I am no stranger to the Walt Disney Music Hall.
I am no stranger to the Walt Disney Music Hall.
Come on, SERIOUSLY? Very recently, I heard a radio discussion as I was driving along in my car, that just kind of rubbed me the wrong way. I think it is because it is one of a string of long-time stock-piling incidents building into a fevery pitch; or in keeping with the theme, a bonfire! It was about Halloween and the Trick or Treating expectations. Children were at the very core of the controversy, which kind of got my witches’ brew boiling….
A phone caller into a local radio station was saying how very adamant he was that 17 year old kids had the audacity to still be going door to door in quest for candy amongst all the other kiddies. Now, let’s dissect this issue. First and foremost, one is still a child until 18. Thus, these are children. It’s the lawful stance. I’m of the opinion that if a youth still wants to seek out candy, so be it, unless his dentist has put the kibosh on that endeavor. I say this because it’s actually a good thing a seventeen year old would rather be downing Hershey Bars and Abba Zabbas than a plethora of other worrisome desirables being paraded in front of our offspring today.
I mean, these kids who granted, could easily become glutonous and bully-prone, typically just stand at your open door dressed in black with some funky make-up on. Sometimes they go as far as putting a fake ax in their skull or blood dripping from their eyes, but, nonetheless, they just stand there, peaceably. In black. Quite blank faced, usually. Then because one of the bunch, often is a big brother or cousin with a younger sibling, he or she will come right out with it: “Trick or Treat”. They usually have to because the little “spirits” are famous for ALSO just standing there in costume, gawking. That’s when I bring out the bowl and hint that one or two candies should be enough for each. In recent years I haven’t gotten as many of the scallawagging ghouls, so when they do come, I now say “Take as much as you wish”. Invariably, they are polite, and only take one or two pieces, but, I rather live for the pant and squeal of excitement from the child who just makes a sweeping grab and practically runs away as if in possession of gold. It kindles my own memory of the excitement I felt as a young candy scout on the loose. In all my grown-up years of being a Trick or Treaters’ host, I have only had one occasion where I regretted handing out sugary yummies.
Maybe my experience is an unusual and lucky one. But truly, what is the big deal? Adult life is hard as it is; why not allow the older children to hang on to their innocent existence just a tad longer? Eighteen years of childhood is a small amount in comparison to the 70 to 80 more years spent as an adult. Adulthood is saddled with rules that become laws and consequences that become fate. I say, let the insouciant behavior commence day in and day out until it is legally, afforded no more.
This is why I never scolded my kids when they went out on warm nights and “T.P.ed” their peers’ front yards. (This is another tradition of youth, that is not necessarily tied to any holiday, but it is in the same vein of fun as trick or treating.) Throwing a few rolls of toilet paper up into tree limbs and wrapping up shrubs, lawn furniture, standing flamingoes, mailboxes on posts and hanging porch swings never really hurt anyone. An inconvenient nightmare come morning? Of course. But, if the local kids do it to your yard, your kid was considered cool. When my big brother was voted ASB president of his high school, a battalion of seniors on the cusp of being 17 descended on our property one hot end of September night. They engineered a HUGE mess, and because we siblings saw it all going on, my folks heard about it, and came downstairs to survey the situation. I remember my dad calling the teenagers into the house and telling them that enough was enough, but he knew it was all in fun. My mother, resolved to turn on the oven, and got her homemade cookie batter out of the fridge. She baked cookies for all of them. As everyone gathered round to enjoy chocolate chip cookies and whole milk, my dad made the perpetrators promise to clean up the “T.P. masterpiece” as soon as possible. They did. The next morning, they all came back, erased any trace and then played basketball. Our parents gave those kids the gift of time. They allowed them to still be young and carefree. Now, if it happens today, the local police are promptly called, instead. Not much freedom left for being a kid.
This is what I believe Halloween is partially about. It’s about still celebrating being a child. Playing the traditional game of asking for candy, and disguising one’s looks is all about fun without regulation. It is why on October 31st a good number of grown adults in the USA still drive off to work dressed as baked potatoes, astronauts, Wonder Woman and Harry Potter. It’s why it’s still a prevalent holiday that anyone from any background can freely participate in and “escape” the tribulations of being oneself for just a day, or even part of a day. It helps us all forget a truckload of worries. At the office nobody actually tricks or treats, well maybe in some unique manner they do. Dressing-up in a costume is more about tapping into our “inner child” and unleashing one’s imagination. Plus, there is a breadth of freedom and safety when one takes on a new personna. It feels a little bit mischievous. Anonymity breeds the feeling of adventure and power. Definitely exciting. Additionally, all these adults get just a smidgen of attention more than usual. That’s the kid in them. It’s in all of us. Once a year, for a day, if we decide to play along, our typical self is dissolved. And– just think, its a tradition! Woe to the workplace that deems such frivolity unacceptable!
