"Summer Rain"
Johnny Rivers
Summer rain taps at my
window
West wind soft as a sweet dream
My love, warm as the
sunshine
Sitting here by me, she's here by me
She stepped
out of the rainbow
Golden hair shining like moon-glow
Warm lips
soft as a soul
Sitting here by me, she's here by me
All
summer long, we spent dancing in the sand
And the jukebox kept on
playing
Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band
We sailed
into the sunset
Drifting home, caught by a gulf stream
Never
gave a thought for tomorrow
Just let tomorrow be, now
Let tomorrow be
She
wants to live in the Rockies
She says that's where we'll find
peace
Settle down, raise up a family
One to call our own, yeah,
We will have a home
The snow drifts by my
window
North wind blowing like thunder
Our love's burning like
fire
And she's here by me, yeah, s
She's here with me
Let
tomorrow be
Back on June 10, 2010, my blog entry was titled “I Miss the Joy.” I was 59 years-old then, and I was thinking about my past and the many joyful experiences I had known to that point. I am now 71, and as I reread the old writing, I still long for many of those simple, largely unexpected moments of happiness and good fortune.
However, my perspective now – a viewpoint even more steeped in the reminisce of a past that slowly drifts toward the ultimate inescapable boundary – finds me considering how many more days may follow. For those not yet at this point of life, I can tell you my view is not born of morbid fear or regret for mortality, but of a natural longing and a desire to leave behind some semblance of my blessings. I think its the teacher in me that just can't give up the fleeting ghost of a time-worn lesson plan. And, so I write.
As I look back to 2010, I want to add some of my thoughts of today …
“I suppose I have experienced my share of unadulterated joy in my 59 years of life. I have been extremely fortunate to be raised by good people in a good area, and these advantages have given me the opportunity to explore the tremendous opportunities of life and abundantly reap the happiness in living. Much of the joy I have experienced has stemmed from unexpected moments of good fortune, and very often these have occurred in the midst of work or adventures with friends.”
(Frank R. Thompson. “I
Miss the Joy.” Thursday, June 10, 2010.)
Losing friends is catastrophic, and it's even more devastating when that friend is a close relative or a valued companion. Yet, as I age and more friends pass, I find myself looking back to the times I had spent with these dear souls in simple, spontaneous moments of joy – experiences that sprung extemporaneously and unfiltered by design.
Some of these memories evoke colorful and meaningful images and others rejuvenate various words that somehow survived my too-often failing memory. So many produce only fragments, and how I wish I had retained more details of every scene. As elusive and faded as they have become, I embrace those beautiful times spent with loved ones.
So many of my blissful memories were probably much too carefree and now require cautionary “don't do as I did” grandpa warnings. Many involve freedoms and social rites that had impressions without major themes. My first time drinking beer at the local drive-in, playing guitar at a school dance, learning to drive a standard shift, kissing a girl in a class play, getting up the nerve to ask a date to the movies, my first wreck when I nearly flipped my car on Rose Hill – they've all morphed into joyous recollections even those that were frightening at the time.
Some of the memories involve detailed sensory perceptions that still evoke dreams of the actual times and the places. Others continue to challenge me. Why can I not accurately conjure the unique smell of the grade school cafeteria or the feel of a baseball meeting the sweet spot of a wooden bat? I love these sensory details, but I just can't seem to find words to describe so many stuck in my brain.
I also wish everyone could recount certain pleasures I cherish.
“For example, I can't imagine someone who did not have the tremendous opportunity to play sports with a good, winning team of friends. Or, someone who cannot remember the joyful experience of the awesome sights, sounds, and smells of spending a hot day at Dreamland (then, the Terrace Club) pool?
“As I pass the now weed-covered parking lot of the Scioto Breeze Drive-in Theater, a million old memories flash through my head about this once affordable family and dating attraction.
“And, who doesn't miss the Friday night crowds and department store shopping on Chillicothe Street as many residents just 'went to town' with a little money in their pockets to initiate a great weekend or to congregate with friends?”
(Frank
R. Thompson. “I Miss the Joy.” Thursday, June 10, 2010.)
They say you can't go back. I know that, but I also understand that happiness derived from the events I experienced helps maintain purpose. This joy counteracts loneliness and anxiety and can even give me hope for the future. Mark Twain said, “I find that the further back I go, the better I remember things, whether they happened or not.” I find a flow of memories includes certain embellishments, but I see those added pieces as meaningful exposition – the event provides the framework; however, it is the story that is timeless, and good stories improve with age. We simply generate our own personal truths as we recall the narrative.
“I miss the Mustang I drove, Lake Margaret where I swam and worked, the competitive young rock band scene at places like the Armory and the CAY, and the numerous gas stations where many males congregated to meet with friends in the community. Most of us, then – years ago – were happy with the state of our hometown, even in the face of one of the most turbulent times in U.S. and world history.”
(Frank R. Thompson. “I Miss the Joy.” Thursday, June 10, 2010.)
