Curmudgeon Chronicles - Lost Youth
At least for guys, our minds tend to get stuck in the age range of about 18-25. No matter how old we get, or the changes that come into our lives, our mental image of ourselves is in that time when we were, “like a rock,” least bounded by responsibility and complication. The potential for our lives’ trajectories were still open to us and not determined by choices already made and realities realized. Though our horizons may expand as we gain experience, we largely cling to the cultural experiences that shaped us during this time. Maybe it is because, while these are the years of greatest potential, they are also the years when we are making the choices that will most shape our lives. There is always a special quickening, though, when we hear the music that formed the backdrop of our youth. So it always comes as a surprise when we catch a reflection of some paunchy gray-haired man in a window and realize that that strange old person is us. We ignore the realities when we stare straight on into the mirror in the morning only seeing ourselves from the familiar angle that has changed only incrementally over the years and benefits from the sucked in gut. It is those shocks of the odd angles that others see and sudden realizations or our inability to run, lift, play like we once did that catch us off guard and shock us with the truth.
It was just such a shock that I experienced the other night. We attended a concert by a guitar player, songwriter named David Bromberg. Until I left home in the late 70s to attend graduate school in Arizona, my music experience was largely dominated by what we called top 40s radio. FM radio with specialized stations, that carried broader musical spectrums, were only just emerging. For the most part, we had only heard the top 40 hits at any one point in time. I was only vaguely aware of genres like blues, bluegrass, and jazz. But the music scene was also exploding at this time. The divisions between rock and folk and country were disappearing. I also was discovering an entire awareness of music that people were tapped into that I had been previously unaware of. This was influential music and performers that were often shaping the music that the pop artists were distilling and presenting to the masses. Knowledge of these performers was a special badge of coolness, at least in my mind, and made you feel a special sense of superiority when people perused your record collection and asked, “who is David Bromberg, or Doc Watson, or The Leo Kotke.”
Bromberg was, is, an excellent guitar player who surrounds himself with other excellent musicians and plays a diverse palette of music from blues to bluegrass. Though I had never seen him in person, I had heard enough concert recordings to know that he peppered his performances with wise-cracks and mid-song despairing love-lost stories and been-done-wrong diatribes that leave the audience shouting "whoo" when he strikes a nerve of shared heartache or indignity that everyone has felt at one time or another. So when mom discovered that he would be playing at UAA, I was excited to re-immerse myself in the world of the hip insider and, yes, youthful righteousness that I had once associated with DB.
I first realized that I might be in trouble when miss iPad research (mom) asked me to estimate how old DB is. Knowing that I am close to 61 and he is older than me, I generously guessed 68, fully expecting him to be closer to my age and much more accomplished at a young age during the 1970s. “No,” she said, “he’s 75.” Still, I was hopeful of catching the spark and returning to what was. After all, the people who know about DB are the same people who now know about Nickel Creek and going to their concerts you see the entire spectrum.
I badgered mom and we got there early. I might admit to ridiculously early, but that is never really possible in my mind. As people filtered in, I realized that this was an entirely over the hill group of people. There were gray hair and paunches everywhere and even a bit of doddering going on. There were old men with pony tails, even bald pony tails, and women who had once been hippy chicks but were now gardeners and grandmothers. There were canes for Chrissakes. Wait, where are the cool people? Yes, people our age know about DB, but aren’t there a lot of youngsters that know about him too. I did spot one 30 something guy with a hot 20 something girl, but otherwise, if the hair wasn’t gray, it was dyed. Is that the extent of cool in Anchorage?
DB and his band came on stage and burned their telecasters into a blues song, but, the energy wasn’t there. He looked like an old man with baggy jeans pulled too high. Actually, the music was there technically. I could close my eyes and hear the mellow voice and bluesy runs of a tight band. As long as my eyes were closed, I could call up the years when this music was so dear. Several times he went into his mid-song asides and the audience and I enjoyed them, but there was a disconnect. When he did a soliloquy about losing the love of his life because of his wayward behavior, or, about how that b done him wrong, we all knew that these experiences were far in his past and far in ours. We are now a generation that would be more likely mourning the loss of long time friends and life partners to the big C than the hot passions of youthful intrigue. That is not to say that those experiences do not continue to burn in our hearts, but, that we have surrounded those yearnings with scar tissue, developed wisdom, and traded cool for connoisseur.
The musicianship was sublime, though there were missed licks that never would have happened 35 years ago. Almost fittingly, he did not perform the songs that he is known for, like “Mr. Blue” and “I Like to Sleep Late in the Morning.” Those were for a different time. The third encore and final song of the evening was performed quietly out in front of the microphones to a rapt and silent auditorium. Instead of a rousing sendoff, it was a sweet goodnight and subtle goodbye.
And, if you listened closely, you could just hear the early snores.
#MemoryMonday - School dance edition
Pie crust tip
You kids may remember that I have a friend (Larry Davenport) who teaches at Samford University, just over the hill from Nanni & grandad's house. Every few years we get together while we are in B'ham and catch up on grad school friends, what is happening in our lives, etc. Larry & I used to do field work together. Mom & I attended the christening of their son. Larry was along on the famous trip from hell (perhaps the subject of another post). When we got together this year, Larry had a list of things to tell me. among them was that Lori Wiersema had recently died. Apparently she was undergoing minor surgery and something went horribly wrong. Her husband, John, was a co-grad student of ours, though, as a botanist was closer to me than mom. Lori came to town as a grad student in nutrition but a close friend of another woman who was in the biology program. They started hanging out with the bio crowd, even playing on the softball team. Romance bloomed between Lori & John about the time when mom & I were realizing that we might be more than friends.
Lori was a good cook. I had made a pie for some grad student cookout party, but was complaining about struggling with the crust. She gave me a tip that I have used on every crust, pastry, or biscuit that I have made since. When I do this I always think of Lori. That's a lot of thoughts over the 30+ years that I have been using the tip, so I was shocked to hear that she is gone. In fact, the night before Larry told me, I had made a lemon meringue pie and thought of her.
I know that I have told all of you kids the tip and, probably, shown you. Here it is:
To make a crust, the first step is to "cut" the flour into the shortening. I usually start that process with a fork, but that only goes so far. To finish the process and get a really flaky crust, use your thumb and fingers on one hand to rub the flour and shortening together. Keep working it until the combination has the consistency of light snow.
Carry on the tradition and think of the tip that came from a one time friend.
#MemoryMonday Mom reads at Nani & Granddad's
Every now and then I go through my phone and am amazed at what I come across. 'Oh, I took a picture of that?' More like, 'Oh, I have more than just selfies of Jarrod and I and pictures of dog Aggie?'
Anyway, above is a picture of mom I found on my phone that I took this Christmas in the bedroom I stay in in Nani and Grandad's house. To the left of Mom is a bookshelf filled with books that I remember from growing up and a full encyclopedia set from the '70s.
To the right of mom is a chest of drawers in which one of the bottom drawers is filled with Barbies with their toes chewed off and some doll clothes that one of my great grandmother's (Lollie?) sewed.