Around here, we call it “Living the Dream.” It’s code for taking care of the kids. There’s a loose knit group of us and we LTD weekly at the zoo or at the museum. We hit the park or a coffee shop. We love our kids and our time together. And swapping dinner recipes and tips on who makes the best cloth diapers is awesome…but we dads and moms also have little chats about hitting the road. Each of us has stories that involve bikes, backpacks, skies and canoes from the days before kids. It’s kind of fun to reminisce.

But you can’t get caught up in the reminiscing too much. We’re in a different phase now. Not only are there children everywhere I look, but we have to deal with jobs, homes, cars and trips to the grocery store. Grown up stuff.

Home, this past Sunday

We’re lucky to have a space big enough in our house that a little band can set up and play. A few nights ago, Breathe Owl Breathe rolled into town, dropped their bags in the guest room and set up their gear in the sun room. They’d been in California, Arizona and beyond. Soon there were fifty neighbors, friends and strangers gathered to watch them make music.

The hypnotic, meditative ‘Home’, from the album Climb In, struck an immediate, obvious chord for me as I leaned on the door frame leading into my backyard. I had to walk away from that song at Pickathon last year when they played it as an encore on the Starlight Stage. It’s so simple and so beautiful and I was exhausted. It was one in the morning, I still had work to do and I didn’t have time to be reduced to a puddle of tears. But on Sunday night, I couldn’t walk away from my own home. The song, I believe, is about love, aging and being together forever. Listening to a chorus of friends help Andrea and Micah chant “hooooome” was powerful. I know I smiled.

New age dog

Some time after midnight Sara and I were tidying up the house with cellist-vocalist Andrea. Her bandmates Micah and Trevor had slipped off for a late night of editing a new video for their upcoming release. I grabbed the trash and recycling and headed out to the curb. Andrea, feeling cozy in our kitchen after a few weeks on the road, said, “I want a trash and recycling day.”

The next afternoon, I returned some chairs to my neighbor’s house. She opened the door with a nursing baby in her arms and a two-year-old just waking from a nap. She asked about the band. I told her they seemed content and rested and they’d just packed the van and headed north into Washington. “Oooh. That sounds nice,” she said.

The grass is always greener, they say. But we couldn’t do this whole life thing without each other. You live my dream, I’ll live yours. Together we make it all work out. We’ll entertain each other with stories and songs, we’ll share meals and a spot to rest. Maybe we’ll even cross paths.

Breathe Owl Breathe on the Starlight Stage, Pickathon 2009
all images © Tim LaBarge 2009-2010

The very moment I walked into Portland architect Saul Zaik’s office, he looked across the room to see who was coming in through the door. “How much does a gallon of water weigh?” he asked.

I gave a non-definitive answer. So he rifled through an ancient tome of weights and measures.

At 83, he still handles nagging questions the old-fashioned way. He didn’t tap in a quick Google search on the latest i-gizmo to find the answer. He has a graceful style and work ethic that seem to have always been present.

Being inside the home he designed and built in 1960 is comfortable and peaceful. Big, beautiful windows allow light to flow into the room. And they let my stares drift right back out and into the trees.

After photographs, we stopped for a burger at a little diner and talked about kids, bikes and skiing. This man can not only blur the line between being inside and being outside, but he can jump through time from present day to a past era in the snap of a finger.

Which is about how long it took him to find that chart in his book of measures. And in case you’re wondering, that gallon of water…it weighs about 8.4 pounds.

It was cold and nasty today and little-kid cycling weather seemed very far away, but there we were at Seven Corners chatting with Corey, petting the shop dogs and sizing up a tiny, red bike.

The weather was so incredibly beautiful this past weekend people were gardening, studying blooms and standing on the street corner visiting with neighbors. On Sunday we joined some friends for a potluck. We forgot, however, to bring the boys’ scoots - or pedaless balance bikes - to the party. They scrambled around and shared with the other kids. Jack picked up a bike with pedals and rolled it over to Leo. Moments later he was on it, pedaling away and waving off any assistance from Sara. It was his first real bike ride.

At first, I stood and watched. But then I ran next to him to make sure everything was going okay. I wanted to help, but he demanded I take my hands off the bike. I didn’t think I was going to really get excited about these things. But as he cruised up and down the sidewalk, I just felt so proud of him for having the confidence to jump on bike and roll.

So today, winter returned. It was a chilly and wet walk up to the bike shop. We spent a few minutes checking out bikes, test riding a little Jamis and then adjusting the seat. Leo smiled the whole way home. He needed a little shove to get started and then he was cranking away. After several laps around the pavilion in the park and an extra trip around the block with Jack on his scoot, we made it home. We were chilled and damp. But as the boys warmed up next to the heat registers, the stories started to come out. It almost seemed like I was listening to my buddies after a cyclocross race. They were comparing injuries, wetness, cold hands, how hard the uphill was and how sketchy the down hill seemed. Apparently it’s always little-kid cycling weather around here…

all images © Tim LaBarge 2010

Last week when we saw Wilco perform, it was just like the first time. No camera around my neck and girl named Sara at my side.

