
I told my 12 year old grandson that the Boss was in town, and I was going to a Bruce Springsteen concert that evening. With all sincerity and interest, the kid asked, “Is he still alive?”
My elation evaporated. My stomach sank. I felt so old, so old and out of date. Minutes before, I had been feeling hip and (if not young) still kicking. With one sincere, brutal question, my grandson reminded me that I was old. I remember when my parents would get out the vinyl records and play Broadway show tunes. They talked about John Raitt, Al Jolson, or Mario Lanza like they were old friends - friends I never met, and never cared to.
My grandson unknowingly paid me back for my callous childhood. He implied Bruce was in a category I’ve saved for Cary Grant, Paul Newman, Audrey Hepburn...and other greats who have departed for the Walk of Stars in the Great Beyond. I don't have many regrets (mistakes, yes; regrets, not so much), but I am sorry about my youthful insensitivity. There was so much I could have learned, stories I could have gathered, people's secrets I could have discovered - but no, I was concerned with whether Tony would walk me home from school. Smaller still, whether he would pass my locker AND, what then??? A smile? It would give me hours of analysis time with my best friend Rachel and then, of course, I had to put it in my diary. My eyes are rolling back in my head. Hey, gentle reader, Wake UP! We're done for today.
In March, 2025, Not The Trip We Planned will be published by Koehler. For better or worse, I am featured in the novel. I wonder what role I have - no one asked me.
I find that in retirement, I seldom rush to get anywhere. I have more time for spontaneity. And last, but not least, clay class.