Does anybody use that term (copout) anymore? And is it one or two words? Regardless, the next several posts are from a trip Mike and I took to Portugal, Spain, and Morocco in September 2010. I am working on some current pieces, but I wanted to post this travelogue to buy myself some time and to create a record of my travelogues so they are all together in one place. If you have your writing scattered around in documents, handwritten journals, emails, and sticky notes, you’ll appreciate my desire to at least have the travelogues in one place.
Because Mike planned the trip, we visited 5 cities in 3 countries in 16 days. Although this is not my preferred method for travel (it’s not relaxing), I do love the excitement of minimal planning and zero research. If nothing else, it encourages spontaneity, and by encourages I mean requires. Mike is the consummate “let’s see what happens” kind of traveler. If I ever unearth my handwritten journal of our 1995 trip to Ireland, I’m sure the first entry will detail how Mike wanted to switch our tickets when he found out our plane was delayed two hours. I had already consented to have nothing planned except reservations for our first night, but when Mike went to look at the list of international flights leaving before ours, I nearly panicked. Instead of flatly refusing to change our tickets (this was early in our relationship), I subtly poured cold water on Mike’s suggestions. Germany? That’s fine with me but then you won’t get to do any genealogy. Istanbul? Sounds good but…probably not a lot of pubs there. You get the idea. So we went to Ireland; I kept a journal of our activities (including getting lost by car, bus, bike, and on foot in Dublin) and thus began the travelogues. The one that follows is from 2010. Somewhere there exists the first Spain travelogue from 2008; hopefully it will turn up someday. I can’t even remember how I wrote it. These travelogues were emails to friends, which is an interesting method as I tend to be a little freer when writing friends. There’s no evidence that hoards of strangers are reading my current work, but one can hope.

Some of us were lucky enough to come of age in an era of rich and varied music. My older siblings played Elvis, Jerry Lee Lewis, and (later) Peter, Paul, and Mary; my parents played Frank Sinatra, Doris Day, and musical scores. Against this backdrop of pop, folk and early rock, my generation listened to pop and soul before, after, and during the British Invasion. To say that the Beatles defined my musical taste is a given. The early Beatles, with songs like “PS, I Love You” and “Roll Over, Beethoven” owed a lot of their style to the Everley Brothers and Elvis. They even gave a nod toward American musical theater (“Till There Was You” from Carousel) which probably reflected their parents taste in music. Other groups, like the Mamas and the Papas had complex and gorgeous harmonies, Simon and Garfunkel had lyrics that epitomized the American experience, and Dylan challenged all of us with obscure, vaguely upsetting songs that mirrored disillusionment. But the Beatles had something for everyone.

There was a time that choosing one Beatle as your favorite said more about your personality than all (or most) of the faddish Facebook quizzes (Which state are you? Which character from Downton Abbey are you? Which rock star are you? Which color are you? Which car are you? Which killer from “Game of Thrones” are you?) If you haven’t been bombarded with these from friends sharing on FB, you must have busier friends than I do. In brief here is what preferring one Beatle meant about you or more accurately about the boys you liked. If you chose George (and most of my friends did), you were drawn to the deep, soulful type of boy who would write you poetry and break your heart lyrically. If you chose Paul, you were a superficial girl going for flashy good looks and obvious charm. If you chose John, you were attracted to the intellectual, moody, self-destructive types. And if you chose Ringo, you had low self esteem. Or you figured you had a better chance with him. I chose John, but that was just to make Paul jealous (Hey, I was eleven).

