The Grandson (Fred Savage):Grandpa, maybe you could come over and read it again to me tomorrow.
Grandpa (Peter Falk):As you wish.
My mother loved "The Princess Bride," which premiered on this day in 1987.
That is what I most remember about the movie.
Mom saw it at a theater. I didn't see it with her. For years after that, she kept urging me to rent the video tape, but I never did. Finally, she gave me a copy of the video tape for Christmas — just a few months before she died in a flash flood.
At the time of her death, I still hadn't watched the tape. I still had it, but I hadn't watched it. So one night I decided I was going to do it for Mom.
I thought the movie was cute, and I could see why Mom liked it, why so many people liked it. Critics liked it, and it was a modest success at the box office, too.
I would have liked to talk with Mom about it. That was what we did almost every time we saw a movie together. Our discussions were brief sometimes, extensive other times, but they were almost always the best part of the movie watching experience for me.
I miss many things about my mother, but that exchange of thoughts and ideas may be what I miss the most. I have no doubt that our conversation about "The Princess Bride" would have been one of our best.
"'The Princess Bride' reveals itself as a sly parody of sword and sorcery movies, a film that somehow manages to exist on two levels at once," Ebert wrote. "While younger viewers will sit spellbound at the thrilling events on the screen, adults, I think, will be laughing a lot."
I wanted to know which parts Mom found funny — and why. I think I know the answer, but I never truly will.
Ebert elaborated on that point, and I couldn't disagree.
"In its own peculiar way, 'The Princess Bride' resembles 'This Is Spinal Tap,' an earlier film by the same director, Rob Reiner," he wrote. "Both films are funny not only because they contain comedy, but because Reiner does justice to the underlying form of his story. 'Spinal Tap' looked and felt like a rock documentary — and then it was funny. 'The Princess Bride' looks and feels like 'Legend' or any of those other quasi–heroic epic fantasies — and then it goes for the laughs."
Without going into too much detail, the movie was the telling of a story by a grandfather (Peter Falk) to his bedridden grandson (Fred Savage) — and if Mom could be here, I have no doubt she would say that I shouldn't spoil too much for anyone who hasn't seen it.
I don't think it would spoil too much, though, if I told you that, in the context of the story, it was established that the phrase "As you wish" really means "I love you."
When I discovered that, I understood the meaning of the note Mom had attached to that Christmas gift. "I think you'll like this," Mom wrote. "As you wish."
I remember being puzzled by that at the time, and I asked Mom about it. But all she did was smile. She knew what it meant, and she knew I would understand only if I watched the movie.
The title song from Don McLean's "American Pie," which hit the music stores on this day in 1971, is the song that everyone remembers from that album.
But my first exposure to the album was through my mother, who actually bought it because she liked the song "Vincent." I'm not even sure Mom had heard "American Pie" before she bought the album.
I know she didn't know the title of the song she liked. She thought the title was "Starry Starry Night" which was the opening line of the song — and a variation of the name of a painting by Vincent Van Gogh that she liked ("The Starry Night").
I wasn't with her when she bought the album, and I have often wondered how she managed to make the sales clerk understand which album she wanted — since she didn't know the name of the album or the correct name of the song she liked. I suppose she must have told the clerk that the first line was "Starry starry night," and the clerk must have been familiar with more than simply the title track. "Vincent" had been released as a single before Mom bought the album, and it fared pretty well — not quite as well as "American Pie" but pretty well, rising to #12 on the charts.
If that wasn't how her purchase unfolded, then Mom must have required the assistance of more than one clerk to locate the album she wanted.
I had heard the single "American Pie" — many times — before Mom bought the album. It was released as a single in November 1971, became a fixture on the radio, soared to #1 in 1972 and has been inspiring discussions about the meanings of its lyrics for decades. When it was reissued 20 years later it reached #12.
Most people have nothing but praise for it. The Recording Industry Association of America ranked it fifth on its list of the songs of the century. The only ones ahead of it were Judy Garland singing "Over the Rainbow," Bing Crosby crooning "White Christmas," Woody Guthrie singing "This Land Is Your Land," and Aretha Franklin belting out "Respect." That's pretty exclusive company.
While many people have discussed the song at length and sought to decipher all the clues in the lyrics, McLean has said little about it. "Sorry to leave you all on your own like this, but long ago I realized that songwriters should make their statements and move on, maintaining a dignified silence," he said. Fair enough.
Even though that song shares the name of the album, the song that comes to my mind first when I think of the album is "Vincent," inspired by the life and work of Van Gogh.
People have been praising the poetry of "American Pie" for many years, but the poetry of "Vincent" is easily its equal.
And while no other songs from the album were released as singles, any or all of them could have been.
"American Pie" was McLean's second album — and the peak of his career. That's pretty heady stuff for a man in his mid–20s.
Most of us — if we had our druthers, as the folks in the Li'l Abner comic strip liked to say — would prefer to die quickly and relatively painlessly when we were at the top of our respective games.
Not everyone is granted that wish, of course, just as it is true that not everyone lives to a ripe old age — but if one does live into old age, he/she is not likely to be as fit or as sharp as he/she was at a younger age. Such a person is hardly likely to go out on top of his or her game.
Most of us, I guess, would like to live long lives, but most people can't live long lives and be as vibrant as they were when they were young. Some can, I suppose, but not most of us. Everything in life, it seems, is a trade–off.
(In a way, I'm inclined to think that Spencer Tracy's character in "Inherit the Wind" was saying the same thing when he remarked, "Progress has never been a bargain. You have to pay for it. Sometimes I think there's a man who sits behind a counter and says, 'All right, you can have a telephone, but you lose privacy and the charm of distance. Madam, you may vote but at a price. You lose the right to retreat behind the powder puff or your petticoat. Mister, you may conquer the air, but the birds will lose their wonder, and the clouds will smell of gasoline.'"
(Perhaps, when the subject is quality of life, it depends on what one considers progress — longevity or never having to contend with diminished abilities.)
My mother was denied the old age that my father has had. Mom was a schoolteacher who died in a flash flood 20 years ago. She and my father owned a duplex in Dallas and rented half of it as an additional source of income. The house had been in the family for decades. It originally belonged to my mother's parents, and she grew up there.
A week or so after my mother died, my brother and I crossed paths with the tenant, who remarked that Mom went out at the top of her game, and I couldn't argue with that.
