Joan Baez singing "Winds of the Old Days."
That was the song that my iPod randomized into my ears this morning as I was walking down Crescent Avenue.
It made me smile.
And then I thought, Hmmmm, what year was that? Well, it must have been around 1976 or 77. I remember sitting in Wayne Engstrom's geography class and writing down the memorized lyrics instead of taking notes on, what, the 50 shades of shale? (Interesting that I would have been paying so little attention in class, given my small crush on Dr. Engstrom, the crush crushed when a friend and I drove by his house and saw a woman out front planting flowers.)
Ah, my lost education . . . but that's (yet) another blog for another time . . .
What I'm thinking about now is how my gadget is chock full of musical winds from the old days. How after nearly forty years, all those songs still evoke a joyous something. And it's not always the song itself, but the way a particular song is able to unfreeze a certain moment in time. All I need are three notes of Fleetwood Mac's "Rhiannon" to know exactly where I am: driving down The 57 on a California spring morning, arm draped out the open window, radio full-blast on KRLA, and Wayne Engstrom's geography test something I won't even bother to worry about until it's right there on the desk in front of me.
Nancy Carol Moody
I'm a poet and a letter-writer. Yup, that kind. The kind who uses pens and paper and actual stamps. The kind who will leave the house with nothing on the agenda but to get to the mailbox before the scheduled pick-up time. The kind who understands that technology is a wondrous thing, but nothing quite beats finding a real letter with a real stamp on it amid the credit card solicitations, pizza coupons and seminar catalogs.