Just what do mature adults secretly wish they could escape from? Bills, gasoline prices, car repairs, proper childcare, taxes, mortgage payments, divorce settlements, cases in trial, health strategies, worries about illnesses, car accidents, politics, shootings, crime, illegal drugs and war. The long list of impending doom and erratic tragedy is real, unfortunately. It weighs on people’s hearts. Do we really want to rob a seventeen year old of a final year spent in semi-bliss, away from these woes? In truth, by that age they already know what is coming down the pike. Why not let them have one last year to cavalierly, skip down their path to adulthood?
That radio show caller might think back to his childhood and recall how he felt on the brink of college and life beyond graduation. Better still, why not reflect on all the happy memories of being a child. I know it is something valuable we all should do from time to time. There is so much to appreciate. We ought to be willing to share those remembrances with today’s youngsters. Sharing can mean extending understanding and perhaps reviving some “lost” Halloween traditions. You see, so much today is already pre-planned, pre-prepared, even pre-fabricated, leaving not much wiggle room for unique approaches to celebrating this most festive holiday.
I’d like to start with me. Once upon a time I was a young girl. I was fueled on imagination! It all probably began one rainy day indoors when my little sister and I took our blankets and turned them into “princess capes” by pinning a costume jewelry brooch through the edge just under our chin. There we had it, a long trailing, “royal cape”. When Halloween rolled around each end of October, I had already created a mental picture of whom or what I wanted to be. I wore nothing store-bought except for maybe a cheap mask and those silly wax lips. Everything else that comprised my costumes came straight from the bedroom closet. So I want to be a gypsy? No problem…I’d put together scarves, a swishy skirt, a peasant blouse which was all the rage in the sixties, and dangly, costume jewelry. I would dig around in junk drawers, the attic or trade with my siblings. Half the fun was the challenge to design a costume that looked as authentic as possible. Not only did the planning keep me occupied, but it challenged my creative spirit. Many little girls were doing the same. My brothers put their costumes together, too. Sometimes they would ask for my help, or I, theirs. Maybe, our mother might sew something to contribute to the whole effect. It was a fun, family experience no matter what.
When my brothers and sisters and I went Trick or treating, we went in a group. A few times we broke into pairs, but mostly we went together. It was fabulous exercise. We walked as far as our little legs could go. Our parents stayed home and answered the doorbell, while we “scoped-out” the “good houses” with kind people giving generous treats. A few times we would recite a Halloween poem or perform a little dance, in keeping with the traditional way to trick or treat. Our mini performances were our “ticket” to earning the sought after confectionery, though, not every house demanded we show off. As our pillow-cases grew heavy with quite a trove of candy, our masks would steam-up as we grew out of breath. One year, we literally were dog-tired, and came home dragging our stash behind us. It was an athletic feat to go trick or treating. But, well worth the effort!
My folks were pretty “cool” parents when I look back in perspective. We could keep our bounty in our secret hiding places. Usually, first thing we would do is dump it out onto the dining table under the chandelier light, and inspect what everyone had. This is where we learned to become barterers and traders, and even “philanthropists”. My parents might ask for one or two of our candies, but it was our stuff, and they knew it. I don’t know how it happened, but, eventually, the sweets would end up in our sack lunches as our dessert. For months we would have one piece of candy per day at school to polish off our homemade lunches. Nowadays, many elementary schools go so far as to ban candy of any kind. Oh, honestly!
There was more than one way to celebrate Halloween. One year, my brothers, sisters and I were allowed to turn our garage into a neighborhood “haunted house.” We blind-folded our friends and put them through “scary” experiences. One of them was taking clean toilet paper, wetting it, into thin rolls that resembled worms, and laid the wet “creatures” on the arms of our haunted house “victims”, as they sat in the Haunted House “parlor”. The “frightening tricks” we did were as innocent as that, but, when you are blind-folded, and something wet and cold is put on your arms, your imagination runs wild, which can be quite frightening! Needless to say, each sibling had their own station in which to employ a “scary” experience, and of course our enterprise was a success!
Another way seventeen year olds can still appropriately participate in Halloween, is to carve pumpkins. It’s true some killjoys go around after midnight and destroy pumpkins perched on railings and porch steps. Maybe they never had the opportunity to spread newspaper out on their kitchen table or in the garage, and proceed to cut open a pumpkin, extract its pulp, carve a spooky expression, and enjoy placing that first candle in the jack-o-lantern they had made, to see it lit. What was the lingering treat after all this handiwork? The roasting, salting and eating of the pumpkin seeds- a nutritious, delicious treat!