A few hours before Mom died, she was at a carnival at her school. I've seen pictures that were taken that day. Perhaps there are home videos that were made as well in which I might be able to hear Mom chatting with her students or her students' parents. I can't get that from photographs, of course, but the look on Mom's face tells me she was in her element that day — and, for that matter, all the years she taught at that school. The tenant was right. Mom went out at the top of her game.
While I wish she had been with us longer, it is hard for me to imagine Mom in retirement. I know there were times when the job wore her out, but her work with children always seemed to energize her. I wonder where she would have found a source for that energy in retirement. My guess is that, if she couldn't be paid to mentor children, she would have found some way to do it for free — perhaps in a voluntary part–time capacity at a school or library.
There is a conundrum at play in every human life. See, I am grateful to have that mental image of my mother and not the one that my mother had of her mother in the final years of her life — but I still wish I had not been denied the pleasure of her company all these years.
Today would have been her birthday. It is also the 25th anniversary of the helicopter crash that claimed the life of another — and much more prominent — native of Dallas, Stevie Ray Vaughan. He was considerably younger than Mom, but it could also be said of him that he went out at the top of his game.
And I often wish we had not been denied the pleasure of his company.
Stevie Ray Vaughan struggled with substance abuse issues in the 1980s, but he had straightened up and was clearly on an upward trajectory when his helicopter crashed in southeast Wisconsin 25 years ago today. Each album was better than the one that preceded it, and his last album, "In Step," seemed to be the one that would earn him the acceptance of the mainstream audience.
His debut album with his band Double Trouble was called "Texas Flood," which was the name of one of the songs they played on the album — but it wasn't a Stevie Ray original. Matter of fact, it was a blues standard that had been covered by many artists over the years, but it came to be associated with Stevie Ray. Maybe he played it better than anyone else ever did. I don't know if that is true, but I do know that he played the hell out of that song.
I was in graduate school at the University of North Texas — about 35 or 40 miles north of Dallas — when Stevie Ray was killed, and I remember watching the news reports on the Dallas TV stations the night following Stevie Ray's funeral. The list of attendees read like a who's who of popular music — Eric Clapton, David Bowie, ZZ Top, Stevie Wonder, Bonnie Raitt, Jackson Browne. Those are the ones I can remember off the top of my head. I'm sure there are many I have forgotten.
After Stevie Ray's death, the city of Austin, Texas, erected a statue in his memory, showing him wearing his trademark poncho and holding his guitar at his side standing by the river. Some folks didn't like it. I liked it well enough, I suppose, but I think I would have preferred for him to be holding his guitar in his classic pose on stage. To me, the guitar looked a little too much like a gun at his side — until you got close enough to examine it.
I thought it was ironic, in this the 25th anniversary of his death, that we got so much rain this past spring, and the river flooded the area around the statue. At the water's peak, Stevie Ray appeared to be standing on water.
Talk about your Texas flood.
Yes, Stevie Ray Vaughan went out at the top of his game, but you can still feel the loss for the rest of us. He was 35 when he died. He would be 60 if he had been permitted to live. At the time of his death, he had been putting out several records/CDs that soared on the charts; one can only imagine what the future held for him. Hey, 60 is a whippersnapper compared to Bob Dylan, the Rolling Stones and Paul McCartney, all still out there playing to packed houses in their 70s.
What else might Stevie Ray have done in the last quarter of a century? I don't know, but I'm sure he would have been an influence on popular music. "In Step" would have been his breakthrough album, I'm sure of it, and I'm equally sure it would not have been his last. The entire musical landscape might be different today if he had not died.
"After he cleaned himself up, by 1990, he was back to playing guitar in a ferocious way," Jason Hanley, senior director of education for the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum, told the Milwaukee (Wis.) Journal Sentinel. "Who knows what he would have done next?"
One thing I do know — if you like blues rock, then you owe Stevie Ray Vaughan a special debt of gratitude. Every day, really, but today in particular.
It should come as no surprise that the Beatles were the most popular recording artists in the 1960s, but Simon & Garfunkel's popularity easily rivaled the Beatles' by the time the decade ended.
Simon & Garfunkel made their debut on this day in 1964 with the release of their "Wednesday Morning, 3 AM" album — but widespread acclaim did not come until after they released their second album, "Sounds of Silence," a year and a half later.
Recorded over three daytime sessions in the spring of 1964, "Wednesday Morning, 3 AM" offered five original songs and several traditional folk songs, much like the composition of Bob Dylan's debut album.
And, again, like Dylan's album, it offered a glimpse into the future.
It was my mother who introduced me to Simon & Garfunkel when I was just a little boy. Mostly it was the music from the "Sounds of Silence" album, which Mom played frequently — and loudly — on our old stereo. I have no memory of hearing "Wednesday Morning, 3 AM" until I was much older, maybe when I was in college.
I don't think there were any hits on the album, nothing that would be recognizable to anyone except the really hard–core Simon & Garfunkel fans.
And Mom was a pretty devoted fan. She probably heard some of the tracks from "Wednesday Morning, 3 AM," which led her to purchase Simon & Garfunkel's second album. I have many memories of her humming along with songs from "Sounds of Silence" and "Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme." Sometimes, when the spirit really moved her, she would belt out the songs with the gusto of Ethel Merman. My brother and I were her audience. We were little, but we would cheer and applaud when she sang Simon & Garfunkel.
I don't recall hearing her sing most of the songs from "Wednesday Morning, 3 AM," though, which is a shame. There were some good songs on that album. Not great songs, but good songs — and, as I say, they gave people a taste of what to expect.
The original Paul Simon songs on the album clearly indicated a folk direction to Simon & Garfunkel's music at the time. I guess the folk genre was always appropriate for Simon & Garfunkel's music, but it was probably most pronounced on "Wednesday Morning, 3 AM" with its acoustic guitar presence, but it also had an element the duo's other four studio albums lacked — a banjo.
Of course, there were glimpses of the hit machine Simon & Garfunkel would become — like the original "The Sound of Silence," which it seems to me was the first Simon & Garfunkel song my mother brought home — in the form of a 45 rpm single.
That wasn't necessarily the version that was on the album that was released 50 years ago today. It might have been the revised (and, in my opinion, inferior) version that was included on the duo's next album — the one that brought them wide recognition.
