If you have been blogging for a long time, you have made friends who mean as much to you as people you know in "real life". And the long time of blogging means that we have all gotten older, with the sad facts that may go along with it. Sickness. Death.
Some of my beloved blogging friends have lost their husbands And today I read that a woman I have been in touch with for a long time died. Her daughter posted on her blog.
I cried as if I had known her in my everyday life, because of course I did. It is made even harder because I have been away so much in the past year. If she was sick, I didn't even know. I've emailed her daughter.
I know a lot of you have been through this, too. The blogging world is slower, quieter than what came after it. That is why I love it and continue on. It lifts me up, teaches me, offers friendships, and sometimes brings sadness.
At my age, one might expect to go to funerals. In New Tricks, Jack Halford played by the excellent James Bolam says that he goes to a funeral every couple of weeks. Well, very, very sadly the last five funerals or Celebrations of Life Tom and I have been to have been young men. I’ve written about two of them here and here. In between them there were two others, one a bit older than Margaret, and the other in Michael's class, and then last month was the fifth. This young man was a year, lacking two days, older than my daughter Margaret. He died on the local mountain he loved, doing what he loved to do, snowboarding.
There were hundreds of people there. The place was up a hill, and we were early enough to park in one of the parking lots. When we came out, there were cars almost down to the main road. He was much loved in the community. I didn’t know him personally, but I know his mother, and his sister is one of Margaret’s best friends, and Tom taught him in school. There is something about the small Middle and Senior High School which all the young men, but one, attended that is very, very special. The kids were close, and they remain close. And many, many of them stay in the area. They love this place with the same passion that we have. Some move further away, but they they come back home and get together with all the friends they’ve known most of their lives. It is an amazing school and area that brings them all together for a lifetime.
If you go here, you will see the last picture taken of the late Queen Elizabeth 11. It is the picture many of us saw when we first read the news that she wasn't well, and that family was heading to Balmoral. I would have put it up but it does have a name on it, and I did not want to infringe.
When I first saw it, I thought it was my favorite of all pictures I have seen of her during her long life. She looks like any woman at home. That sweater! Just like any of us might wear, especially those my age or older. It made me smile, even as the news made me fearful.
I know a staunch Irishman, and yet he cared for the Queen. As did so many people, no matter their politics.
I am terribly sad. It feels like someone in my family has died - a relative I didn't ever see but still loved.
And I'll tell you a weird story. It begins a long time ago. Just before my uncle (by marriage, on my father's side) died, my mother heard three knocks on the window and saw his face there. Then the phone rang with the news. Well, today Tom was at a friend's house. After I had read that the Queen was so ill, I was in the kitchen when I heard three knocks on the front door. Lucy, our yellow Labrador went to the door, as did I. No one was there (and no face). Soon I saw Tom walking from the parking lot to the house. I asked him if he had come to the door and knocked thinking it might be locked. He said no.
The phone didn't ring just after but when I heard those knocks I did fear that she had, or would, die. As far as I know that happened to my mother only once, and this is the first and hopefully only time for me.
He may have backed the world’s most successful rock band, but the late drummer worshipped his jazz heroes through big bands and other projects

Everyone knew that Charlie Watts’s heart was always in jazz. Even when he grew his hair long and put on hippie garb while the Rolling Stones were going through their Satanic Majesties period, underneath he was still the cool bebopper who could see through the nonsense that surrounded his group and the rampaging egos at its heart.
Wisely, he never let his true musical allegiance show in his playing with the Stones. When they recruited him from Alexis Korner’s Blues Incorporated in January 1963, not long after he’d been serving an apprenticeship with trad jazz bands, he listened to the records of Jimmy Reed, Howlin’ Wolf and Muddy Waters in order to absorb the way that master Chicago blues drummers such as Earl Phillips, Fred Below and Elgin Evans kept things simple, soon appreciating that simplicity is often the hardest thing of all to achieve.
His personal adaptation of their discreet approach, concentrating on a firm backbeat and avoiding any form of decoration, turned out to be perfect for the Stones as the volume rose and the venues grew in size, but it could hardly have been further from the styles of the great modern jazz drummers he had grown up worshipping. The likes of Max Roach, Art Blakey, Philly Joe Jones and Elvin Jones had freed the drum kit from its subordinate role, enabling them to become full participants in the music, adding a running commentary to the improvisations of horn players such as Miles Davis and John Coltrane, sometimes even as an equal partner.
