Category: Nostalgia

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Jimmy Swaggart & Wintley Phipps

mzi.oumnppwt.600x600-75My dad had Jimmy Swaggart on his stereo. I remember the tape case with the man himself on the cover — smiling. And every time I would visit my dad’s apartment the great speaker would be on in the background, pleading for me to take Jesus into my heart. I didn’t know how I felt about it back then, but I knew he was sincere, and that changed the way I heard his music.

Then I would go back home and my mother would be listening to Wintley Phipps, the great gospel singer with the baritone voice. When I thought of him I recalled the mini-fro he wore on the cover of a few of his records. My mother owned them all, and at times it seemed like he was all she listened to.

Wintley Phipps came to my church one time when I was young, and I recognized his voice although he looked different from those record covers. It was my first brush with the faraway coming close enough to see in person, and I was struck by the fact that he honestly looked like any other man I had met in my life. Even though he was larger than life before that, when I only knew him through his voice and through his album covers.

And about the same time I met Wintley Phipps at my church the scandal regarding Jimmy Swaggart was just taking wing. It was vague enough to me, though I did realize he wasn’t played nearly as much at my dad’s apartment after that. I think I asked what was up, and my dad gave me the tape. I guess that was my answer. Continue reading “Jimmy Swaggart & Wintley Phipps”

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California Love

I went to California for the first time when I was around 10 years of age, and I fell in love. Now, don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t like the sunshine state was going to suddenly usurp Ireland in my estimation, but there was just something magical about it that drew me in like flies … Continue reading California Love

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Reunion

Check the acid-wash jeans.

My 20 – year high school reunion is next month and I have been reliving some of the highs and lows of the experience. Hard to believe that it has been 20 years since high school. Some days I can almost convince myself I’m still a gangly 15-year-old with acne and a distinct lack of facial hair. Now the facial hair I do have has quite a bit of gray scattered throughout, so when I look in the mirror I can believe it’s been 20 years.

I went back after 15 years, when I was searching for some kind of anchor or foothold I had been missing back then. And I did reconnect with several people I knew, but it was transitory. It wasn’t solid. But this is 20 years. Everyone will be there, and I am at once both elated and frightened over that.

Everyone remembers high school differently. Some recall only the good parts, the “best years of my life” that is often bandied about by middle-aged people who need to relive their glory years, the metaphorical heyday. While others remember the bullying and tears.  Still others reflect on how invisible they felt even in the midst of so many others. I was in this latter group.

Don’t get me wrong. I had a small network of people I would have called friends for lack of a better term, and they were separated into black, white, and other. Not by me, but by them. My black friends were courtesy of my skin color and my sister. My white friends were because we shared the nerd trait. And the others played table tennis with me. Back then those were the lines, but perhaps looking back they were only in my head. Continue reading “Reunion”

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Fountain of Youth

FOUNTAIN-OF-YOUTH1The explorer Ponce de Leon was desperate to find a land of riches and the mystical “fountain of youth” when he landed in Florida in the early part of the fourteenth century. It was apparently a get rich quick scheme that had much more to do with finding gold and precious jewels than in locating the magical fountain that was said to reverse the aging process. In the Bible there is a similar fountain mentioned, in a place called Bethesda, where the sick and infirm came to touch the waters and be healed. Does it in fact exist in this day and age? I believe so.

First off, before you think I’m some kind of kook, I’ll explain. I don’t actually think there’s a basin with water in it that will bring back your youth. I don’t believe in magic of that kind, and neither, I think, did Ponce de Leon, or Hernando de Soto after him. I think they were fascinated by the idea of something otherworldly that could make them live forever, but aren’t we all? It’s one of the reasons I think we are so into vampires, zombies and the like right now. Just look at television shows, books, and movies.

Is that the answer? As a writer I am very sensitive to the idea of words being that source of everlasting youth. When I go back into my earlier writings I am transported back in time, and to an extent all readers are when they delve into literature from when they were young. The body secretes a hormone that emerges when those memories are triggered, creating a sense of release, not unlike letting out that breath that you were holding, like coming home and relaxing. The same is true of anything that triggers those memories, in essence bringing each person back to the time of his/her youth.

I believe it’s more than that, though. Continue reading “Fountain of Youth”

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Shout

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Strawbridge & Clothier, circa 1984.

“Shout. Shout. Let it all out. These are the things I can do without. Come on. I’m talking to you. Come on.” -Tears For Fears

It was a dog’s age ago, and I was knee high to a duck (long before I started using cliches). I’ll never forget the day. My mom had dragged me to Strawbridge & Clothier’s downtown. I have no idea where my sister was, but it was the day I got lost (twice). We took the subway to 13th and Market Streets where there were a million interchanges. I was supposed to hold onto my mother’s hand, but I thought I was old enough to walk by myself. That was the problem.

When we emerged from the El I was captivated as always by the hordes of people in the concourse, by the man on the bench selling bean pies, and by the derelicts just riding the trains back and forth to stay warm. When I stopped looking all around I realized my mother was nowhere to be seen, and I started to panic. “Mom!” I croaked, but I hadn’t used my voice all day to that point, and it came out sounding so small. Then I saw the back of her coat five steps ahead. I hustled to catch up, and grabbed her hand, relieved.

Except it wasn’t her. It was some other woman wearing a similar coat who was quite surprised when this young kid grabbed onto her hand. Seconds later my actual mother yanked me away from the strange woman, and she didn’t let go of my hand the whole rest of the way to Strawbridge’s. I got the lecture about getting abducted, but you know how it is when you’re a kid. Nothing seems to phase you, at least when you’re safely with your mother. Continue reading “Shout”

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Like Deja Vu

deja-vu“This is like deja vu all over again.” -Yogi Berra

I’ve been here before. And I’ve talked to these same people. In this same order. For this same particular length of time. In this same exact tone. Everything is scripted like a movie because we have done THIS before, all of this. I can’t quite shake this feeling, even though my mind rages against it, because my body says, “Yes! Yes! Yes! I remember even if you don’t,” as it performs the choreographed dance it has performed before.

Do you know how many times I’ve had that feeling throughout my life? Seemingly dozens of times. Each and every time I get hit with that feeling, that “deja vu all over again,” it slams me like a sledgehammer to the gut. It’s funny, too, because the memories are always vague, but I still feel like I could talk right along with the other person involved, because I always know what they’re going to say. And my own brain tells me what to say before I can even process what is being said to me. It shouldn’t be possible, but somehow it is, and that makes it even more incredible.

I remember the first time it happened, too. I was ten at the time, and I had just gotten home from school with my sister. We were latchkey kids. As I walked up the stairs to my room the feeling hit me hard, that I had gone up the stairs two at a time before, maybe many times before, with that exact same cadence. I reached the top and my sister called up to me from below. “Be careful on that last step,” she said, but I knew she would say it before it came out of her mouth. My room door was open, as I knew it would be, and it creaked as I closed it behind me. It didn’t always creak, but I knew it would that day. It did. Continue reading “Like Deja Vu”