Author: Deb

Magicially Delicious Music

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The occasion: A “Rock Star” practice for my daughter’s softball team, the Lucky Charms.  Her assignment:  Team DJ, tasking her with creating an iPod mix to play on a boombox at practice.  The girls could dress like rock stars, dance, and play some softball while they were at it.

Her team has played together for three years, and watching them serves as a reminder of all that is good about being a young girl, and being on a team.  They are sweet and funny and do lots of silly cheers, but make no mistake – they are hitters and will run you down when necessary.

So she and I sat down at the computer, going through my iTunes library, with her giving a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ to each song I suggested.  We’ve been down this road before; both of my kids have created lots of mixes (“I’d Choose Creme Brulee”).  For their own use, they have talked me into songs that would never have otherwise made their way into my iTunes — yes, Katy Perry and “Party Rockers” LMFAO, I am talking about you.

For this occasion, she had specific criteria in mind.  Some of her usual favorites were rejected as being too slow or too “embarrassing” (what?), and at least one song was selected because “it’s so weird, my friends have to hear it!”  Predictably, any song with “girl” in it made the cut, as did anything by Michael Jackson.  I was proud of her for adding The Beatles’  “Eleanor Rigby”, and while she does love that song, I’m guessing she added it as tribute to her friend of the same name.

Marrying my husband has made me appreciate bands like AC/DC, Bon Jovi, KISS, et. al.  I never listened to those bands back in the day (in fact, I was scared of the KISS album covers that the older neighbor boys had), but it is the music of my husband’s youth.   And when you merge your lives and your CD’s, eventually you acquire a taste for the music of your loved one.   [Well, within limits – I’m still never listening to Pink Floyd.  (“Heaven From Hell…..Guess Which This is”)].

“You MUST put some AC/DC on there”, my husband said.   And he had a good point.  Think about it – what was the song that got people on the dance floor at your prom?  Or at a wedding with an otherwise lame DJ? (All the more reason to not have dancing – “The Beginning of the Soundtrack”).  Or, in recent years, at your kids’ school auction?  (WW’ers….you know who you are).

That’s right – AC/DC’s “Shook Me All Night Long” is always a sure thing.  Obviously I’m revealing my 1980’s/40-something demographic here, but really – try it and you will see what I am talking about.

I played the iconic opening guitar riff of that song.
Her blue eyes widened……”YES!” she said.
And so it begins.

Take Me Out to the Ballgame

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When your son is fanatic about baseball, he might one day pay you the ultimate compliment.   He will hold it back until the perfect situation arises, when this — the highest of compliments — can be appropriately handed out.  And, this past weekend, it happened at my house:

“Mom, if I were describing this breakfast in baseball terms, it would be a walk-off grand slam home run in Game 7 of the World Series, bottom of the ninth, full count, with two outs”.

(And to the rest of us:  homemade waffles with strawberries and whipped cream, with a side of bacon.)

And She Was Right

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A lesson learned the hard way this morning:  I’m no longer the Master of the iPod in my own kitchen. 

The morning was crisp and sunny, it’s “Smoothie Friday” in our house, and Seattle is all abuzz about the warm weather coming our way this weekend.  Alas, I had the Mellow Mix going, not a peppy summertime mix.  Without my realizing it, my daughter snatched the remote control, and abruptly changed the song.

Her explanation?  “That song was too sad for a Friday”.  
Man, I love that kid.

The Pixies, Chad Stokes, and Pineapple

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A strange combination, right?  Here is the backstory:  I pay a lot of attention to things that are not really worthy of my attention.  It is probably not the most efficient use of my time, but still, I am slightly obsessed with signs, and the inter-connectedness of things…..people, events, music.  I wrote a blog post recently about my son’s take on a Pixies song that seemed to be following me. (“Oh, There is My Mind”).

Although I love the idea of signs, I rarely follow them.  To wit: I once thought that the discovery of my old Joshua Tree tee shirt was a sign that I should re-consider my decision to not attend the U2 concert.  (“A 1987 Bono for the New Year”).   That stupid tee shirt might very well have been a sign, but ultimately I didn’t follow it, even when, the night before the show, I had access to a ticket.  I also was once sure that a song at a wedding was beckoning me back to France (“Book the Villa, it’s a Sign”), but that hasn’t happened yet, either.  C’est la vie.

