There was a time when we called this a "hell weekend".  That would mean we would drive 500 to a thousand miles in that short period of time to several destinations to play music.  Almost inevitably we showed up after six to twelve hours of driving, unloaded about a ton of gear, and then played music on our feet for up to four hours.  Those weekends were not in a total sense hellish.   We depended on them to compensate in some cases for periods of unemployment.  They’re typically in summer, when outdoor bookings provide additional work for musicians with such things as public concerts, private parties and festivals.  I also like to call it “making hay while the sun shines”.   Those weekends and many of the gigs are rarer now.  The days of cocktail lounge employment which provided regular tours for working musicians have about vaporized.  Maybe it's a good thing for us.  We no longer have the appetite nor  the endurance for them.  These days we both would be hard-pressed to drive home and arrive at 3 am in order to avoid the expense of a motel room.  We both tend to fall asleep at the wheel now, and don't have a big van with sleeping options for that cat-nap which could get us home at dawn.  Anyway, we're no longer fresh as a daisy and ready to charm an audience after all those hours of driving and moving heavy gear.

Work does continue for us, though.  We had a good time this Labor Day, which has proven over the years to be one of the consistent weekends of employment for us.  We had bookings Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and Monday in Black Diamond, north Tacoma, Richland (Tri-Cities), and south Tacoma, and drove around 550 miles between them.  But this time we mixed plenty of pleasure with and between work.  We saw and visited with family, friends and musicians whom we've known for decades.  In some cases we've not seen them for quite a few years so for me many of the moments were sated with the cherished nourishment of love.

The music worked fairly magically too, for me at least.  Given that on all these gigs we were playing strictly as a duo, we had some exceptional instants of communing that can only come from a lifetime of performing together.  Twice at the Tumbleweed Festival in Richland we both got embarrassingly teary-eyed singing two of Steve's original songs.  The effect was disarmingly successful with the audience.  Several women swarmed us afterward, asking to buy recordings of those songs.    Even after years of singing them, Steve’s lyrics continue to stir the core of my spirit.  He meshes commitment with generosity, and vulnerability with courage as we live the words over and over again together.  I never tire of singing them.  When is it labor and when is it love?

Then today Steve did this characteristic signature thing of his very own on his electric guitar.    He flirted with me.  He grabs a rock and roll lead on some cover tune while we're playing for a dance crowd, this time the #3 Eagles.  He sinks into a concentration requiring a sense of relaxation and inspiration to tap into the requirements of improvisation.  Then he locks his gaze with mine.  Over the years I've come to realize he really wants to turn me on when he does that.  It delights me.

Now it's all over and we're home again.  Fortunately it's still daylight and I didn't need to drive all night.  I always hated those late nights when I came home to a blinking answering machine.  It many times meant someone urgently needed something from me, which meant I couldn’t flop into bed and enjoy worry-free sleep.  Such is the curse of self-employment, I know.  One can't come home without facing work and worry.  No such phone messages this time, though.  More than in past years, I'm satisfied and, yes, just a bit proud to get through that big hurdle I once termed a "hell weekend".