Four notes were never so powerful. Slow, fluid, and pitch perfect. The short tune freezes us in our tracks, sends chills up our spine, and brings a lump to our throat. Taps. It pierces the dead silence at the grave of a fallen Soldier and when we hear it, we respect, give thanks, and remember. Today we remember in other ways. As I look out my window, I see the neighbor children splashing in a wading pool, their parents grilling hamburgers, all on a perfect summer day with the American flag blowing proudly above the front door. The perfect picture of Americana. We fly our flag today to remember. We hang wreaths today to remember. We tie a yellow ribbon today to remember. We say a prayer, look at an old photo, or visit a gravesite today to remember. And tomorrow, we’ll remember in other ways. Service members, wear your uniforms with pride. Brasso your buttons for Lt Gaspers. Iron your uniform for Senior Airman Goodman. Mothers, say a prayer for 2Lt Perez’s family. Fathers, take y

I’ve written lately about my incurable case of writer’s block. You’ve seen song lyrics and videos that I’ve posted in order to buy me a few days in hopes that inspiration will strike me and my idle fingers will spring to life, clicking away with words of motivation and hope. I considered cutting back on my blog, from one magical moment per day, to one magical moment per every other day, or something to that effect (only a more poetic title, of course). When I mentioned that consideration to my older sister, I was met with an unexpected reaction. A resounding “No!” was her response. As I began to argue my case, “…I’m busy, it’s hard to think of something to write every day, I’ve done so many already…” I thought of all my past blogs. And then my mind rested on my very first post . I felt like giving up. I was tired. But I only needed one person in the whole world who believed in me and I was able to carry on. When I wanted to quit the most, was when I needed to persist the most. And

"The great pleasure of a dog is that you may make a fool of yourself with him and not only will he not scold you, but he will make a fool of himself too." ~Samuel Butler, Notebooks , 1912 When I sit down at my piano with a pen and notepad, I banish Eddie from the house for fear of feeling inhibited in my "creative process." When I record an audition video, or just a video for fun, I go so far as to close all the windows in the house so that not even the neighbors or passers by can hear me. But of all the hours I spend experimenting, practicing, and making awful noises in my small music room, I have one audience member who is supportive, attentive, and constant. Joy, my dog. She patiently endures my out of tune screeching, repetitive mistakes, and frustrated yells. She was my comfort when Duchess passed away. She is my companion when I feel alone. She is my running partner, my traveling buddy, my amusement, and my friend. She is one of the few in the world that I

Is there anything more terrifying to a writer than staring at a blank, white page with an equally blank mind? That’s how I’ve been feeling lately, not just with my blog, but also with the articles I write for an internet company that recently hired me as a freelance writer. Despite my endless thoughts about music and the military, writing a daily article about each topic is not as easy as it may seem. And my blog? It appears that after one hundred and eleven days, I’ve run out of happy things to write about. So today, you’ll bear witness to the brain storming process. Let’s see. Magical Moments. Inspirational thoughts. Nostalgic memories. Happy things. Rain drops on roses, whiskers on kittens. None of those really do it for me. Bright copper kettles? Ugh, cooking. I often stare out my window waiting for inspiration. I’ve written about too many birds. The wind. The trees. Heard it. Been there, done that. Wait! Across the street, a FLAG waiving in the breeze displaying gallant patrioti

Man, this blog is really gonna force me to put all my songs out there. Some are better quality than others. All are a work in progress. Here is one I started writing years ago, but only finished recently. Recording is a bit rough, but hope you enjoy. Click play at the bottom to hear recording. “How” Words and music by Elizabeth Grimes copyright 2009 Vs 1: The first question asked when something goes wrong Is, What have I done? Or, Why me God? I can’t deny the thought’s crossed my head. But what’s burning me up is another question instead. Chorus: How do you change overnight when you swore that you’d love me for the rest of my life? And how do I make it through the night without you here to hold me and be by my side? And how do I trust again when you’ve broken every promise and word you’ve ever said? Just tell me how feelings that strong can be so convincing and then go all wrong? Vs 2: I would have bet my life that you’d still be here When I’m old and I’m gray in fifty or more ye