So perhaps she heard "Wednesday Morning, 3 AM" after all. That song was featured more prominently in the album that shared that name.
I liked other original Paul Simon songs on the album, too. "Bleecker Street" was probably my favorite, but the historian in me appreciated "He Was My Brother," a song that was inspired by the murders of three civil rights workers in Mississippi in the summer of 1964. One of those workers, Andrew Goodman, had been a classmate of Simon's. The song took certain liberties — for example, it said that the unnamed brother was five years older, when, in fact, Simon was about two years older than Goodman.
It was still a good song — and it was, I believe, Simon & Garfunkel's first foray into topical songwriting. It was also the song that first attracted the attention of Columbia Records.
Clouseau (Peter Sellers):Facts, Hercule, facts! Nothing matters but the facts. Without them the science of criminal investigation is nothing more than a guessing game.
Some of my fondest memories from my childhood are of my family watching Blake Edwards' timeless "Pink Panther" movies. There was another family with whom we liked to watch those movies — but we got a kick out of the Pink Panther even if our friends weren't there.
We were positively obsessive on the subject. There's no telling how many times we watched those movies on TV and laughed uproariously at the same things each time (as if we had never heard or seen them before). Some of Clouseau's lines became running jokes in my family.
(Interestingly, after Sellers died in 1980, film critic Roger Ebert wrote that Sellers' trademark accent was developed in "A Shot in the Dark," not in the original "The Pink Panther."
("It came from this brilliant concierge in a hotel I used to stay at in Paris," Sellers told Ebert. "He was a master of dealing with American tourists. He'd talk to them in a strange accent that wasn't French but sounded French to an English speaker.")
The only movie in the series that did not have "Pink Panther" in the title was "A Shot in the Dark," which premiered on this day in 1964. That was before my time. Mom and Dad may well have gone to see it at the theater, but I only saw it on TV until once, when I was in high school, an area theater held a Pink Panther movie marathon. I remember taking my girlfriend to see it.
"A Shot in the Dark" was also the only movie in that series that starred Peter Sellers and did not have an animated sequence in the opening credits with the pink panther cartoon character that became so popular on Saturday mornings ("Inspector Clouseau," which starred Alan Arkin in Sellers' role, also had no animation).
Here is the gist of the story. A murder was committed at a palatial French estate, and the prime suspect was the maid (Elke Sommer). The chief inspector (Herbert Lom) was ready to make an arrest, but the incredibly inept Inspector Clouseau stepped in to conduct his own investigation.
Clouseau, you see, had fallen in love with Sommer. There was a series of murders, the evidence in each pointing to Sommer, and every time Sommer was picked up by the police — but Sellers managed to free her each time.
Sellers always seemed to have beautiful women co–starring with him, but Sommer may have been his most beautiful "Pink Panther" co–star. It isn't difficult to understand why Sellers' character was so smitten, but in the end, even his detractors had to admit that he was spot–on in his judgments that Sommer was not guilty.
Although Sommer was innocent, "A Shot in the Dark" still managed to find ways to use her physical attributes in not–so–innocent ways.
The funniest example probably came when Sellers and Sommer were arrested for public nudity after escaping a nudist colony.
It was actually a funny escalation of an ongoing joke in which Sellers, in his bungling Clouseau way, always managed to be in the wrong place at the right time and was arrested for, in succession, selling balloons, selling paintings and hunting, each time without a license.
Those first three times, viewers could see, after Clouseau had been arrested, a paddywagon on its way to the police station, presumably with Clouseau inside, and the security officers standing on the vehicle's running boards looking bored and disinterested.
But when the paddywagon presumably contained Sellers and Sommer, both nude, the officers could be seen with their faces pressed against the paddywagon's tiny windows.
As I say, this was the second of the "Pink Panther" movies, but it was the one that really established the Clouseau character — as well as Dreyfuss' frantic eye twitching and Kato's judo ambushes.
Mom loved it all — the fractured French accent, Clouseau's clumsiness, everything. She would speak in his accent, sometimes using lines from the movies, sometimes using lines she made up but delivered in that accent. When she wanted to confer with a member of the family about something, she would say, "I must have speaks with you." (I don't remember offhand which movie that line was from. I don't think it was "A Shot in the Dark.")
I can only imagine the kind of conversation she might have had with Sellers' concierge. They might have needed an army of translators.
I am very fond of the "Pink Panther" movies and always try to watch when one is on TV because, well, they are funny but also because of Mom. Of course, I know, when I sit down to watch one, that I will be reminded of her, but that is OK.
I had been to see director Ridley Scott's "Alien" not long after it hit the theaters on this day in 1979, and I knew how many scary scenes there were in it. Before I went to see it, I saw Sigourney Weaver making what I assume was her first appearance on The Tonight Show, and I remember she told Johnny Carson that "Alien" did "all the things a piece of celluloid is supposed to do."
After I heard her say that, I had to see it.
Anyway, I went to see it by myself the first time. I didn't know much about it, other than it was supposed to be one of the scariest movies in years — and it was. When I left the theater, I felt drained.
Not long after that, Mom was making noises about wanting to see it. She had been hearing and reading a lot about it, and she was intrigued.
Now, when Mom was alive, I enjoyed watching movies with her, and I watched many of the best movies that were ever made with her — sometimes at the theater, other times at home on our TV set. We talked about the movies after we watched them, and she often pointed out things to me that I had missed. I have often longed for those conversations since her death.
I knew that intense movies had a particular effect on her, though. See, whenever Mom was watching a (pardon the pun) gripping movie, she had a tendency to grip the arm of the person sitting next (or perhaps I should say closest) to her in the especially intense moments — preferably someone she knew, but, if it happened to be a stranger, well, she wasn't bashful about grabbing that person's arm.
If it was an arm and it was close to her, it was fair game.
I suppose Dad had been to enough movies with Mom to know better than to go to a scary one with her. He didn't mind going to the comedies with her, and they often went to dramatic movies together, but he left the task of taking her to scary movies to others.
On this occasion, I miscalculated.
See, I figured that, since I had seen "Alien" before, I had a pretty good idea how intense it was — and when the especially intense scenes were coming up. I must have figured that I could be prepared for Mom's reaction to those scenes. I figured wrong.
Before the movie was over, my right arm was a mass of bruises.