My Beatles era never really ended because those were the songs I sang when alone in a car and the music I incorporated into various theatrical productions when I was teaching drama (I’m sure there would’ve been copyright infringement if anyone cared). And I know what I loved about their music–it was melodic and I could decipher the lyrics correctly–most of the time. Let’s just say that Eleanor Rigby did not pick up her eyes in the church where her wedding had been. Of course the deceptively clean cut Beatles led on to the excitingly nasty Rolling Stones, the Moody Blues, the Zombies, and more. I segued reluctantly into the so-called hard rock era of endless guitar solos and tediously repetitive lyrics. Because I was fortunate to grow up in the Washington Metropolitan area, I saw many groups: the Jackson Five, the Eagles, Creedence Clearwater Revival, Lynyrd Skynyrd, Joni Mitchell, Jimi Hendrix, Steppenwolf, Jethro Tull (at the opening of a bowling alley in VA), Bread, Tina Turner, and Smokey Robinson and the Miracles. I list these particular groups, among the many others I saw, to prove my musical experience was wide and varied. I even liked the classical pieces everyone likes (Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, the Nutcracker Suite, Beethoven’s Fifth, etc.) However, nowhere on this list or in my musical meanderings was country music represented.

When I was a kid and my family made an annual summer trip from Maryland to Michigan (10 hours, no air conditioning, few pit stops) to see my parents’ families, my father would play country music on AM radio as we drove through PA. We kids would groan in protest after being subjected to such classics as “Who Took the Knob off the School Door.” I kid you not. I think these twangy, whiney “tunes” preceded the lonesome – woman left me- took the truck and the dog blues. Regardless, it was torturous listening and inspired in me decades of contempt for country music.

And then a couple of things happened.

I would like to say that the fact my husband had always liked country music and often listened to it when I wasn’t around was a factor but it really wasn’t. The first crack in the embargo came when my sister asked me if I liked the Eagles (of course I did) and then mentioned in the condescending way only a younger sister can muster that what did I think the Eagles were playing if not Rock/Country? Okay, I would have to consider that, especially since I had recently seen the Eagles reunion tour concert. The second thing that happened is that I deliberately listened to a country music channel on FM during a long ride up I-5. I did this because my school had purchased air time on the station and I wanted to see how our commercial sounded. Well, I never heard the commercial, but I kind of liked Rascal Flatts by the end of that ride. Add to that you would have to live on another planet not to be aware of the surge in country music popularity in the last several years. Shows like “American Idol,” which I no longer watch, and “The Voice,” which I never miss, have helped to popularize not only cross-over country but country classics. All of these factors came together just in time for a cross-country road trip that included a visit to Nashville. From CA to TN I listened to country music on Sirius Radio and was ready to embrace my new found love. More recently I spent a couple of months in Houston, and heard both local country musicians and a few of the big names at the famous Houston Rodeo. I bought cowboy boots in Nashville and a cowboy hat in Houston so I’m good to go.

Now, how does all this relate to a past characterized by an exclusive relationship with rock music? First, there’s the fact that all those great concerts impaired my hearing so I can’t understand lyrics unless they are really clear and straightforward (like country music). Then there’s the fact that my favorite music (Beatles and their contemporaries) was very melodic (like country music). Finally, there’s the cute factor: Luke Bryan, Blake Shelton, and Keith Urban (Hey, I’m old, not dead). Yes, I really like Maroon Five, Alicia Keys, and Adele. And I listen to the classics (you can call them oldies) including Fleetwood Mac, Bonnie Raitt, and James Taylor. I’m not a fan of rap and hip hop although I’ve always liked Eminem. All of this is to present my credentials as one who has always had eclectic taste in music. And yet, it’s country music that plays in my head every morning.

Every morning I wake up and then tune into the song playing in my head. I have no control over the selection but for the last several months my head has been exclusively playing country music. It doesn’t matter if I’ve listened to music or not the night before. And my head is not necessarily playing my favorite songs or even replaying songs. Every morning it’s a new song that I gradually become aware of, kind of like background music. And then the tune comes to the forefront and I add the lyrics (someone has to) usually under my breath. And then the day goes on and the music fades until the next morning. Through this process I’ve gained an appreciation for the rightness of country music lyrics–the no bullshit take on life in songs like “My Mama’s Broken Heart,” which lays the out the pain of a breakup and the pressure to “hide your crazy.” I love the unapologetic sentimentality of songs like “I Drive Your Truck” and implied sexiness of “Cruise” and “Drunk on You.” Simple expressions of love (“Crazy Girl”) and heartbreaking endings (“I Wake Up Loving You” and “Why Ya Wanna”) are country music themes with a rock twist. Confusing and complicated relationships show up in songs like “Come Over” and “Kiss Tomorrow Good-bye.” Lines like “take off your leavin’ dress” are pure country poetry. And lately irony and social commentary have found their way into songs like “Merry Go-Round” and “Automatic,” and these songs, like most country music songs, are written by the artists who record them. My current favorite lyrics are from David Nail’s “Whatever She’s Got.” “She got the blue jeans painted on tight/That everybody wants on a Saturday night/She got the mood ring, she’s never the same/She’s sun one minute, then she’s pouring down rain.” These words sung over a sexy melody with a bluesy beat could have been written and performed in the 70’s–I see Mick doing nice job or maybe Rod Stewart.