The first time? That was November 17, 1994 at an unannounced show under the name of Black Shampoo at Cicero’s Basement Bar on Delmar Blvd. in St. Louis.

I’ve just listened to the entire bootleg of that show. It’s a bit scratchy and noisy, but it’s all there. And by all, I mean everything buried deep in my mind from that time. School, canoe trips, girlfriends, barbeques, road trips. They were pretty good times and somehow that recording just caused it all to flash through my mind on fast forward.

“We’ve been practicing in Belleville all week. So this is our first show ever,” Jeff Tweedy says over the loud buzz of an amp and the clanking of longneck bottles.

“So, um, how’d you guys find out?” He asks. In the not so-long-ago days before twitter, etc., it was all land lines and word of mouth. “It’s all Beatle Bob’s fault.”

I’d found out through a guy named Kip who had close ties to all things musical in St. Louis. My childhood friend PJ and I got there early and sat at the end of the bar not far from the little stage. Our friends Tash and Sara slipped in past the bouncer…the last two souls to get down the steps and into the little room before they called it a full house.

I’ve had this bootleg for years thanks to a friend who’s good at digging these types of things up. But I only listened to it once for about thirty seconds. I suppose I just haven’t felt like digging around in that layer of time.

Jeff Tweedy in 2004

As ‘I Must Be High’ ends, Tweedy says, “That’s the first song on the record that won’t be out for a long time. It’s the first song we ever played, and the first time we played it is on the record.”

The concert is raw and a bit gritty. There’s a fiddle, banjo and mandolin. It’s more Uncle Tupelo than present day Wilco.

As I listened to the recording, all the questions and sadness I had as I watched my favorite band disintegrate crashed through my mind and deep into my chest. After Uncle Tupelo split up, people seemed to take sides. Interviews with the bandmates Jay Farrar and Jeff Tweedy only seemed to deepen the wound. I stopped reading stories about Farrar and his Son Volt and Tweedy and his Wilco. I didn’t really care if they got back together, I wanted more music.

“I really would like to thank you for, up to this point, not hearing anyone yell ‘Whiskey Bottle,’” Tweedy says. He knew we were all thinking about Uncle Tupelo and our favorite songs from those albums - even the ones Jay sang. But he’d already moved on.

And there are hints of what is to come. Before ‘Pick Up the Change’, Tweedy says, “I have to sing this one pretty quiet, so, shut up.” It was good to hear. Like the rest of the recording, it’s pure and honest. I’m happy to know that attitude didn’t come with fame because he’s still known to set his guitar down and lecture a chatty crowd.

At the time, I was bummed out that the Uncle Tupelo days were over. Little did I know that the split would spawn two avenues of music that I’d still be listening to sixteen years later.

Half way through the first set, Tweedy says, “We’re going to do a song in a minute that we used to do in another band.” I could feel my eyes well up as they eased into ‘New Madrid’, a tune from Uncle Tupelo’s last album. I miss that sound.

Brian Henneman of the Bottle Rockets was standing right next to us that night at Cicero’s. He had on a corduroy Uncle Tupelo ball cap. I remember regretting never buying one. I remember asking him if he had more. I still wanted something more from that band.

Before the show started, Tweedy slipped up next to us to chat with Henneman. PJ offered to buy him a beer, but he shook his head and said, “No thanks, man. I’m too nervous.” Nervous. This guy was about to play the first show of what will be, in 2010, one of the most famous bands in the world.

After a couple of encores Tweedy says, “Thanks a lot for letting us play under a stupid fake name.” They played a few more tunes and ended with a cover of Tom Petty’s ‘Listen To Her Heart.’

It took me and Sara more than a year after that show to figure out we should date. Fourteen more years have since passed by.

Cicero’s is still there, but the basement is long gone and Chicago claims Wilco now. The other night at the Arlene Schnitzer Concert Hall in Portland, we were a long way from Delmar Blvd. in St. Louis. The band pulled from all their albums except for that first release. But that’s alright. I’ve got the album and that bootleg on my shelf and I’m still lucky enough to have Sara at my side.

Jeff Tweedy in 2004
all images © Tim LaBarge 2004

The morning routine around here requires our wonderful all-classical station to be on. At some point, we shift over to something a bit more rootsy. The afternoon could be almost anything, most likely singer-songwriter oriented. Dinner prep and the meal itself require another shift. Then there’s the evening pick-me-up. That could be some old timey tunes or it might be big band, you never know. We wind it back down with something calming, quiet and instrumental. And then we call it a night.

