Ever wonder how you ended up doing what you do for a living? You know, like where did that “want to” come from. It struck me that I’m unable to explain to others how that happened for me. I certainly didn’t, in my wildest imagination, dream that I would end up a producer and writer.

My childhood was very uneasy. A musical and scholastic failure in most every way, under a cloud of talented siblings, an annoyance to most people with whom I came into contact, and dealing for a time with an adult who felt that their pleasure was more important than my innocence. I was embarrassed and couldn’t tell anyone…you just didn’t talk about weird stuff like that. It was certainly not a good way to begin my life. I can remember as a 12-year-old boy, sitting on the front lawn of my house at 429 Shirley Street and thinking that I could hardly wait to die because it had to be better than what was happening to me then. There was absolutely no hint of creativity in me whatsoever…not anywhere.

But for an intersection with a living, breathing angel, I have no idea where I would have ended up. It was this teacher, born to be a teacher, who gave me introductory lessons on the cello, and asked me to tell her a little about myself. I didn’t know what to say because my life sucked, and the thought of that struck an emotive chord in me. Upon her asking, I was powerless to conceal the tears welling up in my eyes. I didn’t understand my reaction then, but as I look back now…it is perfectly clear. No one ever had bothered to ask me about me before….but it confirmed in my heart that she actually cared about me. She introduced me to the cello…and I took to it like stink to a skunk. Playing the cello changed my outlook on life and gave me a reason to live…a reason to hope. It is my real friend for life…not that I’m a great player…but my cello is a great friend.

Why do I bring this up when it is all in my book, “Runaway Horse”? Because it’s the foundational background of how I’ve come to view the origin of my creativity. Was I such a brilliant organized thinker who planned out my entire career step by step? Well if you know anyone who really knows me…that ain’t in the realm of possibility. When you have nothing but a vast expanse of nullity in the left side of your brain (except for a little monkey that sits in a lawn chair and eating banana cupcakes all day long) you will understand that my processing skills are in a continued state of lostness out in the hinterlands of Oblivia, and the possibility of ever finding the remotest logical thought …is like hoping to prove the Loch Ness monster is real.

Other choices surrounding the origin of creativity is the thought that it’s all just serendipitous or…or even genetic. In JD Vance’s book, Hillbilly Elegy he talks about living in a backwoods culture. His thought was that when you live in an impoverished setting for a long time, you began to internalize inferiority and surmise that your poverty and lack is in a sense, genetic. I understand that because that was my mindset in the early stages of my development as a child. I was beginning to internalize that nothingness.

Finally…..There was a “turn on a dime” experience. I found someone who was a caring encourager whose gift was the ability to nurture the hopeless. Where do you get that? it changed my life forever …it was like… BOOM….. and a creative spark was lit in me. Long story short…what ensued was unbelievable opportunity, awards, honors and recognition. As a result, my despair was transformed into “what could be “excitement, and so much overwhelming attention I could not possibly grasp it all.

My life became an adventure I could never have planned or remotely imagined. It was like going to the candy store everyday. I never had the inkling that I was working. Bricklayers work….construction workers work….farmers work. I got to make stuff up and make music…that just never struck me as work. I had the thrill of standing on the studio floor with the finest orchestral players in Nashville, New York, Los Angeles and London. These are the best American and European musicians you could ever imagine.

I will never be able to adequately convey to you the feeling that rises up through you. You are met with the offering of sum total of these musician’s musical training and experience. The music flows through you in waves of emotion. It is an experience transitioning from rising streams of grandeur reaching a climax surpassing the most epic movie you have ever seen…then melting into moments of tender visceral beauty. As you stand there the beauty overtakes you and you find yourself creating your own sound pictures. Suddenly you’re lost in a vision of something like… a smudgy faced little waif in her colorless torn dress…handing you a drooping dandelion…and the music is so magical that you have to catch yourself almost reaching for her flower. That’s how powerful the experience is to me.

The first time this happened to me was in London and the first of many recording projects at Abbey Road. When the day of recording was complete, I went back to the hotel. As I was lying in bed with my wife, I turned to her and said, “I can’t believe they’re paying me to do this.” It was incomprehensible to me. You see I didn’t graduate from Berklee, Curtis, USC, Julliard, Manhattan School of Music, Miami’s great jazz program, , University of North Texas with they’re great lab bands or Cleveland. Everyone I worked with had….but not me. I remember sitting in the commissary of a studio I was at and everyone was sort of making fun of the other ‘s institution of learning . They were all the schools I just mentioned. As the dialogue continued they asked me, the producer where I studied. I said Mary College in Bismarck, North Dakota. Everything got quiet and they changed the subject.