If we just allow people to put their brains to work, they can easily come up with fun ways to make Halloween an enjoyable occasion. I remember one year, long past 17, tapping into my “creative self”. I was living in my first apartment, and had a melodeon pump organ in my living room right, by my front door. When the doorbell rang, I decided to open the door ever so slowly with a pull tie rope and with my other hand, playing chords on the instrument, while one foot pressed a pedal. I did my best to sound as musically terrifying as possible. I remember little ones would either run away, or bravely hold their ground on my doorstep, to which I rewarded them with candy bars. This is the creative spirit of Halloween, folks. A day to tap into the recesses of our imagination. Not store-bought. Not commercial. Not blood-curdling horrific. Just a modicum of mystery to add color to life.
I’m of the opinion that the American traditional way of celebrating Halloween has succumbed to the toppling down of some fundamental building blocks that are not only foundational, but, necessary. Children and adults surely need to be reminded at least one time a year, that they were once very, very young, and very, very unadulterated. Child’s thought was just that, his or her own thought. Original. Unique. Having Halloween in 2018 be diminished down to a mere, tolerable date at the end of October is really sad. Imposing a cut-off for what ages can don costumes and make believe who they are, while trick or treating is cynical, pathetic control. To shield one’s kids in only a church carnival where everyone is monitored to the max, is the antiseptic way to celebrate this holiday. I can see why parents feel forced to make this choice, but why not simply at least accompany your children door to door? How can there be a trustworthy society if we don’t utilize trust ourselves? I did with my kids. They knew we couldn’t visit “everyone”. But, they had fun checking out the different homes, their decorations and guessing who were their neighbors behind the masks passing by on the sidewalks. It was a social event to say the least!
Why pour over the internet or the department store flyers to find the best deal on pre-made disguises? They are probably being crafted in countries where the workers’ wages are far less than the “bargain price” they are being sold for. For heaven sakes, why purchase plastic tote bags when a decent old pillow will do? Does everything have to be a “cute contest” to keep up with the Joneses? But you know, even I can relent on this and say that if it makes it truly fun for the child to have a tote or bag to remember Halloween the rest of the year, then so be it.
It seems the point I wish to make is that if we tear down the traditions of Halloween, we are eradicating some simple joy we all still really need. A holiday that allows people young and old to play the same way, tap into their creativity, and share the experiences with others, is one worth not ruining. Let those 17 year olds beg for sweets, please. And do get that pirate hat out of the trunk in the garage. Go for it! Live childhood another day!
Autumn in Southern California is an unpredictable thing. Not only is it hard to know when it will finally “feel like Fall”, but when it will actually occur is also an uncertainty. Of course it will happen! We will all rejoice and sigh relief from the oppressive, baking sun we endured the long-drawn our summer. But, when it does indeed make its presence known, everything will seem all the better.
We have already had some precursory signs which both tantalize and frustrate. Obviously, one cannot fight the laws of the celestial heavens. Our sun is seen at a different angle in the sky now, and we are beginning to have shorter days. Thusly, the marine layer is creeping in at night from the coast and its fingered fog is reaching far inland, up into the northern desert nether lands, and burrowing deep into the valleys and Orange County. Overnight, the thermometer in Southern Cal is dipping into the 59s and low 60s, and if you are hunkered down in a cabin up at Big Bear or Arrowhead, you are on the brink of 32 degrees, with a chance of snow. But, none of this noted drop in temps is lasting too long. During the day, there has been a 20-30 degree rise. By 4 pm, it is not quite hot enough to warrant the air conditioning, but it is such that seeking shade and liquids are still priorities. Therefore, tis the season of dangling the proverbial “autumn is approaching carrot” over our heads.
I for one cannot wait to open my front door one morning, and smell that fall has indeed come home. The air will feel wetter, heavier and have a fresh scent to it. Everything will be drenched in deeper colors and a portending mood of promise will linger all around. Even the cement may have a hint of scent of pre-sunrise precipitation, This immediately excites something within me. It is like a trigger. I will soon be reaching for an umbrella and scarf; and none too soon!
When on my walks I first spot that first leaf turned red, or orange, or yellow, I will know Autumn is upon us. So far, nothing. It is just past the first week in October. Patience is important, yet, I know it likely will arrive as late as the last week of the month. Typically, my children would have to wear sweaters or jackets to go “Trick or Treating” on Halloween. There are rare occasions though, when even by Halloween, Autumn is still in the wings. I can remember back to childhood having to tug along my pillowcase jammed with a candy trove, breathing steamy breath through my dime store mask. Eventually, I’d give up anonymity, and push it on top of my head in order to breathe freely and cool off a bit. Having this memory, I know full well that just because September 21st is the autumnal equinox, doesn’t mean immediate glory days.
