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#bluegrass
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.
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Feb 10
Feb 10, 2026 at 11:13 AM UTC
Stan Zdonik's Wake
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.
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113
Hello everyone,   I'm so very sorry … I feel horrible doing this, but I have no choice. You see, I have published my first book on Amazon/Kindle! This piece (and many others) had to be taken down because they do not allow published material to be available online for free. (Go figure) I wanted to leave the shell of the posts because I felt compelled to leave all your helpful and loving comments. (Silly sentimental, I know), but I also didn't want to just have the pieces disappear without an explanation. I feel bad enough as it is!   I owe ALL of you so, SO much for all of your reads, love, and support. It was YOU that gave me the gumption to FINALLY get off my **** and publish! Thank you all for the warm comments, camaraderie, and encouragement! I will still be here, reading, uploading and just being the Rascal that I am. How could I EVER leave you guys?   The book is called “The Way I See It – FictionPhilosophySoul Food” and it will be FREE for the first few days on Kindle Select, so watch for it, if you are interested. I hope that you go and grab it. If you do, I would also hope that you find it worthy, you would leave me a good review. That will help me get in the public eye! Soon afterward (2-3 days or so), it will be available in paperback. Find the book(s) here: www.amazon.com/author/jeff.gaines Or find the book(s), and all about me, here: www.JeffGaines.world   Soon after, I also hope to have my first novel (a supernatural thriller), called “Wanderer” available as well!   Wish me luck! Big, Biggest Love,         Jeff Gaines
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Mar 22, 2018
Mar 22, 2018 at 8:21 AM UTC
Put The Needle On The Record!
Hello everyone,   I'm so very sorry … I feel horrible doing this, but I have no choice. You see, I have published my first book on Amazon/Kindle! This piece (and many others) had to be taken down because they do not allow published material to be available online for free. (Go figure) I wanted to leave the shell of the posts because I felt compelled to leave all your helpful and loving comments. (Silly sentimental, I know), but I also didn't want to just have the pieces disappear without an explanation. I feel bad enough as it is!   I owe ALL of you so, SO much for all of your reads, love, and support. It was YOU that gave me the gumption to FINALLY get off my **** and publish! Thank you all for the warm comments, camaraderie, and encouragement! I will still be here, reading, uploading and just being the Rascal that I am. How could I EVER leave you guys?   The book is called “The Way I See It – FictionPhilosophySoul Food” and it will be FREE for the first few days on Kindle Select, so watch for it, if you are interested. I hope that you go and grab it. If you do, I would also hope that you find it worthy, you would leave me a good review. That will help me get in the public eye! Soon afterward (2-3 days or so), it will be available in paperback. Find the book(s) here: www.amazon.com/author/jeff.gaines Or find the book(s), and all about me, here: www.JeffGaines.world   Soon after, I also hope to have my first novel (a supernatural thriller), called “Wanderer” available as well!   Wish me luck! Big, Biggest Love,         Jeff Gaines
Continue reading...
10
Way back in August you had said to me That if I ever try to leave You'd follow me to heaven and through hell Well now I'm on my way to see How far the stars will carry me And you've been left behind with doubts to quell So please excuse my destiny And with a hint of courtesy I'd like say to you, I wish you well Would love for you to be with me Out here where all the world is free Instead of staying stuck inside your shell See you around then, once again Say goodbye to this old friend I tried to show you love, you weren't interested Give me a sign then, take my hand Show me where our love has been I won't be hangin round til then See you around, my friend I made it through the fire it seems With just a couple third-degrees And now my skin is tough enough to tell That if you can't hold on to me And trust the man that's underneath Then there's no way to save you from yourself So have fun searching endlessly Keep wading through the male debris To try to find a man to break the spell I'm sure that your friends all agree You're happier when you're with me Too bad you've made the choice to say farewell See you around then, once again I'll say goodbye to you, old friend I tried to show you love, you weren't interested Give me a sign then, take my hand Show me where our love will stand I won't be hangin round til then See you around, my friend
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Dec 16, 2017
Dec 16, 2017 at 7:48 PM UTC
See You Around
As often as it rains Its always leavin me amazed, The rain clouds on they're way Persuade the sky gray Away from blue. Well it's no surprise The sun will always rise It's orange glow Stretching out the skies, Glistening glitter Along the bead drops of dew. Natural wonders everywhere They'll never compare To my daydreams of you. Natural Beauty fine and fair, I hear you in the mornin' I feel you in the air.
