The Sweet Music Studio

I started teaching mandolin and fiddle at the Fretted Instrument Workshop in Amherst, in 1985, just a few months after graduating with a BA in Musicology from Hampshire College.  Tony Creamer, the owner, gave me a tiny room about big enough for two chairs with just enough room between them so our knees didn't touch.  My first student was "Johnny Riley" a DJ from WRSI.  He later joined Dicey Riley on mandolin and played it with them for many years.  About ten years later, I was asked to teach fiddle and mandolin out of Downtown Sounds in Northampton.  I'd been playing with Maple Ridge a bluegrass band in Greenfield with owner Joe Blumenthal.  He's the one who asked me to teach there.  And a few years later, when NCMC opened up, I moved my studio there.  I continued to teach a few students at Downtown Sounds, continuing there until fairly recently.

In 2009, my wife Emily and I bought a house in S. Hadley.  It was a fixer-upper, but it had a nice sunny main room where I could offer lessons and group classes.  In 2009, I opened the Sweet Music Studio in South Hadley.

I taught fiddle styles: bluegrass, celtic, klezmer, folk and jazz.  I taught mandolin styles: bluegrass and celtic primarily.  I directed several group classes including a mandolin group, a celtic group and a klezmer group.  The mandolin group was by far the largest, and when Will Melton joined the group on mandola, he encouraged me to form the South Hadley Mandolin Orchestra which later merged with L'Easperance Mandolin Ensemble from Providence and a few players from New York to form Mandolin New England.  

In 2014, the selectboard of South Hadley kicked me out, telling me I couldn't teach out of my house any more, even though I'd been doing it for 5 years (and paying taxes from it btw).  I was forced to look for another place to teach.  The first place was at Chapdelaine's on Rte. 202 in Granby.  That place was fraught with problems.  From intruders setting off the alarms any time of day or night to flooding in the basement causing mold problems.  I eventually moved on from there.  I rented space at the Central Church in S. Hadley for a brief period.  That was very nice, but they wanted more money from me and I had to move.  I found a place on Open Square Way in Holyoke that I liked, but my students hated it because it wasn't safe (they said).  

In 2018, Emily and I bought a large (7 acre) property in Granby.  I put in an orchard, berry bushes and a large 35'x65' organic garden.  The place has a 3 season sun porch, which was the perfect amount of space for lessons.  Soon, I had built up my studio to 19 full time students, 3 weekly group classes and a mandolin orchestra.  All was well.

Then COVID hit, March of 2020.  I tried my best to offer online classes, but because of the lag, students weren't able to play together.  Most of my older students (over 60) resigned from the studio and never came back.  The group classes disbanded and so did the orchestra.

In 2022, I attempted to pull it all together, but like I said, the older students weren't willing to come back and younger students had other excuses.

That was the end of Sweet Music.  I let the domain expire.  I taught a few lessons at Downtown Sounds over the years, but when Joe sold the business and retired, I left there as well.

I still teach mandolin and fiddle, and if 3 people or more want to commit, I'm able to get the mandolin, or celtic or klezmer groups going again.  

A Kid on the Mountain – A Slip Jig Journey on Mandolin

I recently uploaded a video of myself playing the classic Irish slip jig “A Kid on the Mountain” on mandolin.

Also known by the Irish title Bogadh Faoi Shúsa (and sometimes spelled Bugga Fee Hoosa), this tune is one of the most recognizable slip jigs in the traditional repertoire. It’s written in 9/8 time and is usually played in a five-part setting, which already makes it longer and more intricate than many common session tunes.

What makes the tune especially interesting is the way it moves between G ionian and aeolian tonalities, creating a kind of musical journey up and down the scale. The melody alternates between darker, slightly tense E-minor passages and brighter G-major moments that feel like small clearings in the tune’s otherwise mysterious landscape. That contrast gives the tune a built-in sense of motion and conversation between its parts.

Although it’s a popular session tune, it can be challenging for players. The phrasing and rhythmic accents don’t always fall where you expect them in simpler slip jigs, so it often takes some time to really internalize the tune’s lilt and phrasing before bringing it up to full session speed.

I first learned this tune from banjo player John Rough back in the late 1980s. It quickly became one of those tunes that stuck with me, and I’ve been playing it regularly since 1989. It’s always been a favorite for its mood, its movement, and the way each part seems to push the tune further along its path.

“Roll in My Sweet Baby’s Arms” — From Bawdy Roots to Bluegrass Staple

Few songs in the American folk and bluegrass tradition carry the kind of lived-in history that “Roll in My Sweet Baby’s Arms” does. On the surface, it’s a lively, feel-good tune—simple, catchy, and perfect for a jam session. But beneath that easygoing charm lies a surprisingly deep lineage that stretches back across continents and generations.

A Song Without a Single Author

Like many traditional songs, “Roll in My Sweet Baby’s Arms” doesn’t belong to any one songwriter. Instead, it evolved organically, shaped by countless voices over time. Its roots can be traced to older folk material that traveled from Britain to Appalachia, eventually making its way into the American South and West.

One of its closest relatives is the cowboy-era song “My Lula Gal.” That piece itself drew from even earlier songs with titles like “Bang Bang Rosie” and “Bang Away Lulu”—songs that were far less polished and far more suggestive than the version we know today.

