Additional Liner Notes for GUITAR IN VELVET

Modern Harmonic Website

After his discharge from the army in 1946, electric guitar pioneer George Barnes returned to his hometown of Chicago and formed The George Barnes Octet. He had established himself before the war as a radio star on others’ shows; but now, he was given a 15-minute program of his own on the ABC Radio Network, transcriptions of which were broadcast across the country. The recordings of the Octet’s extraordinary live performances showcased Barnes’ intricate, avant-garde arrangements (including 26 Barnes originals). Those 48 performances have been celebrated for decades as a singular achievement by an artist whose career was not only defined by his supremely identifiable playing, but by his bold and inventive arranging and composing. 

“I had complete freedom on the network to play whatever I wanted,” Barnes said in a 1977 interview, “and we were very well received, because the sound contrasted so much with the vanilla sounds of staff bands in those days. We were considered very far out.”

In 1951, Barnes was offered a comprehensive contract by Decca Records, and moved east, establishing himself as a first-call guitarist in the recording studios of New York City, where he worked with, and befriended, the finest musicians in the industry. The players who’d comprised his Chicago octet were first class; but the four reed players were from the Chicago Symphony, and Barnes had to teach them how to swing! In 1957, he began to write octet arrangements again; this time, with the thought of bringing his New York friends–who knew very well how to swing–along for the ride. Barnes’ new arrangements were calibrated to the new era, and his experimentation with time signatures, contrapuntal writing, and harmonic structures in the late 1940s bore fresh fruit in the late 1950s. “Guitar in Velvet” is the superb result, owing not only to Barnes’ musical ingenuity, but to his fellow masters: Allan Hanlon (rhythm guitar), Lou Stein (piano), Jack Lesberg (double bass), Cliff Leeman (drums), Hank D’Amico (clarinet), Bernie Kaufman (saxophone), Romeo Penque (flute, oboe), and Danny Bank (bass clarinet). These were all men of great musical achievement; they belonged together, and you can hear it in every note.

“September in the Rain” is the only song Barnes had arranged for the original Octet that he also arranged for “Guitar in Velvet.” If you have a chance to make a comparison, you’ll hear two marvelous performances by Barnes and his comrades; you’ll also hear in this recording a guitarist and arranger whose mastery had reached a new level. And he didn’t stop there. But there’s no doubt you’ll enjoy hanging with him here for awhile.

-Alexandra Barnes Leh for The George Barnes Legacy Collection

Album Credits

 

Liner Notes for COUNTRY JAZZ

Modern Harmonic Website

When 17-year-old George Barnes joined the NBC Orchestra in Chicago in 1939 as staff musician and arranger, he had already proven he could play anything. His earliest work, as the 14-year-old leader of his own group, focused on the music of the Swing Era. In 1938, he was the first electric guitarist to record commercially—at the age of 16!—when he began playing with blues greats Big Bill Broonzy, Blind John Davis, Washboard Sam, Jazz Gillum, and Merline Johnson. And when NBC needed a guitarist for their National Barn Dance program, George was their 18-year-old man.

In a 1976 interview, George talked about his early days on radio: “Broader national exposure came [to me] in 1940 and 1941, from weekly radio performances on NBC’s WLS National Barn Dance and Plantation Party, with Louise Massey & The Westerners, Patsy Montana, and The Prairie Ramblers.” Described by The Encyclopedia of Old-Time Radio as “a country music show with corn pone humor,” Plantation Party was broadcast across the country, and was on the air from 1938 until 1942. George had a featured segment in every show; exuberant host Whitey Ford (“The Duke of Paducah”) gave George a unique introduction at the top of every spot. A perfect example is his intro to George’s performance of Ain’t Misbehavin’: “Y’know folks, that guitar George plays is a right modern contraption. It’s electric—‘course, George still has to do the work—but instead of all those fast notes comin’ out of the guitar, they come out of a little loudspeaker. So, by the time they get to your loudspeaker, as I call it, they’ll be twice as good. C’mon, George, let’s hear a demonstration!”

Even though George only had a minute and a half (at most) in each broadcast, his performances packed a punch: he received over 500 letters a week, collecting fans from all over the country (including a North Carolina girl named Evelyn Triplett who would later become Mrs. George Barnes). It was through his regular appearances on national radio that Chet Atkins—and a host of other guitarists, including Roy Clark and one of George’s future partners, Bucky Pizzarelli—became aware of, and inspired by, the young electric guitarist from Chicago.

George’s work in the studios with Bob Atcher, Homer & Jethro, and The Dinning Sisters further solidified his connection to country music—as did his 1948 appearance on Chet Atkins’ first recording in Chicago. Chet often told the story of his first face-to-face encounter with his idol; the anecdote appears in Chet’s autobiography, as well as in the obituary he wrote for the Country Music Association magazine when George died.

After moving to New York, George recorded again with Chet, and with country music stars Patsy Cline and Eddy Arnold, who was a longtime fan. Rockabilly artists Janis Martin, Eddie Fontaine, Johnny Burnette & the Rock ‘N’ Roll Trio, and the legendary Buddy Holly, were also among those lucky enough to have George on their sessions. George can be heard on Jimmie Rodgers’ hits, as well as in A Face in the Crowd (Andy Griffith’s hot “Mama Guitar” solo is played by none other than George Barnes . . . the same year he recorded Country Jazz).

