Children are miracles. From their conception to their birth, through their development, to their insight and intuition. And the people who help them heal -- the docs, the nurses, the therapists -- perform miracles every day. If you don't see the hand of the creator in all of this, then you're just not looking.
A few days ago we visited the Via Christi Regional Medical Center in Wichita, Kansas. It's the very same place where Willa healed from her bonk on the head nearly two years ago and where Lyda came up with the song "Let's Stick Together."
I stopped in to visit with a girl on the PICU, a few doors down from where Willa spent four days hooked up to tubes and monitors. We sang and chatted and I was able to coax a smile from her even as she winced in pain. Then Jeni and the girls joined me in singing with some kids in the play room on the pediatric floor.
It was a tad bit emotional for us to be roaming those halls again, but mostly it was cathartic and uplifting. There is nothing like the smiles and giggles of kids who are healing to help put things in perspective.
The Children's Miracle Network arranged the visit and a show later that day at a nearby elementary. CMN was there for us when we thought we were all alone in a strange city. They became our family when ours were so far away. I did a benefit concert for CMN several years ago, but never imagined I would be on the receiving end of their generosity.
And the kids at OK Elementary raised the most money in the "Change is Good" promotion for CMN. They won a concert! It was the ultimate honor to be there. Thank you all for a great time and the privilege of paying it forward!
Peace...
Please, I never want to hear anyone say -- ever again -- that there is no good children's music out there. I've heard it. I've seen it. And, occasionally, I produce some of it. (At least I'd like to think so.)
Jeni and I are just getting our legs back from a whirlwind trip to Brooklyn for StinkFest 2009. (What a perfect fest for an odoriferous guy like me.) I have lovingly referred to S
tinkFest (kindiefest from here on) as a gathering of the family music "mafia" -- that is the growing familia that is this beautifully diverse genre. They came from the west, from the east, from the south -- and we represented the heartland. We discussed athe business and swapped stories about gigs and shared leads about venues. And, man, the positive energy was jolting.
Despite what a few panelists said, there is not a "glut" of family music. An implied glut might scare off those who are just testing the waters and suggest that resources are scarce. I find the opposite to be true. There is plenty of work out there for all of us -- if you're willing to work it and play to small groups and if you're willing to share the love.
That's how we've created the scene we've got in Kansas City. We've made a conscious effort to create a real family where we share our success and where we don't always agree. And that's what we're on the brink of on a national level. The more we give away our knowledge, our leads, our "secrets" (there are really very few of those) -- then the more we work. And the more we all work the stronger we are as a whole. Audra said it best from the stage during her set, "Let's all be happy for each other's success."
No room here for disingenuous players. No reason for competition. And no excuse for anything less than doing what we do for the love of kids, the love of families, and the love of music. The success will naturally follow.
The love was flowing in Brooklyn. And if I took nothing else away, it is that this community will do great things when we stick together.
Like most good Irish Catholic sons, I think my mother is a saint -- most of the time. She certainly has earned her spot in heaven. And not the least of her many miracles (of which she has often reminded me) is the story of how I came to be.
After two miscarriages and seven live births, her doctor advised her to STOP birthing babies. He said her body had been through enough and was wearing down to the point where she couldn't handle another pregnancy. He strongly recommended a hysterectomy. She strongly recommended that he have one instead.
My mother heard another voice, which had other plans. That voice came from the vicinity of her heart, and it told her that she wasn't finished multiplying. At age 37 she was pregnant with her eighth child in 12 years. That was me. And she was OK shrugging off the medical warnings, because, she says, she knew she had to bring me into the world.
A couple of weeks past her 38th birthday, while she and my dad were painting and papering the bathroom off their bedroom, she went into labor. Piece of cake for a woman with her track record. Boom, I came screaming into this world at 12:25 a.m. on April 27, 1965.
A few months later she was back in the hospital having that hysterectomy. There was no denying it now. Her body had gone above the call of duty. And she recounts how I would lay next to her in that hospital bed and coo and gurgle in her ear, as if I were telling her that everything was going to be fine. And she claims that's what got her through it.
Thank you, mom, for listening to your heart and not the doc.
Are you familiar with the term "smelling the barn"? As in, "The horse sprung into a gallop in the last quarter mile, as he was smelling the barn."
Well, we were smelling our humble shack in the final stretch. So much so that we pushed it from Columbus, Ohio, right on home. Nearly 11 hours that day. We had planned to see Cousins Bob and Grace and Mila in St. Louis, but Lyda hit the wall. She said, "Dad, I don't think I can take staying at another house. I'm tired of packing and unpacking. Can we just go home?"
I told her that would mean an extra 4 hours on the road. She sucked it up and was a champ. Willa was, too. They both started fussing about 50 miles outside of KC (actually we all started fussing by then), and they were fast asleep by the time we pulled into the driveway.
22 days; 3,249.7 miles; 10 states; 14 shows; countless hotel breakfasts; a handful of delightful home-cooked meals; and a visit to one chocolate factory.
