I’ll Remember You

beacon

The seas between us have roared and swelled since auld lang syne.

 With 2015 hours away, I’m still coming to terms with the fact that 1964 was fifty years ago. So much happened that year. Congress passed perhaps the most significant piece of legislation of the twentieth century, the Civil Rights Act of 1964. But at age six, that was not so much on my mind.

Here are some things that were.

The British Invasion in February. The Beatles appeared for the first time on the Ed Sullivan Show, a program my family never missed. It was exciting to have them in America. Like other American girls, I was already a fan. My friend, Barbara Jean Youngblood, had received a Beatles wig—a gift I coveted— for Christmas a little over a month earlier. Santa had brought me a red plastic Beatles guitar, with John, Paul, George and Ringo’s heads pictured on the front. I roamed around the house singing loudly and strumming tunelessly, to the everlasting distraction of my parents.

A Hard Day’s Night, the film, made its American debut. That September, Barbara Jean’s mother took us to see it at the ornate Beacon Theater in downtown Hopewell. Of the movie, mostly what I remember are the Beatles, running madcap from one location to another, their twangy guitar music in the background.

This fall, Kevin and I watched The Beatles Anthology on Netflix. Along with everything else, the documentary covered A Hard Day’s Night, and I found that my recollection was pretty much right on the money. There was a lot of running around haphazardly, making it the perfect movie for a six-year old.

Even more than the movie, I recall Barbara Jean, and how she said with her characteristic bravery, “Let’s sit in the balcony.”

The balcony! I’d always wanted to sit in the balcony, but the ushers had always frowned on it, why, I couldn’t guess, and my parents never really explained. So when Barbara Jean suggested it, I was all in. For reasons not clear to me, the ushers were nowhere in sight and up we went. The view was fabulous, and we could gaze down at all of Hopewell, wave to people we knew. Why had we not been sitting in the front row of the balcony all our lives?

Only later would I understand that it had something to do with the Civil Rights Act of 1964. Prior to its passage that July, the balconies of the south had been relegated to blacks. Mixing was discouraged. “Colored” entrances, colored water fountains, or “No Coloreds” at all. Now here we sat, two little smock-dressed girls, perfectly at home amid a sea of mostly black faces. Faces who would spend years gaining the same confidence to enter areas now legislatively available to them.

Bigger to me than the Civil Rights Act and even the Beatles, were the Peanuts characters come to life on television for the first time. Charlie Brown, Linus, Lucy, Schroeder, Snoopy, Pigpen, and the rest of the Peanuts gang, pitter-pattering from the football field to the Christmas tree lot, Christmas carols rising from mouths pointed toward the heavens. All set to the moody, spare piano of Vince Guaraldi, now gone. How my mother, also gone now, loved it. And how like almost every other American boomer kid, we looked forward to it every year. Some of the commercials are just as vivid. Norelco electric razors (Noelco for the holidays), risqué English Leather aftershave—All my men wear English Leather. Or they wear nothing at all. And of course, the Thalhimer’s and Miller & Rhoads commercials, old time Richmond department stores, now history.

So clear is the memory of the Lundquist family— Dad 37, Mom 34, Conway 10, me 6, Will 4 and Laura 1— scattered about on the sofas, rocking chairs, and avocado green wall to wall carpet, in front of our first-ever color TV. Another 5 years would find us in roughly the same places, watching Neil Armstrong take one giant step for mankind.

A half a century. Gone in the blink of an eye. The Lundquist kids are grown, our childhood now fifty years in the past. Mom and Dad are gone. The Fab Four are down to two. Race riots dominated the news this holiday season. Real progress takes its slow time.But the Beacon Theater has been restored, the Peanuts special just celebrated its 50th anniversary, and Vince Guaraldi’s soundtrack still makes radio waves this time of year.

1964. I’ll remember you fondly.

We Are Stardust

Geminids

You are a child of the universe.  No less than the trees and the stars, you have a right to be here.  And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

from “Desiderata” by Max Ehrmann

 

Kevin and I bundle up at 9:00 pm and trudge out to the deck that juts into the woods off the back of the pottery studio. With the oaks, hickories and poplar trees now bare of leaves, the winter sky sparkles above us. We locate the constellation Gemini in the eastern sky, then sit back on the bench arm in arm, eyes adjusting to the darkness, and wait for the show.

Shooting stars – pieces of an asteroid, on their way around the sun. They streak above us, seeming to radiate from the Gemini twins. Some we wonder if we’ve seen at all. Others take their time falling through the night sky. It surprises me each time that anything with this much Fourth of July charisma could be so utterly without sound. The silence adds to the magic.

“It’s easy to imagine that we’re on this amazing ride through the universe on Spaceship Earth,” Kevin says. We both sit in wonder, visualizing ourselves here in our place on the planet, hurdling through space, passing through the tail of an asteroid. Which is exactly what’s happening.

Each year, in December, Planet Earth crosses the orbital path of asteroid 3200 Phaethon, a mysterious space rock that dwells in orbit between Mars and Jupiter. As it approaches the sun, bits of this boulder overheat and fragment, then burn up as they cross Earth’s atmosphere. Thus, the magic of the Geminids.

We are stardust. “We were once and we will be again.” That’s what Eugene Worley, retired aerospace engineer, quite literally a rocket scientist—a man who helped put Neil Armstrong on the moon—tells his Alabama Sunday school class.   His certainty in this in no way conflicts with his Christian beliefs.

Everything and every one that has ever been here still dwells here in some form. Every plant, animal, rock, worm, dinosaur, caveman, ancestor. Every passenger pigeon, black rhinoceros, ivory bill woodpecker. Anything or anyone who ever looked up in wonder at a shooting star, from Cro-Magnon to the ancient Greeks to Galileo, from the founding fathers to the native Americans, right down to my husband and me side by side, staring up at the night sky.

We’re all still here. Cycling and recycling on the amazing, mysterious Planet Earth. Right now, it’s Kevin and me—the Israelis and the Palestinians, the Christians and the Muslims, the protesters and the law enforcement officers, the criminals and the victims. The judges and the juries. The whales and the dolphins. The turtles in their cozy burrows, the polar bears in their frozen caves. We are stardust—voyagers together on this crushingly sad, achingly blissful journey through the universe.