All of these reflections take me back to the Beatles and my contention that what I call the Mid-Baby Boomers (b. 1951-1956-57-ish) are naturally going to like current country music. It’s melodic, catchy, easy to sing along with, heartfelt, and clever–like the Beatles. And to prove my point…I took a break from writing this and went into a small grocery store in Canyonville, OR. While I was there, two songs were played: “Hey, Jude” and “Honeybee.” Thank you, Paul McCartney, John Lennon, and Blake Shelton.

I have a certain resistance to reunions, most of them anyway.  I don’t know if it’s because I’m pretty sure no one will remember me or I don’t  want anyone to remember the person I think I was.  Which is pretty funny because I did go to my 40^th high school reunion awhile back and I had good time.  People seemed to remember me and no one ran screaming from the room so I guess I was nicer than I thought.  I was reminded of this notion of who we think we were recently when I attended a casual reunion of actors I had worked with several years ago in community theater.  At first the reunion was going to be 3 people but social media and the gregariousness of others intervened and pretty soon it was big enough that I didn’t want to attend.  Still I went to the play that a former student and fellow actor was in and enjoyed seeing almost everyone in the audience who was part of the reunion group.

The next morning several of us met for breakfast and Pam, who had been fantastic in the play, mentioned that she was happy to see all of us and said that she had been making a conscious effort to reconnect with her past, that she tended to lose memories along the way.  At least that’s what I think she said, and it started me thinking about the things I’ve forgotten. For example, one old friend said she had never forgotten a comment I made about a scene she was in where she basically begged a man she had dated for years to marry her (the play was Picnic).  Apparently I told her that the scene was so painful I wanted to throw up.   Of course I don’t remember saying this although I do remember her powerful performance.  There were several instances of my not remembering what others recalled so vividly.  Ultimately I told the group that there isn’t enough room in my brain and that I’d had to erase a lot of information to make room for the steep learning curve of the last 8 years in my professional career.  But, it worries me that I can’t remember.

At my high school reunion there was a woman who was delighted to see me and apparently we had been friends, had classes, and went to games together.  I thought she looked familiar.  There was a man I danced with and he said it was just like the time we were in the senior play and supposed to be exhausted 1920’s dancers trying to win a marathon.  No memory of him at all.  The people I knew best were from my neighborhood and we connected through reminiscences of sled and bike riding and finally getting old enough to know what the words our basketball coach called us meant.  (He was an FBI agent pressed into coaching 6^th grade girls and he was not happy with our skills. Let’s put it this way: he wasn’t calling us “twits.”) Over the years many of the women had altered their names in some way.  Sue became Susan; Cathy is Cate, Patty is Pat.  On the other hand, Billy is still Billy; Jimmy is still Jimmy, and Eddie is still Eddie although I believe he may have dropped “ie” in favor of “y.”  Our class had nearly 600 students and about 200 alumni came to the reunion.  About a third of the men lined up to tell Sue-now-Susan that they had been in love with her in high school but too shy to ask her out.  Susan, still drop dead gorgeous and a fellow member of the 6^th grade basketball team, was not amused.  First of all she wanted to know “what happened to all the cute boys.”  (Well, Susan, they are 58 years old now).  And secondly and quite accurately, she pointed out that it would’ve been nice to have had this attention in high school.  I believe the “I was in love with you in high school” line is endemic at many reunions.   “I’ve been in love with you since 5^th grade” is unique, and I witnessed its staying power firsthand at my husband’s 50^th reunion.

