hello lamppost, whatcha' knowin?

Jenny and I like to pick on our parents. In a good-natured, naggy, look-at-us-we're-adults-and-we-survived kind of way. Specifically, we harp on our mother's total failure to expose us to pop culture in our youth. I'm unaware of a grand plan on her part to keep us from modern life in the 1980s; however, her utter lack of interest in current music, movies and trends did the job as well or better than any well-hatched plot.

Instead of cassette tapes or CDs, we had records on a large, boxy stereo. It's a beautiful piece of furniture, the kind you might see in Urban Outfitters now that these things are "vintage" and therefore achingly hip.

My childhood soundtrack was, shall-we-say, not achingly hip: a mixture of John Denver, The Beatles, musical scores, (specifically Hello Dolly and The Sound of Music) and Simon and Garfunkle, Leslie Gore and the Lettermen. But this music, though not current, was very important to us. I can hardly remember a day when the record player was not on.

This morning I woke up humming one of those old songs. It's odd--I heard this record a million times, but the strongest memory I associate with "The 59th Street Bridge Song" is not the stereo at all. It's my mom singing it to me on the cement steps in our backyard.

I loved those steps. They made a lovely seat, from which I could observe the entire back yard: the alder trees, the roses and the lemon tree, the swing-set.

I remember, at around age 5, scooting down the steps one summer morning, (they were still cool from night, even though the sun was warming the grass) and finding a caterpillar. I yelped in joy at my discovery, and my mother came and sat with me to watch him nudge through the vast cement plain on which he found himself. After about three minutes of mutual, silent contemplation, she started singing me that song. She sang the whole thing. And then she stayed beside me for a bit longer in the morning summer sun, just humming.

My mother had stopped sleeping just 5 years earlier, when her mother died. She went whole nights without even getting tired, she told me later. Months it went on like that. She describes healing from that insomnia as taking her life apart, deconstructing it, every last screw, and then re-assembling everything. Quiet, more orderly, very slow. So she could sleep. So she could take care of us.

She has a lovely voice, a soft soprano. I always think of her when I hear this song. She still tells me that I need to give myself a break sometimes. I think she's right.

Slow down, you move too fast

You've got to make the moment last

just kickin down the cobblestones

looking for fun and feelin' groovy.

Hello lamppost, whatcha knowing?

I've come to watch your flowers growin'

Ain't you got no rhymes for me?

Dum da duh dum, feeling groovy.

Got no deeds to do,

no promises to keep,

I'm dappled and drowsy

and ready for sleep

let the morningtime drop

all its petals on me

Life, I love you,

all is groovy.

Life I love you, all is groovy.