Spotty history aside, even if you are not a “sign” kind of person, you’ve got to admit that the following signs from last Saturday are enough to make you scratch your head.  I’m not committing to follow through on anything, but it does make me wonder what The Pixies, Chad Stokes, and pineapple have in common, and what they might be trying to tell me.

SATURDAY SIGN #1
I had tickets that night to see Chad Stokes (from Dispatch and State Radio) play with his new band at a small club.  I’ve always had an imaginary friendship with Chad, because he looks like a friend of my sister’s who brought a pineapple to my wedding.  (“On Sisters and Pineapple”).  I love everything about pineapples  – their symbolism of hospitality, the fact that they hail from Hawaii, and that they remind me of my wedding day.

My sister texted me to have fun at the show and to say hi to Chad for her.   I responded that maybe I should bring him a pineapple.  A few hours later, what do I find at a thrift store — a small wooden pineapple.  Spooky, right?  I bought it, of course.  I had two other wooden pineapples at home that were screaming to become a trio.  (Sorry, Chad).

SATURDAY SIGN #2
Pineapple in place with its two other buddies, we headed out for appetizers and drinks before the show.  My husband had not yet read my Pixies-related blog post, so he sat and read it while we waited. “Good post,” he said, and we started talking about the kids (this is what all parents talk about on their nights out, yes?)   Without missing a beat, the song came on.  That’s right — the “creepy” song — “Where Is My Mind?” — again.  Third time in only a few days.  It’s not that common of a song, is it?   Why will this song not leave me alone?

We looked at each other –  “Hmph. Strange…..”, but ultimately did not reach any conclusions about the meaning of this occurrence, and we headed out to the show.  And it was a lovely show…..very small venue, a great combination of Chad’s new songs, State Radio songs, and Dispatch songs….including one of my favorites, “Elias”, as an encore.  The rest of the evening was, blissfully, pineapple and Pixies-free.

So what does it all mean?  That I really have lost my mind?  That I should go to Hawaii?  That I need a weekend away with my sisters?  I’m still mulling over the possibilities — you know, for a Sign that, ultimately, I will not follow.

Oh, There is My Mind

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It always amuses me when my kids voice an opinion on a song from the back of the minivan, or the other side of the kitchen island.  Sometimes I’m surprised at what they like, and sometimes I’m disappointed that my favorites aren’t theirs too.  Either way, I’m glad they are listening, and 20 years from now, hopefully they will have songs that will bring back vivid memories for them, the way music does for me.

My son is quite possibly the funniest kid I know, which is not surprising, considering that his dad is the funniest grown-up I know.   He comes out with zingers that make me laugh, scratch my head, and wonder how he comes up with this stuff.  And then I forget to write it all down.

This morning.  Breakfast table in an otherwise not-empty room (yes, PJ reference)…….As his sister thumbed through a catalog, he queried, deadpan-serious:  “Do they make American Girl Doll weaponry?”

His sister and I laughed, but — is this the untapped marketing angle that would make American Girl Dolls appeal to boys?  Before we had much time to discuss the details of combat gear for Kit, however, we were heading out the door.  My daughter, not to be outdone in the clever comment category:  “I’m wearing this hoodie today, it makes me feel like I live in Hollywood”.  Apparently that makes for a good day when one is in second grade.

Yesterday in the van, my son had taken aim at the Pixies, declaring, “this song is creepy” when “Where Is My Mind?” happened to come on.  (He attributed it to the “woo hoo’s” at the beginning.  Fair enough.)  He and I go out for coffee together twice a week, just the two of us.  It’s a tradition that started two years ago, when we were trying to figure out what to do with the extra half hour in the morning while his sister is at choir.  We drop her off at school, then hit a coffee house — latte for me, hot cocoa and a baked good for him.  Topics of conversation include baseball, dogs, vacations, and, most recently, lessons (for me) in the game of Magic: The Gathering.  We once sat and played a game, which earned me a ‘Way to Go, Mom’ thumbs-up from the bearded 20-something barista.

This morning we walked in to the coffee house – a different one than usual – and you can guess what song was playing…..  “Where Is My Mind?”.  Now that is creepy.  “Hey, Sweetie — it’s your song!”  I said, and he pretended to grimace.

