James Taylor is an old man.
That’s my exact thought when I saw him take the stage at the Puyallup Fair on Saturday night. He wore a knit cap and a pale blue shirt and blue jeans. He walked like an old man, though, and he looked old. And I suppose he is old.
But, oh, that man can sing. I’ve known some of those familiar songs since I was a child myself. “You’ve Got a Friend” has been absorbed right into my bloodstream and is a part of me.
So, the night was lovely, neither hot nor cold. The metal bench was hard, pain-inducing, but the view was great. And the company, my husband of twenty-two years, was excellent. He’s a great guy.
We could have had a nasty fight on the way to the concert because we were in the car. That’s enough. Just being in the car. As a passenger I have certain expectations. As in, I’m a passenger, not a navigator, not a co-pilot, not a traffic advisor. And so when he says suddenly, “Is that our exit” and I glance up and say, “No,” that’s only because I wasn’t looking, I was preoccupied (with my iPhone, if you must know) and how am I supposed to know? He’s been there many times before and how in the world does he not know which exit?
But you see, that last part I just kept to myself because why start something? We’ve been married for twenty-two years and for all of those twenty-two years we have been utterly incompatible in the car. Just today we had that age-old conversation about depth perception–I say he ought to start braking when the cars in front of us brake, but he feels comfortable waiting until the last minute, after his wife has had heart failure from fright. He says I should trust him considering the scientific fact that men and women have different depth perceptions (he heard this somewhere once) and I say he ought to be sensitive to my impaired depth perception and understand that I think we are about to DIE in a car crash, but mostly, we just keep our lips zipped.
So, we did not fight on the way to the concert.
* * *
Yesterday was Grace’s second soccer game. She scored a goal, her first. Her team played really well and trounced the other team. Though it seems wrong to gloat since we are talking about six and seven year old girls.
My son had a football game later in the day, so it was about 3 p.m. before we were done with sporting events. Then I spent my afternoon baking cookies, brownies and muffins to contribute to the funeral preparations.
Tomorrow, I’m taking the kids to the fair, just the two youngest. The older kids don’t like to go. (!!!) Tuesday is the soldier’s funeral. Every week is full of its own particular brand of crazy-busy. Just when you think things have got to slow down and get normal, something else happens. There is no normal. Normal is a myth.
That’s why I’m writing this at 1:37 a.m. Tomorrow I’ll regret staying up this late but at least I wrote a post.