From Bawdy Humor to Family-Friendly Tune

Those earlier songs were often filled with sexual innuendo, rebellious humor, and a disregard for hard work—common themes in working-class folk traditions. Over time, as these songs were passed down through communities, especially in the Southern United States, they began to change.

Verses were softened. Lyrics were reshaped. The rough edges were sanded down.

What remained were the core ideas:

Skipping work in favor of leisure

Spending time with a sweetheart

A playful, slightly defiant attitude toward responsibility

Lines like “lay around the shack” survived as echoes of the song’s earlier irreverence, but the tone shifted into something more accessible and widely acceptable.

The Bluegrass Transformation

By the time “Roll in My Sweet Baby’s Arms” entered the bluegrass and country repertoire, it had taken on the form most listeners recognize today: upbeat, major-key, and full of energy.

Artists like Flatt & Scruggs helped cement the song’s place in the bluegrass canon, turning it into a standard that’s still played at festivals, jam sessions, and front porches across the country.

Its structure—simple chord progressions and repetitive phrasing—made it ideal for group playing, which helped it spread even further.

A Living Example of Folk Evolution

What makes “Roll in My Sweet Baby’s Arms” so compelling isn’t just its melody—it’s what it represents.

This song is a perfect example of how folk music evolves:

British roots give rise to Appalachian adaptations

Appalachian songs influence cowboy culture

Cowboy tunes transform into bluegrass standards

Each generation reshapes the material to fit its values, its audience, and its voice.

Why It Still Matters

Today, the song stands as more than just a bluegrass favorite—it’s a snapshot of cultural transmission. It shows how music can move across time and geography, changing just enough to survive while still carrying echoes of its past.

So when you hear “Roll in My Sweet Baby’s Arms,” you’re not just hearing a catchy tune—you’re hearing a piece of history that’s been sung, reworked, and passed down for well over a century.

And like all great folk songs, it’s still evolving.

The Flatt Run: A Simple Bluegrass Phrase That Unlocks Improvisation

I’ve been playing bluegrass mandolin since 1980, when I bought my first instrument and started figuring things out the old-fashioned way—by watching, listening, and asking questions.

One of those early questions came from something I kept hearing the guitar player do. At the end of nearly every vocal line, he’d play this short, punchy lick—clean, rhythmic, and somehow final. It tied everything together.

So I asked him: What is that?

He told me it was called the Flatt Run, named after Lester Flatt. According to him, it was a bluegrass adaptation of the much older “Shave and a Haircut, Two Bits” phrase—a musical tag that had already made the rounds in jazz, swing, and even vaudeville long before bluegrass came along.

That idea stuck with me.

What Is the Flatt Run?

At its core, the Flatt Run is a closing phrase—a way to punctuate the end of a vocal line or musical sentence. It’s simple, recognizable, and rhythmically satisfying.

But more importantly, it’s functional. It gives you:

A predictable landing spot

A sense of forward motion

A way to connect phrases cleanly

In other words, it’s not just a lick—it’s a framework.

From Lick to Language

When I first learned the Flatt Run, I didn’t just want to copy it—I wanted to understand how it worked.

So I started experimenting:

Moving it into different keys

Shifting it across strings on the mandolin

Changing the rhythm slightly

Using it to lead into the next phrase instead of just ending one

Pretty quickly, it became more than a tag. It became a tool for improvisation.

Instead of wondering what to play at the end of a phrase, I had a reliable option. And from there, I could build variations—stretching it, compressing it, or using just part of it.

That’s where things start to open up.

Applying It to a Tune

In the video I made for my students, I break this down using the tune:

“Tell Me Baby Now Why You Been Gone So Long”

It’s a great example because the phrasing is clear and the chord movement gives you plenty of chances to drop in the Flatt Run naturally.

In the lesson, I show:

• The basic form of the Flatt Run
• Where it fits within the chord progression
• How to adapt it for mandolin
• Ways to turn it into a repeatable improvisational idea
• Why This Matters

A lot of players get stuck thinking improvisation means inventing something completely new every time.

But bluegrass doesn’t really work that way.

It’s a language, and like any language, it’s built from shared phrases. The Flatt Run is one of those phrases—simple, effective, and deeply rooted in the tradition.

If you can learn to recognize it, play it, and adapt it, you’re not just learning a lick—you’re learning how the music speaks.

Final Thoughts

The Flatt Run is one of those small ideas that can have a big impact on your playing. It gives you structure without boxing you in, and it connects you directly to the history of the music.

If you haven’t worked on it yet, it’s worth your time.

And if you have, try pushing it further—because that’s where it really starts to become your own.

Behind The Bush in the Garden: A Traveling Jig with Deep Roots

“Behind The Bush in the Garden” is one of those tunes that feels instantly familiar the first time you hear it—lively, rhythmic, and perfectly suited for dancing. Most often played as a single jig in A Dorian (or A minor, depending on interpretation), it has long been part of the shared musical language between Scottish and Irish traditional music.