You know how, as a parent, you experience fleeting moments that make you feel like you are doing something right?  (The ones that balance out all of the times when you are sure you are screwing your kids up for life?)  This morning was one of those moments.   My sweet fourth grade boy was stressing out over a school project.  We talked through it and came up with a plan.  Then he took a sip of cocoa, cocked his head to one side, looked at me and said, “Mom, I always feel better when I talk to you about stuff.”   True to form, I welled up with tears, but managed to tell him – hey, that’s what Moms are for.   I’ve often joked with him that he and I share the same brain, and it’s true.  We are wired the same.  I like to think that this will give me an edge in helping him navigate the teenage years…..we’ve agreed to keep our morning coffee dates going, and I really hope we do.

He wanted to stay home with me today.  The real reason is that he is in the middle of a big baseball card sorting project, and he is, in his words — “making great progress”.  He wanted to hunker down in his room and keep going, with a Harry Potter book on tape in the background.  I know this because we share the same brain, and days like that appeal to me too.   He tried to tell me, however, that if I let him stay home, he would  help me with stuff around the house:

“Mom!  If you let me stay home today, I’ll be your house elf”.

I kissed him and ushered him out of the van.  But if I really thought that he would do chores for me all day, I’d probably let him stay home.

Express Yourself, 2012 Style

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One thing irritates me like no other:  the Music Snob.  You know the type – they only like the coolest bands that no one else has heard of, or claim to only like music done by “true artists” or “good musicians” (read:  no pop, no Top 40).  I am not a Music Snob.  I like a lot of different music, and I won’t disparage you for what you like. 

Behold:  today’s post is about Salt ‘n Pepa.  You Music Snobs know who they are, so don’t pretend otherwise.

In 1990, Salt ‘n Pepa’s “Expression” was a mainstay on my Walkman.  I was in college and worked part-time at the prosecutor’s office, and rode the Metro bus to and from campus and work, every day.  A Walkman was essential in order to avoid having to talk to any weird older men who might sit next to you on the bus.  I really loved that song; I must have listened to it a million times.  (Favorite line?  “Yes I’m blessed and I know/who I am/I express myself on every jam/I’m not a man but I’m in command/hot damn, I got an all-girl band”).                                 

Soon thereafter, with the onslaught of Nirvana, Pearl Jam, et. al., my flirtation with rap and hip-hop ended.  My DJ/rapper nickname was cast aside (email me and I’ll tell you what it was), and my Salt n’ Pepa cassette was relegated to a box.  I decided I wanted to become a lawyer….went to law school,  got married, had kids, blah blah blah……20 years passed.  Cut to present day Seattle, on a path around Greenlake:

I honestly forgot that I ever loaded the song onto iTunes or put it on my workout mix.  I don’t think I’ve heard it in years.  But today, on my run, for the first time ever – the Shuffle Gods went to work, and there it was – Salt ‘n Pepa, speaking to me in scratches and beats:

“Hey, you used to be that girl on the bus…..you carried a leather bookbag and had big dreams and a five year plan.  How’d that all work out for you?  Are you where you want to be?  Have you done what you set out to do?  How realistic were the plans of a 20 year-old anyway?   You can laugh at the 20 year-old You and how she didn’t know anything, but she’s still out there on a bus somewhere, and you need to settle up with her”.

Enough already, Salt! (and Pepa.  And Spinderella)  As if I wasn’t already introspective enough, as a result of the new year and an unexpected event in my family, now here you go, poking me with your catchy grooves.  OK, I will play along.  January is always a time for cleaning out and purging.  Why else would all the stores have organizational items on sale, and all the diet centers run specials?   More importantly, though, it’s also a time for mental housecleaning – to satisfy that list-maker in all of us.  

Much like a Metro bus route, our lives will always be filled with delays, detours, and some dead ends.  But the end result is that I don’t need any do-overs.  I’m ecstatically happy with the past 20 years, potholes and all.  I am looking forward to 2012 in a way that I haven’t done in a long time.  It is full of promise, full of new beginnings, and chock-full of big plans, both personally and professionally.

It might have taken me 20 years to realize that, in the end, you really are only accountable to yourself.  Or, as it were, to your 20-year old self on a bus.  I’d still like to buy that girl a cup of coffee and talk to her, but otherwise, I think we’ve settled up.

Ten

/ Deb / 3 Comments

I’m still wearing flip flops most days, my son wears shorts to school and my daughter refuses to wear a coat, but it’s undeniable that it is now fall. (I never realized that my children’s penchant for inappropriate seasonal attire came from me until I typed that sentence. Hmm.)  The rain is here and focus has shifted indoors, not that I really mind.  But it does feel like time to put away summertime music and concert memories.