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Sep 7, 2017
Sep 7, 2017 at 12:54 PM UTC
Work in Progress
Waiting on a whisper, the mountains begin to cry. I joined them as I weep. Through song we asked each other why. Through song we did play, every note with despair. The crisp morning fog carries our secrets through the air. Our mother is dying, she's on her last breath. The secrets of the Earth are promises we should've kept. The mountains and I wept. Her whisper never came. It was the trees that broke the silence, when they called out your name.
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Jul 18, 2017
Jul 18, 2017 at 10:17 PM UTC
Waiting on a whisper
As the birds began to rise To the sound of falling cones of the pine Knocking along the bark of the trees, I gazed up in silence With a sort of ease; The forest is so still You can feel it echoing. As the birds did arose they began to sing Following along the ole piney rhythm. Never have I heard of musicians so gifted, Never can a man write a song that’s so sweet
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Jul 13, 2017
Jul 13, 2017 at 8:21 PM UTC
Dawn
I'm singing a song from back in the old day I'm singing the song of today 'Cuz time never changes with nothing unrevealed No matter what they say, time is grey I live in a society just as all the other ones I live in the cultures of today, Cuz time never changes  with nothing old or new No matter what they say, time is grey I'm calling on a God, the one from forever ago I'm calling on the God of today 'Cus God never changes, (while) traditions have their phases No matter what they say, time is grey I'm fighting a war that was fought many years before I'm fighting the war of today 'Cuz war never changes, just a day with different faces No matter what they say, time is grey I'm dying a death, no surprise we'll all forget I'm dying the death of today 'Cuz death never changes, with us stands be still No matter what they say, time  is grey I'm singing a song from back in the old day I'm singing the song of today 'Cuz time never changes with nothing unrevealed No matter what they say, time is grey
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Jul 20, 2015
Jul 20, 2015 at 1:54 AM UTC
Time is Gray (bluegrass lyrics)
The city makes my heart beat change To a speed I can't endure I start to sweat and I can't breathe To me there only is one cure I have to leave the city life Leave the commotion far behind I've got to hit the country For that is where I'll find I have got a hillbilly heart It's beats in banjo time I have got a hillbilly heart Out here, I feel just fine City roads, and shopping malls Get me riled and confused I go home feeling ***** I go home feeling used I've got to get away from here Or I will lose my mind I've got to hit the country For that is where I'll find I have got a hillbilly heart It's beats in banjo time I have got a hillbilly heart Out here, I feel just fine I have got a hillbilly heart It's here that I belong I have got a hillbilly heart And it sings a bluegrass song I have got a hillbilly heart And it sings a bluegrass song
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Jul 11, 2015
Jul 11, 2015 at 6:35 PM UTC
hillbilly heart
Bluegrass sprouts a brow, When Kentucky’s one crow left; Feign drawl and bourbon.
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Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 10:30 AM UTC
Arlo - Fragment
Blue moon of Kentucky keep on shining Shine on the one that's gone and proved untrue Blue moon of Kentucky keep on shining Shine on the one that's gone and left me blue It was on a moonlight night The stars were shining bright And they whispered from on high Your love has said good-bye Blue moon of Kentucky keep on shining Shine on the one that's gone and said good-bye Blue moon of Kentucky keep on shining Shine on the one that's gone and proved untrue Blue moon of Kentucky keep on shining Shine on the one that's gone and left me blue It is on a moonlight night The stars shining bright They whispered from high Your love has said good-bye Blue moon of Kentucky keep on shining Shine on the one that's gone and said good-bye
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Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 11:59 AM UTC
Blue Moon Of Kentucky
In 1814 we took a little trip Along with Colonel Jackson down the mighty Mississipp' We took a little bacon and we took a little beans And we caught the ****** British in the town of New Orleans We fired our guns and the British kept a coming There wasn't nigh as many as there was a while ago We fired once more and they began to running Down the Mississippi to the Gulf of Mexico We looked down the river and we seen the British come And there must have been a hundred of them beating on the drums They stepped so high and they made their bugles ring We stood behind our cotton bales and didn't say a thing Old Hickory said we could take 'em by suprise If we didn't fire a musket 'til we looked 'em in the eyes We held our fire 'til we seen their faces well We opened up our squirrel guns and really gave 'em Well they ran through the briars and they ran through the brambles And they ran through the bushes where the rabbits couldn't go They ran so fast the hounds couldn't catch 'em On down the Mississippi to the Gulf of Mexico We fired our cannon 'til the barrel melted down Then we grabbed an alligator and we fought another round We filled his head with cannonballs and powdered his behind And when we touched the powder off the gator lost his mind
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Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 11:23 AM UTC
The Battle Of New Orleans