In the car today, running errands, [my least favorite pastime] the radio plays the Beatles. A 50th anniversary retrospective. I remember their arrival to the US. I ditched school to wait all day at Forest Hills Stadium to buy tickets for their concert, ended up sitting nearly in the last row, but just below a speaker, which saved the music from the screaming crowd.

I was hooked from the first. A Paul girl, as Anna Quinlan would say, although later I became a John girl. A sure sign of personal evolution I thought at the time, and about the same time that I began to more fully appreciate the Rolling Stones.

Twice I linger in the car to listen. One cannot walk away from Blackbird, or even from the strange and wonderful Rocky Raccoon. Errands can wait.

I remember well that we were all captured at first by their kinetic energy, their adorable looks, those pin-ties and black suits, the shaggy hair, but it was the music that kept us to the end. My mother asked me what I saw in those skinny boys from Britain, but she got it, she had an ear for melody. I heard her humming their tunes now and then while cooking.

My mother and I traveled to Europe the summer I was sixteen - a dream for  her that my father was determined to fulfill before she died. London was the first stop. I tracked down the Beatles tailor, whom I had read about somewhere, and had a lovely chat with the son. I felt closer to them forever after, although their music was everywhere, for all of us. 1964. The little girl from the Bronx and her immigrant mother traveling on the iconic $5 a day journey, Beatles music the soundtrack.

So it should be no wonder that every time I hear them, the nostalgia is overwhelming. But today it is more than that. It is the music, simply the music. We forget sometimes how damn good it was. The poignant melodies and eccentric lyrics. The string orchestra in the background that their producer introduced to rock music. The simple starts, the movement to crescendo, the mesmerizing choruses. Unforgettable. Touching, still. Makes me want to cry, and makes me smile. As few can do.

On arrival home, I sit in the garage a few moments, close my eyes, and sing along to Eleanor Rigby. Still wow.

I will dig out all the albums today and listen, one by one, and feel my heart swell with the memory and the joy of that sound. A perfect Sunday afternoon [now that chores are done.]

Aging Part I

Photo lifted from www.improvephotography.com

When I was 50, a precocious boy, son of a friend, pronounced me an old woman. His explanation: simple mathematics. If life expectancy was 72 [which it was at that time] then youth was 0 - 24, middle age 25 - 48, and old age, 49+. Hard to argue with that thinking.

Now, approaching [six months away] my 65th birthday, he might imagine me ancient.

Psychologists tell us that at every age we feel we are younger than we are. With one exception: new parents, whose sleep deprivation and stress make them feel older than they are. I remember that well. Fortunately, it passes, as most things do.

These days, at heart, I feel 40. Certainly no more than the 50 year-old accused of near-senility. This may relate to the current life expectancy of 81 for women, or perhaps to my fortunately good health, and the almost constant presence of the California sun. Perhaps it has something to do with having daughters who enliven my life with their journeys, so that I draw on their energy. Perhaps because I still listen to rock & roll and dance 2 or 3 mornings a week with Jazzercise to loud country and techno music that gets my heart pumping. Perhaps because I still study Spanish, almost daily, challenging my brain. Perhaps because an increasingly Zen view of life keeps me present, without much looking back and only occasionally peeking ahead, because at this age, too much focus on the future can be dreary.

I'd like to believe Shakespeare that the best is yet to come, and there is much to look forward to, but the reality is that much of the best has passed, and that's okay. There are many pleasures to age, not the least of which is a sense of solidarity with one-self.

Each year, at the start of the year, I take a good look at my budget to ensure that I can partake of my passions without compromising my financial future, and this exercise also keeps me young at heart, because I imagine a vista of 25 or 30 years ahead, maybe more, although 90 seems like more than enough living to me, and in so doing, see almost as much adult life ahead as past. Because, in truth, I didn't really grow up until I was in my thirties. Perhaps that's why I still feel so young.

Still, whatever the reasoning, come summer I will be officially a senior, to just about everyone but Social Security, and I look forward to the rewards of that status. I just heard I can take classes at 24-Hour Fitness for free - that alone will keep me young - and there are many financial discounts to enjoy. My now fully silver hair looks good, my energy level is great, the pleasure I find in friendship and travel, arts and literature, never greater.

Some time soon I think I might have a grandchild and that, I know, is a game changer. Definitely a reward, and a joy I look forward to.

I do not deny age. I only wish to continue to appreciate the benefits and avoid, as long as possible, the ravages. Like the surf, there is an ebb and flow to our lives, and, with each season, a bit of sand is washed away, but the beach always looks good at sunset.

Change of Scene

Early Friday morning, a short drive to Orange County airport and park under a lamp, as I was taught long ago to do, march into the terminal, wait patiently in a too-slow security lie, but I am early, as I always am, so no rush, and make my way to Gate 18, which is on the end, but a short walk, board soon after and take-off on time [thank you Southwest]. The plane shoots into the sky in a steep arc [a sound abatement technique, so the pilot calms the anxious] and settles quickly at 40,000 feet which, based on elementary school training, is  5,280 feet per mile [one of those childhood memorizations that never quits] means roughly 8 miles towards the heavens, while I gaze out the window into a piercingly blue sky.

