Lost songs and lap blankets
It’s June. A hint of warm weather is on the horizon, enough to get us out on the porch but still in sweaters and under lap blankets.
The lap blanket. An image reserved for the elderly and infirm, but why?
For one, the elderly have lived long enough to know a good thing. A warm set of legs keeps the whole body feeling cozy out there on the cool patio. A lap blanket extends our stay, away from those blaring screens inside.
Oh, that TV can be a menace.
Must we really continue to fool ourselves? We start each day with an exuberant feeling that the day will be full of accomplishments, big and small. Then we fritter away countless hours hypnotized by the screens.
But on the patio, you’re free.
As long as you leave your phone inside, you’re free out there on the patio. Away without even being away. Free to hear the wind rustling through the new leaves on the maple out front. Free to hear a full thought waltz its way around your noggin to completion. Free to allow thoughts to get carried away.
“To get carried away.” What a nice expression.
To get carried away… a pleasant preoccupation when a thought gets carried away… one thought rolling toward another as the eyes rest on the maple out front and its bright green newness. Seeing it but also not really.
My daughter is learning about rap music. I’m not sure where she’s learning it, but that’s not the point right now. She’s out here on the porch with me and has asked me to make up a rap song.
Always the entertainer. Always keen to impress my little audience of one, I furrow my brow as if deep in thought, nod as if I’ve got it, then clear my throat before I begin:
“Now this is a story all about how
My life got flipped turned upside down
And I'd like to take a minute, just sit right there
I'll tell you how I became the prince of a town called Bel-Air…”
I go through the whole theme song. She’s impressed but skeptical. “Did you really just make that up?” I laugh and confess.
Without a TV on the porch, I still manage to bring a bit of TV to the porch. Oh well.
It is sad to think of all the fun songs that will never be known to these kids. They’ll never really understand the scope of the Michael Jackson arc. They’ll never see Madonna the way we see her. Bruce Springsteen will just be some old guy their parents like. They won’t sing Bob Seger’s “Like a Rock” when they see a stunning new GMC truck on the road. And when they check into a hotel in California, the Eagles will not come to mind.
I am constantly stunned and stung that the oldies station plays songs from my high school dances.
Bummer. I was recently driving and singing along to “Here I go again” by Whitesnake.
Why is that still in there? Kicking around in my memory bank?
How did it even get in there?
Why is it fused so tight decades later?
Worst of all, the song makes more sense to me now than it did when I slow-danced to it with Mr. Wintermint Certs.
“No I don't know where I'm going
But, I sure know where I've been
Hanging on the promises
In songs of yesterday
And I've made up my mind
I ain't wasting no more time…”
Wowza, Whitesnake. Truth! Who knew the “songs of yesterday” would be this actual song? Mind-blowing.
Anyway, this is how my thoughts got carried away today sitting there on the porch with my lap blanket, considering the watercolour shade of that tree. Sap green I think.
By autumn, it will be bright fire red, and I’ll be back here on the porch. Back with the lap blanket…
“In the cold November rain.”
November Rain was released 33 years ago. Oh my gawwwwddddd.
The June Cottage Letter just went out for subscribers. If you want in, head over to the Etsy shop. This week’s theme involves the wisdom of cats. Also the new notecards… oh yeah!
"If humans were as content as cats, there would be no wars. Only gardens."
-Kurt Vonnegut
