My first gift to Dave, my then-college boyfriend, was an Al Jolson record. Most people under the age of 50 probably haven’t heard of the man, and even then, it was a surprising choice for a 19-year-old. Many decades later, our musical choices tend toward Crosby, Stills, and Nash; Bonnie Raitt; James Taylor, and the Beatles, but this evening, Mr. Jolson is providing our evening serenade.
Dave is working in the dining room while I’m in the kitchen stirring chopped cabbage into sauteed onions. A pot of water is boiling for the Pennsylvania Dutch medium-wide noodles I’ll add to the dish at the end. Musically, Al has swung into April Showers, “It isn’t raining rain you know, it’s raining violets…” and I smile, sway and stir, imagining Mom, Dad, and Uncle Ding swaying and singing along with me.
At college during the 70’s, the rebellions of the 60’s still reverberated in our ideals, clothing, music, and distance from those of our parents. Or so we thought, but judging by the gift of that Jolson album, the songs of their youth had filtered in and were woven into our childhood soundtracks. Now, Al sings on, and as the chorus rolls around again, Dave and I join in spontaneously, “it isn’t raining rain you know….”
In truth, it doesn’t feel like violets these days, and I’m not talking weather. My sisters recently told me that ICE has leased a facility less than two miles from their homes. I’m scared for them and ready to protest when they call. Environmental regulations and voting rights are being undercut, and the U.S. is at war with Iran. From this perspective, my parents’ era seems safe and enviable, but that’s a “good old days” illusion I have to shake. They grew up during World War II, and Dave’s dad and uncles fought in Italy, Africa, and the Pacific. Many of these same songs played in the background while terrified families awaited word of their sons overseas.
The Mills Brothers follow Jolson and croon their flawless four-part harmony. I’m amazed when, without thinking, I chime in, the words spooling from who knows what deep corner of memory.
I call in to Dave, “Where’d you find these songs?”
“Sonos.”
“Yeah, but what did you search for?”
“Al Jolson.” Ah. Al. And on cue, Jolson bursts in with “Me and My Gal.” Dave belts out the words in his best – pretty good – Jolson impression. Oh, my heart is full! I am smiling and teary at once, about the memories and the gift of the present.
After a big orchestral flourish, Sonos moves on to “Anything Goes” and scandalous glimpses of ankles and stockings. I dance in place while pouring a can of Fresh Catch beer into the cabbage and onion mixture. Then, talk about random mess-with-your-head moments, the next Sonos selection is Jimmy Durante singing “I’ll be seeing you in all the old familiar places…” which does me in. Dave has requested that the song be played at his funeral, and I always say, “OMG, Dave. You’re killing me. Everyone will cry.” He has backed off and said, “You don’t have to...”
But I will. I know I will. And the song will be saying exactly what I feel. Maybe I’ll be seeing the blessing of right now: the dining room table scattered with a jumble of papers, a phone, cans of cranberry lime seltzer, and Dave tapping at his computer keyboard.