My answer to the orgin of creativity is this. I can only reckon that he source of my creativity came not by chance, genetics or the sum total of my life experiences alone. The source of my creative abilities came from a power much greater than myself, and I can only view it as a gift… as heavenly charity. I had no more to do with it than I did the color of my skin……no question…I worked very hard, but I have seen just as many people work as hard but did not have this specific gift.


I believe that how I answer the question of the origin of my creativity has much to do with the way I view others and the world around me. When I come to the conclusion that I was given a gift, I become very grateful …very grateful indeed. But when I have the notion that I’m solely responsible for my success, there is greater ease or tendency to diminish anything or anyone around me. It’s as easy as a quick judgmental look, name-calling, hateful thought or action, because it’s all about me, what I do and….what I’ve done.

Dr. Steven Stonsny, wrote this in his piece entitled, “Anger In the Age of Entitlement”, “Appreciating you enhances life ….Failure to appreciate you diminishes it.” When I’m grateful for what’s been given to me, I’m exponentially more likely to appreciate the gifts in others and value them in kind. My gratitude does not diminish my significance, but moreover, enhances my life. Even when a gift is received, it can be received in a spirit of thankfulness or with the mentality of entitlement …”I deserved it.”  My choice is the former.

Gratefulness is a positive powerhouse in life. In today’s societal swim, gratefulness is a vibrant thread in our moral weave, the marrow of the backbone our country and one of the most important essential oils nurturing every world culture. Gratefulness for what we have been given offers us tremendous freedom…. and that freedom gives our lives limitless opportunities, opportunities for good,,,, opportunities to make this world a better place for our children when we are long gone.



I’m especially loving Pam today. I don’t have to have a reason, because just knowing her…just being with her evokes something deeply joyful…something thankful in me. The lyricist, Hal David wrote “on the day that she was born the angels got together and decided to create a dream come true”, but I don’t think any angel made this dream come true… that decision was made by a much greater authority. He surely did sprinkle moon dust in her hair and a starlight in her eyes. She’s so beautiful to me.

I’m listening to “Close To You”with Ron Isley singing David’s lyric on a beautiful bed of Burt Bachrach’s music. I’ve been in music as long as I can remember and I get amazed all over again by its ability to move my heart in ways that are indescribable. With only twelve notes in a scale, used by truly gifted songwriters, composers, arrangers, orchestrators and artists, their passion reaches down into my heart and take me to places I could never visit in the physical. These are special places, deep… soulful places. Regardless of genre, music of every leaning has a way of speaking to me.

I want to honor all musical styles from all over the world. Valuing the music of a others is a healthy way of learning respect for people groups, countries and cultures. It’s great to have an appreciation of a particular style of music that is meaningful to you. Unfortunately some feel it important to talk with distain about music and a culture they don’t really understand. There are those who think their fellows are ignorant who cannot appreciate the music they revere. Leonard Bernstein alarmed the classical purists with his obvious appreciation of various genres, but he understood the cultural relevance of other forms. Music is not a little harbor…but an expansive ocean of styles and conveyance. When you think about it and see it for what it is, expecting people to only appreciate one musical path, it’s actually refusing to allow for different ways humanity views and absorbs the theatre of life. There are many windows of divergent expression, and all reflected in the creative’s pen and voice.

It is the sum of their lives, what they see, where they’re from, what they experience, their families and the way they were raised, their ethnicity and culture, places they’ve lived, the influence of art, music, writing and political outlook. The confluence of all of this forms a lyrical and musical philosophy. What emanates from these artists is reconstituted in their psyche, and emerges as a unique utterance. After the technical discipline is established, the power of any creative artist is in the sum total of their life experiences.

Music resurrects pain and soothes it all in the same breath. It is a combination of conscious and unconscious thought. It says what we can’t. It can cries when we don’t have any tears left…It smiles when we can’t….it can put its loving arm around us and tell us… “it’s going to be okay.”


The abilities of great artists and musicians have certainly been finely honed to be sure, but for me…and again I speak just for me…even though the artist is intentional to be excellent and has diligently worked themself to the bone…the marrow of talent is of spiritual content… and that for me is a gift from God.

