Page 40 - WTP Vol. V #4

The sky was moody the way moody writers like “The rain might clear up,” he says, upbeat as it, but historically the Fourth of July was sup- always.
How We Rock ‘n’ Roll
posed to be a sunny rockin’ day—good eats and bad ping pong washed down with Monkey Bay, and bro-in-law’s fireworks show destined to join the others rewinding in my mind like a movie clip: me up on the deck, watching Skip dart in and out of magnificent lawn lighting through the dazzles and the duds; in his thirties, his forties, his fifties, now sixties, half-Einstein-half ZZ Top, the boy in him popping out year after year be- cause, hey, the show must go on.
Oh, I doubt it. Highly. If I know my baby-faced sister, and I do, the all-day rain forecast was her doing. Don’t get me wrong, Ginger’s the prover- bial hostess with the mostest, could win any throw-down you tossed her even while gaining steps on her Fitbit and bouncing balls with her pups, but sometimes things get so crazy, it’s like ten families and their pets live over there, leaving her a pile of ashes. That said, I suspect she woke up that morning with only enough steps in her to
But the rain came and cancelled everything. No do a rain dance. She has powers, you know. Next memory-making for the reels today, folks, just me up, a lottery dance.
and Professor Lovebug stuck at home in a home that wasn’t quite home yet cause we’d just moved in, boxed in by the mad clutter of books unpacked and mirrors unhung, with nowhere to go.
Bookish types always have something to do, so we fall into our work—me in the sunroom, he in the living room a few steps away. Normally silence is golden but today it’s a dull chord. At some point I put on a little James Taylor, mellow just the way Lovebug likes it. Mellow’s fine but sometimes I have to draw the line.
On the brighter side, the sunroom was set up and since I can’t live in Stars Hollow, this will be my little corner of the world. Got a desk, a bookcase and a nook, a nostalgia nook, if you will, centered around my dad’s Harvard chair which I like to look at and picture him in. If that sounds eerie, so be it; his ghost is all I have. Between us, Lovebug is the bon-vivant one, blessed to not know that kind of pain. Boned-in, deep as marrow. In 1980, a young thing, I had to call National Memorial Park to report that my father’s grave was sinking, a reality that would prove symbolic of the days and years to come. Meanwhile, Lovebug can pick up the phone anytime and call his dad in New Jersey. Lucky guy.
“The first time I saw you,” he expressed way back when, “I could hear Dusty Springfield singing ‘The Look of Love’.”
Lovebug twitched, looking outside. Fun was on the books—now what?
No. You’d assume Lovebug’s love of the Burt Bacharach songbook was a generational thing but, my God, we’re the same age. Brought up in an old world family, he remains old world and squeaky clean. But gimme rhythm and blues, baby—“Tell Me Something Good,” “Let’s Get It On”
“Really? No Fourth of July at Ginger and Skip’s?” Lovebug and I are a good duet but sometimes I think we hit the high notes early.
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Like a lounge singer on "Loveboat," he began to croon with gushing emotion.
“Don’t you love that song?” Uh...
FranCes ParK