in time to create the show. We met once a week to report our progress. Bravely, and with a good heart, her husband announced that he would partner in with some cash and we could go ahead. He knew Chris' music and I think he wanted to hear more.

For two years I read and reread the book and wrote adaptations with dialogue and lyrics that would honor the author, Kenneth Graham and also create a Wind in the Willows world for the stage. At first, I left everything in knowing at some point it would be whittled down. I wanted to have something to whittle. I did three versions, each one narrowing the storytelling and getting to the essence. In the end it was probably 15 to 20 versions before it was presentable and it's still evolving as we speak. The title alone went through several phases and we ultimately settled on Toad Hall.

Chris was also Director of the Santa Ynez Valley Chorale at the time, so we previewed five of the songs at two different Chorale concerts, at the Solvang Pavilion and the Lobero Theatre, in Santa Barbara respectively. The response was extremely positive. We were convinced that there was something there. Meanwhile, a company in LA was convinced too, but there was a long road ahead to get it up as a full stage production.

Finally, in 2005 we did the show in the Santa Ynez Valley. We had a great mix of professional and amateur theatre personnel and fundraising that allowed a modest full stage production running for six nights at the Little Theatre in Santa Ynez. Playing to enthusiastic audiences over the course of the run, we celebrated a successful first production.

Now, it was time to get more serious. So much had gone into the project over the years, we had to go forward. We headed to LA and made a fully professional recording to take the show to the next level.

Making a musical is like brewing coffee in slow motion. Each dripping drop adds to the whole and finally you have a pot of fresh coffee. If it's too strong you can add water or milk. If it's weak, you can throw it out and start over. If it's just right you can share it with guests.

As a Cd, we think Toad Hall is just right, so we're sharing it with you. Meanwhile, another pot is brewing and we'll tell you when it's ready to serve. Toad Hall is as alive as the river and the four friends Toad, Rat, Mole and Badger. Making a musical is not for the faint of heart, it's a wild ride.

Ciao!

Cathleen and Chris!

"The painter turns a poem into a painting; the musician sets a picture to music."
Robert Schumann

Sunrise Toads at Toad Hall

Frogs... Croaka, urp, Croaka, urp, Croaka, urp....

All you The Wind in the Willows fans, we have a Toad Hall of own, complete with real live Toads! Every evening a small army of toads (about three to five) crawl to our koi pond and spend the night on the rock island or a lily pad. A few frogs welcome them with steady croaking. These toads are determined, because it is a raised pond and they have to scale a three foot rock wall to get their nighttime soak. It is concerning when we return at night and see a few toads crossing the driveway to get to the Toad Hall spa. We make every effort to support them in their pilgrimage. Often we get out of the car and assist them to their destination, so that we don't run over them.

Merce....muuuuum,screech, whoa!

Can you imagine running over Toad of Toad Hall! Of course stopping to help might open us up to a wild ride with Toad. You know how carried away "Toady" can get when the sound of a car coming up the drive tickles his ears. With a Toad Hall Cd playing in the car stereo ,Toad could hear himself singing about himself - a sure bait for the likes of Toad!

Birds...zinnnng, tweat, tweat,zing,srr,brrinng...

Sunrise comes and all the fully soaked Toads go back to where they came from the night before. The pond is still. A perfect day for reading The Wind in the Willows dawns.

Ciao!

Cathleen and Chris!

"O Mozart, immortal Mozart, how many, how infinitely many inspiring suggestions of a finer, better life have you left in our souls!"

Franz Schubert

Flamenco on Tularosa

Ticka, tacka, ticka, tacka, shoes are moving to the feet, sliding on and over, buckling the straps. Hold on to your hair! The Flamenco way to start your day! It all starts with the shoes. They have a life of their own and they capture your feet and your heart and you're in. That's Latin life for you. Rich with spine tingling music that moves you in the morning. Nothing else like it. Viva!! Old young, advanced, beginner - it doesn't matter. Everyone is an artist when you wear the clapping shoes. They take you over from toes to crown and all the space in between dances with a pulse that is irresistible. The gypsy in each of us that only gets attention when it's dressed in bright colors and striking the floor with hard heels. Ole. Brew the coffee strong, put on "Malo,Malo" and get going. It's better than blues for a blast off gypsy king kind of day.

Ciao!

Cathleen and Chris!