George’s connection to country music expanded into his published writings; his professional and personal relationship with Peer-Southern Music began when he and song promoter Roy Horton first became acquainted in New York. Roy’s admiration of George’s work, and their easy friendship, garnered a publishing deal with Peer-Southern. Ralph and Monique Peer became friends with George and Evelyn, and enjoyed many social engagements together. From 1960 on, George’s original compositions—and his “How to Arrange for Solo Guitar”—were published by Peer International. In a memo from a Peer executive prior to a concert tour of Japan by George and his partner, Carl Kress, George is referred to as “one of the top Country Music guitarists in the States”—even though he and Carl would be performing nothing but their customary jazz!

In the mid-1930’s, before George found fame on Plantation Party, Les Paul had been known as country guitarist “Rhubarb Red.” In his diary, 14-year-old George listed 19-year-old “Red” as one of the “Good Guitar Players” of 1935. And in a 1967 letter to George, written when the Barnes family was touring the country (George was developing the first guitar course to be offered on cassette tape), Les urged George to return to New York, signing off as “Rhubarb.”

It was inevitable that George and Les would become comrades and friendly competitors in Chicago. They continued their relationship after George moved to New York in 1951, when Milt Gabler of Decca Records signed George to a comprehensive contract. At the age of 30, George was already a “veteran,” and had experimented with overdubbing several years before Les became famous for it. George’s version for Decca of Clarinet Polka, backed with his original Hot Guitar Polka, were recorded a few months before George left Chicago by Bill Putnam—the engineer referred to as “the father of modern recording”—at Putnam’s studio, Universal Recording. It was ironic that Les developed his multi-track sound because he wanted to set himself apart from George, which he did successfully. There was also an irony in the fact that Decca’s agreement with George was announced in Billboard Magazine as a “‘Les Paul’ deal.”

Over the years, there has been conflicting information about the date Country Jazz was released (even on discographies that George himself compiled!). Because his first album on Decca—Guitars by George!—was produced in 1952, and he used an overdub technique to record himself on multiple tracks (and because it was initially marketed as a Country & Western album), it was assumed by some that Country Jazz was the immediate follow-up to that recording.

But in 1957, George recorded and released Guitar in Velvet, an album of his acclaimed octet arrangements, on his new label, Grand Award. This was the same year he recorded Country Jazz on the Colortone label, a subsidiary of Grand Award. George produced both of these albums under the supervision of record company executive Enoch Light.

George had been in New York less than a year before he joined Raymond Scott’s orchestra on the popular weekly television show, Your Lucky Strike Hit Parade. This is where he, bassist Jack Lesberg, and drummer Cliff Leeman formed a solid rhythm section and began lifelong friendships. Jack and Cliff, both of whom had also built stellar reputations, were mainstays on almost all of George’s solo New York recordings, as was the superb guitarist Allen Hanlon. With those three musicians, and George on guitar, banjo, and bass guitar (on Bass Guitar Blues), his Country Jazz quartet was complete.

By the time George began preparing Country Jazz, he’d worked in every New York City recording studio, and had his pick of rooms and engineers. When George was signed to Decca, he often recorded at Decca’s two studios: one on West 57th Street, the other in Pythian Temple on West 70th Street. But when Enoch Light founded Grand Award Records in 1956, and asked George to join the fledgling label, Guitar in Velvet and Country Jazz were both recorded at Fine Sound on Fifth Avenue in the Columbia Pictures Building. Recording engineer Bob Fine was an innovator in his field and, along with Bill Putnam of Universal Recording in Chicago, and Phil Ramone of A&R Recording in New York, was one of George’s top three favorite engineers. Whether he was working with Putnam, Fine or Ramone, George knew he was collaborating with kindred pioneers.

The description on the back of the original album reads: “A wonderful collection of Western favorites that everyone will love—and played in the traditional Western style.” The front cover features a more accurate explanation: “Great guitar solos in modern country jazz style”—as if “modern country jazz” was an established category—though, if anyone could establish a new species of music, it was George. Country Jazz was not designed to explore a new iteration of country music, rockabilly—but when George added his own twist of jazz, the resulting influence was unmistakable. His arrangements of traditional folk and country songs represent the enjoyment he got out of crossing musical genres. After all, he could, and did, play anything—which made him invaluable in the studios of Chicago and New York City, but also meant he defied categorization, inadvertently denying himself a prestigious place in any one class of musician.

George retitled some of the folk classics to reflect his jazzy charts, and his innate sense of whimsy (“Bluetail Fly” became “Bluetail Buzz”). This is not the “cool jazz” that had found its voice around the time Country Jazz was released (although it’d be interesting to hear what Monk or Miles would have done with “Turkey in the Straw”). George’s arrangements acknowledged both country and swing (and some blues), which were strangely complimentary to each other—at least, to his unique ears.