This morning when Vivaldi’s ‘Winter’ came on the radio, I got a bit caught up in the energy and hollered over to Jack. “Do you hear all those violins, Jack?” I expected a simple yes for a response.

But being two can be tricky. It’s a good time to start expressing your own opinion. This can come in a variety of shapes. NO is common. MINE is also up there on the list. It’s time to start testing things and to question your parents.

“I think this is not violins, papa. I think this is fiddles,” Jack shot back with authority.

Fair enough. Since in our home, the boys often use a ukulele as a guitar, a kid’s guitar as an upright bass and a tennis racket as a fiddle, there was no sense trying to break down the subtle difference. After all, it’s the same instrument. He’s hearing fiddles and I’m hearing violins. That must mean it’s snack time. That fabulous spot somewhere in between breakfast and lunch where we shift from violins to fiddles.

Jack entertains some pals at a Christmas party.
all images © Tim LaBarge 2009

I thought I’d hid that cape. We didn’t need another episode. But Leo appeared out of nowhere last night with headlamp, suspenders and a gold cape ready to zoom through the night in a rush of spring fever.
Just a few days earlier, his pal, cape securely fastened, made a leap from the top bunk with visions of soaring. He had been coaxed into doing it, the story goes. They’d spread a few comforters on the floor, just in case. And then he belly flopped and wound up with a nose bleed and two black eyes.

Failure to fly.

Thus began the safety talks, the difference between make believe and reality and how bones are both bendy and breakable. And really, it’s a knight’s cape…with a fleur de lis stitched on the back. Knight’s rode horses, fought battles and protected people from bandits. They definitely didn’t fly.

So when I saw the cape rush past me and out the back door last night, I wasn’t sure what to do. I didn’t want to squash the energy and the imaginative play, but I didn’t need a repeat of the failed launch. I sat back and quietly watched while he ran as fast as he could trying to get the cape to flap in the wind. And he did get it to flap a little, but he never quite got off the ground.

all images © Tim LaBarge 2010

I remember walking around in Chicago with an exchange student from Switzerland when I was maybe a freshman in high school. He took pictures of everything. Up, down, up, down. He was blown away by tall buildings and the people walking swiftly along the sidewalks beneath them.

Berlin, 2009

I know the feeling. When traveling, I find myself pointing the camera out the window of whatever vehicle I’m in. You’re trapped, really. So for me, it becomes an exercise in creating something, or at least attempting to do so, at 70 mph. And when I get home and sift through my files, those cryptic images from aboard the bus or speeding train are the ones I stare at most. Those little pieces of landscape take me right back to the spot, a moment of that journey, and I can slip into a little daydream about the place.

Mexico, 2006

Mexico, 2006
all images © Tim LaBarge

We here at the LaBarge home wish you a happy holiday. I know I’m a few hours early heaving this wish upon you…but there’s a chance I’ll forget to send it tomorrow with Santa coming by and all. Cheers.

Pickathon 2009 took place over one of the hottest weekends of the summer. People were hiding under shade structures or in the Galaxy Barn or slipping off to relax under the giant Douglas Firs and maples that surround the Woods Stage.

Drop the temperature 165 degrees. Last week, I was on a plane heading for Berlin by way of Amsterdam. We were zipping along 33,000 feet above the ocean at a smooth 615 mph. The wind was blowing 100 mph and the thermometer read -70 degrees fahrenheit. I pushed play on a recording from one of those summery afternoons and through my headphones I heard the chitter and the chatter of chickadees and songbirds as the Deep Dark Woods quietly launched into the song The Banks of Leopold Canal. I closed my eyes and through the magic of audio, I was instantly back in the still air beneath those trees.

I haven’t read nor asked about the Canadian band’s name, but can only assume it’s borrowed from Robert Frost’s poem Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening:

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

all images © Tim LaBarge 2009

Just a few feet away from my spot on that plane, the conditions were unimaginably harsh. But as I drifted in and out of a foggy sleep and the miles clicked off on that long ride to another land, I was in a warm and peaceful place filled with the sweetest sounds of tiny little birds.

It’s been a long, exciting and frustrating season.
Long: What I think of being an eight weekend series has somehow turned into more than three months of races. It starts with the dust and sweat and the lingering heat of Summer and ends this weekend with snow and single digit temperatures in Bend.

Exciting: There were some great courses and amazing races with super-human finishes.

Frustrating: I bowed out early in the season with a knee injury. I much prefer racing first, then photographing. But there’s always next year.

But now we enter the grand finale. The PDXCROSS crew will be heading over the mountains to Bend tomorrow so we’re ready for the first race of The National Championships early Thursday morning. We will post a little slide show every night at our site. And if you’re in town, we have an exhibit of prints from the season mounted at tbd loft…go check it out. There’s a party at the gallery on Friday evening.

Heidi Swift’s column in The Oregonian gives the details about the weekend. So bundle up and come watch crazy people race bikes in the snow. It should be interesting.