And how glorious the months of Autumn can be! Once here, we revel in trees ablaze in reds, golds, tangerines, even deep purples. In California, the nurserymen are much to be credited for finding and planting species that do have showy fall color, and are able to withstand the extremes of blistering summer heat. In decades past, far underground have flowed waters that today’s trees if mature enough, can still tap into for resiliency. When Fall has finally stepped up to the stage, you can discover this plethora of different types of trees that will indeed display color galore. I am grateful to all the landscape architects who have designed with a rich palette in mind, for it brings a vibrancy to our environs that is nothing short of spirited. Having green and lush most of the year is definitely soothing, but, also having a demonstrative Fall botanical fanfare for all to enjoy is quite special, if not invigorating.
I love the Fall for the crisp in the air, the bite of an apple and in the brisk of the wind. Seeing that first swirl of autumn leaves evokes cozy thoughts and spurs on promise. It’s the same effect you get when you style a toddler’s lock of hair and as the brush pulls away, the hair bounces enthusiastically into an expressive curl. Even the first fireplaces put to the task, send out a plume of good things to come. Where there is wood burning there is a hearth, and where there is a hearth, there is a home and where there is a home, there is much to be appreciated.
Sitting near the fireplace, for the first time in Autumn, every sense is heightened and brilliantly noted. That smoky scent, the flush over face and hands awash in warmth, one cannot help but feel entranced by the sporadic snapping percussion of spark or the “hushed” glowing of ember. Immediately, this scenario calls for one of several engagements. There, before the hearth, the choice can be made. Either engage in quiet pondering, read an intriguing book or hum a heartfelt tune. Maybe knitting a secret present or whittling a small token from wood are past times of preference. Not everything must adhere to modernity. Perhaps, a sincere conversation or an impromptu tale to be told may fit the bill and savor the experience. Better still, is there a harmonica in your pocket? A dulcimer in the corner? A fiddle upon a hook? A recorder on a shelf? How about a banjo by the woodbox? Any of these instruments put to fine use on the brink of the moment is worthy of performance, remembrance and gratitude. All are fitting ways to rein-in long desired Autumn.
This is what the season of Autumn does, I believe. It brings us back to home, back to the fold. It focuses us near to the most meaningful part of our lives; our family. Even if your hearth is far away from loved ones, just coming in out of the cold, settling down by the fire, and kindling the thoughts of good things either gone by or good things yet to come, is invaluable. It could be this is why the seasons are the way they are. On the third of four seasons, we witness a final profusion of color. Its a last testament to what life can and maybe has been. The celebration and acceptance of change, the gusting of wind with coil and spin, and temperatures calling for shelter all hone us in like the shine on a sickle. We are honed in to home. To hearth. To heart. To Family. To dreamscape and imagination. To prayer and resolve. To praise and guidance. To warmth and peace. To safety.
Is it any wonder that so many of us residing in Southern California love the Fall time of year? It would seem Fall itself is magical. There may be an “Old Man Winter” waiting up in the canyons, ready to take over in a blanket of frost and white. But, in Autumn, we have “Wise Man Wizard”. with the sweep of his invisible wand, he summons moisture and rain. Then, he flicks it again to stir- up the winds. With that mysterious touch, he commands the temperatures to fall, and the leaves to grandstand their dramatic hues. Then, oh so subtly, he gently twirls his wand, capturing crisped leaves in his design to be noticed. Our eyebrows raise. Our footsteps pause, our heads turn to listen, and our heartbeats do a mini bellyflop from within. We know its here. Autumn has come!
There, at home, is the cinnamon in the applesauce on the stove, and the pumpkin bread cooling from the oven. A log just softly cracked in two in the fireplace, and the kitten opens one eye, spots it, shuts his lid again, and goes back to his undercurrent, slumbering purr. There’s the door, the latch is lifting….another pair of boots has come home.
There are many beautiful things in life.
An infant’s responsive smile,
The curled edge of rose petals unfolding
the whiff of brownies baking in an oven…
What makes them quite beautiful is that exact moment when they are “discovered”.
If one truly pays attention, throughout the day, one can spot these beautiful nuances everywhere and in many forms. It’s a simple matter of being attuned to the surrounding world. Thus, just at the very moment when a baby’s dimple deepens, or the third from the center layer of rose petals begin to unfurl, or the second that chocolatey aroma hits one’s olfactory system, is when the exquisite beauty is realized. And what a sweet thing these miniscule moments actually are. For they are gone within a millisecond. Poof. Well, if you are fortunate, there is a bit of lingering in which to fully appreciate these beautiful pieces of reality.
