Blues, Didgeridoos, and Passing Time

Mama mama many worlds I've come, since I first left home.
— Grateful Dead

I came home from a great day in Northampton yesterday to see I had just surpassed the 100 followers mark. Followers tend to come and go for a variety of reasons, but still, I considered this to be a milestone for the blog. This week's post about my klutziness (and all of your comments) reminded me of how thankful I am for this community, because a year ago the first person I would have told about that public slide to the floor was my mom. She would have been concerned at first, but then had a good laugh. As both blogging and life proves, things are better when shared — grief, hope, joy, new discoveries, questions, and even klutziness.

The sidewalks were bustling in town yesterday, as many area colleges are graduating and hosting alumnae events, and, being the second Friday of the month, it was also an "Arts Night" of open studios. For a few minutes I leaned against the sun-warmed wall of a storefront facade and listened to a young guy purr growly blues and strum an old guitar. He was surrounded by scruffy townies and some dread-locked travelers camped in front of the dry cleaners to panhandle for change. I'm usually too busy or feeling too removed from that scene by age and experience to linger, but when I was 18 I would have had gladly taken my seat on the sidewalk. This guy had a good voice for the blues, and he wore a beat trucker hat and dark sunglasses and pointy black boots. He had a little black puppy tethered with a knotted cord of red fabric. I think he may have stepped right out of a Tom Waits song and materialized on that bench. It was one of those days when even my gnawing hunger felt good.

I was lucky enough to find exactly what I craved for lunch — fresh Vietnamese spring rolls, sans shrimp, with a proper dipping sauce of spicy sweet vinegar and floating chopped peanuts. I almost whooped for joy when I opened the to-go container and spotted that simple sauce. Around here fresh spring rolls are usually served with an overwhelming plum sauce — all wrong for the otherwise light, fresh spring rolls. I washed two rolls down with iced coconut juice while I sat in the park in the center of town, thinking about how long I've been here in the hills and how much life has changed since I arrived.

Later on, dinner with J was a bit heavier — Italian food on the tiny second floor terrace of Mullinos, at a table barely big enough to hold our two plates. We sipped white wine from sweaty glasses as the sun turned the crowded little town below us orange. I don't remember the last time we were able to have a nice dinner in Northampton, but it's been a while — since last fall, at least.

"How many dates do you think we've been on by now?" I asked between bites of Fettuccine alle verdure, still in reminiscing mode. "5,693?" We then tried to average it out in some way, figuring 3 dates a week for 15 years (we used to go out a lot more) and the number came out closer to 2,000. Still impressive. We met in Northampton, so it's a good thing I found my way here. The decision had seemed so random and unimportant when I was all of 22.

Later, as town grew dark, we ran into a guy I met just last weekend in Montague, unpacking three long didgeridoos in front of the Don Muller Gallery. We stopped to chat and he demonstrated the various subtleties of the didge — expaining how the Aborigines used it to emulate the sound (or the imagined "boinging" sound) of kangaroos hopping, and of kookaburra calling from the brush. Some people passing by glanced nervously at the long pipe sending rhythmic, breathy waves of vibration to the street, walking quickly as if the sound might trip them.

One night, not long after I arrived in this area, a friend took me to watch the moon rise from the grassy slope of Hospital Hill. "There's something about the Valley" she warned. "People come and never leave." That definitely won't be me I thought, if this is what people here do for excitement. But time has a way of sneaking by while you're falling in love, trying to make ends meet, rushing to work, keeping an old house together, and wandering around in the woods. There's nothing very exciting about it, but by now the sidewalks here lead to memories that are almost old enough to vote, and I find I kind of enjoy the Valley's soundtrack — blues and digderidoos, peace and quiet.