baby boomers – By Alanna Pass

Bringing Back the Music

After 1 ½ years of silence due to the pandemic, music concerts that were canceled are returning so when a friend said “Hey, I have 2 extra tickets to a Jackson Brown/ James Taylor concert -want to go? Instantly I said “YES!” despite the fact the tickets were almost $140, it was at the huge Moda Center in Portland (I usually avoid large venues), and I would have to attend in a wheelchair due to my knee injury. Sometimes you just have to seize the moment and go, letting the universe work out the details. So on a rainy night in October, off the three of us went.

It only took about two chords of “Running on Empty” on the piano and I was transported back to a much younger me, a college student in the mid-1970s in that living room, that turntable, my friends, a more hopeful era infused in musical talent. Two of my favorite musicians at that time were Jackson Brown and James Taylor, their vinyl albums well worn with use. Looking back it was a time when I had the world at my feet- the music of the time making it all the more exciting.

I don’t know where the world went wrong since then. We were the generation of change, peace, and environmental awareness. I hardly recognize the country I live in now. Still in that massive venue, thousands of us masked gray-haired Boomers let the music of these great musicians bring us back, and boy did they put on a show, visibly grateful to be doing so. “In My Mind I’m Going to Carolina, For a Dancer”, all my favorites. Brown and Taylor sounded just as good as they did 45 years ago.

Maybe it’s my imagination or I’m suffering the prejudice of aging but I thought the music of the 60s & 70s was just the best. Maybe every generation feels their music was but I’ve noticed the younger set actively appreciating this same music.

The attendees of my deep water exercise class at the local pool are all aging boomers. We all look quite inauspicious old gals on the surface but we have colorful histories as young women. The class before Halloween we all “dressed up.” Our Purple Witch teacher had on a playlist of oldies including “Monster Mash” and other crazy music from our era. As we swished and kicked, we sang and shouted to the music trying to guess the title or the artist of the music to win power bars. “The Monkeys, Sly and the Family Stone, Loving Spoonful” we yelled out. Memories let loose. The lifeguards looked on with disbelief at all us old birds having such a good time and one of them took pictures. (At this age who cares about what people think!)

Music has always saved me but in the last few years, it has been such a refuge. Turn down the news and turn up the tunes I say. Welcome back, musicians. Thanks for making the world a brighter place.

Traveling to the Beat of my own Drum

Uncategorized

I’m off on a new adventure. Since I am just limited to my cell phone and I am thumb impaired, I will be sharing my experiences via my written journal- hopefully readable!

It all started with an idea

manifesting

to a penciled entry on my calendar

Later changing to ink.

As the date drew closer and closer

Loose ends started appearing everywhere

Coming out of crevices

I didn’t know existed.

I tripped repeatedly over them

And as one grabbed my ankle

I fell into a vortex

Of whirling procrastination.

Round and round I went

Until I grabbed the

Dangling loose ends

Pulled myself up

Then tied them all together in a tight knot.

I finished gathering all my belongings

And left.

Breathless, I found my seat, buckled up

And sighed with relief.

The door closed

We taxied and took off.

Peering below were a few more loose ends

Shrinking in the distance

Gyrating like frustrated cobras

Trying to bite me.

But it was too late

I was off.

The above poem was published on my blog in June 2017 before I left for Ireland.

When Scrolling Was Not a Verb

Poetry, Uncategorized

“The world as we have created it is a process of our thinking. It cannot be changed without changing our thinking.”
― Albert Einstein

I wake up every day still wondering about the changes in this world since I came of age…..

SCROLLING

Name, address, telephone number

Birthdate

Index finger poised I scroll down the years

Down

Down past generations xyz

Down before we were gray

And our faces etched with lines

Down when our backs were supple

And our knees strong

Continue reading “When Scrolling Was Not a Verb” →

A Tale of Two Phones

Poetry, Uncategorized

telephone-3144470_1920

If you are a Baby Boomer, you will probably be able to relate to this post. If not, maybe it will leave you just a little bit curious…

I miss rotary phones

the kind where you put your finger in the hole of the dial

rotating it clockwise until it stopped

then releasing it to get a satisfying

click, click, click as it unwound

taking up to several seconds per number

The telephone rang

when someone wanted to talk to you

As kids, we would all run to its ring

eager to be the one to pick up the receiver

with a breathless “Hello?”

(Double excitement for long distance)

Now people don’t want to talk so much on the phone

They prefer to text and share- everything

iphone-2464968_1920 My phone now is a small rectangle that glows with a touch screen

It is called “smart” maybe for its ability

to distract and beg for your attention

worse than my Golden Retriever

My rotary phone just sat there and left me alone

(unless someone wanted to talk to me)

So I gave my smartphone a lobotomy

tired of the intrusion into my life

Bye bye Facebook, bye Instagram, bye this, bye that….

Now it’s pretty much a phone- kinda smart

but not too smart

I still miss rotary phones

and their satisfying click, click, click

But they are gone now

like the many other dinosaurs of my life

lost in time

But not from my memory

IMG_2245 (1)

On The Way

Poetry, Uncategorized

It was the late 1950s and America was on the road. My family was one of them. Some of my fondest memories were from these times and our many camping trips to Yosemite National Park & beyond. This one’s for you, Dad…..

“Are we almost there yet?”

I whined to my parents as we motored down seemingly endless highways

punctuated with Burma-Shave signs,

Jumbo Orange stands and other odd roadside attractions.

We traveled to the pace of a ’56 Chevy Station wagon

two-toned Red & White

unbuckled with my older brother in the way back

windows rolled down

stifling heat & wind flapping about our ears

while we sang songs in harmony

& read piles of comic books

rejoicing in those stops

with dripping ice cream cones

& Jackalope postcards

on the way to that perfect camp spot under shady pine trees.

We slept under the stars on army cots

tucked in thick sleeping bags lined with red flannel plaid

waking to the “shhhhhh” sound of the Coleman stove.

We waded in creeks turning over rocks exposing odd bugs

& released crude sailboats made of wood scraps & white rag sails

into the current past our tin can waterwheels.

It was a wild wonderland

for a young girl with legs as spindly as a colt’s.

Now looking back to those years from the arc of adulthood

“Are we almost there yet?”

We were there

We were there all the time.

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