Archive for the ‘Life As She Is’ Category

Sophie’s Bowl

Wednesday, November 1st, 2017

My sister and I are still sorting through Mom’s things, and we will be doing so for some time. During the various moves that took place in Mom’s last years – from Kilian Boulevard to a patio home, from the patio home to assisted living, and from assisted living to memory care – Mom not only put a lot of stuff in two storage units, but she also sent boxes home with me and many more boxes home with my sister.

So Monday morning, I headed down to my sister’s home in Maple Grove to tackle two tasks: Decide what to do with first, Mom’s framed pictures and memorabilia and, second, her silver.

Along with art – a couple of watercolors by a local artist and some prints – and some smaller pieces like doilies her aunt had made, Mom had framed four beautiful certificates issued by a rural church near Lamberton, Minnesota, in the early 1900s. The certificates – all in German – noted the marriage of her parents and her own christening as well as the christening of her two sisters. Mom also had framed certificates noting Dad’s birth and confirmation, issued by churches in the east central portion of Minnesota where Dad grew up, and a couple of other similar events.

My sister thinks her children will take the watercolors, and we’ll put the doilies in the vast amount of stuff heading for an estate sale sometime in the next few months. As to the certificates, we’re going have a local photo shop remove them from the frames and get digital photos of them, and then I’ll contact historical societies in the various counties where the churches were located and see if the folks there are interested in the certificates. If they’re not, I guess we’re going to have to find a safe way to store them and figure out later what to do with them.

As to the silver, Mom had trays, bowls, and a coffee and tea service, a collection that seems typical for the middle class in the Upper Midwest during the middle years of the Twentieth Century. My sister already has enough silver she said, and I didn’t need it. She was going to check with her kids, but the likelihood was that most of the silver would go to the estate sale.

So we each chose one thing: She chose a silver bowl that she and her husband had given Mom and Dad for their silver anniversary in 1973. I pulled bowls from flannel bags and out of mounds of tissue paper, not entirely certain what I might want. As I looked at things, I found the notes my sister had made when the silver was put away in March; with each piece, she’d asked Mom where it came from: they came from cousins and aunts and uncles and grandparents.

And one bowl came from Sophie Kashinsky.

The name caught my eye. In April of last year, one of Mom’s stories over lunch had introduced me to Sophie Kashinsky. I’d been asking Mom about the recipe for the punch that had been served at Mom’s 90th birthday celebration in 2011 and at my sister’s wedding in 1972. And Mom told me that the same punch had been served at my grandparents’ fiftieth anniversary celebration in 1965 and at Mom and Dad’s own wedding reception in 1948.

I wrote then:

So where had Grandma gotten the recipe? Well, Mom said, she’d gotten it from her sister Hilda.

And Hilda, Mom said slowly, thinking, had gotten it from her roommate at nursing school. The memories began to spool out, as they always do when Mom gets to talking about things that happened sixty or more years ago: Hilda was living in St. Paul, and the nursing school was at the long-gone Miller Hospital . . .

Hilda’s roommate was a nursing student, too, Mom said, visibly sifting the memories . . . . [Her name was] Sophie, Sophie . . . Kashinsky. Sophie came from Hutchinson, Minnesota, a town about sixty miles straight west of the Twin Cities, with a population back then of not quite 5,000 people.

Where did Sophie get the recipe? Mom didn’t know. She’d met Sophie a number of times, the last occasion being a potluck picnic at the Hutchinson home of the recently married Sophie during the summer of 1950. Mom recalled the year of the picnic because she was pregnant with my sister at the time, and she also recalled that she brought baked beans to the picnic. I have no doubt that if I’d asked her what color the table cloth was, she’d have remembered.

But there was no answer to the question: Where did Sophie get the punch recipe? I didn’t say this at lunch, but it’s reasonable to assume, I think, that Sophie got the recipe from her mother, and I’d like to think that it was served at a reception for Sophie’s graduation from Hutchinson High School sometime during the 1930s, or maybe even at the reception when Sophie’s own parents were married, most likely in the early 1900s.

So when I found inside one of Mom’s silver bowls a note with Sophie’s name on it, I looked a little more closely. The note indicated that in July 1948, when Mom and Dad got married, Sophie had been the supervisor. To me, that means that Sophie took care of the numerous details a wedding day brings: organizing the ushers, getting the flowers in the right places, coordinating transportation for the bridal party back to my grandparents’ farm after the wedding, getting the photographer in the right place, and so on and so on.

