My Little Town––My Earworm

My father, 81, still lives on the property he acquired from his father in the mid 1950s. I visit him on a weekly basis, typically Sunday afternoons.

On my most recent Sunday visit, I decided to listen to some oldies, via Pandora, on the Simon & Garfunkel station.  My current town is about 20 miles from my childhood home, so I was enjoying quite a few oldies and the pleasant memories associated with each song.  As I turned into the long drive way, “My Little Town” (Simon & Garfunkel) began to play. That song has earwormed its way into my head for the past week.

A midweek visit was necessitated–– Dad needed my help with some banking back in my little town. Coincidentally, “My Little Town” repeated in splendid reverie, as I turned onto his little lane.  As I wailed the lyrics of the chorus, “nothing but the dead of night back in my little town,” my curiosity compelled me to Google the lyrics to the full song. (I’m a lyrics kind of girl.)

I was stupefied to learn that for the past 43 years, I’ve been belting out incorrect words. According to lyrics.com, the correct lyrics read “nothing but the dead and dying back in my little town.”

My bad.

Dead and dying seems to be more appropriate of late, as in the past two years my little town has lost my mother and three aunties, two of whom I was especially close to.

The lyrics of the song seems to imply nothing productive comes from their little town: whereas, my little town has lost four bastions of strength, grace, faith and character.

I prefer to keep my version. Maybe its born from habit of 43 years. Maybe it’s plain stubbornness.  So, I’ll keep on keening “nothing but the dead of night” safely within the confines of my little black car on my way to my little town.

This Old House

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This Old House

This old house rests in

obscurity at the elbow,

on the narrow dusty road,

battle-scarred and war-weary,

shutters dangle at the windows,

flesh-colored paint peeling, contorting,

indifferent, detached curiosity,

dismissed, not worth a second glance

glimpses of the occupant, a rarity.

A second glance is warranted,

Oh, look past the pummeled shell

that once housed a celebrated belle.

Old Robert’s road diverged I’m told

my travel does not have the pleasure,

but a path, straight and narrow,

briar-patched, imperfect measure.

The beautiful ones, a club I’m expelled,

I long to be reunited––really, do I?

Battle-scarred, war-weary, dilapidated,

houses one who Stands Above, yet nigh.

My Maker sees what lies beneath,

that’s his name-–Moon Maker.

Will my humanity be pondered?

Look past the pummeled shell,

for what exists within the crust.

I am human.

I am pummeled.

To some, it doesn’t matter.