Time, also, to put away the Pearl Jam cloud that I’ve been living under for the past few months. (“Alive…Encore Break“, “Twenty“).  But not, of course, without reflection.   Indulge me one last PJ post as I recount, in no particular order, my Top Ten favorite Pearl Jam concert memories (so far):

1.  Lollapalooza, July 1992, Kitsap County Fair Grounds.  My first time seeing them live, and I am totally hooked – no looking back.  Enough said.  (“Drop the Gyro and Run“).

2.  Magnuson Park, “Drop in the Park”, September 1992.   I’ve just started law school.  I probably should  be in the library, but the allure of a free show in Magnuson Park is infinitely more appealing than Crim Law.  Eddie climbs the trusses like a monkey and swings from a microphone cord.  The hook of PJ fandom and concert mania is set even further.

3.  RKCNDY, Seattle, 1994.  The secret show that never was.  Again, I should be home studying.   Instead, my friends and I go to see a side project of Mike McCready, certain that PJ will then play a secret show.  After his set, McCready grabs an electric guitar and says “we’ll be right back”.  This is it!  The secret show is going to happen!!  But then it doesn’t.

4.  The Gorge, 1993.   Pearl Jam opens for Neil Young.  Blind Melon opens for Pearl Jam, and their lead singer cusses out the crowd, saying he knows we are only there to see PJ.  Obviously he has issues, but my issue is that it’s a long-ass drive from the Gorge back home to Tacoma.

5.  Seattle Center Arena, 1993.   I finally notice that there are other band members besides Eddie Vedder.  (Dang, Stone is fun to watch!  And still is.)

6.  Key Arena, November 2000.  Shit, I have just turned 30 years old.  The band plays “Elderly Woman” (?!?)  Eddie, together with the crowd: “I just want to scream — Helloooooo….”  PJ had been snatched from me a year earlier when a friendship ended (“Alive, Encore Break“), but in that instant, I reclaim the band as mine.  Two people in front of us make out during the entire show.  I understand the sentiment, but not enough to avoid labelling them as idiots.  My sister and I throw things at them.  So much for being more mature at 30.

7.  Ben Harper show, Seattle, 2005.  A rare night out with my sisters after having two babies in two years.  An already amazing show from Ben, when Eddie shows up for the encore and joins him for a few songs. My sleep-deprived mind is blown.

8.  The Gorge, September 2005.  We have amazing dead-center seats.  The debate over “fist to the JAW” vs. “fist to the DOOR” intensifies, this round going to my husband.  Eddie tries to lure Tom Petty down from the hotel next door – “Hello Tom…….come down Tom….” (he doesn’t).  A damn near perfect setlist start to finish, including one of my favorite versions (ever) of “Yellow Ledbetter”, which segues into a cover of “Baba O’Reilly”.  I have a recording of this show, and I run to it all the time.  You can’t help but pick up your pace when “Porch” comes on.

9.  The Gorge, July 2006.  It is, no lie, 109 degrees.  Proving my theory that fans love it when musicians say the F word, the crowd goes wild when Eddie observes, “it’s fucking HOT!”   Eddie sneaks out to the roof above the sound board to sing “Given to Fly”.  Amazing.  Perfect.  And yes, fucking hot.

And, finally…….the most recent show, destined to be one of my favorites, for a million reasons:

10.  Vancouver BC, September 2011.  Long Canadian-cash-only beer lines, and even longer cab lines.  We (kind of, almost) see our friend get in a fight over a cab, but he emerges victorious.  I get my Concert Moment, and then some, when it seems that 95% of the setlist has been channeled directly from my brain to the band.  (I got a spot at Lukin’s!)  It’s my husband’s birthday, and PJ sings Happy Birthday to him (well, actually they are singing to one of their crew, but really, what are the odds?).   I punch him — “sweetie, Eddie is singing to YOU!!!”  He is appreciative, but not as excited about it as I am.