 “Why do birds suddenly appear every time you are near? 
Just like me, they long to be… close to you”




Why is it that some men find it difficult to admit a mistake or be so reticent to apologize? One of the things I have a great problem with is misreading my wife’s expressions. I have a quick reaction if I think my wife is dismissing me. Most times she’s completely innocent and my strong response hurts her feelings. Even if it isn’t innocent (she’s allowed), I don’t need to raise my voice. I know at it’s core it’s a combination of ego, insecurity and anger. That’s a terrible mix. I don’t display that with anyone else, often showing more deference to others around me than her. It is one of my many character flaws. I try to apologize but she doesn’t think I’m really sincere. In her mind, if I was seriously remorseful, it wouldn’t ever happen again…but it does. It’s totally embarrassing to me that I would be so unkind to someone so precious to me. . Probably few have to deal with this, but this is my thorn in the flesh. We get along famously when it’s just the two of us…but if anyone else is in the mix, our mojo is disrupted and this is when the situation is more prone to occur.


There are good days, difficult days, ones of expectation and those that speak uncertainty. Everyday I’m so grateful to God for the mercy of a new day…But on those “ I don’t understand” days, I need to be reminded again of Isaiah 55:8-9.

““For My thoughts are not your thoughts, Nor are your ways My ways,” declares the LORD. “For as the heavens are higher than the earth, So are My ways higher than your ways And My thoughts than your thoughts.”

I woke up this morning feeling somewhat downcast. I‘ve had medical testing, doctor visits and still dealing with those suffering from the upheaval of recent tornadoes here in Nashville. That was enough for concern, but now the isolation of family in this present pandemic seems a little much, and I have questions. So God has His way of answering me in ways I can best understand. Simply, clearly and with music.

One of the great joys in my career, was to produce a recording with artist/songwriter, Richard Smallwood. He’s a fabulous pianist, consummate musician and steeped in classical understanding. He has adroitly married the soulful expression of black gospel music with a classical leaning. He took this chronically white, boy from North Dakota, into his world, a culture in which I had no footing. I am so very thankful for his friendship.

I wanted you to hear some of Richard’s music I was listening to this morning, As he sang, I wept at the song’s beauty and truth. God is near in al of this..


Two of our dearest friends from back home in Tennessee, met us at the airport in Bismarck, North Dakota. Our long time pastor, Gene Mims and his lovely wife, Ann, journeyed to the north country specifically to see the places about which I wrote in my book, “Runaway Horse.”

When we visited their church for the first time fourteen years ago, it wasn’t two weeks later that we were sitting at their dinner table with two other new couples who had visited the church. This is standard procedure for them, and with that, we knew this church was the right place for us. They are loving hosts and caring ministers. It was very clear to us, that to them, we mattered.

We’ve never joined a church for the music, although we enjoy Judson Baptist Church because I can play my cello in the orchestra each Sunday. Our new pastor, Jeff Mims is a dynamic teacher and steady hand for our congregation (Yes, he’s their son). Pam teaches a Life Group class of women ages 40 to 60. We don’t want to be anonymous members but to give, serve and be invested in the people…and be family. There are so many needs in our community, our country and the world. There’s no shortage of work to do

Gene is originally from Texas, but at age 14 moved to Appomattox, Virginia. Ann is from a small, but difficult to pronounce town outside of Jackson, Mississippi. She is the consummate purveyor of hospitality and the epitome of “southern grace.”Gene has referred to himself many times as a “chicken eatin’ preacher”…but in reality, he is a brilliant speaker, teacher, author, a former executive at LifeWay Christian Resources and an amazing leader. He’s ADD, and so we communicate perfectly!!!!

Our two days were spent re-counting Pam’s and my home places, favorite haunts and a trip through the Theodore Roosevelt National Park, and the Medora Musical. Got to get together with friend and Medora impresario, Bill Sorenson, in his last year starring in the musical and as speaker at the Medora Gospel brunch. We were also thrilled see and meet with the amazingly talented cast member, Taylor Leet, who along with her parents, Jon and Jennifer, are very close family friends.

On our way home the next day, we stopped at Fort Lincoln State Park In Mandan, North Dakota. It is home to the On-A-Slant Indian Village which thrived for 200 years. The Mandan were hunters and gardeners who lived in these permanent villages. The home in another part of the park is that of General George Armstrong Custer and his wife Libby. Also featured in the park are some reconstructed military lookout towers.

