I’ve featured this album belonging to my parents on my blog a couple of times. I think it survived the flood, though I haven’t actually put it (or any other record) on the turntable yet to test that theory.
However, I don’t think anyone would doubt this one’s a goner. No indeed.
…post-apocalyptic novel ahead of its time on climate change…Madonna’s 2001 tour and the song “Music”…my long-ago drowned drummer: muse, magic, inspiration, dreamer…all things that live one day must die you know…even love…and the things we hold close…part of every single thing I’ve ever written…Ben…Dennis…Sam I am…all three copies gone and probably less than a handful of people alive who know what any of this rambling means…
Since the flood, as I’ve thrown ruined stuff away, I truly do understand that things are just things and most are replaceable but some are not, and I just have to deal. I am dealing, actually.
But sometimes a thing is more than a thing. Here’s an example.
I’ve featured this album on my blog before. It’s utterly ruined. Every record inside is in its own sleeve with lyrics, and those sleeves remain a soggy mess stuck to the records.
I’ve long had all this music in my iTunes. There isn’t one song from it I can’t hear whenever I want to. I don’t need the album replaced.
It can’t be replaced. It was given to me by Riley when I was a teenager, and we’d lie on the floor in front of my parents’ stereo and listen to it and talk about the Beatles and music and everything else that came into our heads for hours. It’s one of the things Riley touched and I touched, so our energy is in it together. Riley is dead, and there’s never going to be any new tangible thing like this album for us.
So while it’s just a thing, it’s a thing with an energy that is connected to my heart and soul. It’s a thing that’s hard to throw away. But I will, and everything will go on because after all, all things must pass.
Recently Lynne went on a business trip to San Francisco and picked up this button for me. It was from City Lights. On our one trip to San Francisco, Tom’s and my only chance to see the bookstore was in the middle of the night when it wasn’t open. Luckily Lynne also brought me another memento to add to my accidental book bag collection. Thanks, Lynne!
I think I did pretty well after the flood as we started pulling stuff out of the house and I ruthlessly decided what was trash and what wasn’t. “I don’t care” became my stock response to every item someone else expressed sympathy about. But when I found this in a flooded bin, it made me physically ill. I didn’t know I still had it. I’d even asked my brother last year if he had it, and he thought he did.
This discovery about broke me.
Debby and Lynne painstakingly lifted it from the water and found a way to place it where it could dry. It did dry, and the truth is, there was already some staining on the sketch long before our flood, but nothing like it has now.
Written on the bottom: HERE’S AN ARTIST’S CONCEPTION OF ME. I can’t read the artist’s name, but I think the date is 1949, which would corroborate what my mother once told me, that the sketch was done of my father by one of his fellow art students while he was in college.
Today’s Daddy’s birthday. The sketch is weathered but it will be okay. Like me.
He was one of the biggest reasons I’m a strong person.
Deep from one of the flooded bins on the carport, I rescued this. It’s a little bag I made when I was around 15. I don’t remember if I used my jeans, Riley’s, or First Love Tim’s, but it had a rawhide cord that pulled it into a little pouch, and I often hung it from a belt loop. That rawhide cord had come out and become a slimy thing that scared the crap out of me because I thought there was a snake in the bin, even though snakes aren’t slimy and whatever, fear knows no reason. After some serious laundering, my little denim bag is fine. As I recall, we called these dope bags, but I never had pot in mine, probably only a few dollars and some change. Always had to have a dime with me for that emergency call. There’s a whole generation who thinks phone calls were a quarter, and more generations who don’t know what a pay phone is.
Here’s your daily cow. Poor ol’ longhorn. I always think of car trips when we were kids. My sister was a choir soprano and would sing all the songs she learned in school. This was always one of my favorites that she did. Who knew we’d both end up in Texas one day?