A pretty darn perfect weekend all around, topped with international intrigue as we see two people arrested at the border on the way home.  Were they smuggling plans for a secret Seattle PJ show back into the U.S.?  Because I am still waiting for one…

Twenty

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My head is still spinning from last night’s “Pearl Jam 20”, the new Cameron Crowe-directed documentary.  All day yesterday I was antsy, mostly because I realized that it was the 19 year anniversary of the Drop in the Park show at Magnuson Park.  In my head all day, and later to my friends:  “Nineteen?  Really?  NINEteen?  NineTEEN!”

I am overly-nostalgic and live in my head a lot anyway, so the intersection of this anniversary with the release of the movie was almost too much.  I loved every minute of the movie, and I’ve got to get these thoughts down, brain-drain style:

  • It is hilarious, yet somehow fitting, that I could smell weed while in line for the movie.  Obviously to some, the event wasn’t too different from a concert.
  • I love that I went to the movie with five people who I have known for the entire 20-year run of Pearl Jam and have gone to shows with [including Life Altering Concert #1 (“Drop the Gyro and Run”), and, of course, the Magnuson Park show].
  • All of the old footage was priceless.  Long hair!  Headbanging! Stage Diving!  Eddie climbing everything like a damn monkey.
  • Best nugget from the movie:  Jeff Ament describing how he’s always been stoked to play every show; that they’ve never phoned it in.  This was my “hell yes” moment – it is EXACTLY what I’ve always said to people when defending my concert habit — I’ve never seen a bad show from Pearl Jam – always new/different, and they always look like they are having fun. That’s what keeps me coming back.
  • Eddie described how, on stage, there’s not much difference between the band and the fans.  I can’t remember the words he used, but the idea was that it’s a give and take, drawing off the energy of each other.  I’ve always felt that way about concerts, and wondered if the band can feel the energy change on different songs.  I love that they understand what the fans’ experience is like, and that they would be out in the pit, too, if they weren’t on stage.

My main take-away:  go ahead and mock me for my PJ fandom (and I know you do).  I’m not ashamed of it.  But it’s not, and never has been, an “ooh, Eddie’s so dreamy” kind of thing.  As much as I may worship at the Altar of Vedder, I’ve always said that I would love to just hang out with the band and have a beer.  The movie just confirmed what we, as fans, already knew.  A bunch of great guys, now 20 years older just like the rest of us, who happen to play in an epic band.

And go ahead and mock me for my concert habit, and the fact that I’m traveling to Vancouver BC this weekend to see, who else…Pearl Jam.  If you don’t love live music – have never lost yourself in a show – you will never get it.  And that’s OK.  But for me, and thousands of fans like me, live music is money well spent.  It is timeless, and you are never too old (or too young) for it.  How lucky are we, that there are bands who love it as much as we do, and are happy to oblige.

Finally last night, nostalgia gave way to thankfulness, and I left feeling lucky to have grown up with this band for the past twenty years.  I happily hopped in the booster seat-filled minivan that the 21-year-old me swore she would never drive, blared “Evenflow”, and rocked home to relieve the babysitter.    Bring on PJ30 and PJ40….and count me in.

The Beginning of the Soundtrack

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Thirteen years ago this morning, I awoke in a hotel room, walked tentatively to the window and opened the blinds, and was relieved to see a perfectly blue August sky.  We had planned an outdoor wedding on the side of a mountain at a spot we had both fallen in love with, and there was no contingency plan for bad weather.  The gamble, thankfully, had paid off.

A few hours later, I cruised LBJ (‘Little Black Jetta’) down I-90 with my sisters, wedding dress laid across the back seat….Dave Matthews Band “Live at Red Rocks”, disc one.  My car didn’t have a CD player, but, being the resourceful type, I had taped my CD so that I could listen in the car:  Seek Up, Proudest Monkey……Two Step, with my favorite jam in the middle.   My husband hates those jams that make the song drag on forever; just one of our many differences that help us to balance each other.

12:00pm is not exactly the time for a dancy, party kind of wedding.  Our plan was to get hitched, have some food and cake, then get the heck out of Dodge and fly to San Francisco for the night, before heading out the next morning on our Italian honeymoon.

No dance floor, but I did feel compelled to hire a DJ to play background music during the reception.  He gave me a list of suggested standards, and asked that I edit it to let him know what I wanted him to play.  I made big X’s across most of the list and gave it back to him, along with lawyerly-typed instructions of what not to play (“under NO circumstances are you to play that Celine Dion song from ‘Titanic'”).  Looking back on it, I suppose it was a little Bridezilla-ish, but why did he give me a list if he didn’t want input on it?   During the reception, he sat solemnly off to the side of the bar.  Someone must have requested an obnoxious song, because I learned later that he was overheard explaining “sorry, I’m just here to play background music”.