Life can be exalted to sheer loveliness by so many different notes in the symphony of Nature. Maybe you notice a shadow play made from trees’ leaves and twigs cast onto the lawn in a city park. Perhaps, for a moment, you feel a paper-thin, but percussive rhythm as your shoes walk and crunch over fallen autumn leaves beneath an overhead canopy of color. Hearing this, you are persuaded to break into a lackadaisical sing-song kind of march, that definitely leads up to a melody your mind is tempted to begin humming, as you saunter along. In addition to the music from your soul, you might take in a gentle serenade going on above, up in those same trees which gave you the crisping leaves and the flashing color. Out of one eye, you catch a slash of brilliant blue streaking from one perch to the next. It is a surprise and contrast that becomes the climax of this beautiful moment. Frozen in the beauty of it all, you stop, close your eyes, and then the birdcall takes “center stage.” It is a jubilant finale to an ever-so delicate slice of time. You just witnessed music “coloratura”,~ personified…
It is with this very same excitement, openness and gentility that a very sweet love story began.
Long ago, about 1947, in the coastal city of Santa Barbara, a young woman and a young man were about to meet. Their union was a blessing that continued to unfold for 52 years. It was a thing of great beauty because it was borne from effortless love. These two people found that their love for one another was incredibly easy to give and was indubitably meant to be.
The young lady had come from the Midwest, but had grown up in Canoga Park, California from age twelve, onward. She was an Education major in college at UC Santa Barbara. Among her wide variety of interests and pursuits, she also aspired to be a teacher, just as her aunt back in Illinois had also been a school-teacher. In her senior year, Dorothy was just returning from an “over the school break vacation” camping trip she had been taken on, against her wishes with her brother. He was sequestering her away from a young man she had been dating and really liked, but whom her brother did not believe was suitable for her. He even managed to bring her late back to school so she would have no real chance of connecting again with this fellow. For probably the first time in her school career, she was tardy returning to the campus. All the other young women in her sorority were already settled and excited for the semester to begin. Dorothy showed up, suitcases in tow, on the brink of classes beginning. Thus, when a traditional soiree was to take place in the parlor of her sorority house, she had to throw herself together and get all spruced up for the party. Dorothy went down into town and bought very pretty pale blue material for her formal. Once back at the house, she went downstairs into the basement where there was a sewing machine. She sewed herself a very lovely gown which would prove to be the perfect look for the occasion. Gentlemen from fraternities were invited as guests, and everyone would be introduced. It was the initial social event of the season, and one nobody wanted to miss.
Well, Dorothy, was very glad to be reunited with her sorority sisters, and the last thing that was on her mind was meeting a man that evening. She was still thinking of her beau that her brother had gone to great lengths to make sure she would not be reunited with ever again. Dorothy was simply thrilled she was one year away from graduation and focusing toward that end was of utmost importance.
In the salon, all the ladies were sitting or standing in clusters of two or three with their forties-style hair framing their demure faces. They wore the most elegant of dresses, high heels with stockings all perfectly arranged, and maybe some were wearing gloves. Dazzling in her powder blue gown, Dorothy scoped out the room after she had made all her reunion hellos with friends, and frankly didn’t see anyone who piqued her interest. They all seemed like nice guys, but, nobody that would give her the least bit of a spark. The only tantalizing development was what she had been told by the sorority housemother. This year was different, a second hasher had been hired. Thus, Dorothy was curious as to who he was. But, so far there was no special moment: no dimpled grin, no blushed curl of petal, no scent of delectable chocolate in the air.
Across the lounge Dorothy spotted him. In through the service door emerged a flame of bright blonde hair. It was a young man who had handsome, chiseled Scandinavian features. She liked his cute gold-rimmed glasses. He was slim but muscular. He was tall, but not too tall. In fact, he was just right. He was carrying a tray with pieces of delicious cake on it. He was the new hasher! He was hired by the housemother to help serve for the reception. He had been in the Navy and was now earning a degree in Physical Education also at UCSB. He, too hailed from middle America, the farmland, to be exact, but also grew up in the Los Angeles area as a teenager. Now here he was, a bright, happy hasher, stepping into Dorothy’s world. She just simply saw him, and desire was ignited.
Here’s the thing. Not only was this man the spark for Dorothy to see, but he, too, detected her across the room! His eyes canvassed the rest of the female population, but, who stood out was this darling woman also with toe-head blonde locks. Her curls and waves tastefully caressed the outline of her very pretty, finely featured face. She appeared petite, a bit sun-kissed, and with eyes as blue as his. Dressed to the nines in her soft blue, she was indeed, that spark for him. It was romantic magnetism that pulled them together. This hasher, named Clifton, decided to cast typical protocol aside and not work the sitting room from first at the door’s entrance and then move around, guest by guest, but instead, to follow his instincts. He made a bee-line straight for Dorothy, and set down in front of her a rather ostentatiously-sized piece of cake. It was much larger than all the rest, and it was his signal to her, that he was interested.