This giant machine, of I don't know how many tons of heavy steel, soars through the blue like a bird, floating above bright white cottony clouds below. I read my Kindle and sip a diet pepsi, chat briefly with my seating companion, who inquires about Kindle, and in just over an hour's flying time, as promised, the pilot gently sets down the giant bird, brakes revving into that wind-tunnel vibration that lasts only seconds as it slows us from a gallop to a crawl. In moments I am awaiting the public bus that for $1 [senior's price - otherwise $2] transports me in 12 minutes to a stop barely two blocks from the boutique Citizen Hotel in downtown Sacramento where moments later my dear friend Chris, of Sonoma County, arrives for our annual "sisters week-end."

Our room for the night, pre-paid and discounted via Expedia, with tall sun-filled windows facing a park, has two lovely beds with white sateen bedding and plump pillows, plenty of plugs for charging, a large screen TV and fresh subway tiles in the spacious bathroom that reminds me of my first apartment in NYC.

The staff calls me by name as we come and go and we are so well situated we walk everywhere. The two days are crisp, cold and sunny, perfect for strolling, and also for cozying up in the fine bistro's and restaurants Chris has scoped out with hearty food and lively ambiance, where we dissect all the matters of the day, personal and universal, taste good wine, and laugh, as good friends do when time permits for such visits.

The Crocker Museum is a treasure trove of fine art with the bonus of a fabulous restored mansion [gorgeous doors and molding, sweeping staircase - shades of Downtown Abbey] and Sac neighborhoods are charming, although this capital city is a small city, definitely not NYC or San Fran. Good for a week-end, yes.

My return flight is delayed, too many hours in the airport, but I am reading a good book and there is a lovely little wine bar with small plates of decent food, so could be worse. 36 hours later I am home again, yet I might have been gone a week for the tonic of a change of scene with a dear friend. Thanks to Southwest miles, Kindle, smart phones and tablets, making life oh so much easier. And thanks to Jess Walter, whose "Financial Lives of the Poets" was great reading, and might account for this slightly off-kilter narrative.

No matter how far we are never far from family or clients, and don't have to break the bank for a respite. Ah yes, the blessings of a modern age. And friendship.

The Music of Community

I attended the holiday concert of Lagunatunes tonight. A friend of mine is a member of the choir and invited me. It was a magical experience, harkening back to Xmas throughout the centuries and throughout the world.

The Episcopal church where the concert was held was standing room only. Mostly friends and family of the singers, but also community members who cherish holiday music. Some of the tunes were familiar, some with updated arrangements, and still others unknown to me, but all sung with the enthusiasm and delight one might expect from a community chorale.

The music of Christmas warms your heart, no matter your religion or disposition. But a holiday choir is more than music, it's community. In that hour, in the midst of song, all politics and heartache are banished, all differences dismissed. We are one. We celebrate the season, we celebrate the music. Few moments bring people together as much as this. And it is in this moment we remember what the year-end season means - neither commerce or even Christ, but that time of year we accept the past and look forward to the future.

Hallelujah.

Short Story as Modern Art

            I love a good short story. I have piles of collections by my bedside, collecting dust but always at hand for late night reading. And, like all book lovers, I just love the piles. When a great new collection comes from a writer I admire, I read start to finish, relishing the buffet of characters and story lines that occasionally blend into each other, but make for a great feast.

            I rarely write short stories. Much as I love them, I’m no good at writing them. I get lost in descriptive prose or want to introduce another character in the mix, or I end up with an essay. Perhaps I read them with extra pleasure because I know how hard they are to write.

Some people wonder what has happened to traditional stories. You know the format: a clearly defined opening, a middle, an end, and in between, a crescendo, the denouement, in which the character(s) faces the conflict, learns what is meant to be learned, or is forever altered. Fables and children’s stories are the best examples. However few short stories are written this way anymore. In the post-modernist world of literature, stories meander. Lessons are learned subtly, if at all. The structure, like modern art, begs for interpretation. We read in thrall of language or characters or a question posed, even if never answered.

The dilemmas of modern story telling do not usually have one solution. In fact, there are no absolute truths in modern short stories. At best, a collection of tales weave a mosaic. Junot Diaz’s This is How you Lose Her is a mélange of sex and love and gender battles related by and about one core character who drifts from lover to lover, escapade to escapade. It is the gestalt that offers significance. Joan Wickersham’s lovely first story collection, The News from Spain: 7 Variations on a Love Story, connected only in essence, as her characters gallop from 18^th century Vienna to modern day in a kaleidoscope of love and loss, all beautifully told, without merely a tiny ribbon on the package.

Alice Munro, queen of the short story in the last century, has a new collection, waiting to be read, and based on previews in The New Yorker, she might be likened to a conceptual artist, inviting the reader to consider the nature of the situation rather than form.

Perhaps the modern short story can be bundled like art movements. Modernism to post-modernism, abstract expressionism to minimalism, surrealism to illusionism. Recent stories might be consider late modernism, where light and space take precedence over imagery? Or is language moving the story towards graphic design – creating a visual image that otherwise has no context? A form of hyper-realism? Post-minimalism?

No matter. Every short story stands on its own and every one has merit. I recently pulled out my well-worn copy of the collected stories of Grace Paley and re-read Mother, among the shortest of short stories, and one that floats, without tether to time or place, rather staccato brush strokes that invoke an abstract image of one life, as well as those left behind. Perhaps a neo-expressionist?

Whatever the form, stories are our verbal canvases and we need them to remind us that in this visual age, while a picture may paint a thousand words, we still need the words.