What makes this tune especially interesting is its dual identity. While many players encounter it in Irish sessions, tune scholarship points clearly toward Scottish origins. In fact, one strand of the melody is closely related to the Jacobite-era song “Wha’ll Be King but Charlie?”, suggesting that the tune may have evolved from older Scottish song material before crossing the Irish Sea and settling comfortably into Irish tradition.

Over time, “Behind The Bush in the Garden” has been absorbed so thoroughly into Irish playing that it now appears regularly in sessions, céilí band repertoires, and teaching collections. This kind of musical migration is common in traditional music—tunes don’t respect borders, and great melodies tend to travel.

Fiddlers and pipers have kept the tune alive for generations, and it has appeared in field recordings and revival-era performances alike. Notably, players such as Mickey Doherty helped carry forward a style of playing where tunes like this one lived not as fixed compositions, but as flexible, evolving pieces shaped by regional phrasing and personal interpretation.

From a mandolin player’s perspective, this tune sits beautifully under the fingers. The A Dorian flavor gives it a slightly modal, almost haunting quality beneath its danceable surface. It’s also a great study in phring: you can lean into its lift for a more Irish session feel, or tighten it rhythmically to bring out its Scottish roots.

Whether you think of it as Irish, Scottish, or somewhere in between, “Behind The Bush in the Garden” is a perfect example of how traditional tunes live, travel, and transform over time—carried not by sheet music, but by the hands and ears of players.

New Poem: Born Under Boston Skies

Born under Boston skies,

a violin cradled in small hands,

strings singing before words could,

a world shaped by melody and motion.

Years spun in rhythm and work,

shops, sales, and endless roads—

Boston to New York, DC to Frankfurt,

airports and hotel rooms became familiar stages.

Love came fast, bright,

then shifted like a restless wind,

leaving echoes in log homes,

cat paws on wood floors, and the smell of beech smoke.

And then, a new world opened—

Shenyang streets, a small apartment,

meals prepared with quiet care,

a rhythm of presence without planning,

a simplicity that felt like magic.

Through highs and lows,

through split wood and starlit trails,

through melodies, circuits, and city streets,

life became a composition of moments,

each note remembered, each pause necessary,

a song still unfolding.

Amherst Books Is For Sale

A few days ago I read the news that Amherst Books is for sale. For many people in the Pioneer Valley that headline carries a certain emotional weight. Amherst once had a reputation as one of the most bookish towns in New England. In the 1980s and early 1990s there were reportedly nine bookstores in town, each with its own personality and audience. People would spend weekends browsing from shop to shop. Students bought textbooks. Locals bought novels. Visitors came from other towns simply to wander the shelves.

Today Amherst Books is the last traditional bookstore in the center of town.

The owners, Nat Herold and Shannon Ramsey, announced they are hoping to sell the business. The sale includes the inventory, the store name, and the goodwill built over more than twenty years. Their hope is that someone will step forward who wants to keep a bookstore alive in downtown Amherst. The store sits at 8 Main Street in the historic Cook’s Block building, just steps from Town Hall. It hosts more than one hundred events a year and remains part of the intellectual life of the town. The owners believe the community still values having a bookstore.

Reading the article stirred up memories for me because I love bookstores and libraries. There is something about them that feels timeless. A good bookstore invites you to slow down. You wander the aisles, pick up a book you were not planning to read, sit for a moment, and discover something unexpected. Libraries have that same quiet magic. They are places where curiosity lives.

Right now the Amherst public library is closed for renovations. In theory that should push more readers toward bookstores. When the library doors are temporarily closed, the local bookstore should be the natural place people go to browse and read.

But the reality on the ground feels different.

I was in Amherst Books recently and left with a sense of sadness. I went looking for a specific title. They did not have it in stock, which of course happens in any bookstore. The staff offered to order it for me and said it would arrive in one to two weeks.

That was once perfectly normal. For decades bookstores operated on weekly distributor shipments. But the world has changed. When a customer hears “one to two weeks,” the next thought is almost automatic. Amazon can deliver it tomorrow.

The moment that comparison enters the conversation, the store has already lost the sale.

What struck me even more than the ordering delay was the condition of the store itself. Many of the books looked dusty. Some display copies had worn corners and looked handled rather than new. The shelves had the feeling of inventory that had been sitting for a long time rather than fresh stock that turns over regularly.

A bookstore does not have to be large or fancy to feel alive. But it does need energy. It needs the sense that someone is curating the shelves, rotating titles, cleaning displays, and presenting books in a way that invites people to pick them up.

When that energy fades, customers notice it immediately, even if they cannot explain why.

There is a used bookstore in Hadley that I visit occasionally. It is easily four times the size of the Amherst shop. The space is full of winding shelves and little corners where you can sit and read. The staff are young and friendly. They look you in the eye when you walk in. They seem curious about what you are looking for.

The whole place feels like a place built for discovery.

Used bookstores have a certain advantage because browsing them feels like a treasure hunt. You never know what you might find. The inventory is constantly changing. A book that was not there last week might appear tomorrow.

But the real difference is not simply new versus used books. It is atmosphere. One place invites you to stay. The other feels tired.

That contrast made me think about something deeper happening to bookstores everywhere.

People often say that bookstores disappeared because of the internet. There is truth in that. Online ordering changed the economics of book retailing almost overnight. A store can no longer rely on simply stocking the same titles that customers can order online.