Wow, what a long fabulous trip. As I get older, I think I get wiser about the hows and wheres and whats of a road trip, but they don't get any easier on my body.
Thank you to all who put us up and cooked us meals and gave us directions and bought me margaritas -- you have been a part of our success and will always be part of our wonderful memories from the road.
I'm not really sure this covers day 18 or 19 because I've lost track of how many days we've actually been on the road. All I know is that it's been many.
One of many upsides of performing in the same towns every year is that they become familiar; the people start to become like long-distance cousins; and the communities start to feel like home. We sure feel that way about Blacksburg, the gang at Gainesville United Methodist Church, and the great congregation at Progress Immanuel Presbyterian Church in Harrisburg.
Pastor Kent Carter, his wife Jan, and their kids Seth and Sarah, have become dear friends. We made s'mores at their house last night after a fabulous home-cooked meal. And we saw many familiar faces at the show this afternoon. Many thanks to those who made the indoor picnic a hit -- good food and very cool "feet" cookies custom made and iced by Marge. Oh yeah, and the preschool kids decorated the walls with awesome painted paper "tulips" that had feet as the flowering buds.
Being on the road can feel like home; you just have to make it that way. And as long as we're together with the girls, we've got home everywhere we go.
Peace...
"Mr. Stinky Feet is coming to Gainesville April 17"
That was the headline in the Bull Run (VA) Observer last week. Pretty typical for most small town newspapers where we play. However, the content of the story had some firsts for me.
My old buddy Danny Gogal, who helped organize the show, was attributed (not quoted) as giving the following info:"Cosgrove, Gogal said, started out as a ventriloquist and was encouraged by his family to expand his repertoire." Presumably because I was really bad at throwing my voice.
Danny says he was misunderstood by the reporter. He was speaking to her via cell phone from the corner of a noisy Boy Scout meeting and he told her that I had started out as a "JOURNALIST," but apparently she heard "VENTRILOQUIST."
When asked about the direct quote in the article that read, "His music is upbeat and is fun for adults, too, because he does various styles like Jazz.", Danny just shrugged and said that was the only style of music he could think of at the time.
We all got a good laugh out of it. The article is going on my "wall of fame."
Another great benefit of a long road trip is visiting good friends and family. We couldn't do it without the home-cooked meals, social breaks, and free beds. Thank you to all who make it happen.
We camped out at Kate Kopischke's house in D.C. for more than a week and she didn't even get sick of us. We must be great house guests. We had dinner last Wednesday with the Muraski clan and their five boys. Lyda was in heaven with all of those cute guys (we've lost count of her new beaus). Then we stayed with Danny and Lisa Gogal and their six kids on Friday. Lyda said she felt like she was staying with the Brady Bunch!
A guy I hadn't seen since college showed up my Georgetown Hospital show -- he's a doc there. I had dinner with Bill Geimer and Bill Barloon -- old friends I don't see very often. And Amanda and Scott Carruthers helped us book some gigs and fed us and let me nap in their basement before Saturday's show. It's a great life!
Next stop, the capital of the Keystone State.
Yesterday we rocked at the House of Representatives Child Care Center. Many thanks to Paige for setting it up. The teachers were into it as much as the kids. I think we saw some of our country's future leaders there.
On a tour of the Smithsonian Castle I lost my prescription glasses (right about when this photo was taken) which were eventually turned over to a security guard by another friendly tourist. Retrieving them from the Capitol Police lost and found was a great lesson in governmental obtuseness and glacial speed.
I asked a guard if they had been found and he asked me to describe the lost article. I did and he said, "I knew someone would come looking for them. I'll call downstairs and have someone come up."
After about ten minutes, a uniformed officer whom we'll call "Ms. Pokey McSlowerson" shuffled her way up to me and asked, "Are you the claimant?" Whatever, I'm the guy who lost my glasses.
"Can you describe them for me?" she asked suspiciously. Of course, and I did. "Come with me," she said.
Like she just couldn't shuffle those glasses up to me. Now, I had to shuffle with her down a long corridor in the "restricted" area, down a service elevator to the basement, to another uniformed guard behind a counter. She told the guy behind the counter that I was the "claimant" for the lost glasses. He then shuffled over to a bank of lockers and rummaged around for a couple of minutes until he produced something wrapped in a yellow piece of paper.
So, I got my glasses back, but not before I had to sign the six-copy form (that's a form in sextuplicate). The form documented the journey of the glasses from the good Samaritan (the "finder"), through the hands of three other Smithsonian officers, to me. Five people had to sign the form!! So, the Finder got the gold copy, I was gifted the yellow copy, white copy to the lost & found clerk, blue copy goes to supply officer, pink copy to GSA Representative, and green copy to Receiving Officer.
Finally, I was released back to my family.
Children are miracles. From their conception to their birth, through their development, to their insight and intuition. And the people who help them heal -- the docs, the nurses, the therapists -- perform miracles every day. If you don't see the hand of the creator in all of this, then you're just not looking.
