No more than two inches end to end. Holding the tiny bracelet is interesting. I sense my smallness. It always makes me smile.
In February, I turn sixty. I got here on one of those Japanese high-speed trains. The G force is real.
I want to talk about the stuff that grows my heart in the run-up. Be grateful.
Sixty is the new sixty.
I was born into a golden age of music. Lived in a home with parents who loved it and had very different tastes. My mom played ballads, theatre, and movie soundtracks (I survived a long period of MacArthur Park). She listened to Elvis, Liberace, The Carpenters and Barbara Streisand. My dad listened to soul and rock — the Moody Blues, Cat Stevens, Mahalia Jackson, Roberta Flack, and Chicago. We watched all the music shows like Flip Wilson, Andy Williams, Ed Sullivan, and Mike Douglas. My mom's a night owl and ironed my dad's work shirts while watching Johnny Carson.
I heard David Bowie echoing in a big house for the first time in 1974. Rebel Rebel, muffled but loud from behind a closed second-floor bedroom door. My grade six friend Ann had older brothers who had returned from an extended stay in London, England. Who had ever heard anything like it? At eleven years old...Diamond Dogs. And the wild album cover!
I liked being near the stereo at parties as a teen girl. Still do. There was always someone to talk about music with. I read Creem and Circus and sometimes Rolling Stones. Songs, albums, and collections tell a story about a person. I had some rich conversations.
There was always music playing, and it left a beautiful imprint. My little ears knew to tune in early. Thinking right now about hugging my mom and dad. Heart against heart. Flickering pink neon light.
I did one of those silly Instagram things: Your 2023 will be like the hit single from when you were fifteen.
Staying Alive. Released in December 1977 and top of the charts two months later in February 1978. The Bee Gees are more evidence of having grown up in a golden age.
This song was playing fucking everywhere — your doctor's office, aunt Julie's house, Tim Horton's, your best friend's parents' living room. It makes me think of a young, pre-scientology John Travolta poured into a pair of white pants. Inspiration for some late-night solo fun at fifteen. Andy Gibb looking real good, too.
Shining Star, Earth, Wind and Fire. That horn section. They were bonafide showmen. And twelve-year-old me dancing in front of the television on Saturday afternoon with Soul Train. I'm paying respect to Fred White (there goes that high-speed train again).
You're a shining star
No matter who you are
Shining bright to see
What you could truly beat you could trul
© Deborah Reid, 2021 - 2023. All Rights Reserved.