But bookstores have not disappeared completely. In fact, many independent bookstores have quietly survived and even thrived in recent years. The ones that succeed tend to focus on things the internet cannot replicate.

They become community spaces. They host events. They curate their selections carefully rather than trying to stock everything. They keep the store visually appealing. The books look new. The lighting is good. The staff are engaged and welcoming.

In other words, they create an experience.

When a bookstore does that well, people come not just to buy a book but to spend time there.

Amherst should be exactly the kind of town where a bookstore thrives. The universities alone create a population of readers, writers, and curious minds. For decades people traveled to Amherst specifically to browse its bookstores. The town once had a reputation as a destination for readers.

That history is part of why the possible sale of Amherst Books feels significant. If the store closes without a successor, downtown Amherst could lose its last traditional bookstore.

At the same time, the situation raises an uncomfortable question. If a bookstore in a town like Amherst struggles, is it because the demand for books has vanished? Or is it because the store itself has not evolved with the expectations of modern customers?

When I walked out of the store last week, I felt something close to grief for what it once represented. Bookstores should feel vibrant and curious. They should make you want to linger.

A dusty shelf and a worn display copy send the opposite signal.

The owners deserve credit for keeping the doors open for more than two decades in a difficult industry. Independent bookstores have always been a labor of love more than a path to wealth. The people who run them often do it because they believe in books and in the communities that gather around them.

Now the question is what happens next.

Perhaps someone new will buy the store and bring fresh energy to the space. Perhaps the next owner will repaint the walls, rotate the inventory, bring in new staff, and rethink how the store fits into the life of the town.

Amherst still has readers. It still has writers. It still has students who wander the streets looking for something interesting.

The real question is whether the next chapter of Amherst Books can capture that spirit again.

Books are good, as the owner joked in the article.

But a bookstore has to feel good too.

Maple syruping in Weston

There are buckets on the maple trees, which means that spring is on her way. Collecting maple sap in Weston starts in the middle of February and runs to the end of March. It’s difficult to determine when to hang the buckets since the sap run is highly dependent on the weather and no year is the same. The sap run comes in several short bursts spread out over the six-week season.

Maple syruping in Weston began as a Green Power Farm project for middle-school aged children to learn the practice: from tapping, collecting, boiling, bottling and selling. Stemming from the social activism and Earth Day environmentalism of the 60s, Weston resident Bill McElwain proposed an idea to utilize suburban land and volunteer labor to grow food. The Green Power program launched in 1970, which is about the same time when the Selectmen appointed a Youth Commission and hired McElwain as a project director. Green Power then became a Town program for young farmhands.

And so, 13-year olds were taken about town to tap the trees and place the buckets. When the sap ran, they crawled over the hills of Weston to retrieve the sloshing buckets and emptied them into a collection tank on a trailer attached to McElwain’s Jeep. The haul was taken to the sugarhouse on the middle school grounds. The rustic board and batten building made of locally milled white pine was built in 1973 and was surrounded by mountainous wood piles and makeshift sap tanks. The young farmhands were encouraged to chop wood, pitch a cord of it into a roaring firebox inside the shack, and tend to the boiling sap in a twin-pan evaporator.

In late March, a sign was placed out by the road that read “Sugar on Snow.” This marked the last boil for the season and a traditional sugaring-off party was held. Here, the kids would make “leather aprons” from thickened syrup poured onto snow or crushed ice for the party-goers who would then buy Weston Maple Syrup.

Green Power and the maple syrup project were incorporated into Land's Sake Farm operations in the early 90s. The program still has middle school aged children tapping, collecting and boiling the sap. During the sugaring off party in March the students conduct tours.

New Poem: A Tapestry of the West

A tribute honoring the resilience, creativity, and lasting cultural impact celebrated during Black History Month. Remembering the past, sounding the present, and looking toward the future with purpose and gratitude.

#BlackHistoryMonth #CivilRights #Europe #Rome #England #Ireland

Before the marble roads and iron law,

Before the eagle standard crossed the sea,

There rose in mist and forest glen

The songs of elder memory.

In Gaulish fields and Brythonic hills,

In Old Irish chant and Pictish sign,

The Celtic tongues like woven threads

Bound tribe to tribe through oak and shrine.

Their words were wind along the moor,

A harp-string drawn through rain and fire-

Echoes that still in fragments live

In Wales' proud speech and Gaelic choir.

Then came the legions-measured tread-

Roman Empire in bronze array,

With road and aqueduct and law

They claimed the breadth of Europe's sway.

From Iber's sun to Rhine's cold line,

From Britain's cliffs to Balkan plain,

They carved in stone their ordered world,

Yet left the old songs in the rain.

Empires fade as embers cool;

New banners rise where old have passed.

Across the Channel's restless tide

Came William the Bastard, bold and fast-

William the Conqueror crowned by right of sword and claim,

In 1066's fateful year,

He stitched a Norman thread through England's name,

And set a feudal age in gear.

Centuries turned like weathered wheels;

The crown and Parliament contended flame.

Through civil strife and iron will

Strode Oliver Cromwell into fame-

A commoner with psalm and blade,

Who bent a kingdom to reform,

And left a legacy debated still,

Half thunderclap and half calm storm.

