Communication Breakdown

A few weeks ago, I did the modern-day equivalent of throwing away my 13-year-old's entire record collection. I washed her jeans, not realizing that her iPod was still in the pocket.

The destruction was amazingly efficient. Her collection was gone in one fell swoop. Replacing it all proved to be surprisingly effortless as well. Although we had to replace the iPod, she had most of her music on back-up. We averted what would have been a disaster in the '70s.

Back then, in the era of monster stereos, you had to make a serious space commitment if you wanted to listen to your own music. Stereos came in several parts: turntables, equalizers, and waist-high speakers. Albums were lined up in crates.

In middle school, with very little homework or planned activities, my friends and I had lots of music and too much time on our hands. We played our records forwards, backwards, turned up, and slowed down, often looking for "clues."

Did they say the "f" word on "Flashlight"? Had the woman who screams on "Love Rollercoaster" really been murdered in the studio?

There seemed to be something ominous about '70s music, and one of my friends had an older brother who seemed unusually in the know about it all. He was in high school and hung out with the kids in the smokers' corner. He usually kept his door locked. He had an amazing stereo, including an equalizer that, with all of its switches, apparently required the fine motor skills of a surgeon to balance.

His record collection ran down the length of one wall. When he wasn't there, his sister and I would sometimes sneak into his room and rifle through his albums. As we sat on the floor of his room, we would fold out his Led Zeppelin and Pink Floyd double albums and contemplate their weird covers and lyrics. We unzipped the zipper on his Stones' "Sticky Fingers."

Today, the world of music seems less about mystery and more about marketing niches. The only thing that creeps out my 13-year-old is Pandora's amazing stealth at targeting her listening habits.

The Bad Mommies' Club

A decision to while away the late afternoon and early evening with friends bumped our dinner time w-a-a-y back. It was close to 9 p.m. on a school night when we finally arrived at our neighborhood grocery store and picked up a pizza. Usually, I see people I know at the store. But this late, the crowd was thin; the faces, unfamiliar. Nobody waved or chatted. Everyone went quietly about their business.

When we got home, I described the scene to my husband. "I guess it was the Bad Mommies' Club," I said.

"Mom," my 13-year-old corrected me, "they were college students."

KC and the Sunshine Boys

As I watched K.C. on "Americal Idol" with my girls last night, I said, "I promise you--this guy used to be cute."

My 13-year-old looked up an old picture of him on her iPod touch. "I guess he was cute...for the '70s."

"Gather ye rosebuds..."

We are stardust

Reflecting upon "The Walk to Paradise Garden" (see story below), I remember an interesting biographical note that I recently read. Twenty-three years after taking the photo of his children in "Paradise Garden," Eugene Smith was at the original Woodstock music festival, snapping pictures. His daughter, by then a young woman, was also there. Neither realized it though, and they didn't run into each other. I think about the little girl in the photo, and wonder how she might have changed by the time she got to Woodstock. How did being part of such an beloved, eternal image of childhood influence her life?

Thinking about this connection to Woodstock, I remember Joni Mitchell's great line, "and we've got to get ourselves back to the garden." As a parent, those words strike a chord with me. I think about the short but magical time that children have in "the garden" that is childhood. I worry that we are cheating them out of this time by pushing them too much and too fast. I appreciate the growing movement in our country focused on getting our children back outdoors again, building forts, catching fireflies, and squeezing out every last moment of their childhoods.

The Walk to Paradise Garden

I am haunted by this picture by legendary photographer W. Eugene Smith, "The Walk To Paradise Garden." Taken in 1946, the subjects in the photo are Smith's own children. He took this photo after he was wounded in World War II, where he took compelling pictures on the front lines. He had returned to his family in upstate New York and, in his words, felt he "needed to make a photograph that was the opposite of war."

There is so much to say about this photo, which so beautifully conveys the innocence of childhood, our spiritual connection to nature, and the eternity of the moment. For now, let me focus on something simpler, the shoes that the little girl is wearing.

© The Heirs of Eugene W. Smith

I wanted to get some clunky, old-fashioned shoes just like these for my youngest daughter. I wanted red ones, because I think they are the most special. But I had a hard time parting with the money (they're fairly expensive) and kept putting it off. Finally, I decided to take the plunge and took her to the shoe store. I learned that they only went up to a certain size, and that her feet were already too big to fit into them. For me, this photograph reminds me of those shoes, and the evanescence of childhood.