Our last stop was to the capitol. This building has great meaning to me because my father served as State Superintendent of Construction. Two weeks before my daughter, Sarah was born, he walked to the capitol from his home two blocks away, sat down for a morning coffee in the cafeteria and fell over dead of a heart attack. I was numb, he was 56.

Dad just loved side pork. He fixed it all the time. He’d suffered a heart attack when he was 30, but he couldn’t let go of that side pork. So when people ask me how my father died, I tell them he died of side pork.

Gene said in a sermon to us, “Death runs in my family.” He’s right. My dad’s passing came way too soon for our family…but in God’s perfect time. I understood that…but still…there was so much that he missed, and that we missed with him.


It was sudden. Just yesterday morning, I finished the eulogy my brother-in-law, Bob Johnson asked me to write for his memorial service, and I sent it to him. By noon that same day, he face- timed me to tell me how grateful he was for what I’d written. I wanted him to hear it before he passed, and to know what would be spoken of him. We joked with each other just briefly and before we hung up I told him I loved him. He winked at me and repeated his love for me. Little did I know.

He was gone at 5:30.

My sister, Sigrid called Pam and me soon after with the news. We were stunned. I couldn’t speak. Sig and I just looked at each other. Her eyes embroiled in tears, and my face as stone. We barely spoke. She was obviously in some manner of shock, but trying to be strong. After dealing with ALS, and everything that entails…she didn’t have a lot of strong left in her. She told us she didn’t want to notify anyone just yet. She needed time to take it all in and have some semblance of centeredness in order to get through these next days. Her boys, Andrew and Peter are with her, and that’s a huge comfort.

I’ve been walking around in a zombie state…and so thankful to have Pam. I just wanted to make today go away. I went to the grocery store to get a few things, and as I walked, I heard a song from a playlist entitled “Lullabye” written by Jeremy Lubbock, a gifted orchestrator I’ve worked with on several occasions. It is sung by Chaka Khan. As I listened, the music brought me to tears as I walked thru the aisles.

When I came to the checkout, the lady could see that my eyes were red. “Having a hard day?“I told her that it was a sad day, a beautiful day and shocking all rolled up into one. Her affirming nod and understanding eyes felt like a hug to me.

I know it’s a lullaby…but it’s what brought me comfort.


Today as I was writing with my buddy, Bob Farrell, I snapped this shot of him in my writing room…We were brainstorming an idea,….and just for a moment I was caught in a rush of emotion…mindful of his great impact on my life.

We have written together for decades, but it is not the writing that is the most enduring. Bob and his wife, Jayne are from the South Pole of the contiguous…Texas cured. We’ve lived life together, know each other’s children and grandchildren, their names and what they’re doing. We’ve suffered together. Bob and Jayne lost their home in the Nashville flooding some years back; we have both been nigh unto death and sat at each other’s bedsides. We’ve heard our music performed by people all over the world. We’ve had our disagreements and wrangled over ideas…but it was this willingness to be uncomfortable and walk together in the refining fire, that brought a lyric or piece of music to a place of beauty and great imagery. We’ve written some good songs and our share of less than good. Of course, at the time we were writing these alleged gems, they all seemed brilliant…that is until we listened to them a short time later and wondered what in the world we were possibly thinking just days earlier.

The preponderance of my writing efforts have come in three distinct periods, with three specific compatriots. The first was with Phill McHugh that began in my recording days in North Dakota and then again in my early years in Nashville. Phill was born into an Irish Catholic farm family near Aberdeen, South Dakota. He was commonly hip, politically aware and viewed life from a vantage point that was different than mine. We were on the same page spiritually, but how we arrived at our conclusions came in different ways. I first met him when he came to my studio in Bismarck to record an album. We bonded in that experience and when he recorded his second album…”Canvas For The Sun’, it was picked up by Lamb and Lion records which was distributed by Sparrow Records headed by Billy Ray Hearn, ultimately leading to my move to Los Angeles and subsequently, Nashville.

Just a short time after we made the move to Tennessee, Phill moved with his family as well. This was very important to us both at the time because we had history together and could trust each other’s instincts. This is so chemically important in a writing relationship.