Country Jazz was fun for George; little did he know it would become one of his most influential recordings. It’s been said that one Barnes fan, the terrific guitarist Danny Gatton, learned it note-for-note—and that it inspired Jimmy Bryant to record his Country Cabin Jazz in 1960. Young guitarists who hadn’t yet been born when George died in 1977 are as enthralled by Country Jazz as rock guitarists are of anything from Jimi Hendrix or Eric Clapton, who referenced George in his autobiography: ” . . . I had always thought of guitar playing as being little more than an accompaniment to the singing, except in one or two rare cases that I had always noticed and wondered where the players were coming from. A good example of this was the Connie Francis number ‘Lipstick on Your Collar,’ which has an incredible guitar solo by George Barnes . . . ”

On Plantation Party, George played three songs he arranged almost two decades later for Country Jazz: “Turkey in the Straw,” “In the Gloaming,” and “Shortnin’ Bread.” NBC saved money by having their artists play songs that were in the public domain, so the selections were limited; but George always made the most of the repertoire he was asked to perform. It was easy for him; he simply took great pleasure in completely exploring a melody wherever he could find it.

In the late 1960’s (just before he and Bucky Pizzarelli formed their extraordinary duo), George was planning a series of concept packages, including “Nashville Hits,” “Western Guitar Favorites,” and a recreation of Country Jazz—but this time, he planned to record in Nashville, with his friends Buddy Emmons on steel guitar, and Jethro Burns on mandolin. George was obviously looking to have a good time—and to let us in on it!

Sadly, we can only imagine what he would have brought to a new incarnation of this legendary recording. Happily, we can enjoy the music he left behind.

-Alexandra Barnes Leh

Editor's Preface for STEP BACK: A STEPMOTHER'S HANDBOOK

Step Back Website

I first met Margit Bernard through a mutual friend, who told me Margit was looking for a writer to help create an heirloom memoir, intended as a gift from her husband to his grandchildren. At our first lunch, we immediately recognized a comfort level between us; she invited me to meet her husband, to see if he and I would find a similar rapport. After we shared a delightful dinner, they decided to move forward with me on the project.

During the months we spent producing the memoir, Margit occasionally spoke to me of a book she’d been working on for a few years, and asked if I’d cast my editorial eye on her notes. I already enjoyed working with Margit. The fact that her book was about stepmotherhood, and she wanted it to be an unvarnished portrayal, captivated me. I had my own perspective on the subject: I’d been a stepmother for 16 years.

It isn’t terribly difficult to find an editor with a command of the language; it’s a bigger challenge to find an editor who hears the writer’s heart. Margit felt she’d found in me more than someone who’d organize her ideas and check her grammar. Because we are like-minded about many aspects of life, our ability to finish each others’ thoughts regarding relationships, spirituality, marriage, and parenting made our work together enjoyable, almost effortless. Although she has a decidedly European voice, I knew Margit’s theories would be familiar to any woman in any part of the world who has married a man with children, and it was my job to make her ideas readily accessible.

While working on Margit’s book, it was inevitable that I’d find myself wandering through memories of my own time as a young stepmother. I remember being in a continual struggle to find a balance between the little joys and the enormous challenges, at a point in my life when informed stepmothering advice was nonexistent. What would I have given to be supported by at least one other person whose own experience could guide me - or, at the very least, comfort me? I wish I’d known a woman like Margit when I was twenty-five.

It is always a pleasure to work with a person whose integrity is intact, whose confidence in her understanding is unqualified. Margit’s candor about her own experiences as a stepmother, with her realistic clarity of hindsight, her search for a balance between heart, mind and soul, and especially her enthusiastic desire to help her fellow stepmothers find each other and support each other, comprise the core of her value. These attributes are precisely what I needed in an advisor when I embarked on my journey as a stepparent. Margit shines a bright light on the road, helps us recognize the pitfalls, suggests course corrections designed to protect the woman first, then the wife, then the stepmother, helping us to be more informed and better prepared stepmothers.
   
My mother recently referred to Margit as “the godmother of stepmothers” and, after 50 years in the role, she has unquestionably earned that moniker. I needed Margit when I was a stepmother. You may very well need her as much as I did. Fortunately, you now have her wit and her wisdom as your guide.

Alexandra Barnes Leh
Los Angeles, California

Editor's Preface for ONE TON GOLDFISH: IN SEARCH OF THE TANGIBLE DREAM

Justin Garcia

There is no way to forecast creative synergy, no way of knowing whether each person’s ideas will mesh or collide, or if opinions can be communicated without clashing too much or too often. All you can do is jump in, and see what happens.

In my first conversation with Justin - a two-hour phone call between Los Angeles and Houston - I quickly recognized what he was about. I had no idea if we’d be a good creative fit, but I knew I wanted to read his manuscript. After we spoke, I returned to my work on another project...but I couldn’t stop thinking about the unexpectedly remarkable conversation we’d had, replete with fresh ideas and noble objectives.

He was talking about creativity - the art that comes of it, and the science within it. He spoke about the “mechanics of creation,” the methodology that he believes sustains humanity. He was speaking a language I love, with sincerity, humor, candor, and accountability.

I’d met a kindred spirit: an artist with purpose.

