A Summer Night at the Bandstand in the Park

OK OK I live in the perfect Norman Rockwell town, I'll admit it. A Victorian town right on the seashore, full of gingerbread and all things nice. It's true, it's picture perfect. I love it here.

Personally, however, I've always pooh-poohed Victoriana, and more specifically, "perfect" Victoriana, which we have a lot of. I live in a beautiful old (but ramshackle) farmhouse that's well over a hundred years old, and I'm sure some people would have turned it into A "Victorian Bed and Breakfast" if they could have. Not me, but that's another story.

I have never been too crazy about people getting dressed up in Victorian clothes to entertain the tourists, all that stuff gets on my nerves. I have even always pooh-poohed the Wednesday night concerts in the gazebo in the town park, with Glenn Miller music and all the blue-haired old folks from the nearby retirement home. The concerts seemed forced and touristy, something to be a little embarrassed about.

So tonight when I was out for a walk, experiencing my usual hallucination of being lean and strong and youthful, alone as is my wont, I strolled past the gazebo and was drawn into the park by a beautiful old tune the band was playing, a song my father loved and used to sing to my mother:

"Sweet and lovely,
sweeter than the roses in May.
And she loves me.
There is nothing more I can say."

I walked right into the hordes of blue hairs and sat down at the edge of a picnic bench without so much as a nod to the other people there. I didn't scan the crowd for knights in shining armor. I didn't suck in my stomach. I didn't feel conspicuous. I didn't feel anything much, I just sat down and enjoyed the music. It's a beautiful night, with a cool breeze. There were fanciful strings of lights in the trees. The crowd was not just old people, but families with ice cream cones, babies in strollers, beach towels folded neatly underneath. I tapped my foot to the music. I blended in, and didn't mind.

The bandleader had promised "an eclectic evening" and that sort of statement about a long period of time to come always makes me nervous. I cannot stand when a speaker, be it in church, politics or elsewhere, says "and we'll get to that a little later." But instead of being claustrophobic, I stayed. The song selection was eclectic but mostly what you'd expect: marches, quasi-patriotic and romantic songs, Big Band era stuff etc.

And then the boom came down. "Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I'm sixty-four?" As much as I didn't mind being an old folk for awhile tonight, the very clear recollection of singing that song happily and confidently with a guy or two when I was young, and the fact that I'm now nearly 62 and it all seems like yesterday, did not sit well. But the melancholy passed quickly as I walked on. The night is still beautiful, and I'm just glad to be alive.