I saw this video thanks to Charlie at How To Be A Dad. And after watching it twice, I had to email it to my dad and tell him to stop what he was doing and watch it right now. (Well, maybe it was a bit less dramatic, but in my head that was what I was thinking.)
A few hours later, I got a phone call. I could hear my dad smiling through the phone.
And all I could think about were the marathon car singalongs we’ve shared. My mother loves music, but unlike my father, she prefers listening to singing along. With my dad, my sister and I always sang. Always.
Over thirty years ago, we began singing together. To Sam Cooke. To The Beatles. To Paul Simon and so many more.
As we drove up to Big Bear in the snow. As we cruised to sunny Palm Springs. As we sped through the canyons in his convertibles, or trudged along trafficky freeways of this city.
Just two days ago, he was telling me about playing the Annie soundtrack on loop on Big Bear treks when I was really little. (It was my favorite.)
“Tomorrow, tomorrow, I love ya tomorrow…” for hours on end – he was, and is, the most patient father in the world.
Watch, listen, smile.
P.S. Nicki Bluhm & The Gramblers also do a beautiful cover of this song. Only connect…
It was stupid hot here for about a week and a half. The sort of heat that all of Southern California feels from the beaches to the valley to the desert. We swap our dry heat for the humidity more reminiscent of the eastern seaboard. No one is spared, and we end up complaining about it instead of traffic because sitting in traffic with the AC blasting is the best part of the day unless you’re in a swimming pool.
We can handle summer days in LA, but we simply don’t know how to handle life without a cool breeze in the evenings. And for over a week, the night air was stagnant.
So yesterday it was a small but happy moment when I was able to keep food from melting as I walked a couple blocks on an errand using a PackIt cooler tote bag a friend recommended. I tweeted the mundane thought and then realized I’d better include that it wasn’t a sponsored tweet because – full disclosure – it sometimes feels like people only recommend books to read or clothes to buy or cooler bags to use because they’re being paid to.
To tweet or blog or Facebook post you like something simply because it made Monday easier would be suspicious, which I find equally sad and weird. I’ll get over it.
But while I’m at it with “things I’m not paid to write about but others might be so I want to be clear,” I saw a trailer for this new series The Goldbergs. It’s set in 1985. September 1985, I was seven and a half and was starting second grade at a new school. We’d just moved into a new house. (I still miss the old house.)
A friend wrote on Facebook that The Goldbergs was like The Wonder Years for our generation, which entirely freaked me out.
I love Downton Abbey, but am I old enough for period TV, drama or comedy, when the period in question is my childhood? (Apparently so.)
This whole 1985 period comedy is going to take some getting used to. Or maybe I’ll love it because those were the Graceland days. I mean, they totally had me at Sam Goody.