On pushing on through
and while I'm at it, I'll have the ice cream
I read an article about John written in 2019— the year before everything changed in the world. Even then, he spoke like a minor artist getting up there in age.
“See how I weaseled out of driving?” I say from the passenger seat to my spouse Janyce. It’s Friday night and we’re headed back home from an outdoor concert in Lowell. Janyce is negotiating the crowded parking garage, inching back slowly to enter the line of idled cars spewing out exhaust fumes. I’m looking down at my phone with my hand over my mouth and nose, trying to find the closest McDonalds with an open drive thru.
“Oh, you didn’t get out of it,” says Janyce. “We’re switching just as soon as we pull over.”
It’s not hot enough for the car air conditioning, but it’s too hot to keep the windows closed. I press the automatic button to let them down again as we pull out into merging traffic. Sports cars pass us with the music turned up loud and the bass booming out a steady beat. We inch our way through the city center, sliding by groups of people sitting together at outdoor cafe tables scattered half on the sidewalk, half in the street, surrounded by orange cones. Four people pass our stopped car at the light, walking side-by-side all in a row, laughing and jabbing at each other. The overall scene is lively with groups of people enjoying a summer night, seemingly cheerful, although everyone is masked up, even outside.
I still have a line of music playing in my head from earlier,“Come on baby drive South, with the one you love.”
“You know, he was really good.” I say. “I didn’t know what to expect. He seemed really happy to be playing again.”
“Yeah it’s been two years,” says Janyce.
John Hiatt is a gifted songwriter who never quite made the big time, although he’s been nominated for many Grammys through the years. Not a bad singer, either. His voice has a gravelly sound and his most prominent album success is a longtime favorite of mine from 1988. Janyce’s, too.
“Let’s put on Slow Turning and listen to the whole thing on the way home.” I say.
“Good idea,” she says.
We drive along with the window open and the night air streaming in. Somewhere along rte 495, we pull over into a closed McDonalds parking lot and switch drivers. I’m in the driver’s seat now, bouncing along to the radio that is tuned to actual music instead of the constant stream of NPR news. We sing every song out loud.
Labor day weekend can often be tinged with disappointment and dread. The summer has now come to its inevitable end, with shorter days, and the sun hitting you square in the eyes as you’re driving, forcing you to squint. The air has now turned to that school bus chill in the mornings and evenings. And this year, we’re all headed back to a weird new workplace. I get it when friends say to me, “yeah, I don’t really have any plans, we’re just hanging out this weekend.” I resisted the urge to quit this year and filled the next few days with a full roster of plans starting with this late drive home on Friday night, singing in the car in search of McDonalds ice cream— and daring to feel just a little bit of joy.
I read an article about John written in 2019— the year before everything changed in the world. Even then, he spoke like a minor artist, getting up there in age. "Shit falls apart and I can't remember anything, all that stuff. But the plusses outweigh the minuses for sure," he said.
And that just makes him even more appealing to me. Because despite everything, he’s still out there doing his thing.
Time is short and here's the damn thing about it
You're gonna die, gonna die for sure
And you can learn to live with love or without it
But there ain't no cure.
It’s just a slow turning.
Sing it, John.
Another great blog!!