Across the western ocean's reach

New settlements took root and breath;

Old Europe's children, seeking hope,

Faced wilderness and want and death.

From thirteen strands of coastal claim

A fragile union dared to stand;

The Declaration's careful flame

Lit liberty across the land.

Yet liberty proved forged in fire-

North and South in bitter cry;

In cannon smoke and brother's grief

The Union's fate was cast to try.

The Civil War in sorrow's wake

Unbound the chains of human wrong,

Though scars ran deep in soil and soul

And justice marched both slow and long.

Then rose the clang of hammer's age-

Steel and steam and coal-fed might;

Cities grew where fields had been,

Factories burned through day and night.

Gibson shaped from maple, spruce, and flame

In Kalamazoo's humming halls,

Where luthiers bent the wood to song

And jazz and blues leapt factory walls.

On Detroit's line, in ordered pace,

Stood Henry Ford with vision clear:

To harness time, to master scale,

To place the motor age in gear.

Assembly lines like Roman roads

Bound town to town in humming chain;

Old craft gave way to modern speed,

And progress carried loss and gain.

Then shadow fell across the globe-

A second war of iron and sky;

From London's blaze to Normandy

The cost of tyranny ran high.

In trenches, camps, and shattered streets

The century's fury reached its height;

Yet through the ruin nations learned

The price of darkness-and of light.

So runs the thread from Celtic tongue

To steel and wire and engine's roar-

A tapestry of striving hands,

Of fallen crowns and open door.

Europe's tale, and America's too,

Are woven tight in warp and weft:

Old roots beneath new branches spread,

Much gained by time, and much still left.

New Poem: A Snowy Owl

A rare Arctic visitor has been spotted perched on a Northampton rooftop, drawing quiet awe from neighbors and bird lovers alike. Likely journeying south in search of food, the Snowy Owl brings a touch of wild northern winter to familiar streets and fields.

On a chimney crown in Northampton town,

Where frost has stitched the fields in white,

A traveler rests in feathered gown,

A lantern in the fading light.

From Arctic winds and tundra wide,

Where silver moons on silence gleam,

He's crossed the cold on steady glide,

A hunter threading winter's seam.

His amber eyes, two embers bright,

Scan hedgerow, meadow, drift, and eave;

Each shadow stirs his ancient sight,

Each whisper tells him what to seize.

He rides the dusk on soundless wing,

No branch too bare, no roof too steep;

The north still in him, listening,

While village windows blink and sleep.

A pale command against the sky,

He keeps the old and patient ways-

To watch, to wait, then fall and fly

Through brittle air and iron days.

And when the thaw begins its creep,

And robins test the tender ground,

He'll turn again to snowfields deep,

To star-shot dark without a sound.

New Poem: Stan Zdonik's Wake

A tribute to Stan Zdonik, a cornerstone of the Boston Bluegrass Union and the Joe Val Festival. From the halls of MIT to the judges' table, he built a community that sounds like home. We remember his kindness, his vision, and his love for the music.

#Bluegrass #BBU #StanZdonik

We gather where tunes linger after the chairs are folded, where rosin dust still floats in the memory of a good bow stroke. Someone sets a mandolin gently on a table, like a hat laid down out of respect. Someone else hums, not meaning to. That's how it starts. That's how Stan would have liked it. He was there before most of us knew we were looking for this music- before the word community had a stage or a mailing list or a folding banner. He stood at the edge of a cold New England winter and said, simply, Let's bring them together. And people came. A boy of ten or eleven sits on a hard chair, feet dangling, fiddle too big for his arm. At the judges' table: Joe Val, a legend already, and Stan-eyes bright, leaning forward, listening like the future depended on it. Because in a way, it did. Stan listened the way engineers listen: for structure, for patterns, for the elegant solution hidden in noise. Five degrees, a doctorate, databases built to remember what the world is afraid to forget. At MIT he learned how systems work. At Brown he taught them to others- how information finds its place, how ideas don't vanish if you care for them properly. But music was never data to him. It was breath. It was laughter between notes. It was a banjo break that went on too long because nobody wanted it to stop. In 1976, when bluegrass in Boston was more hope than certainty, Stan helped give it a home. Not a monument- a living thing. The Boston Bluegrass Union: a handshake, a newsletter, a phone call made late at night because the band just canceled and someone has to fix this. For forty years and more, he fixed things. He booked the bands. He introduced them. He stood at the microphone, voice calm, generous, making every artist feel like they had just arrived somewhere important. The Joe Val Festival grew- from a gathering to a pilgrimage. From a weekend to a landmark. Stan didn't build it to be famous. He built it to last. That's the difference. Somewhere between sound checks and set lists, love found him. Gail. A partnership tuned just right- curiosity, music, shared breakfasts, a life where asking why was never separated from asking who wants to play? He raised a family the same way he built organizations: with attention, patience, and the quiet confidence that people grow best when you trust them. The wider world noticed. IBMA called. Boards were chaired. Cities were moved. Awards were given names- and one of those names became his. Kentucky called him Colonel, and he smiled, because tradition mattered to him. Because roots matter. But ask the swimmers at Dedham High, five mornings a week, what they knew of his titles. They'll tell you about discipline, about showing up, about Saturday breakfasts where the coffee was strong and the laughter stronger. Ask the pen collectors about nibs and ink and the joy of small, perfect tools. Ask anyone who shared a tune with him how he never played at you- only with you. And ask him about ice cream. Vanilla. Always vanilla. “If that's not good,” he'd say, “you can't trust the rest.” A philosophy, really. Start with the fundamentals. Make them honest. Everything else follows. Now the room is full. Someone calls a key. Someone else starts it off. The tune wobbles for a bar, then locks in.

