It’s just a song

Disclaimer:  You may not like this, particularly if you’re not USA American-born and raised, younger than 50, or male.  If necessary, contact a lawyer.

Who’d have thought that Skeeter would help me indulge in one of my guilty pleasures.  I love all sorts of music--the more romantic, dumber and sappier, the better.  I remember a time when all we or American Bandstand cared about was whether you could dance to a song.  Now I can install Pandora radio on my IPhone, make ridiculous stations, not offend anyone, and scoot away.  Skeeter doesn’t have eyes to roll at 50s Doo-wop, early 60s bubble-gum music, Elvis Presley nor can she swoon at the Righteous Brothers or Il Divo.  It’s just me alone and no crap--my idea of heaven.  Earl’s music tastes are a bit more sophisticated. While we do share a love of most music genres (Beatles, classical, Eagles, country/bluegrass, the 70s troubadors), there is a line he doesn’t cross; he has some standards.  Not me when I’m scooting alone–unless someone hears me coming; I can and do turn the volume way down if It’s My Party comes on.  But mostly, it’s just fun.  So why would I get home from a scoot judgmental and angry?  Theory 1: I have too much time on my hands; Theory 2: some of the music culture of the 50s and 60s sold me a bill of goods and I bought it.

It's beginning to change...

She may have roared, I squeaked.

The best songwriter of the 70s

You go, girl!

Being alone on a scooter, on a long ride, encourages listening to lyrics more intently than I did as a teenager.  At 62, my perspective is a little different now, and in some cases, missing all together.  A little history--I was born and raised pre-Roe v. Wade (the Supreme Court decision, not the joke about 2 ways to cross a river).  However, I did redeem myself somewhat by giving birth to my first-born–a daughter in that landmark year–1972.  Heidi would only know choice for her reproductive years.  She had Gloria Steinem, Helen Reddy (maybe not), Carole King and Hillary Clinton as cultural role models; I had June Cleaver, Donna Reed, Lesley Gore, and Shelley Fabares. 

Beaver's Mom

The perfect mom with pearls

I know I occasionally lose my grip.  Scooting has taught me not to underestimate the influence of thinking and stewing time. “Lesley, it is your damn party, stop crying–Judy and Johnny deserve each other and no, that’s not The Way Boys Are”.  Shelley, Johnny Angel is a jerk–stop waiting by the phone and move on!”.  Didn’t the Travelin’ Man and the Wanderer ever concern themselves with being promiscuous or spreading STDs and HIV? (I forgot, promiscuity only pertained to girls and I do know these songs pre-dated the 80s...still.)   The Leader of the Pack should have gone into anger management and worn a helmet.  Skeeter and some nostalgic music reminds me how white, intolerant, and narrow the culture was that I grew up in.  It’s better for other generations, not perfect, but better...  But, sitting on a scooter and lecturing dead or old singers is just plain strange. 

Oh, for gawd's sake!

I do try to reel in my temper by chastising myself as I park the scooter.  There’s lots of time as I turn off the music, remove the helmet, glasses, gloves, safety vest; turn off the power, plug Skeeter in to the outlet, turn off the big light, the blinking lights; remove the safety flag; transfer my wallet and IPhone to the walker.  “Take a deep breath, Tam, lighten up.  A scooter is not a soapbox.  Scooting is supposed to be fun and relaxing–listen to some Carole King or Diana Krall–move on.  It’s just a song.  Now, get off it (figuratively and literally), stand up. and don’t fall over.”