My maroon '65 289 Mustang convertible, bands named “The Soul Brothers” and “The Bare Facts,” the Scioto County Fair, and stations like Ted's and Rockwell's Sohio spark joy every time I recollect their existence. The social and political upheaval of the 60s affected my Lucasville life much less than my immediate concerns – who was going to show up at the Sand Mines or at McBride's Lake, who wanted to ride to town to grab a Big Chef, when was the next Beatles album coming out, what was that foxy girl's name???
Things in my youth were exciting, and it seemed we all lived for each other, passing though things we should have savored but chose to leave in the rear-view. Our very lack of experience lent to acceleration. I mean, my first two concerts were Jimi Hendrix and the Doors – I don't have a photo, a program, or an accurate and detailed recall of the iconic events. Our senior trip was wild and woolly train ride to Washington D.C. and I have but fleeting impressions of that graduation-culminating adventure. We didn't text, take selfies, or post our every minute on phones. No need to record things? I guess we were too busy living them.
Even Vietnam seemed millions of miles away until acquaintances returned home with mentions of “things going on over there.” I remember they shared few words about the war though. Most vets were silent about any details. They were just so frigging glad to be back home. I learned to not bring up the war … I still avoid the subject with friends.
“It was a simpler time, a time of fewer options, and a time that stubbornly held onto innocence and obligations. People spent more time in reflection then and less time keeping up with a rapid, time-devouring life style.”
(Frank R. Thompson. “I Miss the Joy.” Thursday, June 10, 2010.)
Isn't much of our joy rooted in simplicity? And, by the same token, when that simplicity is lost and our innocence fades, doesn't achieving happiness become too complicated? Oh, I know – that's inevitable. To mature and grow. Still, much of the convolution in my happiness came about by my own doing. I just couldn't wait to enter the white-water of adulthood and test new waters. I've heard it a million times – “I had it made and didn't know it.”
Allow me to digress even further about this. Do you remember feverishly opening the first chapters of love? In grade school simply talking with someone or daringly holding her hand was so joyful. Then soon, kissing (and innocent hugging) became wonderful affections.
But then, if you were like me, we just let go and dove heart-first into serious relationships, pushing exciting new boundaries without any idea of office or duty. Without warning, each new discovery led to obligations that turned once-simple friendships into intricate, devoted affairs of love, health, and happiness. Not matter how innocent and beautiful our intentions, we gradually found ourselves in the middle of something so difficult and seemingly impossible to nurture and maintain. No wonder small frustrations often led to major breakups and … well, you know the rest. Our response so mundane – “Well, one thing led to another.” And, don't say we weren't warned. Yes, happiness was pushing our buttons, but who wouldn't do it differently today?
Society breeds joy. As I
attempted to find myself, I also discovered how groups and circles in
which I moved became very important to my happiness. Not only my
family but also my social connections gave me important identity. My
school, my community, my interests – all opened doors of
exploration that led to joyful experiences. As changes in structure
and time altered my connections with these precious units, I learned
that society made demands for expression and inclusion. I knew I had
dues to pay in order to find a fit in the future.
“Perhaps,
most of my joy resulted due to the feeling that I, as a young
American, could make a difference as part of this powerful group of
baby-boomers. Sure, the young often encountered solid opposition, but
with the support of their strength in numbers and their vitality of
their youth, the younger population by the thousands responded to
issues they believed most needed addressed.”
(Frank
R. Thompson. “I Miss the Joy.” Thursday, June 10, 2010.)
I can't tell you exactly how so many young people in my generation found the need to expand our experiences of growing up in a safe, small-town existence into world views, yet I know it happened during a time of youthful exuberance and passion. The war, the civil rights movement, the sexual revolution – all of those issues bombarded our young brains. And, in most cases, we waded into these waters well before we knew how deeply we were to tread. Things were happening, and we were more than glad to become a part.
The issues and causes in my youth were relentless and inescapable … they permeated fashion, music, education, and any advancement we chose to pursue. I am not proud to say that me and my classmates actually walked out of chemistry class our junior year to protest instruction. Thank God the valedictorian joined us, or we would probably have been suspended. At the time, it seemed like the “right” thing to do. Tell that to the principal and superintendent and see how that flies. Did they have pity on us or just find something to support our defiance. I don't know.
Most media accounts today remember major events such as assassinations, marches, and protests as turning points for student involvement: I think the truth is that the restless mood of the country and the hopeful challenges set before us – the Boomers raised by Brocaw's “Greatest Generation” – simply begged our participation and action. In my youth, we understood the necessity for change, no matter how small or large the alteration. We were giddy for action, to be a part of what was happening. Maybe the counterculture too easily imprinted our readily impressionable minds. I'm not sure; however, I do know what mattered to us – to push when given an opportunity.
Goofy things? I remember helping organize a protest in high school over the nasty lunch menu. We began sending students to the market, buying food, and making sandwiches to hand out during lunch in protest of the cafeteria menu we thought was largely nasty and repetitive. As students quit buying lunches, student council and the administration soon met. The meetings led to compromise and change. One major accomplishment of the movement was inclusion of foot-long hot dogs and fries. Earthshaking, huh? Not every 60s protest was monumental … especially in the small community of Lucasville, Ohio.