New Poem: Hampshire College's Enduring Spirit

A tribute to the grit and soul of Hampshire College. Even as the ledgers groan, the experiment breathes through every alum who refuses a clean goodbye. A legacy of risk, nerve, and the beautiful struggle of learning to fail alive. 

#HampshireCollege #PioneerValley #HigherEd

Hampshire sits on rolling ground,

Eight hundred acres, soft and sound,

Where barns remember earnest schemes

And hallways echo half-formed dreams.

The sinks drip soapless, curtains bloom

With quiet mold in borrowed rooms,

The dining hall grows thin and spare,

Still students linger, stubborn there.

They walk past fields and shuttered wings,

Past broken doors and hopeful things,

Past studios where film still hums

And art refuses to be done.

The ledgers groan, the numbers bite,

Deficits pacing through the night,

And prophets murmur, heads bowed low:

“This place is fading. Let it go.”

Yet someone laughs and says, Not yet,

We're not prepared for mourning debt,

We've raised our millions, almost whole,

And land still breathes beneath the toll.

No grades, no majors, maps unmade,

Just questions sharpened, plans delayed,

A curriculum of risk and nerve,

An oddball will to not conserve.

Not Amherst's gold, not Williams' shine,

No velvet rope, no waiting line,

Just students building selves from scratch,

Lighting sparks they hope will catch.

Here filmmakers stitch the frame,

And poets wrestle truth from name,

Entrepreneurs of mind and will

Pitch futures no one's funded still.

They say the market wants the new,

That risk is something worth its due,

That in the age of thinking machines

Human strangeness still convenes.

A refuge, some have dared to call it,

When other halls grow cold and policed,

A place to stand when tides insist

That difference must be coalesced.

The past half-century limps and leans,

Scarred by plans and near-extremes,

Yet alumni plant roots nearby,

Refusing clean goodbyes.

Farmers, artists, teachers stay,

Raising children, debts, and hay,

Living proof that what was tried

Still walks the world, still won't subside.

So if the lights go dim one day,

If Hampshire's doors should swing away,

The experiment won't disappear-

It's walking, breathing, teaching here.

Because some places aren't meant to win,

Or balance books, or neatly end-

They're meant to risk, to bruise, to try,

To teach us how to fail alive.

And whether Hampshire stands or falls,

Its question hums within the walls:

What if learning isn't safe or clean,

But worth the cost of being seen?

New Poem: UMass Lion Dragon Celebration

The rhythmic beat of the lion dance brings a warmth to the downtown Amherst streets that cuts right through the February chill. Watching the community gather from the Common to the local storefronts reminds us that tradition is best kept when shared across every open doorway.

#AmherstMA #LunarNewYear #PioneerValley

On a winter day in Amherst town, When early dusk is settling down, The drums awake the waiting street, With steady hands and dancing feet. From fire doors in painted red, The lion lifts its bright-stitched head, It bows to luck, to years gone by, Then greets the hope that's passing by. Through downtown paths the colors roll, A cloth-bound heart, a borrowed soul, Each cymbal crash, each measured spin, Invites the coming fortune in. At teahouse doors and kitchens warm, The lion pauses, takes its form, Bestowing luck from stop to stop, Where laughter steams and woks don't stop. At two o'clock the journey starts, Through careful time and beating hearts, Each moment marked, each doorway blessed, No hurried step, no second-guess. From bowl to cup, from spice to steam, The streets themselves begin to dream, That luck can walk, that joy can stay, And lead the year the proper way. When drums grow soft and lions rest, The town feels lighter, quietly blessed, For in the cold, the old, the new, Amherst remembers what to do.

New Poem: Pioneer Valley's Emerald Crowns

This poem honors the western Massachusetts Grand Colleen tradition as a living act of regional memory. Town by town, the Pioneer Valley sends its daughters forward to Holyoke, not for spectacle, but to carry continuity, dignity, and place into the Saint Patrick’s Day parade. It is a portrait of geography, community, and shared stewardship, where history walks beside the present.

Pioneer Valley's Emerald Crowns

In the year of twenty-six, when the shamrocks bloom once more,

From Holyoke's old canals to the hills beyond the shore,

Every town in western Mass has named its Colleen fair,

To lead the Saint Patrick's march with flowers in their hair.

Chicopee sends her daughter by the river's steady flow,

Westfield brings her own from where the mountain breezes blow,

Northampton's lass steps lively down the streets of brick and stone,

Amherst crowns her scholar with the ivy overgrown.

Greenfield calls her maiden from the meadows rich and wide,

Pittsfield lifts her daughter where the Berkshires rise with pride,

South Hadley, Easthampton, Longmeadow in their turn,

Send their fairest forward for the green to brightly burn.

