American Pie

There has always been music in my life. And I think I can safely say that there will always be music in my life. I didn't grow up listening to 'kid' music. Sure, my brother and I had some Raffi tapes and we all know and love Baby Beluga.

I remember being about six years old, in the ski lift with my dad at Wisp Ski Resort in Deep Creek, Maryland. The lift was stopped and we were suspended in mid-air above the snow covered mountain (pretty sure it's a big hill, if I'm being honest). To keep me occupied and pass the time, Dad started singing. At first it was a bunch of songs I knew, 99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall, The Ants Go Marching, etc. But then my dad started singing a song that I'd heard before not knowing the words. It was a sad song, one my dad loved and probably still loves. I love it, too, just because of this memory.

A long, long time ago / I can still remember / how that music used to make me smile / and I knew if I had my chance / that I could make those people dance / and maybe they'd be happy for awhile...

On that ski lift I learned the words to American Pie by Don McLean. And when my dad was finished singing, I asked him what the song was about. I can't remember what his response was* but I remember feeling very sad and cold. Maybe the cold was more about dangling in mid-air in winter weather. I digress.

But February made me shiver / with every paper I delivered / the bad news on the doorstep / I couldn't take one more step / I can't remember if I cried when I read about his widowed bride / but something touched me deep inside / the day the music died.

And until I moved to England, whenever my dad and I would go skiing, if we were stuck on the ski lift, we began to sing this song.

So bye bye miss American pie / drove my Chevy to the levee / but the levee was dry / and them good ol' boys were drinking whiskey and rye / singing this'll be the day that I die / this'll be the day that I die

I haven't been skiing for four years. I have seen my dad probably a dozen times since I moved and we have never sang American Pie or any other songs during any of those visits. Nor have we gone skiing.

Hopefully I can change that when I see my dad next week. Think it's too early for skiing?



*in the years since I asked what the song was about, I have learned. If you're curious, see the Wikipedia article here.

my confession and a memory.

On average, it rains 200 days per year in England. Over that two-hundred or so days, it rains more than 30 inches.

I love rain. I love the way it sounds, the way it feels, even the way it smells. I love rolling thunder and waiting for giant webs of lightening to cover the sky. The damp, earthy smells that rise during the rain make me feel happy and alive.

Many of my childhood memories include rain. Or snow. But mostly rain.

The first time I realised how much I love the rain, I was four or five years old. It was one of those sticky summer nights, where the humidity is hanging in the air. Suddenly, a crisp breeze came through the window and cut through my bed sheet. I remember shivering, tingling like I had just swallowed minty ice cream. There was a growling and grumbling sound from the sky; thunder. CRACK! Lightening lit up the sky and the yard. Rain hurled from the sky soaking everything. The thunder and lightening continued. I lay in my bed and watched intently. I wanted to be closer.

I climbed out of bed, brushed the toys from my bedside table, climbed back onto the bed, and stepped gingerly on the top of the table. I had to stand on the table to see out of my windows! The small rectangular windows were two thirds of the way up my bedroom walls and only a foot high. I needed to inspect the storm more closely and my bedside table was the best tool for the job.

Standing on the table, peering out of the window, I stood for what seemed like hours, admiring the storm. Just as quickly as it came, it was gone. I stood on the table, looking out of the window, willing the storm to come back. When it did not, I reluctantly climbed down and into bed.

Still, decades later, I have a love affair with rain and storms. If bad storms are predicted, I wait almost impatiently for their arrival. I sit in the window, watching, occasionally narrating what is happening. If I am caught out in a storm and I feel it is safe (little/no lightening), I will sometimes just keep walking in it until I am soaked. Soaking in rainwater, droplets running off my nose and eyelashes and hair is my agnostic confessional. Except I don't have to talk or repent. The rain just washes everything away for me.