Within the last five years, Leanne Dyck has been published in Island Writer, Kaleidoscope, Canadian Stories, Icelandic Connection and Island Gals magazines.Follow Leanne's author journey by visiting her blog
Leanne Dyck has been published in the following
Knit Together (2003, 2007)
A Needle Pulling Thread (2008)
Island Writer (winter, 2009, summer, 2010)
Kaleidoscope (winter/spring 2011)
Canadian Stories (December, 2012)
Icelandic Connection (Volume 65, No. 3 (2013) )
Island Gals (Volume 3, Issue 2 (2013) )
Flavours of Vancouver: Dishes from Around the World (2005)
Knitting Notes: A Journal of Knitting Memories (2006)
Manitoba Child Care Association (1992)
The Islands Independent (2008, 2009)
To read Leanne's writing, please visit: http://authorleannedyck.blogspot.ca/p/work-in-progress.html
Leanne is actively building her author platform.
Leanne's self-named blog ( Leanne Dyck's blog url: http://authorleannedyck.blogspot.ca/ ) has over 230,000 page views (since October 10, 2010). Leanne is in over 2,200 Google Plus circles, has over 1,160 Twitter followers (@lustfulgraces) and over 380 Facebook friends.
Through a Trail of Music Notes
(recently read at an open mic night on Mayne Island )
Like many of you, I was schooled about music by my peers.
"Country is for nerds," they told me. "Rock is cool."
Holding a hairbrush in my hand like a microphone, I sang along to The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, The Guess Who, Neil Young... I thought Neil Young was so dreamy.
When I was in university, I attended the Winnipeg Folk Festival with a group of friends. Under a sun-filled endless blue sky and through the misty rain, we became a community united through music. That festival changed me, profoundly. I became a hard core folkie.
The man I fell in lvoe with had an extensive music collection. I searched these records, tapes and CDs. Amongst the rock musicians, I saw names I didn't recognize.
"Whose Peter Rowna?" I asked and my boyfriend put the CD into his sound system. I listened, captivated and labelled Peter Rown a folk musician.
One day, my boyfriend asked, "Would you like to go to Tacoma, Washington for Wintergrass and listen to Bluegrass?"
I guess he noticed my puzzled expression. "You know, musicians like Peter Rowan."
That was enough for me, I packed my suitcase.
At that festival, scattered throughout the hotel lobby, we saw groups of people singing and playing instruments. I recognized fiddles and guitars but I wasn't sure what the other instruments were.
"Where are the drums?" I wondered, out loud.
"There's no drums in Bluegrass," my boyfriend told me. "Do you know who that it?"
I followed his line of sight and saw a man playing a guitar. There wasn't anything special about him, that I could see. He was just some guy with a guitar.
"That's Peter Rowan," my boyfriend said.
Well, that totally floored me. I stutteed and stammered and behaved like a star struck teenager.
But I noticed no one else did. He wasn't being clawed to death by eager fans. No one was hounding him for an autograph.
"How can he just be standing there playing his guitar? Don't they know who he is?"
"Of course, they do," my boyfriend said. "But that's the thing about Bluegrass, anyone can play with anyone else. The stars don't act like stars. They're just people."
We found our room and my boyfriend said, "You're going to love this weekend. The opening act is the father of Bluegrass, Bill Monroe."
We took the elevator down to the concert hall and I was lost in thought. The father of Bluegrass? This music sounds so ancient, he must be older than dirt.
We found our seats and soon the master of ceremonies introduced the opening act. They took the stage -- younger musicians followed by older ones. Then, judging by the howls and applause, I guessed that the fragile, old man who'd just joined them was Bill Monroe. He looked like he should have been in a wheelchair. I hoped nothing happened to himon stage. To his credit, Bill made it safely through the first couple of songs. But then he appeared to keel over -- bending forward at the waist. Is he clutching his chest? I worried and I knew I wasn't the only one. The entire audience offered a collective moan.
A younger band member voiced our concern, "Is Bill okay?"
The answer came from his older band mate. "Bill? Sure, he's just getting down."
That said, as if on clue, Bill's hand flew across the strings. And he proved right then, right there why this was his music.
Bluegrass' high, lonesome sound stole my heart.Google defines Bluegrass as 'a kind of country music influenced by jazz and blues.' Country, huh? Well, I guess that makes me a nerd.