With sashes tied in emerald, crowns of shamrock bright and true,

They walk the Holyoke pavement where the crowds are gathered new,

The daughters of the old country, the blood of Erin strong,

Marching proud together in the parade so long.

From Agawam to Ware, from Palmer down to Lee,

Each valley town has chosen one to set the spirit free,

Their eyes are bright as morning, their laughter clear and high,

They carry all the beauty of the western Massachusetts sky.

The drums beat out the rhythm, the pipes begin to wail,

The banners wave above them like the green upon the gale,

Through the streets of Holyoke where the paper mills once stood,

These Colleens of twenty-six are marching for the good.

They pass the old cathedral, the bridges arched and high,

The factories now quiet beneath the winter sky,

Yet on this day in March the city comes alive again,

With every Colleen smiling, the past and future blend.

So sing their names in honor from Deerfield to the south,

From Shelburne Falls to Hadley, from the river to the mouth,

The Pioneer Valley's daughters, crowned and standing tall,

Lead the Saint Patrick's glory down the streets for one and all.

In twenty-six they gather, the fairest of the land,

A chain of western emerald held fast by loving hand,

And when the last note echoes and the sun begins to fade,

Their memory lingers softly in the green parade.

New Poem: Karen Brown's Taekwondo

This poem was written to honor Karen Brown’s lifetime of discipline, teaching, and courage in taekwondo, and the deep personal meaning of her eighth dan test in Korea. It reflects not only athletic mastery, but family, heritage, and the long arc of commitment that stretches across decades and across the ocean. This is a story about showing up again and again, even when the body protests, and about traditions that bind generations together.

In Central Mass, a master named Karen Brown,

With fifty years' fire, wears taekwondo's crown.

From Michigan roots where bullies once loomed,

She kicked into greatness, her confidence bloomed.

Through drills and tough spars, with sticks for the guide,

She claimed countless trophies, her spirit untied.

To Worcester she ventured, teaching with grace,

Her kids black-belt strong, joining the chase.

Two schools she commands, in Shrewsbury and town,

Where students find strength, never backing down.

But the call came from Korea, the art's sacred birth,

To test for eighth dan, proving her worth.

At World Headquarters, forms danced in the air,

Her body screamed weary, but victory was there.

"Scary and grueling," she said with a grin,

Yet lifted by loved ones, she let the win in.

For Korea's our tie, where my wife's kin reside,

Her family's heartbeat, our cultural pride.

This honor from Seoul echoes deep in our soul,

A bridge 'cross the ocean, making us whole.

In taekwondo's homeland, where traditions ignite,

Karen's drive inspires, a beacon so bright.

Nine years till the ninth, she'll prepare with new might,

Our family's Korea connection, pure delight.

New Poem: The Dawn Redwood

A long-form poem inspired by Amherst’s Dawn Redwoods and their improbable journey from ancient forests to present-day shade trees. This piece reflects on deep time, community stewardship, and the quiet power of survival, rooted in specific places around Amherst.

I sing the Dawn Redwood,

and I sing Amherst that shelters it,

and the long patience of the earth that forgot,

then remembered.

I sing the tree that learned how to wait.

Once it walked the whole Northern world,

its feet in swamps, its needles brushing mammoth breath,

its cones listening to ice and fire argue over centuries.

Then silence came.

The books closed.

The pages of stone said, extinct.

But the tree did not argue.

It stood quietly in a hidden valley,

mist rising from Hubei soil,

while empires burned and railroads sang,

while clocks were invented and wars named themselves.

I love this about it,

that survival does not always announce itself,

that endurance can look like stillness,

that the future sometimes hides behind a mountain

until the right eyes arrive.

O Dawn Redwood,

you drop your needles each year like a practiced truth,

not clinging, not hoarding,

trusting the seasons to return what they must.

Green to bronze, bronze to bare, bare to promise again.

You stand now in Amherst,

flanking the doorway of prayer and song,

two witnesses at the Goodwin church,

your roots holding stories older than the cornerstone,

your height speaking faster than the town can write you down.

You were planted after memory forgot to list you,

yet you rose anyway,

as all necessary things do.

I see you from Woodside Avenue,

from Tyler Place,

from Belchertown Road where young ones stretch their limbs,

and I feel the town breathing through you,

cooling itself leaf by leaf.

O people of Amherst,

this is how time returns to us,

not as a museum piece behind glass,

but as shade on a sidewalk,

as red bark peeling in the afternoon sun,

as children learning the word fossil

and then learning that fossil does not mean gone.

I say the tree belongs to the future

because it remembers the past without being trapped by it.

I say the tree is a lesson in mercy,

in patience,

in the radical act of continuing.

Sing with me, Dawn Redwood,

you who were lost and found without changing your name,

you who remind us that extinction is not always the final verse,

that the earth keeps drafts,

and sometimes revises.

New Poem: The Grand Colleen

The Grand Colleen parade is a public celebration, but its story often begins in private moments of care and intention. This poem reflects on two students who chose history, stone, and lasting beauty over flash, and how those choices ripple outward into a city tradition.

In Holyoke where brick and river meet,

Where echoes of the mills still line the street,

A classroom desk becomes a starting line,

Where simple pencil marks begin to shine.

