Playing an acoustic guitar, Warren Zevon sang these simple lyrics,
Don’t let us get sick.
Don’t let us get old
Don’t let us get stupid, all right?
Just make us be brave.
Make us play nice
And let us be together tonight.
My friend Clare has memorized these words and shared them with me before. Today I finally got around to listening to their author sing them, and, of course, they took on another dimension.
Music can stop us in our tracks with its bravado and power. Lullabies soothe hurts of the body and spirit. Refrains pull us from our seats to stand at attention. Hearing certain songs can bring back memories of particular places and people. Recognizing certain musical scores catch our attention in a movie, and we know that an explosion of some kind is about to occur.
With the door open now on the sun porch in the mornings, the various birds break the silence. I don’t recognize their warbles, but their cheerful greetings start my new day with carefree welcome.
This is my quiet time of the day; sipping on my first cup of coffee adds to the mix of calm. My prayers of petition are similar to the refrain above, and my thanksgivings are all about being with the ones I love.
In The Fellowship of the Ring, J.R. R. Tolkein says, “All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.”
Until ten years ago, the first week of April was all about The Masters. Grandaddy bought his first patron ticket in 1959; then Daddy a few years later. Three generations, four adults and two children, huddled in a blue Dodge for the road trip to Augusta, Georgia. Taking turns with spending time on the lush green course, the grown-ups spent the day. My brother and I weren’t included in those early years, but it was a fun trip. We usually would “play nice” by entertaining ourselves in the parking lot.
For fifty years, four Collins generations enjoyed days following our favorite golfers. Whether hot as blue blazes or under cloudy and windy skies, we savored pimento cheese sandwiches wrapped in green plastic. Often we would watch the Sunday round of the tournament on television.
I have a couple of plastic glasses from our last visit in 2009. Believe that all this week, I will use this glass to saluting fun, family memories at The Masters. I might even have to mimic Daddy with a “Good night nurse” if there is a poor shot made.
There is something about the pimento cheese sold at the Masters. You might enjoy reading this.
As Jim Nantz says, “A tradition unlike any other….”