hearts at ease

Such an anniversary post of love should probably not begin with dry, documented musical history, but for those who know W and me, it makes perfect sense. And besides, the girl does love rabbit holes.

So, here we go.

Killing Me Softly With His Song was a hit made popular by Roberta Flack. It was composed by Charles Fox and Norman Gimbel, in collaboration with Lori Lieberman whose lyrics reflect her feelings after hearing Don McLean sing, Empty Chairs, live at the Troubadour in 1971. 

Though my reflection is a happy one, the recent performance of Taylor Rae's, Fixer Upper, struck me the same way. The girl was killing me softly with her song. The flashback feelings of our romantic beginning was almost palpable that night. Our feelings have not weakened in these seven years together, quite the opposite. From across a crowded room, W can still stare an unnerving hole through me and make me swoon.

When you stand there it takes the air
right out of this whole room
I can't help but spin this chair
and stare down at my shoes

Sitting in the old, uncomfortable chair in McKinney's old courthouse theater and sipping cups of wine, Taylor similarly drew me in, as Don did Lori.

I heard she sang a good song, I heard she had a style, And so I came to see her to listen for a while, And there she was this young girl, a stranger to my eyes... Singing my life with her words, Telling my life with her words, Killing me softly with her song.

Seven years ago when W and I let our secret out, it was by my written note to family and friends. It explained our own shock but total commitment to the affair, knowing so quickly that this energy was heading us well beyond breezy and casual.

Cause I feel too high, coming up on nothing but you 

I closed the note with: "It feels like I fell off a cliff but landed softly." 

Let's fall down this canyon
You can be my soft landing

Let's fall down this mountain
You can be my soft landing
I've never had it so easy
Let me be your broken lover
I know you like a fixer upper
Oh, I promise I won't leave

We're falling down this canyon
You can be my companion
I've never had it so easy
Let me be your broken lover
I know you like a fixer upper
Oh, I promise I won't leave
I won't leave
I won't leave

Never, Sweets. Never. 



(Fixer Upper, Taylor Rae)

not a coincidence

W and I have each brought people from our prior separate lives, to the Bistro table, but we've also met new friends through our cul-de-sac friends. The latest are Kelly and Terry, met through Magdalena and James.

At the recent Bistro gathering to celebrate a guest's 95th birthday, acknowledging our seven years together-forever anniversary date coming up, our new friends brought a beautiful card to us and the most adorable gift. A painted rock! 

We're not sure if they have actually noticed that the Bistro has stones and rocks all around. I think not; I believe it was a subliminal force at work.

The rock is a beautiful earthy brown, making the two flowers so cheery atop. When I unwrapped it, I knew immediately where it would find its home; the kitchen window, as if the sill had been waiting. Little did Kelly and Terry know, but the Universe did. 

8:36

W and I, early on in these seven years committed, found instant common ground with our love of music. It's been a wonderful generational crossover of sharing. She's made me many playlists of songs not that new, but new to me. I've still not worn out their welcome, listening as often as I do. I've in turn introduced her not to the artists of my generation so much, but to the depth of the stories they tell and footprints they left us. She readily agrees that my parents' Great American Songbook as well as my Era's richness, have had no rivals since.

As much as I love Don McLean’s Vincent, which W shared last evening in a private social media group, it’s his American Pie that makes me turn mushy from the nostalgia. 

It was 1972 when the song skyrocketed and I was on a short trip to Europe with someone who would become a future mistake. Driving a rental, we were in Belgium on the way to Paris, and we picked up a hitchhiker. She asked us to take a very short detour to her house in Brussels for her to pick up a few extra things, lunch offered in exchange. Just writing this paragraph feels like a jarring slap in the face; how different our countries are today, how little peace & love prevail. 

I still have a photo, a slide actually, that I took with the heavy camera I had lugged along with my backpack. The shot is of this young girl's elderly neighbor who had dozed off in a garden chair set among sparse but peaceful greenery shared by the small homes.  If I’m remembering accurately, there was a rose bush. Maybe more than one. Maybe pink.

I don’t remember anything about the lunch except our very long conversation explaining the very long song, American Pie. The US Billboard hit had also made it to Europe and this young girl was gaga over it. We totally blew her mind (you might say) explaining all we knew about the true meanings of the creative and powerful lyrics which have since been clarified by McLean himself. Lyrics of a personal nature to him and his faith, about musical leaders and a cultural revolution, they continue to be dissected by fans today. Forever chilling whatever their meaning: 
Bad news on the doorstep, When the jester sang for the king and queen, Helter Skelter in a summer swelter, The marching band refused to yield,  A generation lost in space, I met a girl who sang the blues, I went down to the sacred store, The lovers cried and the poets dreamed, And the three men I admire most... 

McLean told of the times as grandly as Dylan and Joni did, artists W now knows well, and tho she can’t have nostalgia for them as I do, she digs them (you might also say).  Not American Pie tho, somehow for her, there was a day that song died. 

They were singin', bye-bye, Miss American Pie
Drove my Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry
Them good ol'boys were drinkin' whiskey and rye
Singin', "This'll be the day that I die"