Thus, the “shadowed interplay of leaves and twigs” began their visual song that would soon lead to their heartfelt, hand in hand March through life.
One day, while scrolling through Facebook’s newsfeed, I came across a very vintage video, all black and white, of Cher and her trusty companion, Sonny. She is wearing a sparkly pantsuit, silhouetted with bell bottoms, and a simple sleeveless shift top. One half of her outfit is black, and the other half is white. To top off the interesting “look”, she is wearing bauble earrings of generous size, that are plain half black and half white globes, split horizontally right around the middle. Her signature sleek, long black hair with bangs mirrors her signature sway in time to the rhythm of the song. Sonny, steps up onto the small platform stage beside her, in blatant black and white checkered pants, wide leather belt, and a funky floral black and white shirt. The presumed odd contrast of design works surprisingly well to pull off a “nerdy-cool” ensemble for him. He of course, has his bowl haircut without one piece of hair out of place. In fact, he looks adoringly into Cher’s eyes and notices one teensy hair caught in her thick eyelashes. With a loving boyfriend-like sweep of his fingers, he brushes it away, she not flinching for one second. The song they are singing is “I’ve Got You Babe”.
Indeed he does. She does too.
The simplicity of this song video actually speaks volumes. It tells me, that the two of them know who they are. A duo. A team. A union. And each one is unique to the other. I think the wearing of black and white reiterated this fact. Not because one is female and the other male. No, its because Cher was and still is, the epitome of svelte, chic and cool all in one. Being very statuesque, with elegant, elongated features, her hair, her bangs, her eyelashes, her nose, her long torso on a set of “must be a mile long” legs. And as she sings, her body is a modest, yet totally engaged continuance of movement, flowing and accentuating the drive of the beat. She even improvises an “air tambourine” with her slender, long fingered hand. Sonny, on the other hand, is shorter, maybe somewhat stocky, perhaps not, it is hard to tell by the voluminous pants and shirt. Making out any kind of physique is impossible, so what one learns to visually cherish are his expressive eyes, sly smirk and exuberant body language. Clearly he loves this woman beside him, and looks up to her, figuratively and realistically. Where she is somewhat reserved in her singing at first, he comes on strong and nearly boastful. His demeanor is without thought to pose or style, he just portrays himself, in the now, being in love. Hence the black and white. Two very different auras, but both a fine melding at the seam or line of meeting.
What I become enamored with, is the chemistry that flows across that line of demarcation. As they sing their loving song to one another, messages volly back and forth, telling of complete respect, gratitude and promise. That’s right, as their modern-day (1960’s) musical sonnet spills spontaneously; its apparent they are obviously making overtures to one another. It is a blatant, unabashed pledge to give, to care for and never take for granted the other partner in this fantastic twosome. They are singing a ballad, each the minstrel and the recipient. It’s a genuine, beautiful thing to hear and behold.
It is also atypical.
Today’s music seems rife with so many negatives. When did disgruntlement become cool? Lyric after lyric is a pondering of the unsavories in life. The words of today seem hell-bent on parlaying what is discordant. I suppose composers feel if they are in a state of angst, they must be intellectual. Thus, all we tend to hear is accounting after accounting of what brings dismay, shame, worry, failure, trouble, poverty, contamination, distress, ill-will, ignorance, thoughtlessness, irresponsibility, fretfulness, disease, crime, irony, and ill-fated outcome. Of course these things do exist, and ever so more today than before, perhaps. But, is it the answer to have music become the posterboard for pessimistic opinion and incendiary activism?
I suppose if some of the music out there waved these banners, that is alright; after all art is meant to reflect life. But, in truth, today’s world does have some pretty fine things to sing about! Beauty does abound! Love can be found down every corridor and in every niche on this earth. Why not allow the music industry the opportunity to capitalize on optimism? We know when thinking positively, circumstances do proceed better. I don’t quite know how, but they do. Why not send a salient shout out to the composers of our time, that we are ready to see the light, the sweet, and the pure; for indeed, they do exist!
The love ballad of Sonny and Cher, proclaiming their lucky stars they have each other is a far more wholesome way to deal with being human, in my opinion. It’s not because they both donned rose-colored glasses. It’s because they made their choice to focus on good. Youth take the meaning of lyrics seriously. They hang onto every word. If all that they read is an overwhelming truckload of doom and gloom, then is it any wonder that we have children bullying their peers, feeling suicidal or teenagers shooting children in their schools? I believe the time is now to switch gears and change the degradation and the proclaiming of ruination. Do not most of us still have our spiritual belief systems and our Higher Power to whom we intrinsically entrust our lives daily? Are there not such things as dreams, wishes and hope? Why do the lyrics of today dash these to the side as if they are no longer important?