Pam and I were close to him and his wife then, Dorsey. We watched our children grow, got together many times, laughed and made music…Good times they were. Phill has a poet’s heart and his thoughts come out like that. His imagery and theater is stunning. I’m not sure how, but we sort of drifted away from each other after a few years in Nashville…but we did. It makes me sad, because I love this family very much. Dorsey is an unbelievable painter, artist in her own right. You should check out Dorsey McHugh Fine Art.

The last person with whom I would spend a period of creative years was Paul Marino. I met Paul through a friend who I was involved with in the beginnings of Young Life in my hometown. Paul was in a group called; “River” and I produced a couple of albums with them. He was from St. Paul at the time and later, made the move to Nashville with his wife Karolyn. We loved each other from our recording days together, but when he moved here, we became fast friends….like family.

Paul knows all of my personal ins and outs and has helped immeasurably with getting me out of old songwriting habits. He’s funny as funny can be. A couple of days ago we went to a fund raising dinner for a work in the Ukraine that rescues children from poor living conditions in orphanages there. As we sat listening, Paul leaned over to me and said out of the clear blue…”You know….mediocrity has come a long long way”…and then focused back on the speaker, acting as if nothing happened. (He was not referring to the presentation). Paul is also the king of the misnomer….saying things like ..”Boy…I’d like to be a mouse on the wall when they’re talking”. We can pun back and forth for days. It’s these little things I love about him as well.

These men and their families are precious treasures in my life. When you write anything…the most powerful words and music come from those people and events that move you at a high emotional place….from what you live…from what you believe…and what God has given you to say. And for that…. I’m grateful…grateful…grateful, for the blessings of these three families in my life.


Yesterday I was standing outside Publix grocery store waiting for Pam to pick me up with the groceries I just bought.  We were getting stocked up for the approaching snowstorm which was forecast for the next day…which is today when I’m writing this….but I digress.

Right before we left for the grocery store, Miss Kay, a precious friend told us something she learned from her mother. When there are blackbirds on the ground, eating worms, it indicates there’s going to be snow. She said there were a lot of blackbirds on the ground where they live. She was right…’s snowing like crazy.. Miss Kay, is a very special lady, who along with her lovely sister, Cindy, help Pam keep our house in order. We know this family well and have been at Fourth of July parties, multiple funerals and weddings. They mean the world to us. They attend a little Pentecostal church in the country and love Jesus. Pam and are inspired by their joyful experiential faith. When they come to the house, I turn on gospel music so they can sing as they work. They’re a singing family and often I’ll hear them, singing to the top of their lungs. We’ve prayed together and cried together. It’s one of the most beautiful relationships we have. It has been so for decades. When they come to the house, they’re eager to give us hugs and kisses. It’s mutual. Well, back to my story.

Pam hates going to the grocery store with me because she thinks I take to much time dilly dallying in the isles and not taking care of business, not value shopping, buying stuff we don’t need and not presenting coupons she’s given me to use. Pam just wants to go in and get out. I love to talk to friends, TALK to strangers and ,visit with the different employees working at the store… Pam actually told me the other day that she would not be surprised whatsoever if she found me talking to a head of cabbage in the produce department if I felt the compunction. That’s just silly…..well maybe an attractive head of lettuce.

All this basically drives her nuts, and into an exasperated state of spousal madness which often times she fears might turn into spousal abuse. That of course would never happen because she knows whenever you see a doctor, the people at the front desk always ask the old people if they have been mistreated (I always thought they said HIPPO law, but Pam caught me up to speed on that one, “you just can’ listen Greg, can you?!!!….”HIPAA  regulation, honey…turn your hearing aids up”)… and since I’m an old person, they’re certain to ask me what could be damning information to said spouse, Pam. I watch Forensic Files and have seen all the ways wives get rid of their husbands. JUST KIDDING..maybe. All that said, she has finally settled on leaving me to my own devices in the grocery store while she takes four ibuprofen and escapes by listening to soothing music in the car as she waits for the inevitable overspending, missing and unneeded items, once again watching me walk out of the building with plastic bags holding our purchased items and not the cloth grocery bags she gave me. Okay so maybe in my quest to secure all our foodstuff needs, I inadvertently (Pam has another word for inadvertently) forgot I left them on the bottom section of the shopping cart…make that, I just forgot them, period. I then have to go back in, search for the cart I was using, and retrieve our cloth bags.