So there was no question which piece of silver I’d take from Mom’s collection. I took Sophie’s bowl.

Sophie's Silver Bowl

I’d like to know more than I do, but so far, I’m finding nothing online. On the note, my sister spelled Sophie’s last name as “Kashinski,” but I don’t know if Mom spelled it for her or if my sister made an assumption. In any case, I’ve searched using both “Sophie” and “Sophia” along with “Kashinsky,” “Kashinski,” “Kachinsky,” “Kachinski,” and “Kaczynski.” And I’ve done all of those using “Hutchinson” as an added term. I may be missing something in the results, but nothing seems to be out there for our Sophie. (Searching is complicated by the fact that one of the characters in the CBS comedy Two Broke Girls is named Sophie Kaczynski-Golishevsky, which many fans misspell as one of the other variants listed here.)

So what do we listen to as we think about Sophie and a wedding gift of a silver bowl? I decided quickly against anything from the soundtrack to Sophie’s Choice. I like some work by singer Sophie Zelmani, but my favorite, her cover of Bob Dylan’s “Most Of The Time,” isn’t on YouTube (and would likely be blocked anyway, I think). So I looked for things about silver.

And here is Susan Tedeschi and her cover of the Rolling Stones’ “You Got The Silver.” It’s from her 2005 album Hope and Desire.

Saturday Single No. 562

Saturday, October 28th, 2017

Well, freezing my balky external hard drive did not do anything except make a dead hard drive icy. I could pry nothing from its cold, dead digital fingers.

But things are not as terrible as I thought they might be when Dale the computer guy first mentioned “The Clicks of Doom.”

Still, it took me most of yesterday to get to a point where I was not in despair:

My old 500-gig hard drive had 338 gigs of tunes, about 62,000 tracks sorted and tagged, as well as another 50 or so gigs of unsorted tunes. It took about four hours to copy all of that from the external drive into the C drive of my desktop desktop (where it will remain until I get two new large capacity external drives, one for use and one for backup). It took about 15 minutes to then tell the RealPlayer to delete things it could not find (in essence clearing the player of tunes), so I had lunch while the player slowly deleted its listing of the 98,000 tracks that had been on the dead drive. I then spent the afternoon and evening pulling tracks from the old (and now current) hard drive into the RealPlayer, doing that task twice because I screwed it up the first time.

(I did talk to the guys at Best Buy’s Geek Squad about salvaging some data, but given that I had on the old drive much of what I’d had on the dead drive, I decided not to spend the $100 to $600 the geek on the phone quoted me.)

So where am I? I’m about where I was four to five years ago. My rough estimate of that came from my file of television soundtracks: The reloaded RealPlayer showed me with two seasons’ worth of soundtracks from Game of Thrones. Up until the crash, I had six seasons’ worth of the show’s soundtracks. So, I have about four-and-a-half years’ worth of music to re-rip and re-load. Luckily, I have my CD log to help me along the way.

And comparing the CD log to the tracks in the RealPlayer, it seems that I will have to re-rip and re-install anything I got after the first week of January 2013. That’s about 220 CDs’ worth of tunes. And I know there is some stuff I got from friends or in odd corners of the Intertubes that I may not be able to replace.

(And there are some non-musical things, too; the scans of my slides from my time in Denmark are gone, as are some scans I did of family photos. But I have the slides, and I was not all that pleased with the way the home program I used dealt with high contrast slides, so I’m not all that upset. In time, I’ll take them down to the Camera Shop and let Frank deal with them.)

So for as wearying and worrisome as the last couple days have been, it could have been far worse. So, to mark the end of an eventful week, here’s a tune written by Bob Dylan and performed by one of my favorite current groups, and it comes from one of the last CD sets I ripped before I got the external drive that read its last byte this week.

Here’s the Carolina Chocolate Drops and their take on “Political World.” It’s from the 2012 set Chimes of Freedom: The Songs of Bob Dylan and it’s this week’s Saturday Single.

Crash!

Thursday, October 26th, 2017

It was late morning yesterday when things started to go sideways. I was trying to move a file into the folders where I keep my mp3s, on my external hard drive. It wasn’t working, and I thought that the computer was just being slow, so I tried an alternate route, and that didn’t work either.

And as I puzzled over things, I heard soft little clicks coming from behind my flat screen, where the speakers and the modem and the external drive hang out. I rose and leaned over the screen, and I determined that the little clicks were coming from the external drive.

