dclarion: (Default)
I just put in a Facebook friend request on Charlie Duke.  Yes, that Charlie Duke.  "Roger, Twank...  Tranquility, we copy you on the ground.  You've got a bunch of guys about to turn blue, we're breathing again.  Thanks a lot." Charlie Duke.  I also sent a message explaining that my fondest memory of him involves a little incident during Apollo 11 that probably nobody else in the world remembers, with the possible exception of Mike Collins.  It's a bit of fantasy on my part, but it would be so wonderful if we could occasionally correspond.
dclarion: (Default)
I was just indulging in a bit of nostalgia:

In my folks' backyard, there is a maple tree
My Tree
If you care to, you can click on the above photo for the mural-sized version (~2.7MB)

I love that tree.  I love the texture of its bark, I love the soft green of its canopy.  Over the years, I watched it grow.  I guess that you could say that I'm rather protective of it.  I even know exactly how old it is.  That tree is, as of now, fifty years, seven months old.  I know this because I planted it as a seed, in April 1961.  That tree will always be a part of me; if I could have my way, my body would be buried among its roots, that I could be a part of it.  I may never touch it again, but it will always be in my heart.
dclarion: (Default)
As I have previously posted, I'm not a television person.  To me, television is unnecessary when I can have things like that which I have now: a chance find of the albums Maynard Ferguson recorded while he was living in London, in the early 1970s.  I had had these albums when they were shiny, new, and pressed from black vinyl.  That was nearly forty years ago.  Lost in a move, many years ago, I was without them and the stratospheric register of Ferguson's trumpet until a few days ago, when I happened to see rips of them on a torrent site.

As I listen to these songs, the memories they bring back are bittersweet.  There are the memories of a hellish young adulthood punctuated with the occasional happy moment.  There is the memory of my astonishment at learning that my father actually knew who Ferguson was; it turns out that back when he was a nice guy (there's a funny story about that), he was quite the fan of Stan Kenton, in whose band Ferguson had played.

As I write, I am listening to an arrangement of James Taylor's Country Road.  The arrangement is free, the sound is clear, even brilliant.  I can imagine myself driving some insignificant road in the middle of West Virginia in a convertible, the sun on my face, the wind through my hair.

These memories, these images, and the stimuli that evoke them, show me to be the old lady that I am.  But given the chance to trade them to be twenty-five again, I would politely decline.  "Six weeks older than Sputnik, and proud of it" isn't just a humorous quip, it is part of that which defines me.

May 2013

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