A goofy, angry, break-up song. Just for giggles. (video at the bottom) "The Grocery Store Song" words and music by Elizabeth Grimes Copyright 2009 Vs1 : Bout swallowed my tongue when I saw you in the check out line. You smiled, said hi, and asked if you could help me outside. Well no thanks. I’m good. If I had twice this much to carry don’t think I would Extend the courtesy and allow you to help. Why don’t you run along and find someone else. Someone whose life you haven’t yet wrecked. If she’s stupid enough then maybe she’ll accept. I think it’s only fair that she knew what it is she’d be getting herself into so before you go and ruin her life you might wanna say something like…. Chorus: Hi I’m a lying sack of dirt, you can’t tell right now but I’m quite a jerk. You won’t find out though for a long long time after you’ve given me your heart, body, and mind. I’ll tell you nice things and string you along then when I leave you make you wonder what you did wrong. Then yo

The little girl toddled through the freshly cut grass making short, rapid steps with her chubby, bare feet. Her toothless smile stretched across her face and she giggled with overflowing excitement. In her clumsy coordinated manner, she tumbled into the soft lawn but never took her eyes off her goal for a moment. Un-phased by the obstacle, she continued on and finally reached the little puppy. She stood frozen in front of the wiggling little creature, unsure of what to do next. “You can pet her,” the lady coaxed, demonstrating how it’s done, “It’s okay.” The little girl reached out her tiny hand in imitation, but jerked it back when the puppy’s tongue licked it. She squealed, half terrified, half thrilled and soon worked up the courage to try again. This time, she touched the back of the puppy, where it was safer. The moment she touched the fur was as electrifying as a jolt of lightning. She shrieked again, even more overwhelmed with delight and adrenaline. The cycle continued for a

This is a song I wrote in 2007, as my attempt at a pop song. It didn't start out that way, but as I recorded it in Garage Band, I got more and more ambitious with the different sound effects. I actually think it turned out okay. Someday, I will record my songs professionally and give them the justice they deserve. Verse 1: His eyes were black and filled with tears when he asked me why can't I stay here. His voice was warm, felt like the sun. I said I belong to someone. Chorus: Oh but sing. Don't you know it brings joy when it rings so beautiful. Oh and know that even though it won't be so, you're wonderful. Vs 2: There is a path that I have chose and only God knows where it goes. And there are gifts He gives to us. And in His plan we all must trust. Chorus Bridge: And like a photo you'll always be there bringing thoughts of someone who cared. And every song on the radio won't compare to when you...Oh... Sing Don't you know it brings joy when it ri

At last we meet again. Did you think I forgot? How could I possibly forget the searing pain you inflicted? The crippling agony that caused me nearly to drown? I fought the mighty ocean’s current with my useless limb, gasping for breath, struggling to escape your cruelty. And when at last I narrowly avoided death, you swam away, unscathed. Laughing. Mocking. And for years the universe has led us to this moment. My moment of triumph and victory, for I bare witness to your cruel fate. My enemy has fallen, ne’er to harm again. The jellyfish that once stung me will sting no more. “O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?” VICTORY IS MINE!

What a day. Well, I’m auditioning to be a performer on a cruise line for three to six months. I mean really, could there be a better job? Who knows if it’ll ever really work out. I wouldn’t actually do it unless Eddie could somehow get a job on the same line and we could go together. However, I thought I should audition and see if it’s even a possibility. The audition process is done by video, which I have to mail and postmark by this Monday. This morning, I set up good old Ray (my keyboard) in the living room, along with the video camera and tripod. I perfected the view, sound, and lighting. I did my make up and hair. I drank hot water with honey (for the throat). And then I sat down to record my audition. The audition required that I first played a song of my choice. Directly after, I would open an envelope which was mailed to me, in front of the camera, and sight-read the 3 pieces inside. After I played the 3 songs, I would turn off the camera, practice for an hour, and then play