I see these problems as a minor oversight. Let’s just say, Pam sees things differently. She in fact, thinks that without question, the pharmaceutical companies should be listing my name for anyone who’s met me…. as one of the primary reasons for using any number of their anxiety medications. It’s a tough thing living with me. She never knows where I am…and that’s even when I’m sitting right next to her.


I have a wonderful brother. He’s been my brother my whole life because he’s two years older than I am. (That’s a little Norwegian math for you there)

Corliss (I call him Chummie) is much different than me and my sister, Sigrid (I call her Susie). He’s much quieter and holds his feelings in somewhat. Sigrid and I are very effusive and there is no laundry in the laundry bag of feelings and emotions. We all have one thing in common. We live in our own little idea worlds, totally oblivious to what’s going on around us. Remembering stuff is not one of our strong suits. This was proven out one fall day growing up in North Dakota.

Everyday we took my sister to Hughes Junior High which was about 11 blocks away from Bismarck High School, where my brother and I attended. We had a little brown Renault car. We didn’t know how to pronounce the word the way you were supposed to, you know like how the French would. We pronounced it like it rhymes with the word vault. We’d have to occasionally crank start the car by inserting a crank positioned at the front of the car and crank it up. As we did this, the car would begin to shudder, then start. Suddenly, the crank would reverse in the opposite direction…almost ripping your wrist off. Ah, sweet days of automotive opulence and sophistication.

We dropped Sigrid off at school and continued down Avenue D which was a straight shot to the high school. However, this fine day our car started to judder, cough and subsequently gave up the ghost about a block away from where we’d dropped my sister off. The Renault was smoking and fuming, so we just pushed it around the corner and parked it on the street there. From there we walked all the way to the high school that morning. When we got out of school that afternoon we walked out together. I asked my brother, “Where’d you park the car?” My brother was preferable because he couldn’t remember where we parked. Now you can’t possibly think that I would remember where we parked. That would be asking way too much of this ADHD “idiot savant”…without the savant part. We looked and looked for the car and couldn’t figure it out, so we just walked home. We were sitting around the table dinner table that evening and my dad ask, “where is your car we looked and looked for the car and couldn’t figure it out, so we just walked home. We were sitting around the dinner table that evening and my dad asked, “Where is your car?” I can look down at my plate because I didn’t want to answer and I kind of looked over to my brother and he had this bewildered look on his face and said, “I think we lost it.” My dad who was of course naturally incredulous at Chummie’s report used one of his favorite swear words again. “You lost the car you lost the COCKEYED car!!!” My mother grew read further, “Boys, how do you lose a car?” Not skipping a beat my dad blurted out, “Oh, just give them a little time and they’ll figure out a way to do it”. He kept mumbling to himself…”they lost the cockeyed car …they lost the cockeyed car.”

Lets review my dad’s names for us in his famous “Hall of Unmitigated Scorn”

Now there were three uses of this term.

1. Imploring us to get up at 7:30 on Saturday morning to do chores. “Okay, YOU BIRDS…time to get up.
2. This references his frustration with us as in, “ YOU BIRDS better settle down.
3. Asking for something other than what was prepared and on the table. “Listen, YOU BIRDS…This ain’t no short order joint.”

BOZOS (A higher level of threat, with a more ominous and a far more certain impending “apocalyptic “quality portending no good outcome.

Again there were two uses.

1. Referencing something we should have done that we didn’t.
You BOZOS better get that lawn mowed….and I mean right now!!!”
2. If we said something disrespectful. “Listen, BOZO, You better change your smart mouth, or I’ll give you a different sorta smart to cure that for you.”
3. If we had crossed the line..that clear but unspoken line. Listen up you two BOZOS…Get in the car. (“Get in the car” was code for total annihilation of any opportunity for fun and was accompanied with the knowledge that your body would in some way not feel the same as it had just minutes before. )

Any use of COCKEYED

This clearly represented unmitigated frustration at the highest levels of despondency. It did not imply punishment or an impending edict by the parental court….but when dad pulled that word out of his vocabulary it was the sort of thing that gave you a nervous twitching and sense of a downward spiral in the swagger of our familial mojo. We all knew what he was doing. He was swearing in his own way….you know…letting loose all his frustration. It was weird…but even though he was at a a fevered emotional level… I really felt sorry for him which brought on a brief moment of remorse… and I just wanted to comfort him.

And before any of you say anything, NO…we were not emotionally scarred in any way. My dad was loving and there was never any question in our minds that he wanted and provided for us the best way he knew how…so don’t get all psychological on me here.