After I read Justin’s story, I had a deeper understanding of his passion for the work. I wanted to help him craft the message, so others could have easy access to the source of his inspiration and claim it for themselves. A thoughtful, complex, evocative manuscript like his would require intensive work...and I looked forward to digging in.

I must admit, there was another motivation: a delightfully irritating thought that this book has the potential to be an instrument of change. To be part of that movement would be an honor for me.

Everything I initially thought of Justin and his work after our first connection continued to be true for the several months we worked together on his manuscript. 98% of our exchanges were as positive and productive as one could hope. (The remaining 2%? Well, that’s just a little proof that nothing in this world is perfect!)

What force conspired to connect an editor in California with a painter in Texas? At first glance, it seemed an inconvenient pairing - but we should never dismiss the powers of creativity when they call out to be explored. We have only to be amenable to the possibilities. When we are open vessels, with a true desire to make a positive difference in the world, we are more likely to receive extraordinary gifts of wisdom and understanding.

It often comes in unexpected ways from unlikely sources. It appears in the middle of a crowded coffee house, in the midst of freeway traffic, after a random conversation with a stranger about nothing in particular, at the end of a dream. In a flash, or a snap, or a breeze, we receive a thought, completely unrelated to the moment, but inextricably connected to a higher purpose. And we would do well to pay attention.

We live in an era that gives us every opportunity, any device with which to create. Still, the true purpose behind the creation eludes.

Some are born to the breed. Others must escape their origins to seek and find their tribe. I am a member of the former, the daughter of a musician father and a poet mother. I grew up in New York City, surrounded by professional creators of all kinds, masters of their chosen craft whose lives were driven entirely by the creative process. I was one of them from my first lucky breath.

Justin, on the other hand, made his own luck. He had to drop almost everything he’d been given to receive everything he needed. And when he began to explore that experience, using his insatiable curiosity as his compass, he made exceptional discoveries along the way...about his work, about himself, and about the world.

Regardless of background or circumstance, we find each other when the time is right.

I’d seen much of Justin’s collection online; though it’s not the same as standing in front of an original painting, I could see his work was world-class. His Focal Point Series and Creation Series contain pieces I’d love to live with. His paintings are layered and nuanced, suggesting a thought or feeling, allowing the viewer to make his or her own evaluation, never forcing the idea, letting it take form within the individual’s frame of reference, so they can tell their own story.

Like his visual art, Justin’s writing is personal, heartfelt, uncompromising, practical, witty...and his intention is infused with the authentic passion of a true artist. This book contains subject matter for artists and connoisseurs, to be sure - but also for the spiritual and the scientific, the lay person and the scholar. He bridges those seemingly disparate worlds with an intimate comprehension of the creative process, accessing each angle and connecting each point in a manner I’ve yet to see in other analyses. I envision it on bookshelves around the world, in high schools and universities, for sale in museums and music shops, finding its way into the home of anyone who longs to create, and is looking for practical inspiration.

Regardless of where we are on our journey, we’re all eager to be inspired.

Two people occasionally joined us in our process...both of them formidable, accomplished women (I believe Justin’s appreciation of strong women speaks highly of his character!). They fortified our efforts with unwavering encouragement and valuable insight.

Kim Jessup appears throughout this book, and provided a clear, straightforward perspective, especially when a particularly sensitive piece of the puzzle was missing. As she is in Justin’s life, Kim was the critical counterweight in this undertaking; you’ll understand her immeasurable importance the moment you “meet” her.

Whenever I work on a piece of writing - mine, or that of another author - I often consult with my mother, Evelyn Barnes. I’ll read sections of the work to her, and we’ll bounce a few ideas between us. Our brainstorming invariably reaps a reward. In the case of this book, her contributions go beyond language; she came up with the idea of giving the reader an entire page, completely unmarked on both sides. A place to sketch, to make notes, to respond to the previous chapter with their own drawings and thoughts. “It becomes their book, too,” she said. She called them “palette pages” - and Justin embraced her suggestion without hesitation. That term instantly became part of our lexicon.

OneTonGoldfish: In Search of the Tangible Dream is a whimsically intriguing title, perfect for the irresistible expedition of discovery on which Justin takes us. Even if I hadn’t worked on it, I’d love this book, infused as it is with Justin’s creative passion and scientific vision. They belong together. They explain each other. When combined, they make sense of this preposterous life in a way that allows me to identify and pursue my passion with a vibrant understanding of its source.

I trust this book will do at least as much for you.

Alexandra Barnes Leh

Los Angeles, California

GEORGE BARNES and THE JAZZ RENAISSANCE QUINTET - BACH FUGUE IN G MINOR: THE SESSION - CD Liner Notes

http://theartofsoundgallery.com/site/gallery/bach-fugue-in-gm/

ABOUT BACH FUGUE IN G MINOR: THE SESSION

When he’d come home from a long day “slaving over a hot guitar,” George Barnes would cleanse his musical palate with Brahms, Beethoven, Mozart, Respighi, Ravel, Moussorsky, Tchaikovsky, Wagner — and Bach. It was the Bach Fugue in G Minor, played by organist Virgil Fox under the baton of Eugene Ormandy that inspired him to explore its joy (a hallmark of George’s playing) and complexity (a reflection of his musical genius) in the context of his Jazz Renaissance Quintet.