I listened to the lazy sounding 1930s music as it rang out, carefree on the radio. You know, the one where the clarinet solos throughout, and the piano clunks the solid 4/4 rhythm with spurts of high, tinkling 64 th notes scaling chromatic riffs. The drums use brush sticks and you can still hear the static from the record needle. It’s the kind of music that would play if you were going to swing on a rope in slow motion, from a tree into the muddy, cool waters of the local creek. Only today, I wasn't giggling and drinking lemonade in the sunshine, I was clenching my knees with white knuckles, gasping with fear, and squeezing my eyes shut. As the taxi drove down Flatbush Avenue, I felt as though I was on a runaway roller coaster trying to dodge small children and large oak trees. The driver shot in and out of the two-lane street, honking at pedestrians, merging lanes, and running lights. He was strangely at ease as he drove however, unlike me who is used to somewhat driving the spe

We’ve all had one of those days. When spilling your coffee leads to stubbing your toe, which leads to road rage and being late. Which inevitably leads to feeling frazzled and cranky for the rest of the day. We’ve also probably had a day opposite of that. When getting your morning work out leads to choosing a nice outfit, which leads to a compliment, which leads you to compliment someone else. Which inevitably leaves you chipper and positive for the rest of the day. Today was an interesting domino effect for me. I received beautiful flowers. After I put them in a vase of water and set them as the centerpiece for the table, I realized I needed to first clean off the table. The table and bouquet looked lovely, but the kitchen didn’t quite match after last night’s dinner dishes remained on the counter. So after that was cleaned up, the living room didn’t jive with the now clean kitchen. Before I knew it, I had a spic and span house, all thanks to my flowers. With a clean house, I felt re

"Blessings that Fall" by Elizabeth Grimes A simple bush, with leaves of green Sat under blossoms of a cherry tree. When the branches shook, the petals would fall Onto the bush with no flowers at all. A passerby exclaimed of the bush, “I’ve never seen one with flowers so lush!” His friend said to him, “No, look up higher. It’s the falling petals whose beauty inspires. The bush is not special, like you and me. The Lord’s blessings fall and cause us to be.”

When I was a little girl, I was pretty good at entertaining myself. I made up all kinds of pretend worlds and games that I quietly indulged in alone. I could lie in bed for hours and day dream the night away, or sit contently in the car as long as there was a window to look through and a radio. One game I remember playing, was bird watching. Birds are beautiful and amazing little creatures. I didn’t bird watch with binoculars and a whistle, holding a bird species identification book and cataloguing my findings, I watched them and made up stories about them. Birds didn’t simply land in a tree for a moment and then take off never to be seen again. Each one had a life, a purpose, and family. They were on their way to or from a magical place or secret hideout. They were looking for their friends, who weren’t just birds. Friends included bunnies, squirrels, even bugs. Sometimes they got lost. Sometimes they played in the rain. Sometimes they showed off just because they knew I was watch

I thought I'd post an old article after walking today in the park. "A View of Central Park" by Elizabeth Grimes, written for JVH Media Group If you’re a New Yorker, you’re familiar with the breath taking view of lush, rolling hills sprinkled with crystal ponds and shady trees, all framed by the concrete silhouette of the Big Apple’s city skyline. Central Park , opened in 1859, is home to nearly twenty-five million visitors per year and covers an astounding 843 acres in the midst of one of the busiest metropolises in the country. The park is open year round and debate is up for when the best time to visit is. Some claim the fall colors are unsurpassable, while others prefer greenery and the company of ducks and geese in the spring months. The answer to which of the four seasons is the best time to visit, however, is any of them. Or better yet, all of them. Each season provides an array of scenery and activities to suit the entire family. With the easy, comfortable

Willie Nelson named his guitar Paul. They’d been everywhere together, through rough and rocky travels in cities across the nation (where they received their education… sing along if you know it…). So I thought I should name my keyboard. My weighted, 88-key, silver Yamaha (and stand) was a graduation/commissioning present from my Grandma Valencia, one of my biggest supporters. Its first home was in the tiny basement apartment below my Grandma Daugherty that I shared with my best friend. I wrote some of my very first songs inside those pink walls (yes, pink) with that keyboard. Its second home was El Paso, TX where after a long day of class (and other military related headaches), I pounded out my frustrations on the keys. Next it was Fayetteville, NC, where it aided me in the Soldier Show audition and tons of military banquets and events. Now we’re planted in NJ and together we make regular trips into Manhattan and Brooklyn. It’s a heavy keyboard, not very convenient to carry. But I’