"Alien" was really one of the first sci–fi/horror movies to be set in the dark depths of space — and the promoters capitalized on it.
"In space no one can hear you scream" was the tagline on the trailers and the movie posters. I feel it had to be the inspiration for the scary movies set in space that came after — although it certainly wasn't the first.
It just gave a fresh — and plausible — spin to an old theme.
The American Film Institute ranks it seventh among the sci–fi movies. It continues to be cited as a groundbreaking movie that still influences filmmakers today. Yet it won only one Oscar (visual effects).
Still, it was hugely successful, earning more than $200 million after being made for a paltry (by comparison) $9 million — and it can truly be said to have launched Weaver's career.
The movie was nominated for two Oscars, winning for visual effects.
I wonder how many other arms were bruised during the showing of that movie.
(P.S. H.R. Giger, the artist who designed the monster for "Alien,"died less than two weeks ago at the age of 74.)
"Heck, I'm no Henry Mancini or Michel Legrand. I just play the guitar and write songs."
John Denver (1943–1997)
If I had to name one popular recording artist who embodied the '70s, I would have to pick John Denver.
I'm sure there are '70s musical artists who were more commercially successful than Denver — Elton John, perhaps, or the Bee Gees or the Eagles — and any would probably be better representatives of the decade.
But Denver has always been the '70s to me. It's not so much his music — although that is part of it. It is more his fresh–faced, innocent (almost naive) look, I suppose.
That may be at odds with your mental image of the '70s, but that's the thing that people, especially those who weren't around then, need to understand. The '70s were contradictory years.
They were full of vulgar musical acts, the spiritual fathers of heavy metal, grunge and other extremist variations. They also had more innocent–appearing, wholesome performers than any decade other than the '50s.
John Denver was part of the latter. He wore his hair long, yes, but it was always combed and fashionable. He wore blue jeans like many of his contemporaries, but they were clean and fashionable. He wore colorful shirts, but they, too, were stylish. My grandmother couldn't tolerate most of the musicians I liked — she thought they were "scraggly" — but she had no objection to John Denver. As far as she was concerned, he was a good–looking young guy with a nice voice who needed a haircut.
And, unlike most of the groups I liked, my grandmother could understand what Denver was singing.
My mother really liked Denver's music, and I acquired my fondness for his recordings from her. I guess you could describe much of his music as "folk music" — he started his professional career playing with folk groups in the 1960s — but that wasn't his only genre. He also wrote and played pop songs. He did perform mostly acoustic guitar — power guitar wasn't his style.
It didn't surprise me that Mom gravitated to Denver's music. Mom liked folk music. I think of Simon and Garfunkel most when I think of her — they were her favorites — but I also think of John Denver and Don McLean. In fact, I often listen to Simon and Garfunkel when I go to the cemetery to visit Mom's grave, but I listened to John Denver the last time I went there. It seemed appropriate, given that his 70th birthday was coming up.
And now it is here.
Born Henry John Deutschendorf Jr. in Roswell, N.M., his first hit composition, "Leaving on a Jet Plane," actually was a hit for Peter, Paul and Mary, who made it the #1 hit on Billboard's Hot 100.
Most of his solo career was in the 1970s. That's when he released his biggest hits — "Take Me Home, Country Roads,""Rocky Mountain High,""Sunshine on My Shoulders."
In fact, John Denver was one of the first recording artists I ever saw perform in concert.
I've seen many concerts since. I wish could say that it was the greatest thing I ever saw, but, really, the only thing that was memorable about that concert for me was that it was one of my first.
My memory is that it was a low–key concert. No fireworks or explosions or anything like that. Modern concertgoers probably would be disappointed. I don't think there was even a big screen behind him showing images that were relevant to the songs he sang.
Just Denver playing the guitar and singing with the background musicians and singers making their contributions but never taking the spotlight unless invited to do so by Denver. It was Denver's show.
That makes it sound like he might have been some kind of micro manager or an obsessive type, doesn't it? I don't mean to imply that. I don't know what kind of personality he had. I never got the sense that Denver was a control freak or anything like that.
(At one time in my life, my favorite album was Denver's two–record concert album, "An Evening With John Denver." I have it now on CD — thanks to CD technology, it is even better with the addition of half a dozen tracks. It's a pretty good example of what Denver's concerts were like around the time I saw him.
(Speaking to the audience in that album, he encouraged them to "go wherever the music takes you — any time you feel like singing along, as always you're welcome to do that — please limit yourselves to the choruses of the songs and let me do the verses!")
It was well known that he was committed to humanitarian causes, which suggests a generous spirit. It was also known, although perhaps not as widely, that he had had problems with alcohol, which led to other problems in his life.
For some reason — and I don't know why this is so — I got the impression that the dovetailing of his career in the 1980s was connected to his alcohol abuse. Perhaps I read an article that said that.
But that may not have been the case. Perhaps, for whatever reason, people stopped paying attention to him. I know I did, but I don't think it had anything to do with his drinking. My interests changed.
It is true that Denver's best–known songs were recorded and released in the 1970s, but I thought that many of his most thoughtful, most insightful, most meaningful songs were products of the 1980s, when the spotlight seemed to have passed him by — songs like "Perhaps Love," which he recorded with Spanish tenor Placido Domingo, and "Love Again," which he recorded with French singer Sylvie Vartan.
In those later years, after both of his marriages had ended in divorce, including the one that had inspired the phenomenally popular ballad "Annie's Song" at the height of his popularity, his music seemed to speak of his yearning for love and his desire to understand it.
(There is, in hindsight, a poignant moment early in that concert album in which Denver speaks of arriving in Los Angeles prior to the concert and going to the beach. "I felt very good," he says, "about being with the ocean again." Since his death, I have often wondered if he felt that same sense of exhilaration in the moments before he died.)
What would he have done in these last 16 years? I don't know. I imagine he would have continued to compose and record. Perhaps he would have found the love of his life and retreated into a comfortable retirement.
Just speculation, of course. Today is merely the 70th anniversary of Denver's birth. He isn't celebrating his birthday. He is no longer living.
But it is beyond dispute that his influence continues to be felt. A few years ago, the Colorado legislature made "Rocky Mountain High" one of two state songs.
And I still hear his music on the radio. Not as often as I once did but more often than you might think.
In the movie "Amadeus," Mozart makes a reference to his own music as "the best yet written."
