Ha! I sound as if I’m from the 1950’s. Well, by golly, I am—but I was born during the last year of that decade. I grew up in the decade of making love, not war—which has had a lasting impression on me. I always wanted to be one of those barefoot girls, wearing long skirts, flowers in my hair, a tambourine in my hands, and dancing to songs in my head…♫so hoist up the John B’ sail♫—wait a minute—I suppose the songs playing through my mind would have been more along the line of, ♫we’re on the eve of destruction♫.
What a wonderful way of doing nothing with one’s life, and having an excuse for not doing it. Flower Power—I believe the flower children were onto something. I was simply too young to be free.
My dreams were minus the drugs. My parents made sure that we were scared s#%!less if we ever toyed with the idea of ingesting an illegal substance.
I was forced to wear the clothing that young, obedient children of that decade were wearing. While I was able to run around braless, due to the fact that I didn’t have any boobs to contain, I didn’t get to be a flower child until well into the 1970’s. By then, the flower children, and their philosophies had drifted off, and were replaced with the dreadful disco years.
I was able to continue to dream about dancing to songs in my head, but the vision of flowers in my long, flowing hair, had changed by the influence of Farrah Fawcett. Woodstock was replaced by a stupid shiny ball suspended from a ceiling, and the songs contained lyrics such as, ♫bad girls, talking about the sad girls♫….and we learned The Hustle.
We, meaning us young ‘uns, became great little conformist sheep….well, many of us did.
All the great music was written prior to 1960. Just my opinion, and it’s an amateur one at that, because I’m not a great study of music. If you ask me, I seriously believe all the best music came from the Baroque Period.
(Some of you may have to Google what I’m referring to–I’m too lazy to add links for y’all)
…………..Oh how easily I’m distracted……………
Today, I wanted to write about the new Spring of my life.
‘Tis change that spins me around and spits me out. Leaving me to swirl the drain of depression.
I haven’t needed the hand holding of my therapist for a while, because I was a wonderful young grasshopper (weedhopper in our family), and she taught me well.
Until…change….The Wee One moving back was the most recent, of many changes that tipped me over again.
So, I decided she needed to make me work a little harder to conquer something that happens every minute of every day—change.
My therapist’s office is located in a historic building in Marietta, Georgia. It’s quite the drive from my house, but well worth it. I love sitting in the old building pouring my guts out. The floors creak, and it smells like the building has been around for a long time—duh, it has.
Unfortunately, it sits on the railroad tracks. There was a tower built back in the day to fill the steam engines, and I believe the building was near the location of the tower. Now, the train horn blasts as it passes by the old building. I had better not be receiving wise words from my therapist when the train goes by, or I will miss them. Usually, we endure two trains during the time I spend with her. I think that should qualify as a discount. 😀
On my way home, I’m usually stopped at the train tracks for another train to pass. This time, I was the first in line at the crossing. Oooo! How exciting for me. I got to go first after the train passed.
Unfortunately, it was one long hurkin’ train.
However, it was a beautiful train. I admired the skill of the graffiti artists, and was proud of myself that I was actually able to recognize that many cars had been tagged by the same artist. I found myself wondering where those cars had been. Were they only east coast cars and never able to travel to the west? Or, were they hauled all over the states?
I thought about the punk who didn’t respect the property of others, and just had to make their disregard visible for all to see. But….then I thought, train cars are ugly…it was nice to see a little colorful decoration on the sides of them as they passed by.
Although as illegal as it is to trespass on train tracks, or rail yards, I found beauty among the ugly.
Something I haven’t found in quite a while.
As we are experiencing the changing seasons, I feel as if I’m a bit rejuvenated. Not all dancing-with-my-tambourine rejuvenated, but there is more hope, and change isn’t going to kill me.
And it is nice.