Not bright balloons or colors loud and fast,

But stone and towers reaching from the past.

They turned away from shapes that fade too soon

And built with weight, with patience, not a tune.

Celtic curves like footprints set in time,

Each careful line a gesture, not a rhyme

For noise or flash, but homage deep and true

To hands that built, to craft that still comes through.

One hundred fifty-three dreams took their turn,

Each hopeful sketch with something left to learn.

Again reduced, again the choice made tight,

Until two visions held the truest light.

The prize is modest, framed in glass and name,

A hundred dollars, brief parade-time fame.

But greater still, the honor earned that day

To help a city carry pride its way.

When down the street the Grand Colleen rolls on,

With music, flags, and crowds from dusk to dawn,

That float will bear more than a chosen queen,

It bears the love of those who shaped the scene. 

New Poem: Selling Cold

Before refrigeration, winter was work. Ice harvesting shaped ponds, towns, and seasonal rhythms across the Valley, demanding patience, skill, and a deep understanding of risk. Reading about its return as a demonstration at WinterFest felt like an invitation to look closely at how labor and landscape once depended on each other. This poem sits with that history, not as nostalgia, but as recognition of a time when even cold had value and meaning.

They called it harvesting,

though nothing was planted,

just winter thick enough

to trust your weight.

Steel teeth bit the pond,

slow and patient,

a six-foot saw teaching ice

where to let go.

Each block rose clear as glass,

light trapped inside cold,

a season lifted whole.

There was a time

when every pond mattered,

when winter was inventory,

when cold could be counted,

stacked, shipped, insured.

Men learned the math of danger:

two inches for a body,

four for a horse,

five for the faith

that a wagon would hold.

Grids scored the surface

like farmland reversed,

furrows cut into silence.

They farmed the frozen skin of water,

sleds sliding where reeds slept,

blocks hauled like livestock

toward barns packed with sawdust,

insulated hope against the thaw.

Ice moved by rail,

north to south,

Valley ponds cooling cities

that never knew their names.

Doctors lowered fevers,

tables held meat another day,

summer bent slightly toward mercy.

Then machines learned how to make winter

any month they pleased.

Rivers grew dirty,

ponds were spared,

and cold lost its price.

Now the saw returns

for memory, not survival.

A crowd gathers,

hands numb with curiosity.

Someone lifts a block

as if it might still be useful,

as if the past could chill the present.

The pond holds,

winter listens,

and for a moment we remember

that even ice had a season

when it meant work,

and work meant staying.

New Poem: 750 Lights Still On

This poem grew out of listening carefully to a public conversation about Hampshire College and the wider pressures facing American higher education. What stood out was not defensiveness or nostalgia, but steadiness, a confidence rooted in rebuilding, recommitment, and a belief that education should remain an active, unfinished process. Hampshire’s place within the Five College Consortium, alongside neighbors like University of Massachusetts Amherst, reflects a regional understanding that learning expands when it is shared rather than guarded.

They said the future had narrowed,

that fewer footsteps would come of age,

that curiosity itself was a risky investment.

But the doors stayed open.

In classrooms without borders

students sketch questions instead of majors,

learning how to hold uncertainty

without flinching.

Seven hundred fifty minds

lean into work that does not fit tidy boxes.

Faculty arrive not to deliver answers

but to sharpen questions,

money raised not to preserve the past

but to earn the right to keep experimenting.

The country debates the value of thinking,

counts enrollment like weather reports,

argues whether justice belongs in education at all.

Here, learning still belongs to the learner.

Across the valley, ideas travel freely.

A student crosses a river or a campus line

and the education widens,

not diluted, but shared.

What began in 1970 keeps moving,

not because it is safe,

but because it refuses to stop asking

what education is for,

and who it should serve.

Alive is not a slogan.

Thriving is not denial.

It is the quiet work of rebuilding,

light by light,

question by question,

with faith that a different way

is still worth doing.

New Poem: Polly Cooper

This poem reflects on the story of Polly Cooper of the Oneida Nation, whose knowledge and generosity helped sustain Washington’s army during the winter at Valley Forge. It centers care, instruction, and Indigenous wisdom as forms of courage often overlooked in traditional histories.

History likes its heroes armed,

boots heavy with intention,

but sometimes survival arrives

carried in a basket.

She walked the cold road

not toward glory

but toward hunger,

toward men who did not know

how to eat what would save them.

White corn is not mercy

if taken without knowledge.

Raw, it sickens.

Prepared, it sustains.

She understood the difference,

and that understanding mattered more

than allegiance or flag.

While winter tightened its grip on Valley Forge,

she taught patience to starving soldiers,

showed them how food becomes nourishment

only when handled with respect.

This, too, is strategy.

This, too, is courage.

The coin will show her offering corn,

a simple gesture made permanent in metal.

But the deeper imprint

was already made in bodies warmed,

in lives that lasted long enough

to remember her name

and forget the cost paid by her people.

She was not promised a future in return.

Her nation lost land,

lost kin,

lost safety.

Allies do not always survive the victory.

Still, she walked.

Still, she carried.

Still, she taught.

Let history say this clearly:

the country was not only forged by muskets,

but by a woman who knew

that compassion, correctly applied,

can change the outcome of a war.