The six men who participated in this recording — all close friends, masters of their art, and highly-respected in the New York studio scene — were guitarist Bucky Pizzarelli, clarinetist Hank D’Amico (who honed his craft with Benny Goodman and Tommy Dorsey, among others), bassist Jack Lesberg (well-known for his work with Louis Armstrong, but just as much at home under the baton of Leonard Bernstein), and drummer Cliff Leeman (invaluable to such diverse bandleaders as Glenn Miller and Raymond Scott, and a key member of The World’s Greatest Jazz Band). The original session, which took place on 25 February 1962 at A&R Recording, was recorded and remixed by engineer Phil Ramone, who began as a classically-trained violinist and became the world-renowned producer of such iconic recording artists as Paul Simon, Billy Joel, Ray Charles and Frank Sinatra.

Barnes' early discography is delightfully eclectic: five years after his 1952 Decca release, GUITARS, BY GEORGE!, he recorded GUITAR IN VELVET (in which he revisited his famed Chicago Octet radio performances) and COUNTRY JAZZ, still heralded as an innovation of musical convergence. Two years later, Barnes signed with Mercury Records, where he recorded three albums. In GUITAR GALAXIES and GUITARS GALORE, Barnes wrote sublime arrangements for his 10-guitar “choir”; the third album, MOVIN’ EASY, was a collection of standards and intricate Barnes originals recorded with the Jazz Renaissance Quintet. It was during those sessions that Barnes proposed the idea of recording an album of classical jazz with the quintet. After hearing Barnes’ Bach Fugue demo, Mercury loved the music, but deemed the project too esoteric, and the recording was shelved. The only remaining material from the one-day session were two acetate discs — reference lacquers created in 1962 (the mono edit) and 1972 (the outtakes and full unedited performance in stereo). The discs, intended only for limited use, had been played many times over the years. In this digitally remastered recording, most of the considerable damage to the discs has been removed, while preserving the dynamics of the music and the voices of the participants.

The inclusion of the musicians’ conversations between “takes” affords the listener a rare opportunity to join the players in the unique creative process that occurs in the rarefied environment of a recording studio.

A recording studio is

a laboratory

a cocoon

an incubator

a womb.

Six men in one room in one day.

This is the chemistry of creation.

This is how it sounds in the center of the core.

This is counterpoint in full swing.

These are world-class musicians

with the world on a string.

These are best friends and masters of their craft,

skilled, impassioned, connected, inspired 

and wired for perfection.

From the ears through the brain to the hand to the page to the eyes through the breath and the fingers and out into the air.

This is the essence of collaboration,

amplified, electrified, captured and balanced

on mylar and acetate.

This is classical jazz, rarefied.

This is the state of the art, sanctified.

This is commitment to excellence, nothing less.

This is conception, gestation, birth.

And this is everlasting.

There are no shortcuts to immortality.

This is the shorthand of genius.

If you listen very closely,

you’ll hear Bach smile.

Excerpt from THE BERZERKLEY BLUES, a short story inspired by actual unconscionable events

(For the full story, buy the ebook here)

No matter what she did, Maime couldn’t stop sewing. If she was cooking a boiled dinner, she’d take up a hem between checking the corned beef and peeling the potatoes. If she was on a phone call with her brother, she was replacing buttons on a blazer. When the mailman came to her door, he’d find her draped in fabrics, flustered by the interruption of her choice between brushed denim and seersucker. The tips of her fingers were always pricked and a little bloody, to the dismay of the friends with whom she played bingo, discomforted by the red stains she left on the cards and markers.

On sunny Berkeley days, she’d set up the card table in her tiny backyard. She’d drag a length of extension cords from her house to the circa-1954 Singer sewing machine that chewed and spat cloth as fast as she could feed it, as if it were starved for corduroy and silk. It whirred and chugged, stopping only when a snag made the machine moan like a child who’d gobbled one too many Snickers.

Surrounded by neighbors on all sides, she’d sometimes hear a slightly off-key aria sung by her operatic northern neighbor across the street; or silly, loving arguments from the 40-something couple behind her to the south; or the constant, unintelligible mumble of television from the single guy to the west. Maime enjoyed the gentle community cacophony; it reminded her she wasn’t entirely alone.

Sewing allowed her to think of other things: of the days when her late husband stopped off at the corner candy store on his way home from work to buy her a sack of peppermint candy stars; of her little niece’s first steps; of the family puppy that used to pee under the piano, leaving chartreuse spots in the navy carpet. She’d drift away to family dinners, weddings and christenings, church socials and weekend trips up the coast, and funerals for friends.

When she wasn’t sewing or mending or appliqueing, she was sleeping. But she wasn’t sleeping all that much, lately, owing to -- well, owing. Prices were high as the proverbial elephant’s eye, and her fixed income of $993 a month couldn’t reach the top of the pachyderm’s hoof, let alone its ocular orb. Bills were scattered like eucalyptus leaves on tables and chairs and the mantel. She’d open one while embroidering a daisy around a hole in her sweater, and it would slip to the floor unnoticed, until she dropped a needle in its approximate location. She’d snatch up needle and envelope in one swoop, pop the thimble back on her finger while clucking at the exorbitant amount of her utility bill.