In the movie, it was kind of a running joke. A composition by Mozart's rival had been publicly praised as "the best yet written" so Mozart defiantly referred to one of his pieces that way.
I don't know if Mozart ever really said that, but, seen from the perspective of the 18th century, it may have been true even if it was said in jest. And, more than 200 years after his death, I am still inclined to think of many of Mozart's compositions as the best classical music ever written.
But there has been music that was written in the last two centuries for which that phrase is appropriate as well.
On this day in 1966, Simon and Garfunkel released what was probably their best album to date. They had only released two others, and both were good, but neither really came close to the quality of the album that was released 45 years ago today, "Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme."
Whenever I listen to it, that album always brings back special memories of my mother, who has been gone for more than 16 years now.
During her life, she was a fan of the music of Simon and Garfunkel. That is one of my strongest memories from my childhood — Mom's admiration for their music. Originally, she only bought the old 45–rpm singles of her favorite S&G songs, then later she branched out and bought some of their albums (I think they only recorded five).
When I was a child, it seemed the sounds of Simon and Garfunkel constantly filled the house. I grew up knowing the words to just about every song they ever recorded. I can still remember them, too. (Can't sing worth a damn, but I can remember the lyrics.)
On what turned out to be the last Christmas of Mom's life, I gave her a set of the Simon and Garfunkel albums on cassette tapes. They had been remastered and represented what was, at the time, state–of–the–art quality. And Mom listened to those tapes on her cassette player in her home office.
Unfortunately, though, she died in a flash flood a little more than four months after I gave her those cassettes so she didn't have long to enjoy them.
I don't remember which Simon and Garfunkel single Mom purchased first when I was little. She seemed to like all of their songs, but one of her special favorites was "The Dangling Conversation." It was included on "Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme."
About three weeks ago, the Washington Times compiled a list of the 10 best Simon and Garfunkel songs. It was gratifying to note that "The Dangling Conversation" was on it.
"This haunting song about broken love and failed communication reveals some of Mr. Simon's best lyrics," wrote the Times — which is saying something, when you consider some of the songs Simon has written — many of which were listed in the Times.
But I agree with that. I've always loved the song's imagery — "You read your Emily Dickinson/And I my Robert Frost/And we note our place with bookmarkers/That measure what we've lost." I consider it one of the unheralded gems in Paul Simon's body of work.
I was a mere child when I heard it the first time, but the stark beauty of those lyrics literally took my breath away. Even then. Perhaps that is when my love for great writing truly was born.
Hearing that song today brings back memories of my childhood, when Mom would play that album. She got what I can only describe as a faraway look in her eyes when she listened to "The Dangling Conversation." I don't think she could equate it to her own life. I think she admired the storytelling, the richness of the words and the beauty of the music.
In my mind's eye, I can still see that old album — and the cover, which became worn and faded much sooner than it probably should have. The record itself became scratched and darn near unplayable, but that didn't keep Mom from playing it, anyway.
And sometimes she would sing along with it.
I'm not a trained musician — and I was biased, anyway — but I always thought Mom had a beautiful singing voice.
Today, I have most of Simon and Garfunkel's albums on CD — including "Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme" — and I always think of Mom when I listen to them.
And I miss hearing her sing along with those songs.
I have tried to pick up the slack, but I just can't do it. I honestly do believe that I inherited some of Mom's talents, but singing wasn't one of them.
"Sometimes I feel like a sad song
Like I'm all alone without you."
John Denver
"Like a Sad Song" (1976)
Today is the first day of August.
When I was a child, the arrival of August meant that the lazy days of summer were nearing their end, and it would be time to return to the classroom before long.
I'm back in the classroom these days, teaching journalism and writing at the local community college, but August has more significance than that for me now.
August is a bittersweet time for me, and the anniversaries come at me rapidly.
Twenty years ago on Sunday, another good friend of mine named Mike died after a brief battle with an especially aggressive form of cancer.
And this month would have been a milestone birthday for my mother, who died in 1995.
It is appropriate for me, I suppose, that this month is also the 35th anniversary of John Denver's release of his tune "Like a Sad Song."
I've written in this blog of my mother's fondness for Denver's music. I don't know how Phyllis or Mike felt about it.
Speaking of Mom, I don't specifically recall if she sang along with this recording — or if she even had it in her collection — the way she often did with other John Denver songs.
It wasn't really her style. It wasn't as cheery or upbeat as most of the folk music she tended to favor. In fact, it was really more like a blues piece — in my opinion. I don't think Mom had anything against the blues, but "Like a Sad Song" really was, as Denver says in the attached video, a saloon song — and that really wasn't Mom's thing.
But the song — one of the few Denver recordings to be ranked in the Top 10 on the adult contemporary charts in both the U.S. and Canada — seems right for thoughts of those three this month. I'm not completely sure why. The lyrics speak of supposedly young lovers sharing their lives — and that isn't what any of those relationships were about.
Still, the music is pretty. It kind of reminds me of a flute solo, which in turn reminds me of Phyllis. When she died last year, I wrote of her great talent as a musician, and I think it will always be one of my strongest memories of her. It is probably no coincidence that, when I think of really beautiful music, I think of the flute. That was Phyllis' instrument.
And the words are kind of haunting and wistful. With a slightly different spin, they could apply to all three relationships.
These days, my memories of those three dance lightly in my head, and they become intertwined at times. And "Like a Sad Song" plays in my mind like the soundtrack to those thoughts and memories.
A few years after Mom died, I picked up a CD collection of Denver's best songs. "Like a Sad Song" is on it — and, on occasion in recent weeks, I have listened to it. And I have thought about Mom, Phyllis and Mike.
I miss them all. Sometimes I do feel like a sad song.
It never fails. I always think of my mother when I hear a song by John Denver.
And it was 40 years ago today that he released a recording that has come to be viewed as his "signature" song — "Take Me Home, Country Roads."
I suppose there are others that might qualify for that designation — songs that were written solely by Denver — but this one is often thought of, by people all over the world, as his signature song.
But the truth is that it began as the composition of Bill Danoff and Taffy Nivert, a husband–wife songwriting team that is perhaps better known for founding Starland Vocal Band, which scored a big hit five years later with the Danoff–Nivert song, "Afternoon Delight."
