Everyone in my house is in bed. I'm sitting in the dark listening to "Synchronicity" by the Police. Whenever I hear any of these songs, I am instantly transported to 1984 and that old red house at 407 S. Chestnut Street, listening to Jim blast this album with that velvet picture of the devil on the toilet hanging on the wall.
At any given moment, some part of me is always in that house.
May 9, 2016
April 7, 2016
When I was very young, my mom was single. She was in early 20s, in and out of relationships, melodramatic, and emotional. I adored her.
When we would Drive around in her baby blue Firebird, she would crank up the radio and sing--especially to Journey and to David Bowie's "Space Oddity." I came to know the words to the songs, and wanted to sing along, too.
"Stop singing!" she would snap, sometimes with great irritation. "I can't hear the song!"
When I got a little older, she would complain that I couldn't carry a tune and was ruining the song for her. It hurt my feelings tremendously. I remember thinking even way back then that I would let my little girl sing as much as she wanted.
32 years later I have a little girl. A mini-me. And sing she does.
She stands in the yard and sings joyfully at the top of her lungs. She sings heartfelt, original lyrics with great passion into a microphone in the middle of the living room. She sings "Skin-a-marinkey-dinky-dink" from the backseat as we are driving around town with the windows rolled down. She sings lovingly to her Blue Blankey.
Unfortunately she has my voice and can't carry a tune in a bucket, but I love complete lack of self-consciousness and pure joy when she sings.