A little background: my husband and his jock friends were a big deal in high school.  They were cute, friendly, athletic, and (wait for it) the popular kids.  Even though I wasn’t there, it can’t have been much different from any high school and I can imagine these golden young men striding through the halls as if they owned the school, but in a nice way.  Because in 1963 being a jerk wasn’t cool and the dark, moody guys would have to wait for the 1970s (my era) to make girls miserable.  Suffice it to say that these guys had an uncomplicated high school experience.  Of course there were “bad boys” but they weren’t very bad; mainly they had an excess of appeal so they spread it around a little.  Flash forward 50 years and Mike and I find ourselves at his reunion in a winery in Morgan Hill.  We stayed with Mike’s old teammate Gary and his wife Dene, who also went to high school with the guys.  [Aside: Dene and Gary dated from 7^th through 9^th grade, reconnected on Classmates after decades apart, and have been blissfully married for 3 years.  Some people do meet their soul mates when they’re young.]  In case you’re wondering, Dene didn’t capture Gary’s heart until 7^th grade; it was Mike H that she bowled over with her ponytail and 11 year old charm.  Poor Mike H was almost incoherent as he told Dene she was his first love and then turned to Mary Alice and told her she was his second love after someone told her Dene was “taken.”   Age does not make one tactful.  Anyway, Mike H’s wife finally came and got him before he melted into a puddle of “what might have been.”  Periodically Mike H would leave his wife and circle back to Dene, who handled it all with grace and humor, telling Mike H that he was getting close to stalking.

There’s a lot to be said for having a reunion at a winery.  When I got bored I took pictures of the vineyard and the surrounding hills or chatted with the servers about the wines.  The fact is that other people’s reunions are not that engaging, at least not after the first hour.  I spotted the girlfriend (and non-classmate) of another of Mike’s jock friends and sat with her.  Within two minutes she mentioned that she wouldn’t be coming to the next reunion.  In case that sounds cold, please understand that these classes from the sixties have a reunion picnic every year and that whichever class has hit a milestone invites other classes to their reunion.  The last time I went to one of Mike’s reunions was for the 40^th and everyone looked a lot better than at this one.  In fact I’m already planning on not attending my 50^th reunion….

So in the spirit of reunions and remembering, I’ll share that the folks at this reunion felt the social structure of their days in high school was the same.  The jock table was the center of the action with people circling the stars.  I’m not implying that Mike, Gary, etal. were anything but nice—then or now.  But the mystique lingers.  Take Susan at my reunion (and many men would): she was the class beauty in a class of lovey young women.  When she entered the country club where our stuffy, East Coast reunion was held, everyone looked, paused, and paid obeisance to her past and current radiance.  Did she look better than everyone else?  Are Mike and Gary still the most (popular, cute, sweet, appealing—choose your adjective)?  I don’t know.  But that’s really not the point.  We bought this story 10, 20, 40, or 50 years ago and we still believe it.  And there’s continuity and comfort (for some) in that.

When I was teaching, summers seemed like a long weekend. June was Friday night because we taught for half of June. July was Saturday and time for vacations, relaxing, and thinking about writing that book. And August was Sunday afternoon with all the pressure of getting ready for school—decorating my classroom, planning lessons, and positioning desks (always looking for that serendipitous arrangement that would support high level discourse and eliminate side talk—there is no such arrangement). Things changed when I became an administrator because I worked most of the summer. Then summer became a time to bring order to the chaos in my office, update handbooks, and finally throw out the things that consistently found their way to the bottom of my “to do” pile. In July, when all of the teachers were blessedly gone and I was finally alone in my office, I would clean and organize while streaming NPR or singing along with country songs. And sometimes I would think about writing that book.

Now I’m retired (a misnomer if ever there was one) and I’ve been busy during every day of the eleven months since I left my school. I knew that leaving would be hard for me as I’ve identified myself as a teacher (and administrators are teachers) since I was twelve and had a nursery school for my sister and her friends. (I charged a dollar a week, which I spent on supplies for my “students,” thus preparing myself for the realities of public education.) I wanted to celebrate 35 years in a profession I loved so we had a couple of parties and I spent a week near Cancun with three girlfriends. Then my husband Mike and I traveled around the country for 42 days so that I wouldn’t lurk pathetically around the school. That went well until we reached the middle of the country and I was no longer distracted by driving. I cried through Nebraska.

