Music
Our home, when I was born, was the second floor of Melba and Harold Hyde’s house near Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Though the Hydes were my parents’ landlords, they became like family to us, so we often shared meals in their kitchen. After dinner, Harold would move to his old upright piano, set his can of beer on top, and begin to entertain. He didn’t use print music; he just curled his fingers on the keyboard and played the music living in his head. When I grew old enough to stand, I would get as close as I could, gripping the edge of the piano bench to keep my balance, and watch his fingers dance across the keys. I was mesmerized by the beautiful sounds he created. We moved to our own house when I was two, leaving the piano behind, but while...
Older?
We’re at the Gulf coast in November, off-season. There are fewer people on the beach and in restaurants, and fewer cars on the road. Everything is calm and slower-paced, a perfect time for our visit. Based on the gray hair and sagging, splotched skin of the folks staying with us at the Wyndham Beach Street Cottages, I’d say most are retired, like us. Where we’re alone, however, several of these couples have grandkids with them, children who appear to be about the age of my grandkids. And this is where I get confused. If the ages of our grandchildren are comparable, doesn’t it follow that the ages of the grandparents should be comparable? George and I were in our thirties before we had kids, where most of our generation were in their twenties, so I would even...
Mom and Dad
They lived near the entrance to the neighborhood, the couple we referred to as Mom and Dad. They were a bit older than us and seemed to be retired, though we don’t know for sure since we never met them. They had the most beautifully landscaped/manicured yard in our subdivision, sure to catch the attention of anyone driving in. It was so immaculate and inspiring, it almost made you believe all the other yards were just as perfect, though very few were. The two worked in their yard every morning–mowing, trimming, planting, pruning; a familiar sight on my drive to work. And if I came home for lunch, I would find them sitting in red chairs, sharing a pitcher of iced tea and gazing at their yard, enjoying the fruits of their labor. The pride they took in their...
NO!
There was a red Jeep sitting near the power lines, an out-of-the-way place apart from the houses in the neighborhood. I was walking Prince when I noticed it—and knew to be wary since it was an unfamiliar vehicle. The car’s windows were down and as I drew closer, I could see a guy sitting in the driver’s seat. An alarm rang in my head, telling me to be alert. I held the dog’s leash firmly, positioned him on my side closest to the car, took a deep breath and picked up speed as I began to pass. Then I heard his voice. “Hey, good-looking!” My blood turned to ice and I readied myself to get into defensive stance. The Rape Aggression Defense class (RAD) I took at the local police department taught me to do exactly that. I had practiced for years and now it looked as if...
Mrs. George?
Shortly after I married her son, my mother-in-law gave me a gift of stationery. It was a pretty shade of blue with a name in dark blue at the top of each page: Mrs. George Curran. It struck me as being an odd gift, something I certainly couldn’t be expected to use. It was the cultural norm for women of my parents’ generation to be known as the Mrs. to the husband’s name. This was in spite of the fact that my mother and mother-in-law were not dependent on their husbands for survival, each having successful careers outside of the home. Perhaps they still acknowledged an earlier time when women managed the household and nothing more, totally dependent on their husbands, and lived as a mere extension of a portion of his life. I came from a different era. I grew up as...
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