My father took his last breath a year ago. Of course, all things considered, I did find out that Steve Winwood (of all people) was in a few white soul bands in the late sixties. I did not know that: doesn't even sound like him. I purchased Traffic's "Who Knows What Tomorrow May Bring?" in MP3 format, so I can move it about at my leisure. It caught my interest because the organ work was stellar and I had to find out who it was.
The weather's been subtle as always in Orange County, CA. Last night, while going to pick up my kids from a Beatles tribute concert in a park near by, the lingering strands of summer mug cast the entire park with a blurry orange glow. No wind stirred the air, which it really never does in September. The light pollution of the city cast the sky in an electric grey.
As I sauntered toward the outdoor theater, guarded half-heartedly by two doorpersons, smartly watching the three of us eyeing the door to get a glimpse of the Fab Four in all their Sgt. Pepper-y glory. I can hear the concert anyway, folks, what harm is it to sneak in for the last five minutes? I took a bench seat across from the fountain.
"Golden Slumbers" was been played by some extremely capable impersonators: all live. Like many Beatles songs, I found it majestic - in a pop sort of way. The music made the staid park a bit lively.
What gets me is the cultural significance of things. A song like this is completely moral in nature. It has a significance. And, for those of you easily offended by religion, 'moral' need not be religious. It can be that of reality: responsiblity.
As the last ragged breaths of my father failed, the rush for me was the want for more of his life stories. All of the love of his mother, the respect for his father, the memories of cruising down PCH in the early sixties, the Pacific Rim in the later decade of that time...were drained away. His wisdom, his life's record, felt like sand running through my fingers.
We are all responsible for the ones that have gone before.
I miss my father. I miss my grandparents. I miss my pets. I am the culmination of their lives and this point in time. In a world of modernity, with the belief in all things grey and mitigated by the fashions of the hour - there are some things that are absolute.
I recently told an old friend that 'we are the monuments of our parents'. Across from where I sat listening to those swelling strands of the bridge, I could see a statue of the founding members of this city. Imagine, truly, if we actually behaved as the culmination of all the promises that we were left with when the greatest parts of ourselves die away.
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