Besides traveling I have many interests that occupy my time. But my plan was to write that book. But not right away. I figured I needed a year to get my literal and metaphorical house in order, travel a lot, take those floral design classes, learn to crochet (a hopeless cause), start making jewelry again, maybe tryout for a play, improve my garden design, train the little dog to “come” (another hopeless cause), cook and entertain more, and exercise daily. At some point I started to wonder if all these activities were ways of avoiding writing that book. And I’ve decided they are not because I am writing (this blog) and I am reading great books on writing (most recently Write Away by Elizabeth George). I’m also rereading authors whose work I admire and looking for a writing conference that will put me in touch with published writers.

So…when you read these posts, please understand that I’m warming up, playing scales in preparation for the big number.

July 25, 2013

What looked like an easy flight across summer skies (Sacramento to Phoenix to Baltimore) turned into first, non-stop turbulence, and later, a circuitous route around a storm that kept us in the air 2 hours longer. I don’t know if this is a typical response to travel, but there comes a moment before any trip of more than five days when I no longer want to go. It’s all just too hard. There’s a house to prepare, plants that need to be watered, mail and papers to be stopped or collected, clothes to decide upon, wash, maybe iron, pack, and a pet to send to her vacation home. When that moment arrives, I want to indulge in the vapors, lie on a sofa in a darkened room, with a cold compress on my head and someone rubbing my feet while murmuring unintelligible, yet comforting sounds. I want to stay home.

Before this trip, I was in that moment for eleven days. We had just returned from three weeks in Europe and I didn’t want to get on a plane again less than two weeks later. Never mind that the last last flight ended in being diverted from San Francisco to L.A. Or that my feet were so swollen I could barely walk. It wasn’t that. The purpose of this trip: the internment of my mother’s ashes in Arlington Cemetery.

Last Saturday morning at 10:00 AM, my family stood in the oppressive humidity of a Virginia summer listening to the words of Father Victor and the journey that began on December 12th, when my mother died, ended. My hope was to be emotionally present at this event.

In December, as I flew across country, my father, sister and brothers were coping with the shock of Mom’s death 12 hours after her stroke. Soon we were all consumed with the rituals of grief: choosing pictures, readings and music for a funeral mass, planning a luncheon, and making arrangements for out of town family members. When I began to write Mom’s eulogy, I finally realized the cost of living so far from my family. Because in a strange way, I didn’t feel her loss. I’m used to not seeing my mother for months at a time. Sure I talked to her frequently and I’ve made the trip East a couple of times annually in recent years. And yes, I did have a strong feeling after spending time with her daily for two weeks in October that this could well be our last time together.

On Saturday morning my family met at the administration building of Arlington Cemetery where 29 funerals are conducted daily. Ah, the efficiency of the military! Kind and knowledgable cemetery employees explained the process and organized us into the cars that brought us close to the gravesite. We walked up a hill, the same hill that leads to the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, my sister holding my father’s arm, the family trailing behind. The service was short, the location beautiful. Near the end of the readings the distant sound of taps underscored the lovely words from scripture. I wish I could remember them, but I was focused on my father and his grief for the woman he was married to for 69 years. Still, I was there in the moment, feeling the loss, and for that I was grateful.

I think the nature of grief is that it ebbs and flows and what evokes that sharp stab of grief is unpredictable. In the airport, coming home yesterday, I missed my mother. I knew I wouldn’t be calling her to say I made it home safely and to hear her tell me how much she already missed me. Today, as I walked past gardens in our neighborhood, I thought about the gifts and burdens that are the legacy of being my mother’s daughter. I love to read and garden and write and cook. I love to laugh. I know how to love fiercely. I worry too much and am practical when I want to be imaginative. Like my mother, I left my home as a young adult and forged a life separate from my family. And like her, I’ve lost and gained by that decision.