I think my brother and I got into one fight in the entire time we grew up together. This is a man I revere and look up to. He is amazingly talented and is the kind of person that does not call attention to himself. I talk about our exploits in my book, “Runaway Horse”.
Not only is he a fine musician and singer, but his creative woodworking as a luthier and furniture maker is something to behold. Probably my most treasured possession is the cello that my father bought for me in high school. This instrument was damaged in a move to another house. My brother took the broken instrument and spent two years learning how to repair a cello and then brought this instrument back to life. I was in tears at his presentation to me. He’s built violins and plays them when we get together. He got another old cello, repaired it and started practicing until he could play the first of the Bach Six Suites. He is an amazing treasure to me.

Chummie has endured polio as a child, a heart attack…..and the greatest travail of his family was the loss of their youngest daughter and sister, Holly. She lost her life in a boating accident at the age of 25. I can hardly type this part. The waves of grief our entire family feel to this day are relenting. You just wake up from time to time or in the middle of your day…the remembrance and beauty of this precious girl coming pouring over you in a flood of emotion. I look up to the sky and say something like..” Hey Holly girl…I sure am missing you right now. Things are manageable here, but I can’t wait to see you. Hold down the fort until we all get there, okay. Cheers!!!” I think about my times with her for a moment and then move on in my day. Funny, but after that time with her, my days have turned out really good. She’s always a warm presence in my heart. Stoically, and with great faith, Chummie, Donna and Holly’s sister, Serena, carry on with their lives…but I’m sure, with a thread of melancholy accompanying their loving memories. I will write one day about Holly. For there are so many amazing attributes she had in her short but kindly action packed life.

I love being with my brother. We talk music, issues of life and love for each other. Nothing matches the joy we have when we pull out our instruments with our sister, Sigrid on the piano singing to our hearts content. We haven’t skipped a beat since marching around in our living room pounding on pots and pans as are mother played the piano for us…sometines singing to us. I am unable to express the joy that brings to us…cuz there aren’t descriptive words to match the feeling. I have always looked up to Chummie as the leader of the Nelson siblings, and as you can tell…it’s not hard to see why. He is and always will be …my big brother.


I sat here watching the news this morning and my eyes began to burn and the tears started to come. They were showing pictures of the victims of the tragedy in Las Vegas. A lot of the victims were so young and I thought about my kids. It’s so overwhelming, this evil. Then I saw the people who responded and helped those who had been injured I needed to get to the hospital. None of them had any thoughts of themselves, but of what was happening in front of them and who needed help most. The police who ran toward the danger were once again, selfless and professional. 
Good and evil. It’s not that we won’t have these two forces at work in our society….we will. Evil’s notion of destruction will not be deterred. We can safeguard to our hearts content, and I think that we should do everything we can to be prudent in protecting ourselves. I’m not making a statement here whether there should be more guns or no guns, so don’t get off track debating that. We can plan all day, all month, all year, all decade and all centuries on…But none can fathom what the heart of man is is capable of doing….good or bad.
Each of us respond differently to how we manage and get through great difficulty. We live in a multicultural world and all of us has our own way of dealing with calamity, whether through religious beliefs, self determination or resignation..we contend in the avalanche.
On this day, we bear all manner of catastrophe. The devastation of Puerto Rico/surrounding areas, the current suffering in Las Vegas and the Harvey, California/Montana fire residual clean-up and restoration effort. There is the ongoing jihad with ISIS, the warmongering of North Korea the unrest in Spain among others. Our emotional and psychological plate is full. 
So what’s your point, Greg. My point is that we can’t take it all on. That is an impossible quest that even Don Quixote could not achieve. It’s the age old fable between the tortoise and the hare. It’s the reference made in the movie “What About Bob” with the scene in which Bill Murray kept repeating over and over, “Baby steps….baby steps…baby steps.”
For me… and all I can do is speak for me, I choose to set my hand to the plow and nurture every good and perfect gift that God has given me. Like the responders in these emergencies, do what I can do to the best of my ability to nurture the good in the world. Seeking justice, serving my fellow man, giving…not out of comfort.. but out of sacrifice. Being a man who listens to everyone in how to deal with the touring evil. Not having a will that demands my own way…. but a pliable, vulnerable and altruistic heart. It’s a daily day we live. It’s a daily day we conquer.