Seated again, I tried to get to the main mp3 folder on my external drive, and the computer said that it couldn’t find the drive. Seriously concerned now, I unplugged the drive and plugged it back in, and the computer told me that the drive needed to be reformatted (adding helpfully that doing so would erase anything on the drive). I decided quickly not to do that, and called Dale, the computer guy down on Wilson Avenue.

“It’s making little clicks?” Dale asked. Yep. I told him. “Well,” he said, “folks call those ‘The Clicks of Doom’.”

I didn’t like the sound of that.

He told me the drive was likely lost. “It’s possible to get the data back,” he said, “but you’d have to pay someone a lot of money.”

“So it’s all gone?”

“I think so,” he said. “I’m really sorry.”

So was I, thinking about what was on the drive: 98,000 sorted mp3s, about 590 gigs’ worth. About the same total of unsorted mp3s scavenged from various places. The scans of my slides from my college days in Denmark, as well as about a hundred scans from Dad’s slides. All gone, from what Dale had to say.

Any bright spots? Well, in a strongbox upstairs sits my old external drive, a 500-gig piece that I stored away when I got my three-terabyte drive a few years ago. It should have about 450 gig of music on it, I think. And there may be a way to salvage some data from the three-TB drive.

A Facebook friend of mine told me that freezing the drive overnight might allow me to get some of the data back. From what I’ve read at various websites and boards over the last twenty-four hours, it might be worth a shot. I don’t quite understand why that would work – something about minor contraction of the drive and its innards due to cold – but I’ll think about that later. If it doesn’t work, I’m no worse off.

So I think tonight, I’ll nest the drive in two freezer bags and set it in the freezer. Tomorrow morning, we’ll see what happens. I have enough room on my main drive for the sorted mp3s, should I be able to salvage them. And I’ll retrieve the 500-gig drive from the strongbox and see what that holds.

And we’ll go from there. Sometime in the next week, I’ll go shopping and get two external drives: one for main use and one to use as a back-up once a month or so.

There is one bit of good news: At the computer, as I’ve mentioned before, I listen to my music through a program called RealPlayer. Right now, all of my 98,000-some sorted mp3s are still listed in the program menu, but they all have a little red X denoting that RealPlayer cannot find the file. That means that I have a list of everything I lost, should the freezer gambit fail. I can then make note of things that I gained elsewhere that I would have to go find again, if they are still around to be found.

I still have the CDs that were the source of maybe 75 percent of the mp3s. The thought of re-ripping something like 1,000 CDs is daunting, as is the thought of re-researching the release numbers and dates to re-tag the mp3s of all of the vintage music I have on CD. But that’s how things are when things crash.

Here’s Lester Flatt and Earl Scruggs with their cover of Bob Dylan’s “Down In The Flood.” It’s on the duo’s 1968 album Changin’ Times.

Saturday Single No. 560

Saturday, October 14th, 2017

In the spring of 1964, when I was ten and in fifth grade, a kindly, older gentleman came to Lincoln Elementary School and asked if anyone wanted to learn to play a band instrument. I was interested, and when I met with that gentleman, he looked at my teeth – which would never need braces – and suggested that I might want to play a brass instrument. He suggested trumpet.

Not long after that, my folks took me on a Friday evening to Weber’s Jewelry & Music, a store on the further downtown reaches of St. Cloud’s St. Germain Street, and we looked at horns. My folks opted to buy me a cornet. It had the same fingering and same scale as a trumpet, but with a slightly different construction, which made it shorter but taller than a trumpet. It also may have made it slightly cheaper; I’m not sure.

My folks laid out $165 for my cornet, which – considering the things that it brought me over the years – was a small investment for a very large return. Actually, it wasn’t such a small investment. Although $165 might not seem like much now, an online inflation calculator tells me that spending $165 in 1964 was like spending a little more than $1,300 today. Nevertheless, the return over the years has been huge.

The kindly gentleman turned out to be Erwin Hertz, the band conductor at St. Cloud Tech High School, and during sixth grade, he stopped by Lincoln School once a week to give me (and the other Lincoln students who’d chosen to play band instruments) lessons, and once a week, as well, we all went over to Tech to be members of a district-wide sixth grade band.

I played my cornet – playing parts written for trumpet, which was in practical terms, the same thing – in band from sixth grade through my sophomore year of high school. I also played in the district’s orchestra program, starting with summer orchestra after eighth grade and continuing during the school year for all three years of high school. I was pretty good, with a good ear, but I didn’t practice near enough, so when I headed to college, I learned after one quarter in band that, like a minor league pitcher moved up to the bigs, I wasn’t good enough anymore.