According to the story, Denver was injured in a car accident in late 1970. While he was recuperating, Danoff and Nivert shared with him a song they had been working on since attending a family reunion. The three of them worked on the song all night and more or less had the finished version ready by the following morning.
And the rest, as the saying goes, is history.
Denver insisted that he had to include the song on his next album — which he did. But he released it as a single first — on this day 40 years ago. It had a bumpy start but it was eventually certified as a million–selling recording by mid–August.
In the last four decades, it has accomplished something that few contemporary songs have achieved. It has been considered by West Virginia lawmakers for designation as the state song. To date, no such resolution has been passed.
But few living songwriters can claim that any of their compositions was considered for anything like that. Matter of fact, not too many descendants of deceased songwriters can claim that their ancestors were so honored, either.
Originally, the song was written about country roads in Maryland. It was adapted for West Virginia although many of the references still are more appropriate for Maryland — and, for that matter, it is my understanding that another version of the song is sung by fans of the Colorado Rapids soccer team.
But that is the great thing about "Take Me Home, Country Roads," even if you didn't grow up in a rural setting. It describes the emotions of a homecoming, of a person's return to a familiar place from which he/she has been absent for a long time.
"Country roads" can just as easily be "city streets" or "multi–lane highways" — whatever takes you home, wherever home might be. Denver wasn't a snob. He was a defender of nature and wildlife, but he recognized the legitimacy of one's feelings for home, whether one's home was in the country or the city.
And, for me, the memories that this song brings back inevitably include thoughts of my mother because she was a fan of Denver's music when I was in my early teens.
I can still remember being in the family car with Mom and hearing a John Denver song come on the radio — and Mom would hum along with the tune, sometimes singing the words.
And I remember other times when we were at home, and Mom would put on one of the many John Denver records we had in the house — and she would hum or sing along with it.
There were times when I was growing up when my home was filled with the sounds of John Denver's music. He was such a constant presence in my life that I almost felt as if I knew him — or, at least, he knew me.
We lived in the country, too, and many of the things Denver described in his songs reflected things from my existence when I was a child. But, at the same time, there were thoughts and feelings that Denver's songs expressed that, I have no doubt, reminded Mom of her childhood in Dallas.
Denver was always good at that sort of thing, and I guess it accounts for the enduring popularity of his music more than 10 years after his death.
The weather can be volatile at this time of the year.
I guess it's that way everywhere, even in the places where it starts snowing in October and doesn't stop until about April.
But it can be pretty extreme even in places like Dallas, Texas — where, I will concede, it tends to be a lot milder than most places.
That — along with the fact that a new, state–of–the–art stadium has been open for business here for nearly a year and a half — is what enticed the NFL to bring its Super Bowl here this year.
But the weather can be hit or miss around here in the winter. If the Super Bowl had been played here last weekend, the players and fans could have enjoyed sunny skies and balmy (for February) temperatures.
As I write this, the temperature is about 20° (wind chill is about 2°) with a light snow and a stout wind. We've been getting rain, freezing rain, sleet and snow for several hours. Businesses and school districts throughout the area are closed down.
The Dallas Area Rapid Transit system, on which the city was counting to handle the transportation needs of the influx of guests for the Super Bowl, is reporting that rail service is currently suspended and "[b]uses are operating but slowly."
Forecasters think the temperature will inch above freezing by the end of the week, possibly rising to the 50s by kickoff on Sunday, but there doesn't seem to be any question that last Sunday would have been the best time to play the game.
Timing is everything.
The two classes I'm teaching at one of the campuses of the Dallas County Community College District (DCCCD) won't meet today because all DCCCD locations are closed due to the weather.
And I've been sitting here this morning, occasionally gazing out my window at the ice–coated street below and thinking of my college days.
I got my B.A. at the University of Arkansas. While I was there, I lived with my parents. My father had gone back to school to pursue a degree in architecture, and my mother was teaching first grade in the nearby Springdale district.
Unlike the central Arkansas town in which I grew up, we had four distinct seasons in northwest Arkansas. In the winter, we got snow, and sometimes the accumulations were sufficient to cancel Mom's school for the day.
My classes, on the other hand, were seldom canceled — unless my professor simply could not get to the campus. Then he/she would notify someone, who would normally post a notice on the door, but the students had to trudge their way in to see it for themselves.
That wasn't a huge problem for me. Our house was near the campus. I had to walk up hill a little to get to the campus, which did pose problems if it was icy, like it is today — but, generally speaking, what little ice we got usually got covered over rather rapidly with snow, and that is usually more conducive to doing, well, just about anything.
Anyway, I've been thinking about one day when I was in college, and a lot of snow fell overnight.
The next morning, my mother heard on the radio that her school district was closed for the day. I, on the other hand, had to get ready for class and make my way to the campus, where I discovered that my classes were not canceled.
I remember coming home around 1 in the afternoon and discovering my mother in the living room, ironing board out with a basket of clothes sitting next to it. She was pressing shirts and watching a movie on whatever was our equivalent of HBO in those days.
The movie was "The Boys From Brazil," a thriller about a plot to clone Hitler and revive Nazism. It had been fairly popular at the theaters a few years earlier, but I don't know if Mom ever saw it on the big screen.
What I do know is that it was on TV on this particular day, and it had only been on for a few minutes when I got home. I opened a can of ravioli and warmed it up, then came in to the living room and watched the movie.
I only intended to watch it for a few minutes, but I got caught up in the plot. It really is an intriguing one.
Gregory Peck played Josef Mengele, the famous butcher from Auschwitz and the perpetrator of a plot to clone Hitler. James Mason was a co–conspirator and Laurence Olivier was a Nazi hunter (inspired by Simon Wiesenthal) who was alerted to some suspicious activity in South America.
The genetic material that was used in this experiment had been acquired from Hitler himself, according to Mengele. Dozens of baby Hitlers had been created using that material, and they had been dispersed around the globe to carefully selected couples who duplicated, as closely as possible, the parents who raised the original Hitler.
Hitler's father had been a civil servant, more than 20 years older than Hitler's mother and had died while Hitler was in his early teens. For all these young Hitlers to be shaped by the same experiences as the first one, they had to lose their adoptive fathers at about the same point in their lives.
And all those young Hitlers were approaching the time when they had to lose their fathers.