The weather held.  I did not slip on the grass while walking down the aisle.  We made promises to each other in front of our family and friends, Mount Si bearing witness in the background.

Hours later, we were whisked away to the airport by our oldest and dearest friend, who had been my husband’s best man.  Sunburned and shiny, we boarded the plane, and the adventure began.  What a trip it’s been so far….and always with background music.

Alive….Encore Break

/ Deb / 2 Comments

Twenty years, holy cow.  Pearl Jam’s “Alive” was released as a single on August 2, 1991.  In honor, it feels like maybe it’s time to release this one from the vault.

Originally written in 2003, it was, in a lot of ways, the precursor to what would later become Corduroy Notes (figured out the origin of the name yet?  Let me know if you have a guess).

And, by way of update, I still can’t believe that I almost broke up with Pearl Jam.  The career drama is a now a mere footnote, and I am thankful to be back in contact with my friend — we still talk PJ, and scratch our heads at the fact that 20 years have passed since our first show.

I’m Still Alive

 Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about music. It’s funny how, while a recording preserves a musical performance, a song also serves to record the events that occur in our lives.

“Dust in the Wind” will forever be a darkened Stevens Junior High cafeteria, and a dance with an older 9th grade boy whom I had a major crush on.  Bobby Brown’s “My Prerogative” = a McMahon Hall lounge, new friends, and the first time I ever saw a beer bong. Likewise, though, other artists have been entirely ruined for me just by their association with bad memories: The Steve Miller Band, Jimmy Buffet, and Hootie & the Blowfish all have found their way into this category (no great losses there).

Which brings up an interesting part of the ending of a relationship: the question of who gets custody of the music. Not the physical CD’s and albums, but the memories associated with them, the ownership of those times. For awhile, I thought that Pearl Jam would find its way into the Steve Miller-Jimmy Buffet-Hootie camp. When a long-term friendship ended a few years ago, I didn’t listen to Eddie and the boys for a long, long time. It was too painful; nearly every song represented some memory of the “us” that was no longer – all the Pearl Jam shows we had attended together, and the Seattle music mania that had gripped us both so many years earlier.

Ultimately, I realized that I could take ownership of those memories and experiences for myself, with or without him in my life. Of course, maybe it was the music that made me do it — giving up The Steve Miller Band is one thing. Giving up Pearl Jam is quite another.

Like many others, I own the entire Pearl Jam catalog, and I love it all. But one song still endures as my favorite. “Alive” was their first song to hit the airwaves, and I was a senior in college at UW — that time in the early 90’s when, as Seattle-centric twenty-somethings, we believed that Seattle had become the center of the music universe (and maybe it was, for awhile).

I remember the first few times that I heard “Alive” – this song, this band – I was hooked right away. I talked to my L.A.-based boyfriend, and asked him if he had heard this new song – from some band named Pearl Jam, and they were from…. Seattle!  Where I lived! I tried to sing the song to him to see if he recognized it. He didn’t. At least not yet.

Since then, I have always had a special relationship with “Alive”. It seems to show up when I need it most — little blips on the radar screen of my life. I vividly remember getting off the bus, opening my mailbox and finding my law school acceptance letter – while listening to it on my Walkman. Three years later, driving home on the day my Bar Exam results were to arrive, there it was again. And again, after a particularly bad job interview, while lost in downtown Seattle in my half-broken-down car in the rain, there was Eddie on the radio, singing my song.

These days, the Seattle music craze has long passed, and you really don’t hear old Pearl Jam on the radio very much anymore, even here in Seattle.

Recently, my husband and I were having lunch and discussing my latest career drama: whether I should leave my law firm, do something else, or quit working entirely and stay home with our 8 month-old son. I was stressed out, and questioning whether I wanted to practice law anymore. I realized that I was at a crossroads — with not just my needs to consider, but that of my son and our little family.

On my way back from lunch, my husband called me. “Turn on 107.7”, he said.

There it was: Eddie Vedder, belting out the anthem of my youth, all at once giving me a glimpse of the girl I was ten years ago, how far I had come, and reminding me that, as always, things will work out as they should.

I turned up the stereo, rolled down my window, and sang along.