But that was okay. Those seven years of playing in those large groups had been enough. And along the way, I’d gotten some gifts I’d not at all anticipated. One of them was the music of Al Hirt. His only Top Ten hit, “Java,” went to No. 4 in Billboard in early 1964 and was No. 1 for four weeks on the magazine’s easy listening chart. My appreciation for “Java” led my sister to give me Hirt’s Honey In The Horn for my eleventh birthday in September 1964, when my work on the cornet was only a few months old.

And that album is one of formative albums of my musical life. Among its tracks were the first tunes I remember hearing from what we now call the Great American Songbook: Gershwin & Duke’s “I Can’t Get Started” and Bart Howard’s “Fly Me To The Moon,” along with other tunes like Hank Snow’s “I’m Movin’ On,” Ray Charles’ “Talkin’ Bout That River,” Boudleaux Bryant’s “Theme From A Dream” and more. The next Hirt album I got – That Honey Horn Sound from 1965 – brought me, among others, Rogers & Hart’s “You Took Advantage Of Me,” Chip Taylor’s “Long Walk Home,” Tchaikovsky’s “None But The Lonely Heart” and Hoagy Carmichael’s “Star Dust.”

From there, I dug into the rest of that mythical songbook and then into film scores, learning songs that kept me largely out of step with what my peers were listening to during the mid- to late 1960s. I didn’t always like being out of step at the time, but now – looking back fifty years – I wouldn’t change it.

Playing my horn also brought me a sense of melody that I think informs my songwriting to this day, and it brought me something I didn’t quite understand at first, even as I embraced it: I realized as I listened to Hirt’s records (and others’), that as a melody played, I knew how to finger it on my horn. It wasn’t perfect pitch, but it was close, a gift of relative pitch that I also use to this day.

So all of that is what my 1964 Conn cornet brought me. Now it has the chance to bring its gifts to another student. I took my horn – unplayed for many years – over to St. Cloud Tech yesterday and gave it to the band conductor there, a man named Gary Zwack. He said – confirming something my sister told me last week – that Tech, like almost all high schools in the state, often has students who want to play but who cannot afford an instrument. One of those students will now have a cornet to play.

When I arrived at Tech, Gary took me on a tour of the building. Renovations and additions made portions of the campus unfamiliar, but some doorways and corridors were recognizable. I carried my horn with me through the hallways, as I had done hundreds of times so long ago, and then I left it in the band office, giving its case a final pat and thanking it silently for the gifts it brought me.

And here’s one of those tunes I first heard long ago from the horn of Al Hirt. It’s Tchaikovsky’s “None But The Lonely Heart” from Hirt’s 1965 album That Honey Horn Sound, and it’s today’s Saturday Single.

Saturday Single No. 559

Saturday, October 7th, 2017

Autumn, that most melancholy and sweetest of the four seasons, is here in full. I should be appreciating the glint of sunshine on golden and red leaves as they fall. I should be watching great V’s of waterfowl as they make their ways across the skies heading south. I should be nodding in appreciation as a song of loss and growth and hope plays in the car or the study.

I should be enjoying autumn as I have almost always done.

But this has been a dismal season so far. We have had many more days of rain and cloud than of sunshine in the past four weeks, and most of the leaves that have fallen from the oaks and the basswood here lie sodden on the lawn. One cannot kick one’s way joyfully through wet leaves.

My physical ailments – my cramping and stiffening legs – make it difficult as well for me to find joy in the season. Neither physical therapy nor a wealth of advice drawn from numerous sources seem to be helping, and I am worried.

And this autumn is different in at least one other way. My sister and I both have September birthdays, and when I wished her well during a phone call the other day, she noted that this year’s birthdays were our first without either of our parents. She said our mom often called her about 7:30 in the morning on her birthday, as that was the time of day she was born. I said that Mom often called me at 7:50 in the evening on my birthday for the same reason. And then neither of us said much for a few moments.

Not all the leaves have fallen yet, and we may still get the sunny days that have always leavened autumn’s melancholy for me in years past. My ailments may subside; if they do not, I will find ways to live with them. My grief will never disappear, but it will fade to a level that I can both tolerate and embrace.

And if it still turns out that this autumn is not one I can celebrate or cherish, well, I have had similarly sad autumns before, and I may have them again. Likewise, I may still have one or more gloriously bittersweet autumns waiting for me in the years to come. And as I ponder those things, I remind myself that here in this human plane of joy and woe, we are granted those things we need at the times we need them.