That was the plot. It was engrossing. But, to be honest, it really didn't have much to do with snow, other than the fact that I had been walking through a lot of snow before I came in the house and found my mother watching that movie on that afternoon so many years ago.
Well, actually, there were some wintry scenes in that movie, some segments where the actors were forced to wear winter clothes, even one memorable "execution" scene that involved some snow.
And there was one scene that I find particularly chilling in hindsight.
Remember, this movie was made in the late 1970s. Cable TV was still new, and specialty channels, like The History Channel and The Military Channel were still many years away.
Yet some of what it presented seems almost prophetic to me now, the way much of "Network" seems to be.
Peck, in his role as Mengele, tells Olivier near the end of the movie what he had seen on the TV in his motel room — "Films of Hitler! The movement! People are fascinated! The time is ripe!"
He spoke of a "Hitler tailor–made for the 1980s, '90s, 2000!"
And I think that, if such genetic material had been taken from Hitler while he was alive and had been preserved, it might still exist somewhere today.
For that matter, there may be real boys from Brazil living among us today. Mengele, we are told, died while swimming in Brazil in 1979. He may have drowned accidentally or perhaps he suffered a stroke.
Whatever the reason for his death, he avoided capture for more than three decades, and he appears to have continued his human experimentation in his postwar life. He may well have conducted experiments like the one that was suggested in "The Boys From Brazil."
If he did, those experiments may have been disappointments to him. He may have judged them failures.
Or they may have been in their nascent stage at the time of his death.
If so — and if, as might be implied by the movie, he had a timeline to follow — he could have been "born" several years before Mengele died and still not be the age that Hitler had reached by the time he seized power in Germany.
He could have been an infant when Mengele died — and, consequently, would not yet be as old as Hitler was when he was imprisoned for treason and wrote "Mein Kampf."
In short, if Mengele did conduct such experiments in the last years of his life, we may be on the brink of seeing their outcomes.
There are many moments from my childhood that are gone forever.
It isn't that they didn't happen, or that the usual milestones of childhood and personal development weren't significant. I simply don't remember them.
For example, I don't remember when I learned to walk. I can't remember a time when I couldn't read, but I know there was a time when I didn't know how to do that.
I guess I sort of remember when I learned to ride a bike.
Then there are my incomplete (or perhaps the word "imprecise" is better) memories. I have memories of being in kindergarten, but I don't remember the specifics, like dates. I have a vague memory of my first day, but I couldn't tell you everything we did on that day. And I remember the last day, when we went through a "graduation ceremony," and we marched into the room, the boys wearing blue caps and gowns, the girls wearing pink caps and gowns. I presume we were given "diplomas," although I am equally sure mine was lost long ago, and, instead of a commencement address, the teacher probably said a few words of thanks to the parents.
And that was it.
That's about as specific as my memories of kindergarten are. I have general memories of the kindergarten, of playing outside at recess. There was a pecan tree in the yard, and I remember taking my turn cracking pecans between two bricks. Ah, the simple pleasures of childhood.
I assume my kindergarten experience was a lot like anyone else's. At the time, of course, I was blissfully unaware of what was going on in the rest of the world, but yesterday was the anniversary of something that led to a memory that has stayed with me all my life. I just don't know if the memory was from when I was in kindergarten or if I had progressed to elementary school by that time.
It probably isn't important, you know. And, yet, it is important. If nothing else, it would fill a gap in my memory bank.
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
I couldn't tell you for sure what I was doing on Feb. 12, 1966, but, if it was a weekday, I was probably making Valentines in kindergarten. That day, Simon and Garfunkel's tune "Homeward Bound" debuted on Billboard's Top 100 at #5.
It was one of my mother's favorite songs, and she wasn't alone. It is a fan favorite, too.
I remember the day she brought home the 45 rpm single. She put it on our stereo and played it again and again. For hours. If I close my eyes, I can see that seven–inch record with a solid red Columbia label spinning on our turntable. And I can hear her singing along.
She played that record so many times that afternoon that I knew the words by heart before we sat down to supper. And I had never heard the song before that day.
The memory is vivid. I always think of Mom when I hear "Homeward Bound."
I just can't remember if I was still in kindergarten or if I had moved on to first grade when she got that 45 rpm single.
I've been listening to that CD a lot. It was one of my mother's favorite albums when I was a child, and it brings back memories of that time in my life. But I've learned, as I have listened to it in recent days, that it has a lot to say to me at this time in my life.
I suppose this goes without saying, but there are things I understand now that I didn't understand when I was 10.
I got the album because I remember the title song and "Vincent," but I keep listening to it because of songs I have been rediscovering, songs I heard from time to time when I was a boy and my mother played the record from start to finish. She loved "American Pie" and "Vincent," and there were times when she would just play those songs. But sometimes she let the album play all the way through so hearing those other songs revives long dormant memories.
Songs like "Empty Chairs."
That song conjures up memories of things that hadn't yet happened in my life when I first heard it, but they are significant now. Mostly, I guess it reinforces how unprepared I have often been when things happened.
Like memories of my first real love and how crushed I was when she left me. It was something my teenage mind had not anticipated. I don't know why. But McLean captures the feeling in his refrain:
"And I wonder if you know That I never understood That although you said you'd go Until you did I never thought you would."
If time travel was possible, I would like to go back and try to explain that to her. I would try to tell her how shocked I was. Maybe it would help her to understand why I sometimes said and did things that hurt her.
I was trying to deal with my own hurt.
At the same time, "Empty Chairs" brings back memories of Mom in ways "American Pie" and "Vincent" never could. "American Pie" and "Vincent" remind me of her when I was growing up, but "Empty Chairs" gives me a perspective I didn't have when the album was new, I was a child and my mother was in the prime of her life.
I don't know why, but until the day my mother died, it never occurred to me that a time would come when she would be gone. It should have, I guess. I have many friends who have lost a parent; some of my friends have lost both parents. Even when they have lost a parent unexpectedly — as I did — they've all seemed to be better prepared than I was. And there's a part of "Empty Chairs" that reminds me of that time, when I felt like I had been caught flat–footed and unaware.
It isn't really a song about the loss of a parent. It's more a song of regret over the loss of a lover. But that wasn't part of my personal experience when I was a child and Mom brought the album home for the first time.
There is a part of "Empty Chairs" that always makes me think of Mom.
"Never thought the words you said were true Never thought you said just what you meant Never knew how much I needed you Never thought you'd leave, until you went."