This is critical.
Once and for all, only “seeing” the downfallen and writing of how the world is full of suffering is not in any way, shape or form a productive approach to bringing music to our planet. Our continued widespread use of music for politically charged or extremely morose themes could prove to be dangerous, and even frighteningly cataclysmic. People need to be reminded where there is yin there is yang! Each coin has a flip side. Behind the dark cloud there is the Sun. Why constantly dwell on what is wrong, when indeed, there is a Wealth of Wonderful out there, right now, needing to be expounded upon? People need peace in their pockets and hope in their heart. There’s a lovely, grand world out there to discover and explore musically.
Sonny and Cher sang of appreciation for another human being. What might happen to this rather “insecure at the moment” realm in which we live, if it were to mostly hear songs of the kind-hearted, uplifting theme? I would like to think it could change lives. It could save lives. It could even save our society.
What else would be more “cool” than that?
To all the songwriters and musicians out there. Don’t stop championing your causes. They are significant. They are dire. Of course. But, please, find it within the deepest recesses of your soul, to extrapolate the impetus to also write of what is truly fine. Please be a beacon of all that deserves to be lauded, praised, detailed, treasured and esteemed. There’s plenty of material to write about. It’s all around, we just have gotten so used to zooming in on the bad. Songwriters, your pen is definitely a mighty sword. Your choice of words can instigate sharing, applauding, encouraging, and expanding positivity in our midst. Grab a “brush” and “paint” your lyrical canvas with words that generate warmth, healing, love and enlightenment. Free yourselves from the tyranny of the downtrodden. There are far more inspiring sagas to tell in song. Be a modern-day balladeer! Write odes to Love, for Love is everywhere. Find it, and write about it. We know there are beautiful moments happening every day. Make them known! Change the destructive attitude with your intuitive, written voice. You will be heard, and life will gradually become a better, happier place. We need you, the time is now. Sonny had Cher, and Cher had Sonny.
Who will you be there for?
Remembering 9-11 is always an emotional experience for us all. That morning, 2001, I recall driving to work in a state of ignorant bliss. I was listening to classical music on KUSC. But after about the first two miles, an unusual feeling came over me. It was strange because I didn’t know what it was and couldn’t put my finger on it. All I knew was, everyone was driving oh so calmly and not in their usual mad rush to work or school. I thought: “Is it a holiday? Oh, dear! I could have slept in!” Then, I thought, “No, maybe there was an earthquake and somehow I didn’t feel it in the shower before breakfast. But, no, that couldn’t be. If it were a big earthquake, enough to slow people down, then surely I’d know it. No… I guess I’m just imagining things.”! Thusly, I resumed my listening to the music that roused my soul, and really thought nothing more about the odd feeling and the way people were behaving.
Once I zipped into my parking spot at school, I gathered up my usual accoutrements; coffee mug, purse, satchel and a stack of books. Into the office I went, ready to be greeted by either the secretaries or the principal. I immediately noted a spectrum of looks on the faces of a handful of colleagues gathered around the secretaries’ main desks, which ranged from empty stares to anguished frowns. Still, I thought, “Oh, Silly, you are thinking so dramatically. Stop it.”
As I proceeded to exit the office door to go stride up the hallway to my classroom, someone said to me in a monotoned voice, “Your brother called you and said to call him right away- here’s his number”. Instantly, my worrywart brain ran the gamut of fears: “My brother? Which one? Why? Oh no, not my mother! Is she okay? Are my kids alright? Did something happen to one of my family members?” At fiber-optic speed every frightening scenario synapsed throughout my mental network. In this case, it was unfortunate to be blessed with a vivid imagination. Well, I spun around on my high heels, and high-tailed it into the teachers’ lounge. There was a phone I could use right there. (This was not the cell-phone era). Just the fact that I received a phone call at work from a sibling, was a riotous event. Why I didn’t think it was something good or joyful, I cannot say, except for maybe, those zombie, mesmerized drivers I encountered city-wide on every road this morning.
I then looked at the note. It was from my baby brother. (I’m fifteen years his senior, and he is the cherry that topped the ice-cream sundae when he completed our family.) I started dialing…and made a last ditch effort to figure out what this was all about. I pulled out the positive, and thought it was either a prank or he was going to swing by for a quick, impromptu social call. You see, I was and am so proud of him. He lived and worked in Los Angeles. His present job was Head-hunting in business. He had a way with people, and was excellent at matching the person to the right occupation. But what could he want?
