When I was very young I had a crush on Davy Jones from the Monkees. Somehow this information filtered up to my older sisters and they descended upon me with, “You cannot like Davy Jones. He is a Monkee. Nobody likes The Monkees; they’re not a real band.”

Well, I was five years old and I thought Davy Jones was cute.

“You have to like The Beatles. Which one do you like best?”

My sister who was a year older was included in the survey. The two of us looked at the row of men in shiny uniforms from the Sgt. Pepper album cover. She chose Ringo and I chose George.*

“You CAN’T like Ringo or George. Nobody likes them – who do you like better, John or Paul?”

My year-older sister chose John and I chose Paul. Later we conferred and confessed that we really liked Ringo and George better, but we would never tell.

I definitely never admitted that I still liked Davy Jones, that is, until that David Cassidy boy came along….
 
*Note: A younger sister’s “I told you so”:
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http://www.showbiz411.com/2016/04/08/beatles-george-harrison-gets-last-laugh-as-here-comes-the-sun-most-popular-on-spotify

​Christmas was an event at our house. There were eight of us children, our parents, and a standard poodle. Despite the festivities, mama always said that there was always one person who was having a lousy Christmas. As there were so many of us, the lousy Christmas rotation was pretty generous.

Mama was right; a quick look through family pictures shows lots of smiling faces and one face of gloom.

It could have been the excitement and the disappointment that brought out the roller-coaster of emotions but mama loved Christmas and she loved having her gang of children and grandchildren in the house. I think she even loved that the predictability that one of us was going to have a grumpy Christmas….as long as it wasn’t her.

The day after I let my nerves get rattled by a Grizzly Adams look-a-like whistling “Against All Odds” I went to a yoga class.

My nerves have had a few years of serious over-stretching and I thought an hour of being reminded to breathe would be relaxing.

“Breathe in. On the exhale glide forward…” there’s nothing like following minute instructions to calm a harried soul.

I was so focused on each breath, each movement, that the hour passed quickly and we set up for Savasana, relaxation for the last five minutes of class. The lights were dimmed, each breath softened.

Then it started.

The gentleman on the neighboring yoga mat started humming along with the yoga music, a droning, off-tune hum.

I tried to let the sound float out of my consciousness like a fluffy cloud, a silent cloud, but the clouds gathered and darkened.

The yoga instructor walked by me.

“To relax, it helps to unclench your fists ….”

I exhaled and the clouds slipped by.

I love music. I listen to it all the time, I even go to concerts, but ever since I was a child I can get a bit rattled at a random tune, hum, or trill. I believe it is negative conditioning brought on by a childhood game. (See blog entry: “No Singing in the Saloon, pt. I”)*

The other day at the post office there was a long line so I went to one of the self-service kiosks. I had just started my transaction when a burly, bearded man pushed the post office door open – he was whistling like a tea kettle.

As I pressed the kiosk screen he peered over my shoulder; the air from his whistling moved my hair.

“Need help?” I grimaced.

He shook his head, “No,” and the whistle lifted up and I recognized the Phil Collins’ tune, “Against All Odds.”

“Phil Collins,” I said knowingly as I picked up the receipt from my kiosk, and I hummed a nasty line from “In the Air Tonight.” 


* http://www.keepmaryoutofthekitchen.com/blog/no-singing-in-the-saloon-pt-i
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When we were children my sister and I used to play cowgirls, I think it was the influence of all the television shows of the time: “Here Come the Brides”, “Bonanza”, and “Big Valley”.

Foreshadowing a later interest in life, I used to play at being a saloon owner; I had only one set rule, “No singing in the saloon.”

My sister, a year older, would test me, she’d sing, “La, la, LA, dee-de-da…”

“No singing in the saloon.” I’d remind her.

She’d hum.

“No humming either.”

She was a bad whistler, but she gamely tried to get my goat by whistling.

“No whistling. No music in the saloon!”

“But I am not in the saloon,” she taunted taking a step so she was under the door jamb, “I’m in the doorway of the saloon and I can sing if I want to!”

Sometimes she would extend the provocation and she sang during breakfast.

“Argh! No singing!”

“Mary, you’re not the boss of the table.” Our father reminded me.

I glared at the world, dropped the comic section of the newspaper, picked up my bowl of Fruit Loops, and lurched off to breakfast with the dog. Sure she bit, but at least she didn’t sing.
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There is something about the rote-ness of driving that opens a person up to contemplation, deep feelings, and, if we choose, compassion.

Today I was driving around town, doing errands. As I was turning out of the Wegmans’ parking lot, a lululemon blonde was turning in, her window open, wisps of her hair getting stuck in the tears streaming down her face. Clearly in anguish, but still going grocery shopping.

At a stoplight, I noticed an older woman waiting to my right – somehow, her posture seemed off. I looked twice, then saw her face, mouth turned down, set. She was tilting her head up, trying to keep her tears in the well of her eyes.

Then there was the neat Taiwanese woman who goes to my gym. I was waiting to turn left; she pulled up on my right. I saw her sigh and pull her shoulders back and with the back of her hand wipe a tear from her cheek toward her carefully styled hair. Yet she was going to work out.
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Anguish, loss, illness, and despair… and still we go on.  Every random sighting of an everyday hero makes us each just a little more human.