Things may always stay the way they are
Still my head looks for a change from time to time
I don’t really mean to look that far
Turn on the music
Strike up the music
Let the music change my mind
— The Prophet James Taylor
We’re walking on the track. it’s 7 p.m. Saturday. Soccer players, batting cages, a girl from the high school track team, a woman with the world’s coolest dog, two women with a baby stroller, couple of old guys. Mo says living here is like living in the 1970s. She doesn’t specify whether that’s a good thing. I don’t ask.
I’m in stroll mode as the knee continues to call me names. Mo is keeping me company because she’s a good soul. the sun is setting, the weather is cooling, the hurricane has yet to kill us. It’s a good evening to be alive.
After a few laps, the music starts up. A kid in the back yard of a house adjacent to the track plays outside on Saturday nights. He cranks the music up to 11 and plays along. He’s pretty good, in a high school kid sort of way, but I wonder what the neighbors must think. I’ve been here a couple of Saturdays when he was playing, but this is Mo’s first concert.
What do you think? I ask her. I await her response on how rude the kid is, how outraged the neighbors must be, how inconsiderate his parents are.
Instead, she says simply:
“Wow. It’s good to know there’s still music in the world.”
Oh, that. Indeed. Mo is wise.
Which doesn’t explain why she married me. Maybe because I’m a 1970s guy …