Those first two lines, in my mind, are an explanation for my reactions at times when she told me things. You know how kids can be. They look at their parents as prehistoric relics who have no clue how things operate in the real world.
Now, as an adult, I know she told me the truth and that she meant the things she said. I guess those lines from the song tap into my thoughts from when I was a child, when I perceived things differently than I do today.
There is another twist that I have encountered in this song — and more may yet emerge. It unleashes memories of other things from my childhood — the people (my grandparents, family friends, classmates) who are gone, the places (my hometown, the schools I have attended, the employers for whom I have worked) that have changed. It is not unusual for me to sit down in an evening, put on a CD and have memories from childhood to the present day dance through my mind.
They say that, as you are dying, you see your life before your very eyes. If that is true — and no one can tell me who lived long enough after the show began to inform any bystanders of it — it is likely to be a movie I have seen more than once. Sometimes this seems like the confirmation of something Mr. Leland said in "Citizen Kane." He said memory was "the greatest curse ever inflicted on the human race."
Maybe he was right. You could probably start quite a debate on that one observation. Well, that isn't my intention. It's a personal matter, I suppose, so let's leave it at that. But there is no getting around the fact that there are many times in life that are painful to recall. You can chalk that up to anything you like — ignorance, immaturity, inexperience. When you get right down to it, don't we all have things we would do differently if we could?
"Morning comes and morning goes with no regret And evening brings the memories I can't forget Empty rooms that echo as I climb the stairs And empty clothes that drape and fall on empty chairs."
We all have our regrets, whether it was the love that slipped through our fingers or the people and places we left behind. And it is also true — for most of us, I guess — that, even when we grow up, we still need our parents. And we miss them when they're gone.
I will always be grateful to Mom for the things she gave me, including my appreciation for the music of Don McLean. I will always miss her.
And I will always regret that the people who have come into my life after she left it never got to know her.
Everywhere else, today is August 27. In many places across this nation, schools have resumed classes. I guess it's another hot, hazy late summer day most places.
Today would have been my mother's 78th birthday so, on my calendar, today is Mother's Day.
I've been thinking today of my memories of her — her love, her warmth, the things she tried to teach me when I was growing up. And I've been thinking of the things she loved — her family, her first–grade students, the things in the world in which she saw beauty.
She was remarkable in many ways. When my brother and I were small, she made our Halloween costumes every year. She would start working on them weeks ahead of time with sewing patterns strewn in the living room and she always completed them with enough time to spare that she still could make any necessary alterations.
I never figured out if the objective was to save some money on Halloween costumes or give her an outlet for her creative energy. Maybe it was a little of both.
She couldn't have saved much money, though, after buying all the supplies she needed to make two costumes.
And she was a stay–at–home mom in those days. She taught for awhile when she was first married, then gave it up while my brother and I were young, but she went back to it when my brother and I were in our teens. She had an artistic flair. I always thought she was a good singer, but I don't know if she agreed, and she played no musical instrument so teaching an appreciative audience of first–graders probably fed her artistic leanings.
As a stay–at–home mom, her creative urges had to be satisfied by doing things for her children — like creating Halloween costumes. I recall being a little embarrassed, wearing homemade costumes when my friends got to wear slick plastic masks and fragile costumes from the store. I didn't appreciate all the things she did for us when I was small, but, today, I am filled with a sense of astonishment at the things she did, year after year. It's one of many things I wish I had told her before she died.
She may not have played a musical instrument, but she was fond of music, all kinds of music, really. Certain singers were particularly high on her list. One was John Denver, who died a couple of years after she did.
I never fail to think of her when I hear a song by John Denver. And one song in particular always makes me think of her. It was recorded when his most popular days were behind him, I think. I'm not even sure if Mom ever heard it. And, if she did hear it, I'm not sure if it had any special meaning for her.
But it does for me. It defines her spirit.
She and I shared a fondness for John Denver's music when I was young. And, until the day I die, "Perhaps Love" will be a reminder to me of all that she meant to me — and what she still means to me today.
The flood that took her life couldn't take that from me.
"If I could live forever And all my dreams come true, My memories of love will be of you."
My mother, a first-grade teacher, was killed in a flash flood nearly 14 years ago.
In the weeks and months following her death, it fell to me to sort through many of her belongings, deciding what needed to be thrown away, what needed to be kept, what needed to be given to friends and family members.
As I sorted through the things she left behind, I set aside some to keep, many of which found their way into boxes and haven't seen the light of day in years — literally.
Today, as I was sorting through some of my boxes, I came across a poem that my mother kept on her desk in her office at home. I must confess that I don't know much about it. My mother and I never discussed it — or the author, W.H. Auden.
I don't know why it spoke to her — nor do I know why it spoke to me to the extent that I decided to keep it.
What little I do know about Auden is that he is considered one of the great poets of the 20th century. He was born in 1907 and died in 1973. He grew up in England. I recall reading some of his poems in college, notably "Funeral Blues" (if you saw the movie "Four Weddings and a Funeral," you might recall hearing it recited — it opens with a memorable line, "Stop all the clocks") and "September 1, 1939," which was written about the outbreak of World War II.
Auden also was a homosexual — something which neither I nor my mother had in common with him.
But it makes my re-discovery of this poem seem particularly relevant right now. An old friend of mine, who is gay, sent me an e-mail this week telling me that she and her partner had split up after 21 years together. Understandably, she's been having a hard time with this development.
The poem is titled "The More Loving One." I hope my friend reads it and it gives her some comfort.
Looking up at the stars, I know quite well That, for all they care, I can go to hell, But on earth indifference is the least We have to dread from man or beast.
How should we like it were stars to burn With a passion for us we could not return? If equal affection cannot be, Let the more loving one be me.
Admirer as I think I am Of stars that do not give a damn, I cannot, now I see them, say I missed one terribly all day.
Were all stars to disappear or die, I should learn to look at an empty sky, And feel its total darkness sublime, Though this might take me a little time.
I got my bachelor's degree in journalism from the University of Arkansas, and I got my master's degree in journalism from the University of North Texas. Most of my adult life has been dedicated to writing and editing in one form or another. Most recently I have taught writing (news and developmental) as an adjunct journalism professor at Richland College, where I advise the student newspaper staff. Go, Thunderducks!