And that tells me that I must embrace this season with all its disappointments and worries just as fully as I have embraced the seasons that were sweet and thus more easily embraced.

As for music this morning, here’s the wistful and lovely “Early Autumn” by Toots Thielemans. It’s from his 1958 album Time Out For Toots, and it’s today’s Saturday Single.

‘By Way Of Sorrow’

Tuesday, October 3rd, 2017

I cannot yet process those things that happened over the past two days: First, the carnage Sunday night in Las Vegas – a new but so familiar chapter in the book of mass shootings in this country – and then, the death of Tom Petty Monday evening, its sadness augmented by the confusion sown earlier that day by premature announcements of his death.

All my adult life, I have believed that out of sorrow comes hope and out of grief comes healing. On mornings like this, after days like yesterday, those fundamental beliefs offer the slightest of comfort, and yet, I hold to them.

And I have no more words. So I lean, as I nearly always do, on the music in my life. As it has done before, Julie Miller’s “By Way Of Sorrow” provides me some comfort today and – I hope – for the tomorrows to come:

You’ve been taken by the wind; you have known the kiss of sorrow
Doors that would not take you in, outcast and a stranger
You have come by way of sorrow; you have come by way of tears
But you’ll reach your destiny meant to find you all these years
Meant to find you all these years

You have drunk a bitter wine with none to be your comfort
You who once were left behind will be welcome at love’s tables
You have come by way of sorrow; you have come by way of tears
But you’ll reach your destiny meant to find you all these years
Meant to find you all these years

All the nights that joy has slept will awake to days of laughter
Gone the tears that you have wept; you’ll dance in freedom ever after
You have come by way of sorrow; you have come by way of tears
But you’ll reach your destiny meant to find you all these years
Meant to find you all these years

Here’s the version of Miller’s song as recorded by acclaimed folk performers Dar Williams, Lucy Kaplansky and Richard Shindell for their 1998 album Cry Cry Cry.

A ‘When’ Preview

Friday, September 29th, 2017

Between medical appointments, household errands and consultations about music for church, today’s hours are nearly filled. But I thought I’d toss out a preview for the next installment of Journalism 101.

A search for “when” turns up 1,009 tracks in the RealPlayer. As usual, some of those will have to be set aside, and we’ll list some of those when we take on the topic in full force next week. For today, we’re just going to cherry-pick a representative tune.

As I ran errands this week, I dropped some Brewer & Shipley into the car’s CD player, thinking it fit well with the mood I’ve been in after watching portions of The Vietnam War, the Ken Burns/Lynn Novick documentary I mentioned yesterday. So after I sorted 96,000-some tracks this morning down to just more than a thousand, I looked first for something by Brewer & Shipley.

And there in the search results I found a track from the duo’s 1971 album Shake Off The Demon that fit that mood perfectly. Here’s “When Everybody Comes Home.”

We’ll bathe in the love that surrounds us
We’ll sip from the cup of the throne
And friends that remain will be boundless
Oh the planets will fly
When everybody comes home, comes home
Will you be coming home, coming home?
Will you be home?

We’ll share in the crystal communion
And rise on the hymns that we’ve known
We’ll cherish our ragged reunion
All the ships will be sailing
When everybody comes home, comes home
Will you be coming home, coming home?
Will you be home?

Comes home
Will you be coming home, coming home?
Will you be home?

Will you be coming home?
Will you be home?

Saturday Single No. 557

Saturday, September 16th, 2017

Today, I thought I’d go back to a moment on our trip to South Dakota. Not long after leaving Rapid City on our way home, we took a thirty-mile detour through Badlands National Park, getting out at several places for photos and to simply marvel at the land:

Badlands

What in the world, we wondered, did the explorers and settlers of the Nineteenth Century think when they came to these places, stretching for miles under the harsh Dakota sun? Further south, in the park’s Stronghold Unit, lies the place where the Lakota – seeking the survival of their way of life – held their Ghost Dance. As we drove the loop through the park, our comments to each other became murmurs and then became silence, both of us overwhelmed by the savage beauty of the place.

In that silence, as we drove on out of the Badlands, I thought – not at all for the first time during our Dakota trip – of the man I’d once known as Paul Summers, now Paul LaRoche, whose Lakota ancestors had been among those displaced from their homes and lives during the 1800s. I told his story – learning after the death of his Anglo parents that he had been adopted as an infant and then reconnecting with his Lakota heritage – long ago in the Eden Prairie News and then seven years ago in a post here.