Growing up in a postwar prefab in Wembley, Watts had saved money to buy 78s by Jelly Roll Morton and Johnny Dodds, Charlie Parker and Dizzy Gillespie. When he was given his own first full kit, after getting a start by dismantling a banjo to use the body and the vellum as a makeshift drum, he painted the name “Chico” on the front head of what was known in those days as the bass drum. This was a homage to Chico Hamilton, a Los Angeles drummer who had played in a famous quartet with Gerry Mulligan and Chet Baker in the early 1950s before launching his own adventurous quintet, which enjoyed a vogue at the end of that decade and appeared on screen in the 1957 movie Sweet Smell of Success.
Never ashamed of his tendency towards hero-worship, Watts showed his colours in his first act of independent creativity. Ode to a Highflying Bird, published in 1964, when the Stones were hitting No 1 in the UK charts with It’s All Over Now and Little Red Rooster, was a slender volume of words and cartoons in which he used his skills as a trained graphic artist to illustrate the story of Parker (whom he later covered with his quintet), charmingly rendered as a kind of children’s fable.
His soulmate in the earliest incarnation of the Stones had been Ian Stewart, a piano player who loved boogie-woogie and other forms of jazz but who was soon eased out of the performing lineup on account of his looks and persuaded to take over the job of road manager instead. In the late 70s Watts moonlighted with Stewart in Rocket 88, a boogie and jump-blues band whose shifting lineup included guests such as Chris Farlowe, Zoot Money and Jack Bruce.
Always finding jazz clubs more congenial than the stadiums the Stones were now playing, in 1985 he filled the stage at Ronnie Scott’s with a 32-piece big band drawn from the cream of London’s jazz musicians. An extraordinarily eclectic lineup ranged from bop-era veterans to Courtney Pine, an unknown 21-year-old at the start of his career, who sat alongside his fellow tenor saxophonists Danny Moss, Bobby Wellins, Don Weller and Alan Skidmore. Jack Bruce played cello – his first instrument – and Stan Tracey was on piano. Watts sat happily at his kit between two other drummers, the older Bill Eyden and the younger John Stevens, as they played arrangements of classics such as Lester Leaps In, Stompin’ at the Savoy and Prelude to a Kiss. Mick Jagger and Keith Richards were in the house to cheer what Watts called the fulfilment of a childhood dream.
He was able to subsidise the project, which toured the US the following year, from his earnings as a Stone. In later years he took advantage of the band’s substantial downtime to return to Ronnie Scott’s and other venues with groups of more modest size and to record in 1996 a beautiful album of standards, Long Ago and Far Away, played by his quintet, a small orchestra and the singer Bernard Fowler. These warm, relaxed versions of songs such as Stairway to the Stars and In a Sentimental Mood, with Watts’s presence registered only by the gentle background rustle of wire brushes, were about as far from Sympathy for the Devil and Street Fighting Man as it is possible for music to get, but they were clearly heartfelt.
He was never patronising about the music he played with his fellow Stones but his long and loyal friendships with other jazz musicians, such as the saxophonist Peter King and the bassist Dave Green, whom he had known since childhood, were of great importance to him. Another close friend was the American drummer Jim Keltner, with whom he recorded a percussion-based album in 2000, again between Stones tours. Each of the record’s nine tracks took its title from the names of the drummers he idolised: Roach, Blakey, Kenny Clarke, Roy Haynes and so on. Yet again he was paying unforced and deeply felt tribute to the musicians who had enriched his life, as he, in a different register, enriched the lives of others.
I'll never forget the 50th-anniversary VE celebration at Hyde Park and Buckingham Palace in May 1995 - the last time I sang in public, aged just 78. I was a mere septuagenarian back then - still in my prime!"Just 78" will keep my spirits up for a long time!!
Then, in September 1939, the month the war began, I recorded We'll Meet Again, which topped the hit parade. My life was never quite the same again. As soon as I heard the song, I sensed there was something special about it. It was perfect for the times - and it's still my favourite of all the songs I've sung. Everybody hoped they would see their sweetheart again when the war was over and the boys were back home.I bought an album from iTunes years ago called The Very Best of Vera Lynn. 49 songs, two hours and thirty-five minutes! I have listened to it quite a few times, and her heart is so much in the songs. I wrote here about it when it first came out.