It wasn’t that she was irresponsible about her finances; Maime had always enjoyed the satisfaction of paying her bills before they were due. It was the right, the adult, thing to do. But the country’s struggling economy was taking her back to her parents’ woes in the Great Depression, never having enough, never quite knowing where the next quart of milk would come from. It always showed up, as an offering from a neighbor’s cow or a gift from a visiting uncle. But now, at her grandmother’s age, she felt less like a self-assured grownup and more like the fretful child in 1935, when a penny was precious, and a dime -- well, a dime bought an entire afternoon with Shirley Temple on the silver screen.

Maime’s second favorite pastime was walking up to the farmers’ market every Thursday morning. It reminded her of her happiest childhood days, the vibrant and luscious colors of squashes and strawberries, row upon neat row of romaine and celery, chard and broccoli, bundles of kale and kohlrabi, bushels of fresh beets with their greens, and yellow wax beans. She’d wander through the crowded aisles and pick from the best of the bunch, judiciously harvesting her meals for the week while kibitzing with the farmers she’d come to know. Some of them were of Mexican or Guatemalan descent, but only a few had crossed the border; the rest were born and raised in the Bay Area. Some were san-sei, Japanese-Americans whose parents and grandparents had been interned during World War II. No matter their origins, they were all in similar straits; every day was an anxious parry with financial conditions, weather conditions, or (very often) both. Maime tried to buy something from each of them every week -- a couple of peaches from Melina, a pound of brown rice from Kimiko, a sack of russets from Jorge. She’d even taken in a couple of dresses for the wife of her organic farmer friend Miguel, in exchange for the week’s carrots and parsnips. One of Miguel’s regular customers admired her work and asked if Maime could mend a hole in her linen jacket, and maybe let out a few pair of her husband’s slacks. “He likes his beer,” the woman muttered as she placed the shopping bag of pants at Maime’s feet.

The next week, Maime drove her card table and the Singer to the market, setting up shop in the back of Miguel’s booth, and stitched to her heart’s -- and her purse’s -- content. She’d earned $97 when the day was through -- and a bartered bushel of nectarines from the woman who owned an orchard in Brentwood! And five more clients for the seamstress with the cotton-white hair and the furrow in her forehead.

Every Farmers’ Market Thursday, she’d collect more customers, who’d pile their needy clothing in a huge wicker basket set out by her table. Each piece was tagged with a safety-pinned name and phone number. She’d lug the heap to her house and sort through the clothing, prioritizing her work in order of time required to complete: hems for pants and skirts, new zippers, button reinforcement or replacement, darning of holes and tears, stitching patches on elbows and/or knees...or just for decoration.

She particularly enjoyed the more decorative requests. “Do you do sequins?” one 16-year-old post-modern hippie grandchild asked as she unfurled a long pink tie-dyed cotton skirt, letting it wave like a flag in the summer breeze. “I want this to sparkle on the beach when we go to Half Moon Bay next Saturday night.” Giving a girl a chance to shimmer in the moonlight made Maime smile, transporting her to the few times in her life when she’d believed in magic. She had no children of her own, so any opportunity to quench that long-held desire was welcome.

When the girl -- named Cinnamon by her mother, a longtime Neil Young fan -- returned from her weekend, she was well-tanned and bubbling with teenaged bliss. Maime couldn’t help but wonder if the sequins had caused a stir on the shore, and in some young man’s heart -- or, more likely, groin. She didn’t wish to be even remotely responsible for a young girl’s deflowering! If her adornments had been a catalyst to potentially life-altering events...

Cinnamon interrupted Maime’s worried reverie. “Maime!  Do you paint?” Instant visions of canvas propped on easel, tubes and tubes of gesso, cerulean and crimson, pallets and brushes, smock and beret, dashed her concern and caused her to drop the spool of thread she was replacing on the Singer. Her brow furrow deepened, and the girl leapt to clarify. “Not like walls or houses,” which hadn’t even crossed Maime’s mind. “You know, like t-shirts and shit, uh, stuff,” as if her mother had poked her from behind in absentia.

Maime knew shit. She wasn’t liberal with the word (the latest utterance came when she’d inadvertently sliced a hole in her apron while cutting slippery satin), but she was well-acquainted with the term and its various applications. After all, she’d become an undergraduate at the University of California, Berkeley right at the end of World War II, years before the campus would crawl with the anti-Vietnam War crowd. She’d smoked and drank and cursed with the best and brightest, honing her sophistication along with her knowledge. She came out into the world with degrees in art and anthropology, had curated for several galleries and gone on a few digs before life made other demands on her time and intelligence.

Maime had enjoyed painting, but it had been years since she’d been so inspired. She definitely hadn’t considered taking brush to cloth; she liked to sew. But she did have a painterly eye when plying her visions for clothing embellishment. Sometimes, she’d rip a swatch from a tropical print, cut it into the shape of a fish, and stitch it onto the front of the garment. Maybe take some ric-rac and sew a water trail from its mouth. She saw as much movement in the appliqued design as she had in any brushstroke. At an age when most of her peers were unconcerned about style, Maime was reinventing hers, and it kept her awake at night as much as the looming due date for the mortgage.