Today is my 100th blog. I began writing “One Magical Moment Per Day,” to turn my attention away from the things in my life that I saw as failure. Writing this forced me every day, to search for something positive and inspiring, no matter how sad, angry, or hopeless I felt while pursing my dream of becoming a musician and performer. I didn’t know how long this blog would last when I wrote " Magical Moment 1 ." I remember being surprised that I was in the thirties, then fifties, and now the triple digits. One thing is certain, I would not have made it to a 100 blogs, or made it 6½ months in NYC without support and encouragement from others. I cannot express the gratefulness I feel when I read a comment at the end of my blog, or see “like” under the facebook link. I would have given up long ago if not for my ever supportive grandmas, sisters, parents, husband, friends, and family. Sometimes I look for encouragement in quotes, and have shared some of my favorites below. But the

I was dreading my upcoming recording session after the last session (in my opinion) went terrible. I grew frustrated and disheartened as I tried to force myself to sound a certain way but never achieved the desired outcome. Eventually, after about 3 hours of work, we ended up scratching the entire session. I went home that night upset and with an aching throat. I play once a week for a tedious musical theatre class for children. I sit behind the keyboard, plunking out the same melody over and over while watching the minute hand inch around the clock. But last week, the monotony broke when a guest instructor led the class. She coached and molded the children with ease, holding their interest…and mine. And when the children moaned that something couldn’t be sung the way it should, she asked them a question, “Is this something you really want to do? Sing on stage?” The kids all nodded yes. “The successful ones don’t make excuses, they just find a way to do it.” I felt as though I was o

Midway through my predictable run route (down the Boulevard 2½ miles and back up 2½ miles), I wondered what would happen if I took a left instead of a right. When I laced up my shoes this morning, I wasn’t in the mood to break my usual mold, or run harder or longer than normal, but I suddenly felt energetic, ambitious, and curious. I made twists and turns, keeping track of the unfamiliar streets I was on. Suddenly I found myself at the foot of a tremendous hill, so steep that the sidewalk turned to stairs with a handrail to keep pedestrians safe. I rolled my eyes and decided to just attack the thing. Panting and exhausted, I made it to the top. I was welcomed with a breath taking view of the Empire State building and surrounding New York City skyline. It sat like the proverbial “city on a hill,” framed by lush, green trees, and a perfect sunrise. Of all the months I’ve lived here and ran the same route, I’ve never seen such a clear shot of the city. Now I have a new regular run rout

Ok, so I post videos when I'm pressed for time or experiencing writer's block (in case you haven't noticed). But the thing is, I won't post a video unless it's something I'm absolutely proud of. So here is another song from the Montauk Club in Brooklyn. "Try A Little Tenderness" is one of my favorite songs. I love to hear Michael Buble croon it, or Three Dog Night groove it. I recently added it to my repertoire and discovered I love to play it as well. Not to mention, it's loaded with great advice for some of the more clueless guys out there. Hope you enjoy.

Ever since I saw the movie, “ Only You ” with Marissa Tomei (love her!) when I was in sixth or seventh grade, I’ve been aching to go to Venice. I sift through Starving Artist paint sales searching for the perfect Venetian, framed scene of gondola, water, sunset, and romantic, brick buildings to fill that blank wall I’ve been saving in my living room. Still haven’t found the right one yet. I have tour books that tell me where and when to visit, shop, eat, and stay. Cliché or not, I don’t care. I want to ride in a gondola, eat lunch al fresco, and buy a pair of genuine, Italian leather shoes. Of course now, I’m almost terrified to really go. If Venice didn’t live up to my expectations, I would be crushed. I’ve heard people say it’s not worth it. The water smells and the streets are narrow. I imagine Venice is much like New York City, in the way that some people see beauty and originality in every nook and cranny of the city, while others see garbage, crowds, and endless construction.

During a storm, there is only one thing to do. It requires no explanation, no metaphor, no analogy, no rhyme, no plot, and no puns. P salm 107:28:30: " Then they cry out to the LORD in their trouble, and He brings them out of their distresses.He calms the storm, so that its waves are still. Then they are glad because they are quiet; So He guides them to their desired haven."

