Were Those The Days (My Friend)?

Are there really, as Jules Verne would have us believe, eight million stories in the naked city? Many say there are only seven original plots. (Actually, Aristotle minimalistically argued that there were only two: tragedy and comedy.) Read The Bible, read Dickens, read Shakespeare. You'll read the same stories over and over ... and over and over. Boy meets girl. The hero's quest. The mistaken identity. 

In essence, there are only a finite number of tales to tell. The important thing is how they're told.

The same holds even more true for songs. If you had to create a short list of song categories, it would be a short, short list. One theme that many musicians return to is what Bruce Springsteen aptly called, "Glory Days."


Glory days, well they'll pass you by
Glory days, in the wink of a young girl's eye
Glory days, glory days.

Back in 1967 or so (!), my younger sister and I sang at an assembly at P.S. 199. For some reason, the song we chose (or a grownup chose for us) was "Those Were the Days, My Friend." Sitting on the edge of the auditorium stage, I'm sure we gave it our all. Still, it must have been a bit comical listening to a 5 year-old and a 3 year-old mourn their halcyon past. 

We'd live the life we choose,
We'd fight and never lose,
For we were young and sure to have our way.

The words mean a bit more when you reach mid-life, don't they?

Whether we can play the guitar or not, we all get sentimental sometimes. I find, as the mother of a teen, that I can't help but remember my own youth. And, even though those days weren't always easy (I still have the overwrought, overwritten diaries to prove it!), they did hold a sense of wonder and promise for the future. Now, some thirty-five years later, I continually conduct mini audits. What happened? Where did all those dreams go?

There's a very real melancholy involved in such reflections. That, and, a whole lot of revisionism. As Paul McCartney sang:


Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away.
Now it looks as though they're here to stay.
Oh, I believe in yesterday.


Maybe a slow, gentle amnesia is nature's way of keeping us going. Like the way new mothers quickly forget the pains of labor. (Because who, let's face it, would sign on for baby two otherwise?)

One of my favorite songs about the past is by Queen. Freddie Mercury, who was already in the twilight of his short life, making the beautiful lyrics resonate all the more, told us:


Sometimes I get the feelin'
I was back in the old days — long ago
When we were kids, when we were young.
Things seemed so perfect — you know.
The days were endless, we were crazy, we were young.
The sun was always shinin' — we just lived for fun.
Sometimes it seems like lately — I just don't know —
The rest of my life's been just a show.

Those were the days of our lives.
The bad things in life were so few.

Those days are all gone now, but one thing is true
When I look and I find I still love you.


My talented sister and brother sang this at my wedding. And, if there was a dry eye in the house ... well ... suffice it to say, it wasn't mine. The song continues though with a more heartening message, emphasizing some of the sweetness in the bittersweet:


You can't turn back the clock, you can't turn back the tide.
Ain't that a shame.
I'd like to go back one time on a roller coaster ride,
When life was just a game.
No use in sitting and thinkin' on what you did,
When you can lay back and enjoy it through your kids,
Sometimes it seems like lately — I just don't know
Better sit back and go with the flow.

Indeed, as much as I'm often too busy, too tired, and too anxious to "sit back" or "go with the flow," I am enjoying everything again through my daughter. (All right, maybe not Freshman Honors English. Or Geometry. Or World Cultures. But, most of it, most of the time.) And, I try not to reminisce too much. There is wisdom in the concept of living in the moment. After all, I now know I didn't know how good I had it then. In the near future, I will look back and see just how precious this time is. 


Because, to quote another singer ...

These are the good old days.

Mother-Daughter Book Club

Jane Austen. Charles Dickens. Charlotte and Emily Brontë.

Their very names conjure images of sweeping moors, great manor houses, high teas and high waisted dresses. These are a few of my favorite authors. These are authors whose classic works my daughter will someday read. If, that is, they are assigned as required reading by a teacher.

She's certainly not going to do it to please me.

I was always a reader. My daughter, despite being quick to point out "I'm not you, Mo-o-om!", is also a reader. (That is, she's a reader when she doesn't have access to her laptop, her cell phone or the television.)

When she was little, I faithfully read her all the Madeline books, Winnie the Pooh, The Lonely Doll, and Little Bear. And, she has beautiful editions of Peter Pan, Heidi, and Little Women. These are in pristine condition. They are in pristine condition because she hasn't even opened them. Her tastes, clearly lie elsewhere.

(We did try the Laura Ingalls Wilder Little House books, but in the very first chapter of the very first book, Pa slaughters and butchers a pig. We were done.)

My daughter never succumbed to the literary phenomenon that was Harry Potter, but she's loyal to a number of other young adult series. She read every Saddle Club book, then moved on to Canterwood Crest. Right now, she's wrapped up in three different serials: Gossip Girl, Pretty Little Liars and The Lying Game. (Although I haven't had the time — or, let's face it, the stomach — to read any of these myself, I can only imagine from their titles that they celebrate some pretty poor behavior.)

A couple of years ago, my daughter begged me to read the Twilight books. I scoffed at the idea until my best friend encouraged me to go ahead and try them, reminding me "You want her to read your recommendations, right?"

(My thirty-second review? Let's see ... between the damsel in perpetual distress, the sexy yet sex-less vampire and the thinly veiled pro life plot, the books are not exactly a feminist manifesto. I read all four volumes in one week at a Mexican resort. That's seven days I'll never get back.)

Recently, I was thrilled to find a tattered Yearling paperback of Calico Captive at a restaurant and used bookstore in Connecticut. (An extremely cool place right on Route 84. When you buy a meal there, you get to take a free book!) It was one of my favorite books in junior high and I couldn't wait to share it with my daughter. The story follows the adventure of a New England settler and her family who were abducted by Indians and sold to the French in Canada. Um, suffice it to say the enthusiasm was mine and mine alone. She did, finally, finish it after much protest, and grudgingly asserted, "It was okay."

This summer, she'll have to make it through David Copperfield, required reading for ninth grade Honors English. It promises to be a very long summer. I have forbidden my husband, on pain of death, to so much as mention the concept of Cliff Notes.

Meanwhile, my daughter just devoured a book recommended by her current English teacher. The assignment was to read an award-winner and I had suggested The Summer of My German Soldier. Classic, right? I expected the teacher to applaud my choice. Instead, she took one look and said, "That looks awful. I'll find something better for you." And, indeed, my daughter absolutely loved the alternative title: The Perks of Being A Wallflower.

"Well," I sighed, resignedly, "I guess you're just my contemporary fiction reader."

"What's that supposed to mean?" she demanded.

"It just means you prefer contemporary books."

She rolled her eyes. "Contemporary?" she snorted, "It's set in the 90s!"