Other pressing issues kept Maime distracted from the things that made sense to her. Her occasional insomnia was fed by things that had no sense at their core, things that charged Maime with an unproductive energy, things over which she had no control. When sleep eluded, she adjusted her habits to mitigate the effect of outside influences. She stopped watching CNN into the wee hours, believing it bored bad news into her psyche. She eschewed, unlike her fellow octogenarians, the habitual watching of game shows, soap operas and reality television. They only served to remind her of what she didn’t need, who she didn’t know, and what she didn’t respect. She knew what was going on out there, but she maintained a small and manageable world; at her age, only good humor, kindness and simplicity kept her sane.

Two other “things” had freshly cropped up in her little world: two people, to be exact, a man and a woman in their mid-30’s who had recently purchased the house east of Maime’s property.

No one on the street had any intel on them; oddly, there had been no open houses or private showings when the house went on the market. The “For Sale” sign had not been plastered with “Sold” -- one day, it was just gone. The Monday before Memorial Day, the mystery began to unravel.

Hints at the buyers’ collective character were offered the morning they moved into the boxy mid-century post-and-beam Craftsman just up the hill from Maime’s eggnog Victorian gingerbread. It had been vacant for 18 months, left behind by a lovely gay couple, successful furniture designers who decided to take their earnings to Bali for an early retirement. Maime often missed “the boys.” They called her “Miss Maime,” regularly checked in on her needs, and treated her to Dim Sum Sundays in Chinatown.

Not one, not two, but three moving vans lined Maime’s narrow street, one of them blocking the driveway of her media-dependent neighbor, who bounded out of his California ranch, calling to the driver to back up the truck a few feet. New Neighbor Male, whose head was the shape of the boxes he carried in each of his muscled arms, shouted at the driver to ignore the request. “Stay right there! I hired you, you’ll park where I tell you!” Media Geek shouted back, “I gotta get to work, move your damn van!” New Neighbor Female, having just pulled up in her blood-red gas-guzzling tank, shook her fist and screamed out the window, “Money talks!” Media Geek pulled his cellphone from his pants pocket and waved it at the behemoth, “Fuck your money! I’m calling the cops! Move your fucking truck!” Maime filled her coffee mug while peering through her window at the ugly scene with slack-jawed amazement. Impression #1: Uh oh.

Maime decided against baking the blueberry cobbler she’d planned as a welcome, instead laying low and carefully observing the new additions to her peaceful Berkeley enclave. If they are who they seem to be, she mused while exchanging snaps for eye hooks on a vintage organza blouse, now might be a good time to put up that cinderblock wall she’d promised herself. A nice, properly anchored, opaque barrier for an elderly woman living alone. A solid perimeter to protect her while sewing al fresco, weather permitting. Bricks and mortar between Her and Them. Now that Maime was making a little extra cash, and since her brother was a newly-promoted manager at the local Home Depot, she decided it was time to afford herself the security. 

In the interest of eliminating property disputes -- as any good neighbor would want to do -- she enlisted the skills of a local surveyor, who would, at additional expense, install metal stakes at the property lines. Each of the neighbors living on the three adjoining properties were duly contacted, and asked if they’d consider making a financial contribution to the community effort, depending on the proportion of the joint property lines. As any good neighbor might well want to do.

Everyone agreed to kick in a fair share; everyone but New Neighbors Male & Female. Maime’s surveyor was advised via a tersely-written note that they’d spent quite enough on the house and the move. No, they would definitely not be making any contribution to someone else’s home improvements. Maime sighed as she wrote the check.

It was 4:34 on a Monday morning when the earth under Berkeley decided, as it will without warning, to rumble, rattle and roll Maime out of her bed, amidst the crash of breaking milk bottles she’d collected since she was 17. Slipping into her pink bedside Crocs, she tiptoed through the crunchy damage to check on the condition of the rest of the house. This was a sizable quake -- not big enough to crack her home in half, but it prompted her to call her brother, who’d promised to someday build her a small backyard structure, a storage shed-cum-emergency shelter, should her home turn to rubble in a major temblor.

As is common practice in earthquake country, everyone spilled out of their respective homes to survey the damage and check in on their neighbors. The would-be Maria Callas, The Bickersons, and Media Geek met Maime in the street. New Neighbors were nowhere in sight.

“They’re a pair of attorneys,” Maria Callas shared as they shivered in the early-morning mist. “Married attorneys! What could be more odious?” Maime got a kick out of the obvious reference to the unkind stereotype assigned to lawyers. Later, as she swept the glass from her kitchen floor, one of the hundred or so lawyer jokes she’d heard over the years entered her mind:

Q: What’s the difference between a lawyer and a catfish?

A: One is a slimy, bottom-dwelling scum sucker.  The other is a fish.