“Imagination -- in science, in the arts, in self-expression – was valued and encouraged, so far-reaching discoveries emerged. At that time, technology was more a slave to the people and the people were less a slave to technology. I think people actually believed they had discovered a new, joyful horizon and they were steering the course toward that communal rainbow port. As time would prove, however, their false belief that chemicals and drugs would enhance the journey was a revelation too late to save many useful pioneers. Mistaken ideologies took their tearful toll in the best of times.”
(Frank R. Thompson. “I Miss the Joy.” Thursday, June 10, 2010.)
Imagination! What a beautiful tool for change and newfound joy. I grew up – in grade school and high school – during the Space Race when the USSR's Sputnik put the fear of Communist domination at our doorstep. We simply refused to remain behind an enemy in science, math, and technological advancement. Our teachers told that the future depended on us, and we believed it. I remember so much imagination at play in the halls of local schools. I have to mention beautiful spontaneity of the time once more and add the fact that fear was also a prime motivation.
It may be difficult for young people today to understand, but my generation bought the entire package of stopping Communism as a life mission. It wasn't until later – well into the ten-war in Vietnam and the revelation of absolute executive lies – that we wholeheartedly questioned the scenario. As kids, we knew our road as a straight-and-narrow path to end Communist aggression.
I will never forget the Cuban Missile Crisis during junior high in October 1962 and the stark realization that nuclear war was just one red-button away. President Kennedy announced we would not permit offensive weapons to be delivered to Cuba and demanded that weapons already in Cuba be dismantled and returned to the Soviet Union. The confrontation is the closest the Cold War came to escalating into a full-scale nuclear conflict.
The fear during the crisis was palpable. At Valley, we were taught to take cover under our desks, and we actually had a drill, complete with loading the school buses, to see how long it would take to evacuate. Citizens of the area built and maintained fallout shelters. To a youngster like me, the two or so weeks was pretty confusing but nonetheless scary. The Cold War had quite an effect on us – everything from James Bond films to the anti-Goldwater “Daisy – Bombs Away” campaign ad with a nuclear explosion.
Over the decade, the patriotism of the time involved more than just flag waving and blind allegiance against an ideology. As even more friends who served came back from Vietnam, they began to question the domino theory and American involvement. Many spoke of horrors and even abuses that rocked their values. Our music reflected the change – songs like “War” by Edwin Starr, "I Feel Like I'm Fixin' To Die Rag" by Country Joe and the Fish, and, of course, Neil Young's reaction to Kent State, “Ohio,” raised our consciousness.
I have to say that I had classmates who served who never really “came back” from the experience. Some held deep emotional scars. Others were addicted to heroin. Many suffered from PTSD and physical wounds. All of us at home loved our servicemen and respected them. Yet, we began to question the motives of those who sent them overseas to eventually abandon our allies. Jesus, we had to learn to accept the unfathomable – we had been used by a government that had never committed to victory.
“What do I miss most? Where is the joy? I miss the thoughtful, educated beauty of women more than I celebrate the flawless, show-all, magazine ideal. I miss the rugged, honest, strong-willed male of the time more than I respect the tough, threatening, body-talking man.
“I miss the opportunity for expression and the ability to be misunderstood without dislike more than the totally guarded, seemingly over-examined search for imperfection in a person's direct expression. I miss the broad range of acceptance and toleration exhibited by the public more than the absolute desire to categorize and stereotype others.”
(Frank R. Thompson. “I Miss the Joy.” Thursday, June 10, 2010.)
To close, I guess it's evident at age 71 that I have finally discovered that real joy in life often comes from what seemed at the time to be trivial and insignificant. When I reopen the memory box, I relish the thoughts of being together with others and simply living … living through so many things together.
I need to face it, almost all of my happiest times depended upon the love of friends and family. They provided the loving environment necessary for my personal growth. Whatever sweetness that came about was made possible by them. I cannot conceive why people resist moving in the nurturing environment they can readily find. I learned very early that opportunities often knock during the most mundane experiences, but you have to be conscious and within earshot to answer the calls.
I
miss V-eight summer nights with the windows rolled down.
I miss
the dark excitement waiting there on the edge of town.
I miss
the smell of leather gloves and the the sound of bats.
I miss long
walks through cornfield bottoms to catch monster cats.
I miss
the way the colors on the hills blazed brightest in the days of
fall.
I miss the days when home was the only place to find me with
a telephone call.
I miss reaching out to hold onto a
tentative hand.
I miss the thrill of exploring forbidden and
foreign lands.
I miss my
really good buddy and my pack of loyal friends.
I miss those who
always told stories with the sweetest ends.
I miss the
times you gave me a second and a third and a fiftieth chance.
I
miss the times that life found me and you fumbling through a new
dance.
I miss teetering on the edge of a towering height.
I miss the
beauty of the blackest black and the whitest white.
I miss the
challenge of being a little more.
I miss also the recognizable and
essential core.
I miss the joy.
You know I do.
I miss the joy.
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