Who Knows Where the Time Goes?

I was recently reminded that this time, ten years ago, my wife Nicole and I were moving into a enormous rental house in Aptos California. It was up a long road to the top of a hill, and our back gate let us out into the forested Nicene Marks Park (this was the epicenter of the 1989 Loma Prieta quake). It was a five bedroom, two and a half bath home, which was much too big for our needs, but the price was right and the owner was not only allowing all three of our dogs to move in, she adored the fact that we had this creatures (plus a cat). The yard was large as well, and I indulged my love of gardening to build upon the great flower beds and raised vegetable beds. We hosted my daughter's wedding party for a Mexican Fiesta the night before the wedding. The yard was decked out in paper cut outs, brightly colored as only the Mexicans can do. I hired a taco truck which was able to pull into the yard through a large gate made specifically for letting in cars and or large equipment. It's how I also got my hot tub in there.

I had no earthly idea that eighteen months into renting this home we would part ways and I would move out. The divorce took years after that, as we were hoping we'd reunite. So, in keeping with Music Fridays, thank you Robin, I wondered what music I was listening to ten years ago. I had latched on to Patty Larkin, and was lucky enough to see her in concert at the relatively tiny Kuumbwa Jazz Center in Santa Cruz. This song, "Me and that Train" grabbed me, and it's still one of my favorites.



Four years and a divorce later, I had been in Sacramento for about three years. I moved there to get out of town and to help my parents move from their San Diego home of 40 years, north to Sacramento to be closer to one of my sisters. I managed to co-habitate with mater and pater, lovers of Fox News (and I use that term lightly and mockingly) for two years. I was there to help my dad with the day-to-day care of my mother who has Parkinson's. The only problem with that is that Dad is a control freak and nobody does anything better than he can. My efforts were not appreciated, and the old paradigm of father and child played out, with me being the 53 year old child. That didn't go over well with me, needless to say. We had 'words' and often times I would leave the house to take very long walks through Sacramento streets, often finding my way to the lush Capital Park which also serves as an arboretum of sorts, with very old trees carefully tagged with their names and dates. It also boasts a large and beautifully fragrant rose garden. My dad is allergic to roses. Oddly enough, they are one of my favorite flowers.

I dated a couple of women, getting back into the swing after eleven years being with Nickie. It was a heady time, and though I was coping with the painful aftermath of a contentious divorce, I was moving on, making friends, and discovering college courses at our local Sac State. I took a couple of classes (Ted Talks and a Rock and Roll History class) before I signed up for a photography course.

Lo and behold, that's where I met my future husband. In addition to our mutual love of photography, we both enjoyed music as well. He was a great lover of classical, and spent many years going to concert halls and hearing the greats in Philadelphia, Cleveland and Phoenix. His knowledge was encyclopedic and his classical and jazz music collection was vast. So vast, that I had to pry the bulk of it away from him when we bought our home together. It was boxed up and took up one entire space in his three car garage. He had it all downloaded, but had insisted on keeping the compact discs. He probably had thousands of dollars invested in cds. We donated many to the local public radio station and they were thrilled to get them. We also sold twelve boxes to a music dealer in San Francisco who drove up with his wife in their van, and took it all away at a bargain price.

My musical contribution to our union was a solid knowledge of popular music and folk music, which he had mostly missed out on. (He also missed out on many, many fine movies -- being a medical student and then a doctor didn't leave a lot of free time, and he chose to spend it listening to symphony orchestras.) We had six years together before he died last month, and those years went by in a blink of an eye. The time with him almost seems like a dream to me now.

The next song is one that would bring him to tears of exaltation. He sometimes would play this video multiple times a day. We both loved it, as it is powerful and the crowd shots are marvelous. Everyone was getting in to the music -- it was a religious experience!



Happy Friday to you all, and have a great weekend if at all possible. Make it happen.