Maime laughed to herself, visualizing the duo in scaly skin, wriggling along the bottom of a muddy pond. Scooping shards into a bucket, she hadn’t heard her brother pull into the driveway, and jumped a foot when his gentle moon-shaped face popped up at her window. “Charlie! You scared the bejeepers out of me!” Charlie, a stocky redhead 18 years younger than his sister, had come straight from work, still wearing his bright orange Home Depot coveralls, pencil tucked behind his ear, lugging a tool chest and waving a drawing. “I’ve got it all planned out, Mames, we’ll put up the shed first, tackle the wall later. Don’t wanna be playing with concrete blocks in aftershocks!” Charlie guffawed at his intended rhyme, grabbed a soda from the fridge, and hopped down the steps to the backyard.

A shipment of lumber arrived the next day in a Home Depot van, as Maime was taking final stitches to the sunburst applique on a turquoise tank dress for one of Cinnamon’s school chums. She slung the dress over her shoulder and waved young delivery men Ollie and Stan around the east side of the house. She could have sworn she saw peek-and-duck activity in her uphill neighbors’ window, but she shrugged it off, knowing that, after hours of close work, her 83-year-old eyes liked to play tricks on her.

Ollie and Stan -- their real names, much to Maime’s delight as, true to their predecessors, Ollie was corpulent and bombastic and Stan was willowy and wimpy -- dragged and clattered pile after pile of 2x4s into the back yard, incessantly whistling in unison a dissonant tune Maime didn’t recognize. It sounded to her like a dirge, and its ghost annoyed her for hours after Ollie and Stan had driven away. Charlie would later identify it as Pink Floyd’s “The Wall.” “It’s the only song they can whistle,” Charlie chortled as he divided nails from screws. “At first, I wanted to throttle ‘em, but the irony won me over.” Maime didn’t get the joke, and made a mental note to stop by the Amoeba record store on Telegraph to listen to the original, for a little musical education...and a possible aural exorcism.

Before the commencement of sawing and hammering, Maime took it upon herself to compose an apologetic note to her neighbors, assuring them that the bangs and buzzes would only last about 10 days, begin after 11am and end by 3pm, and they’d suffer no construction noise at all on Sundays. She tucked her handwritten cards in the mailboxes of all concerned, and headed off to the farmer’s market for the day, secure in the knowledge she’d done the right thing by her little community.

Several hours later, lugging a healthy armful of new projects from her car, Maime was delighted to find on her porch a milk bottle vase full of fresh-cut circus roses. She recognized the flowers as being from The Bickersons’ yard -- she’d even spotted one of the fuller bi-color blooms that morning while it was still attached to the bush -- and buried her nose in the blossom as she unlocked her front door. An unaddressed envelope had been stuck in the doorjamb, containing a calligraphed note from Maria Callas on fine, cream-colored Crane stationery. “I will enjoy the sounds of your new creation just as you so graciously enjoy mine,” it read. Maime clapped her hand over her mouth to prevent an explosive laugh from being heard across the street, having no desire to hurt artistic feelings. Then Media Geek, plugged with earbuds, ran past Maime’s house and jammed both of his thumbs in the air, a neighborly approval on the fly.

“Three out of four,” Maime shrugged as she dumped her pile of work on the sofa. She could hear Charlie in the back yard, rhythmically tapping away at a nail head, preventing her from hearing the matched rhythm of knocking on her front door. Maime waved at the very focused Charlie as she passed the rear window, on her way to the bathroom for a private moment of solitude and reflection.

Just as Maime took her seat, Charlie stopped tapping -- but the knocking persisted. She paused before pulling up her cotton Fruit-of-the-Looms, and called out to Charlie, who was wired in with an iPod mix of pre-psychedelic Beatles and pre-obese Elvis. Maime got to the front door just as an escalated pounding started, and opened it to find a petite, short-haired blonde woman in riding clothes holding a crop in her tightly-folded arms. Maime recognized her as New Neighbor Female, and braced herself as best she could with a full bladder. It occurred to her that bringing a crop to a neighborly conversation made it anything but.

The icy blonde’s scowl was calibrated to melt flesh, but Maime had not completed her desired bathroom activities, so was armed with a biological defiance. “Yes?” Maime’s tone was urgent for any number of reasons. The blonde’s shrill voice julienned Maime’s ears. “Your workmen are disturbing my nap.” Maime squinted to imagine what napping in skin-tight jodhpurs and leather boots might look like. “I’m sorry,” Maime squirmed, thankful she’d been practicing her kegel exercises, “but I did leave a note of warning in your mailbox.”

The crop wriggled in the woman’s arms, seemingly of its own accord, and Maime took a step back from what could only be the threat of a whipping. She fixed her gaze on the object and followed its every twitch; in this woman’s severe hand, it had a life of its own. “It wasn’t an official notification,” the crop hissed, its leather strap fluttering from the crook in the woman’s elbow and flapping dangerously close to Maime’s nose. “There are noise ordinances, you know. Laws. AND,” the crop hastened to add, “your structure is obviously larger than codes allow. We’ll be filing a complaint with the city tomorrow morning!”

Maime took one more step back from the crop and its owner, reached for the knob, and tucked herself halfway behind the door, blurting, “I’ll check with the city and make sure I comply. Sorry you’re disturbed. Nice to meet you.” Maime shut the door and trotted back to the bathroom. Heavy boot heels clomped on her porch, down her driveway and up the sidewalk. Maime knew in her heart they were Boot Heels from Hell...