Graduation Day

There’s a time a for joy
A time for tears
A time we’ll treasure through the years
We’ll remember always
Graduation day**

Last Friday, my wife and I attended our oldest grandson, Reed’s, graduation from McKinney North High School.  It was a challenging year for the young man, moving before his senior year to a new school in a new state, leaving friends behind in Utah.  But there he was, sitting in the sixth row of the seating at the Credit Union of Texas Event Center in his blue and orange cap and gown, waiting to receive his diploma.  Reed has always reminded me of myself academically … very bright although not always a dedicated student … still achieving honors and headed to study engineering.  A swimmer like I was, too.  Anyway, listening to the speeches of the valedictorian and the class president, I was reminded of the song Graduation Day.   I am old enough to remember The Four Freshman version that came out in 1959.   Those of you a little younger may remember The Beach Boys version that was a staple in their concerts.  And those of you a lot younger won’t remember it at all.   For you, I offer one verse above and the Four Freshman version, here.  The point being it is a sentimental song that repeats in every verse, the line We’ll remember always, Graduation Day.

Playing Favorites 7/16/2022

My daughter Amy is visiting today from Texas, where they recently moved.   After having them only a few miles away in Utah for three years, it is good to see her … even if two of the grandkids are still in Texas and the oldest is off with his Utah friends until Sunday.   Having her here makes me nostalgic, and given my nature, being nostalgic brings my attention to the soundtrack of my life, Amy edition.  Today’s favorite could be Jon Denver’s Sunshine which I sang for both of my kids, back when they were little and I played the guitar.  But I think I’ll choose a song that reminds me of just Amy.

Christmas Eve Again

Last weekend, we had dinner at our neighbor’s house.    They had Sirius XM on playing traditional Christmas music and it was just what I needed to get me in the mood for Christmas.   Oh, yes, I had put up our tree and the lighted wreath on the front door,  And ordered (on Amazon) gifts for the grandkids.  In my family we all buy stocking stuffers for each other now that we know Santa doesn’t do it and I’m done with that (almost).  But until I start playing my Christmas soundtrack in the car as I’m driving or or on earbuds as I’m working out, I can’t really find the Christmas spirit.

Snow

I grew up in New England, Connecticut to be precise.  When I was a child, snow was a delight, a chance to sled, have snowball fights, build snow forts and snowmen.   As I grew, it became a source of income as well as fun … there were usually neighbors willing to pay a few dollars to have their driveways shoveled.   The Christmas light reflected in the glittering snow are part of my best holiday memories.  It even played a role in the courtship of my wife, Muri.  We made up after our last break-up standing on the bridge on the University of Connecticut’s Mirror Lake.  During a snow storm.  Apparently that’s a good place to make a commitment because here we are, 54 years later.

Fishing (Again)

My Dad, Frank, was an avid fisherman.  Even though he worked fifty or sixty hours a week, he still found time to go to one of the local fishing spots for a couple of hours.   He frequently returned empty-handed, sometimes because he threw back little ones and sometimes because he threw back keepers.   Although he was a fan of catching fish, he was not fond of eating them.   But the truth is, he just liked some solitary time walking along the edge of Lake Saltenstall or one of the other lakes within a half hour of home.  It was natural, then that I became a fisherman at first with Dad to show me how.   Sometimes we’d rent a rowboat and fish the shores of the big lake at Saltenstall.  Other times we’d fish the streams at Chatfield Hollow, or a lake in Guilford where his boss let us use his boat. Incidentally, one evening in 1952, Dad landed the largest bass caught in Connecticut that year, an 11 pound beauty.  Opening day was special … we’d rise early and stop for breakfast at the New Idea Diner, then head to Chatfield Hollow to compete with the dozens of anglers fishing for trout.   Beginners, my Dad called them, some of them idiots.   One particularly cold spring, I lost my footing on a slippery rock ans sat down in the brook.   My hip boots filled with freezing cold water, which my Dad thought was hysterical.   Looking back, it was … but at the time, not so much.

(Coming to) California

Forty-eight years ago, my wife and I loaded our suitcases into our boxy-but-comfortable gray Volvo and set out for California. We told our parents we just wanted to try it for a few years and I think we tried believe it ourselves. Even though we’d visited friends there a few years earlier and loved the place. Even though our best friends had moved to San Diego and we’d get to see them again. Truth: we were just kidding ourselves to make the goodbyes easier.

TBT – Looking Like Dad

This is a Throwback Thursday repost of a post about my Dad I that first posted in April of 2011 with the title Family Resemblance.   I miss my Dad every time I read it.

For most of my life, I thought I looked like my mother but as I aged and people saw me with my Dad, they began to say we looked alike.   This picture, taken at my daughter’s wedding rehearsal dinner, was the first time I ever really saw it.   But I had evidence of the family resemblance much earlier.

Franked

Last week, I was driving down the hill on a Target run, and as I was trying to adjust the GPS unit on the windshield, my wife, Muri, asked if I’d turn down the air conditioning. At 74, doing two things at once is my limit, so I said … in that certain tone of voice … Hold your horses. She gave knowing look and I said, Yes, you’ve been Franked. Frank is, of course, my Dad, and Hold your horses was his favorite response to being told to do something when he was otherwise occupied. For some reason, horses figured prominently in our family’s repertoire of sayings. If you were being a bit uppity to my Mom, she’d offer, Let me hold your high horse while you get off, and if she was tired, she’d say, The old gray mare ain’t what she used to be. But this post is about being Franked, so we’ll leave Mom’s cliches for another day.

Music Hopping

Now that I am semi-retired, I have plenty of time for unproductive activities like word games on my tablet, texting with friends and sitting around doing nothing with my cat, Claude.   And Music Hopping.  Don’t look it up.  You won’t find it.

Music Hopping (v.): randomly searching through a music library or source and playing whatever strikes your fancy.

My latest Music Hop (n. – The act of Music Hopping) started two night’s ago when , on the recommendation of a friend, I watched The Terry Kath Experience, about the founder of Chicago (my favorite rock horn group) on YouTube.   As it is prone to do, YouTube was happy to recommend other musical documentaries, including performances from Woodstock by Santana (my favorite rock guitarist) and Crosby, Stills, and Nash.   That led me to the documentary, Legends – Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young (The best rock harmonies on the planet.  Ever).   Even after years of listening, Suite Judy Blue Eyes still astonishes me.

Almost Eric

My love of music goes back as far as I can remember (and that, my friends, is a stretch of time). But as much as I love listening to music, I have never been proficient at making music. Oh, yes I’ve dabbled with guitars since high school and got to the point where I could play well enough to accompany myself singing popular songs. Singing wasn’t my strong suit either. Twenty or so years ago we bought a piano and the whole family started taking lessons. I lasted the longest and could play a dozen or so of my favorite songs before, inexplicably, I gave it up. Now, the piano sits quietly (and out of tune) in our living room. The same can be said for the three guitars I accumulated in my guitar dabbling days. On the shelf in my office is a native American flute that hasn’t uttered a note since the last time my grandkids were here and just had to try it.