The music of our youth stays with us, bringing back memories and feelings from earlier eras. Driving home from a Sunday breakfast outing with my husband this morning, I heard the rhythmic beat of 1960s music blaring from an excellent-quality loudspeaker at a nearby Dunkin’ Donuts. The music infiltrated my body, which responded irresistibly to these familiar, if rarely heard, sounds—I danced into our destination: the grocery store across the street. Across from the source of this music, in the parking lot, was a lineup of cars with their hoods and trunks open for display. We’d seen some odd, fancy, refurbished old cars driving by the restaurant earlier, and now realized that this was their destination. There was a 1956 Chevy, very similar to one owned by my boyfriend of 1961 (my age at the time: 14)—my boyfriend’s had been salmon and white. Another car had the rounded appearance of the late 1930s—a later boyfriend had modified a similar car in 1963 (age 18). He’d painted it bright red. I’d spent many happy hours riding around in these cars, and others displayed there, in my youth. As we wandered the parking lot, the familiar music continued loud and clear, as did my urge to dance. I was suddenly 19 years old again.
Although the day has turned rainy and cloudy, it started with a brilliant blue sky, with soft fluffy white clouds drifting by above. The anticipation of a warm and beautiful day remains in my mind. I finished a paper on Friday, so this weekend is a welcome respite between that paper and the next (which will begin tomorrow). Today and yesterday though, I’ve had the relaxation I felt in my youth, when there were no pressing needs (of which I was aware) and I could simply lose myself in the beauty and peace of my surroundings—following whatever inclination came to mind. I could fall into the lovely Peruvian hammock, which my husband hung outside for me, between our ash and oak trees, and gaze up at the pollution-free sky. I could wander into my flower garden to admire the flowers—Oriental lilies, gladiolas, butterfly bushes, dahlias, daisies, cone flowers, cosmos and black eyed susans—-all beautifully in bloom, the garden a riot of pink, yellow, orange, and purple. Today a pure white (and unexpected) Oriental lily came into bloom, its characteristic fragrance filling me with delight. I returned to the house with a selection of these flowers, and arranged them into bouquets—enjoying their brilliant colors as well as the process of selecting among my lovely and various vases. I filled our kitchen table, a coffee table in the living room, the window sill in the kitchen with vibrant color.
On this lovely day of rest, I plan to get out my beads, and continue working on a barrette I agreed to make for my daughter’s neighbour. I can immerse myself in the teal, turquoise and silver colors of the beads, as I complete the body and begin on the edging and backing of the barrette. Playing with beads is another of my delights; and today is a day I can devote to that if I so choose. Or perhaps I will finish reading the book my aunt lent me: The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks—about a poor black woman who died of cancer in the 1950s but whose unusual and long-lived cancer cells have continued to be a boon for cancer research.
One of the pleasures of summer (and weekends) is the freedom to choose among one’s interests and pursue whichever appeals at the moment. It feels utterly luxurious!