After playing piano for a year and a half at a Catholic Church (though I myself am not Catholic), I picked up a thing or two about Mary, the mother of Jesus. Not that I didn’t know her story before. Mostly I thought of her at Christmas when the preacher preaches the annual “Christmas Story” and the angel tells her she would bear a son. We see her everywhere. She adorns the nativity set as a porcelain figurine, with a look of angelic, solemn peace. I am no mother, but I know a few of them, and something tells me she wasn’t always so angelic and peaceful. Even Jesus, being the perfect child that He was, probably gave her enough worry and anxiety to keep her at least slightly stressed out. Although we know in our hearts, she existed, it’s difficult to relate her to today’s reality. We keep her on a shelf. It’s easy to dismiss the real struggles, worry, and immense love she felt as a mother. I heard several stories yesterday that were not so easy to dismiss. “ Story Corps ” is an organ

She was seven years old the first time she set foot on a beach. As she made her way to the shore in childlike anticipation, she suddenly felt her heart sink in disappointment as she watched her feet step through the grass-overgrown sand. Styrofoam cups and plastic bags blew past her. There was no water in sight. She thought the ocean would look like it does in the movies, and miles of fine, sparkling sand would stretch out before her with deep blue waves reaching as far as she could see. As she made peace with her crestfallen expectations, her bear foot stepped on something hard and sharp. She jerked back, angry at this stupid beach, and checked the bottom of her foot. No cut. She bent down to examine the culprit. As she grasped the object and raised it eye level, golden, liquid-like sand poured to the ground in a single, fluid stream. She was left holding a shell. A real seashell. Like on TV. Her mouth fell open in amazement as she traced with her fingers, the tiny, perfectly aligne

This is a video of me playing for a cocktail party at the Montauk Club (which is gorgeous by the way) in Brooklyn, a historic building so old that when I asked where the restroom was on the 2nd floor, I was told I had to go to the first floor because when it was built, women weren't allowed on the 2nd floor. It seems the majority of performance gigs I get (as opposed to accompaniment gigs) are for events such as restaurant and cocktail party background music. I love playing for those. I get to sit in a corner with a piano and play whatever I want. I know that people are listening, but not giving me a hundred percent of their attention, which takes some of the pressure off. I would be happy if I could do just one or two of these a week. That would fulfill my performance craving. It would be Heaven . This song is "Lover Man," recorded by a ton of people, but my favorite version is Billie Holiday. When I played this for Ceil (one of my piano teachers from years ago), s

Another old one from college... My Grandma in one of her extravagant Hispanic get-ups "Home of Buffalo Bil" by Elizabeth Grimes “Did your family go on a vacation this summer, hon?” asked my third grade teacher in a high pitched, deliberate tone with her hands on her slightly bent knees to maintain eye contact with me. “Yeth,” I had a slight lisp until I was ten and still do when I get nervous, so I’ve been told. “We went to North Platte.” After a moment of confusion, she laughed. North Platte, NE isn’t a typical vacation spot for most people. However, driving three hours to a tiny town in Western Nebraska and staying for two and a half days in the local Holiday Inn every summer as a child gave me memories that help define me still today. Who even knows how we found out about it in the first place? My Grandma possesses an innate talent for locating community events from plays to rodeos to craft shows; in this case, Mexican fiestas. My Grandma, or Granny Pooh, as w

Patience is a virtue. Just not one of my virtues. The thing about impatient people is this. If you hurry, you’ll get there faster. If you get there faster, you’ll be done quicker. If you’re done quicker, you can move onto the next thing sooner. Getting more things done means a sense of accomplishment and productivity. Then again, it also means a constant state of anxiousness, half done projects, and disappointment when expectations are not met. I remember as a little girl, stapling holes together in my dresses rather than asking my mother to sew them because I just had to wear it that day. Of course, the staples worked for an hour or two and then I was left with my underwear peeking through the pink, flowered dress pattern for the rest of the day. I’ve cut my own hair since junior high because I can’t stand the thought of making an appointment and waiting til Thursday to make my hair look the way I want. Several times, this meant making the appointment anyway to fix my little misha