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Vance’sMondayNightAcousticPajamaParty#68 - JUST SINGING PART III


When: Monday Nite, July 5th 7:30PM EDT
(“doors” open at 7 for community hang) -

WHO GETS 10%: Poodle Rescue of New England  ...because duh!

$$: or or
a check to VanceFunder P.O. Box 17,
Arlington, MA 02476 for this web-groovery.
Pay or not. Up to you. Let’s stay connected.

This week’s pajamas: you’re lucky I even consider them

I teach and coach stuff.

Good Good Man - the CD - streaming all over, even get one from me…

LIVE SHOWS - (but yeah, I’m still gonna do Monday nites...)

Sat July 24th - Beacon NY - Towne Crier - w/Christine Lavin!!  

Sat Aug 14, Cambridge MA - CLUB PASSIM  This’ll sell out, so there may possibly be an early show too...Craig Akin on bass...


Pardon the politics, but I plot my running so that I don’t have to see the black, white, and blue flags along my route. I'll just say that there are enough in my town that it’s an effort. My running is my happy, thoughtful place. In that order. Even if I’m listening to history stuff on the War in the Pacific, cause I’m not Pollyanna. Free country. Fly your flag. I’ll just avoid you.
But I couldn’t avoid the 80-ish year old White guy on his front steps, arms covered in tattoos. No yardflags flying but those on his epidermis. I just couldn’t help myself. I stopped and asked who he was and where he served.

“I’m Dave. I was too young for Korea but too old for Vietnam, so I was stateside,” he said almost apologetically.

I thanked him for his service. He continued.

"I was an U.S. Army paratrooper. I’ve done 6,000 jumps to date. Out of every flying thing you can think of. Became an airshow jumper for the Army. Couple of sprains, one broken ankle.”

It dawned on me that he said “6,000 jumps to date”. I had to ask:

“When did you last jump?”

“My wife asked me to stop jumping on my 85th birthday, which was during Covid last year. So the two things combined seemed like good timing - for her anyway. Sure, I miss it. That freedom in free-fall. The rush as you leave the door.” He shook his head, shrugged.

I shook his hand. A hand that pulled many a rip cord. A hand that unclipped a lot of silk from his shoulder. That hand touched mine, a hand fearful of the high dive, a hand only knowing airtime when mindlessly flying out of a car window on a highway drive.

“Thanks for talking to me about this.”

“Thanks for asking”, said Dave, American flag on his right arm - faded, heavy-lined, but in the conventional 3 colors, that I couldn’t for the life of me just run past.