“Hi…”, he said. Pause. “Did you hear the news?” I responded with no. “Well, it’s very bad, very serious… a plane at 9:00 am New York time, drove straight into a tower of the World Trade Center. Then another plane did the same thing to the second tower.” “What? How could such an accident happen? Really?”, I responded. “We don’t know, but the president has put a freeze on every airport in the country. There are other planes- and they think we are being attacked.” As he told me these things, he stated them in a firm, soothing voice. All I could do was think and then say, “Our beautiful America? Who would want to kill us?” “Why kill our citizens?”. None of it made any sense. Lastly, my brother went on to tell me there was fear the White House was a target. Then… I just lost it. I began to cry, my face became hot and flushed and my heart seemed to beat out of my chest. Finally, he said he would talk with me when school was out, and to keep in touch. He said I should feel safe in school and that the boys were safe in theirs. How did he know I wanted to just go grab my kids from daycare? He knew I had a job to protect and care for my children where I was teaching. His thoughtful gesture in reaching out to extend an informative comforting hand, reminded me I needed to be stoic, resilient and level-headed. I needed to not discuss the unfolding events unless point blank questioned about it. I needed to be a brave, wise, protective, professional. The call to arms had sounded.
The rest of the day was as if I were living in a mist. I honestly recall very little about what we did in class. I believe I simply went through the motions. It must have been surreal.
On my drive home that fated day, I reflected on the phone call. I was impressed with the stewardship my younger brother demonstrated. And then it hit me like a ton of bricks. He acted in faith, taking on the role of our father, our dad who had passed away two years prior. My sweet, giving, steadfast “littlest” brother, assumed the paternal responsibility. I heard later that night he had called all my siblings and had driven out to our mom’s to be at her side. He gave us his love. He made sure the family would not be stricken or broken apart. He made sure every single one of us was connected and in the know. He was a fine American that day. He showed “the enemy” they wouldn’t succeed because he emboldened our strength of family.
My zany scallawag, “Goodnight Moon” loving, Little Tykes green tractor farmer, Little League pitcher, Atari champion, computer-wiz, thespian extraordinaire, violist magnifique, USC Trojan, business entrepreneur, racecar driver, shrimp scampi chef, baby brother —proved to be “The Solidifying Factor” in what was inarguably, a quite fretful, disillusioning perhaps even dangerous day. For that dedication to family was surely a rise to honor. I will always be very, very grateful that he loved us as our father.
Written: September 10, 2013
I am so happy. I received my first intrinsic “gift” from my class today. I learned, even after ALLLL these years of pedagogy, something wonderful about little students. When they fall in love with something you have done, and leave a few subtle “breadcrumbs” along the way…one had better pay attention and appreciate their communicative hints. So, it goes like this. The first day of school, I presented my obligatory (my own set goal) acapella singing of “America”. I have a book that portrays the lyrics through superb photos…waving amber grain, spacious skies and shining seas—excellent for ELLs. (English Language Learners). Well, I was fortunate enough this year to actually sing on as close to “spot on key” as possible (for me): believe me, I am no singer. But, I did okay, no cracks and I somehow picked the right starting note that would allow me to reach the upper register notes and the low ones, too. The kiddos really liked it. They said “again, again!”. I did, and thus began their love affair with learning it.
Over the next few weeks they requested I read the book and sing it each time I tried to instigate a read-aloud on the floor. No relenting. No changing of the guard, either. They’re just barely coming to accept the beginnings of the “Johnny Appleseed” song. Today, we were especially too busy for a read-aloud, and despite the fact that we got to work in our first art project tied to literacy and writing, my little scallawaggers took the proverbial “bull by the horns”, themselves.
As is the rule. when finished with their project, all cleaned-up and fancy free, their next task was to choose a book to read independently or with a buddy. So, as I am helping mend circles that were supposed to have been made from a square, engineer a few glue bottles, and subtely advise a few logical choices, I realize most of my 23 charges are completed with their “Goodnight Owl” projects. I know this because I start to hear a wafting gentle melody…it continues on with a few more voices chiming in, oh so naturally. I don’t think my pupils even knew they were embarking on a genuine enterprise, not for show or even affirmation, but for the simple joy of singing that song.
My one boy who has been the most enthusiastic champion for the reading of that book daily, was on the floor turning the pages as the song leader, if you will. A cluster of about four or five children had heads bent low hovering over every word, singing with complete childlike essence. Then, I noticed others still at their desks, in a non-chalant spontaneous way, were one by one joining-in by humming or singing along. I tell you, it was a magical moment. A present all wrapped in unadulterated love. Thank you class. I love America, too.