Since that post, recording as Brulé, he’s continued to be one of the most well-known and successful Native American artists, releasing numerous CDs and touring frequently. I had some of his work before we headed west, and I added to that collection while we were in the Black Hills. None of Brulé’s work that I have at hand seems to speak specifically to the Badlands, but this morning, “Buffalo Moon” from the 1996 album We The People caught my ear. And it’s today’s Saturday Single.

Legs & Needles

Wednesday, September 13th, 2017

I learned about something called “dry needle therapy” yesterday, a process that closely resembles acupuncture.

Since about mid-June, I’ve been having problems with my legs: tightness in my hamstrings and my calf muscles, accompanied by painful occasional cramps. The two physical therapists I’ve been seeing have tried deep massages and have prescribed some simple exercises, which I’ve done on a generally regular basis. The tightness hasn’t gone away, and as of this week, the cramping is stronger and more frequent (although I take a few meds that usually help me get up and down the stairs or out to the mailbox without screaming).

So let’s cue up ZZ Top with “Legs” from 1984:

Neither of the physical therapists nor I expected Billy Gibbons and his pals to show up and solve my problems, so yesterday, one of them brought out the needles. The form I signed to consent to the treatment said that the technique wasn’t acupuncture, but it sure sounded like it, and once the treatment started, it felt like it. (I had one round of acupuncture back in 1999 after the on-set of my chemical sensitivity, when I was looking anywhere for answers.) I found a clarification this morning through Google:

Dry needling, according to one website, “involves needling of a muscle’s trigger points without injecting any substance. . . . The approach is based on Western anatomical and neurophysiological principles. It should not . . . be confused with the Traditional Chinese Medicine (TCM) technique of acupuncture. However, since the same filament needles are used in both dry needling and acupuncture, the confusion is understandable.”

Did it hurt? Well, most of the twenty or so needles she placed in my hamstrings and my calves gave me a light poke that I could easily ignore, but two of three of them had me gritting my teeth. Did it help? I think it’s too soon to tell. The therapist said the muscles she treated would likely be a little weaker today, and I think that’s true. I’ve got three more sessions scheduled, with an appointment with my regular doctor nestled in between to talk about my legs and a few other concerns I have.

All I can do is keep on with the program, which means do my exercises, drink more water and take the needles. And in the meantime, lend an ear to Jackie DeShannon. Here’s “Needles & Pins” from 1963.

Saturday Single No. 555

Saturday, August 26th, 2017

Life circles around us and with us.

During the 1990s, when I was living in South Minneapolis, I often drove out to first, the exurb of Cedar and later, the city of St. Francis to spend weekend afternoons with Rob and his family. I watched as he learned to be a dad to his girls, Jessi and Deidre, and his son, Robinson (the middle child).

I won’t say I knew the kids well, but they knew who I was well enough that when I’d call for Rob and one of them answered, they’d chat with me for a few moments before getting their dad to the phone. And when the times came for them to graduate from high school, the Texas Gal and I were invited to the three receptions, the last one taking place eight or nine years ago.

Each of the three got the same graduation gift from us: a collapsible laundry basket to take off to college, and we threw in lingerie bags for the girls. They also each got a custom CD of hits from the year they were born. Jessi and Deidre got pop-rock; Robinson got country. And I was gratified when Deidre, the youngest of the three, opened the package with her CD and told me “I’ve been looking forward to this for years!”

Today, Robinson will be the first of the three to get married, an event that makes me more aware than usual of the passing of time. Back in the 1990s, when he was learning to use silverware, I gave him a gift: the Mr. Peanut silverware set that I’d used when I was young. (His mom, Barb, told me a while back that after he outgrew it, the set was packed away to save it for the next generation.) Today, he and his bride, Katie will get something else for the kitchen from us, along with all the good wishes we can muster.

And as I sorted through music this morning, I was struck by “Wedding Song,” a tune from Dion DiMucci’s 1972 album, Suite For Late Summer:

Love grows every day we’re together.
Life flows, binding our lives to each other.
I was a child; now I’ll be a man.
I was a child; now I’ll be a man.

You hold all my years in your body,
You’re my friend, my love; you know everything about me.
You were a child; you’re a child no more.
You were a child; now you’ve been reborn.

The circle’s waiting for us to take our place.
The circle never changes; we’re all the same.

Love grows every day we’re together.
Life flows, binding our lives to each other.
I was a child; now I’ll be your man.
You were a child; now you’ll be my friend.
Be my friend

So, for Robinson and Katie, Dion’s “Wedding Song” is today’s Saturday Single.