Ry Cooder

 

Fifty years ago, a massive, turn-of-the -century brick and wood building on the main drag in Georgetown, DC, was home to the hippest record store on the planet.

I was just passing by, minding my own business, when suddenly mugged, dragged helplessly inside by the sounds of Ry Cooder’s self-named first album,  playing on four huge speakers tucked into high corners overhead. It was back when quadraphonic sound was a thing. That cavernous shop, its rows of waist-high wooden bins packed tightly, overflowing with vinyl possibilities, reverberated and quivered Ry’s masterful guitar work, putting me inside of his guitar itself…mesmerized.

“Boomer’s Story”, “Paradise and Lunch”, “Chicken Skin Music”, “Borderline”, “Little Sister” …all of it spawns colorful memories of where, when, and who I was, and who I was with. I still listen, frequently. Even as I get old, Ry’s music doesn’t.

Very early yesterday morning, I walked into the kitchen for coffee, telling Alexa to play some of his “Buena Vista Social Club” stuff, reminiscent of the afternoon street sounds in Medellin while visiting with my daughter some years ago.

I’m hard pressed to think of anything better than sipping a scalding cup of jet-fuel Columbian coffee while listening to Ry Cooder, tucked comfortably into my nest of mismatched pillows out in the weathered Adirondack chair, as dawn’s first sun begins to play peek-a-boo from behind a tree line on the other side of the lake.  

A peak moment, now 50 years since Ry first ambushed me on that street in Georgetown, pulled me once again into his world of musical genius, while simultaneously running a filmstrip featuring much of my adult life.

His music was always there, and so was I.

New Wheels!

 

Oh, I have an entertaining story or two, but all in all? Mine has been a forgettable life. No big claim to fame. I mean, I had a great run, well, am having a great run, but no big deal in the scheme of things.

I mostly followed the rules and expectations. Flew under the radar. Good husband, father employee, boss…

Boring…

But now, as I enjoy my retirement dog walks, cooking projects, house and garden chores, a squashy couch and huge TV with 27,000 channels, I’m kind of bored.

Well, WAS kind of bored. Until I saw this.

The absolute coolest vehicle anywhere. I immediately thought “WTF, I’m getting one!”. Something I’ve always wanted but never could justify the expense. Plus, no farm, no acreage, no use for heavy equipment at all, really. Blah, blah, blah.

Never driven anything other than a car, but this thing? Bet I could rearrange a parking lot! Switch cars in neighbor’s driveways. Transplant palms. Remove public statues and reinstall them in fun and unexpected places.

Since I’ve never liked the through traffic on our street, I’m closing off the far end, turning it into a cul-de-sac.  

I’d be happy to just drive it on the walking paths throughout our development. Everyone will assume I’m working with the HOA. That’s how I’ll identify myself when I roll up in front of some guy working in his yard.

“HOA, Sir! Please stand back. HOA!”

Then I’d tell him we have a sewer problem, dig up the swale in front of his house, dump a used hot water heater in the hole, and bolt.

Impractical shit old guys buy?  I’m joining the club.

Know anyone with an expensive boat that just sits around somewhere, unused?

Got a swimming pool in the back yard you only pay attention to during the monthly cleaning?

That pricy pool table in the great room is no more than a storage place for stuff you plan to move elsewhere but haven’t gotten around to doing so in months.  

What about the expensive exercise equipment that now doubles as laundry hook?

Even the entire formal room of your house goes unused... to keep it nice for the company that you never have.

My point is that my plan to get the dream vehicle of my life is not so crazy. People often spend their money on wants, not needs.

Do I need it? No, of course not. But I look at that tractor the same way an old guy looks at his expensive new convertible…with the lust that used to be reserved for a beautiful woman with curves even more seductive than that sportscar…or my tractor, if that is even possible.

I just want that John Deere. With a second mortgage, I can afford it. I’m old and have rarely done anything out of the box that is only for me. Today, that’s changing.

Oh, I’m happy to give Carla a ride in the air-conditioned cab, show her the cutting-edge GPS and all. We’ll take the walking path the back way down to Publix yelling at walkers: “HOA! HOA!”

I’m selling the Jeep to help pay for this thing. It fits perfectly in our two-car driveway when Carla moves her car and parks on the swale in front. I’ve read the covenants. No RV’s, campers or work trucks allowed, but never any mention of farm equipment.

Attachments to die for. Scoops, shovels, hay bailers, rakes…I especially love the giant screw that drills holes for telephone poles.

Now that thing is cool. Don’t start yapping at me about having no need. Look in the mirror at your triple diamond earrings before you step out of your start lecturing.

A word of warning. If you live in town and need help with a super heavy job, don’t call me. I’m mostly keeping this thing in my driveway, pristine.

(OK, you can call me if you want to do fun stuff though…turn over neighbors’ cars maybe put one in their swimming pool. For that, we can talk.)

 

 

Forsythia Sanctuary

 

1956

When I was 8 years old, Roxie was my first serious girlfriend. Although she had a nice indoor/outdoor enclosure off the house, on most summer days she sat at the top of the driveway, with me, both of us huddled under a huge Forsythia bush, its canopy a bonfire of yellow flowers.  With my arm draped around my her, I distinctly remember thinking that things couldn’t get much better than that, sitting there in the shade of my hiding place, with Roxie, safe under that screaming Forsythia.  I knew it was a peak moment. Both of us peeking out from our cool sanctuary watching heat snakes slither up off the blistering macadam driveway, reaching for the sky, as if from electrified waters.