*****
Thinking about your children and your loved ones growing older is enough to cause a grown woman to break down in a dressing room at Macy's when "Toyland" comes on the radio. Yes, I was that woman this past Christmas while visiting my mom. We were in the Houston Galleria, a place more abundant with fashionistas than sentimental train wrecks. My mom, returning to the dressing room with a new outfit for me to try on, was surprised to find me in tears.

With mascara streaming down my face, I laughed as I tried to explain what had caused me to fall apart. "It's the line--`once you pass its borders you can never return again.'"

She just didn't get it. "Do you want to go back to `Toyland?'" she asked me, with a bemused smile.

Virtually popular table

Apparently, if you didn't get invited to sit at the popular table while in high school, you now have another chance...on Facebook. People who didn't give me the time of day when I was 16 are now offering me invitations to be their friends. Apparently, at age 43, I am finally sitting at the popular table. (YESSS!!)

But do these people really want to hear all about the minutae of my day and the results from my "What rock star are you?" quiz? Or am I just part of their "collection"? Another name to add to their friendship tally?

Or were we all a little more lonely than we realized?

Clowns to the left of me

I thought Quentin Tarantino was a terrific choice for a mentor on American Idol this week. He always seems to put a great deal of thought in choosing the music for his movies. In an interview once, I remember him talking about how he absolutely had to use "Stuck in the Middle With You" in "Reservoir Dogs." He said he wouldn't have made the movie without it. His music choices may be too memorable. Can you hear that song without thinking of the "ear" scene?

Did your little sister cut your Chrissy doll's hair?

www.feelingretro.com is a great place where you can go to reminisce with others about your old Dawn dolls, Rock'Em Sock'Em Robots, and Mystery Date games.

Kiddles From My Youth

Here's one of the teeny-tiny "jewelry" kiddles that I won on ebay and introduced to (ie. forced upon) my girls. If you want to be sent back in time, check out this Liddle Kiddle video:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_5HL1ar41wU. The children always look so sweet in these older commercials.

I am heartened that Mattel is now making Liddle Kiddle-type dolls again, the "Peek-a-Boo Petites." One of the collections features dolls from around the world. My favorite is the British mod, who wears a bobby's hat and has charms that include an umbrella, the Union Jack, and Big Ben. Cue up Pet Clark's "Downtown" and we're ready to go.

Then there are the rest of us, who can't remember why we walked into rooms...

In the news lately has been a fascinating woman. Jill Price, a 43-year-old woman from L.A., has a perfect autobiographical memory.

When asked to name the date of a specific event, Price is able to not only recall the exact date, but also provide other details, such as the weather or what she ate or watched on t.v. that day.

In remembering dates, "I relate it to where I was and what was going on in my life," she told Diane Sawyer in an ABC News interview (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aAbQvmf0YOQ). In the interview, Price astonishingly provided accurate dates to each of Sawyer's questions--from the date t.v. viewers learned who shot J.R., to what Price ate for lunch on May 27, 2006 ("a BLT and tomato soup").

Sawyer asked her to describe what's it's like to be inside her brain. "Right now I'm in the present moment talking to you," said Price, "but I have a split screen in my head, where I have a loop of memories just free flowing all the time."

Yet while Price's memory of her own personal history is "extraordinary," she only performs "a little above average" on standard memory tests, according to cognitive psychiatrist Gary Marcus. "Price remembers so much about herself because she thinks about herself--and her past--almost constantly," said Marcus, who wrote an article about his meetings with Price in the March 23 Wired ("Total Recall: The Woman Who Can't Forget.")

In the article, we learn that she has every stuffed animal she's ever received; over 2,000 videotapes and countless audiotapes; 50,000 pages of journals kept for every day of her life; and, until recently, every TV Guide since 1989 (she's an especially avid t.v. fan). Her detailed memories begin just after what was for her a painful childhood event--her family's move from South Orange, New Jersey to L.A. on June 29, 1974.

In L.A., she lived with her parents until 2003, when they decided to downsize. Price, 37 at the time, found it traumatizing to leave her home. She took out a razor blade and, against realtor protest, stripped off a special piece of wallpaper that contained nearly 30 years worth of personal notes. "I have OCD of my memories," she admitted to Marcus.

One of her biggest regrets, she told Marcus, is that no one followed her around with a microphone during her childhood.

I find her story mesmerizing, because I always love reading about people with extraordinary gifts and also those who are obsessively drawn to the past. I would wager that there are many others who are intrigued by Price's story. I know that I'm not the only one who has reclaimed their childhood toys via ebay!