Old Music

Leaving for Fredericton at 7:30 in the a.m. I so don't do mornings well or often . . . unless I'm coming in from the backside. Shouldn't do an all-niter tonight though, should be sharp for my first BOD meeting. Also Stacy arrives tomorrow night for Bon Jovi fest and wine, mustn't be sleepy. We're going to listen to all my Jovi CDs and watch all the DVDs. Not surprisingly I've got quite the collection going on.

Listening to 80's tunes in this crisp fall night air takes me back to Barnettville. Fall 1984. Brook Hill. Royal Reserve. Hermit's Wine. Hash. Black Beauties. Christmas Trees. Pink Hearts. DuMaurier Cigarettes. Bonfires. Sitting in that old LTD of Dad's in the yard, listening to the radio out of New York, trying to keep warm and dry, Ronnie too shy to go in the house, holding hands, talking, kissing, windows steaming up. Islands in the Stream. Break My Stride. Suddenly Last Summer. I can still see him sitting on the chair by the old cupboard in the kitchen the first night he went into my parents. We were soaked through from the rain, dripping off his hair and he was shivering, wouldn't hardly look at Dad, who of course would NOT shut-up. He was the first boy I brought home. And it was easy. It's always been easy, except for that one time when they forbade me to see someone. I saw him anyway of course, but the joke was on my mother when he turned out to be the best of the bunch. She always says God punished her for that close-minded judgement by sending Marty into our lives later. Pretty funny, but who knows, there could be something to it.

I remember one night Marty picked me and Ronnie up on the road. He was four-wheeling with a truck, green I think, chev, side-step. Seems like him and Lyle or maybe Donnie were out and about in their separate vehicles, roaring through the woods at the end of the road. He was drunk of course, maybe on acid, I'm not sure. I was a little drunk, a bit high. Always the sensible one, Ronnie just wanted to get a ride home to my place, but when Marty asked me if we wanted to go four-wheelin' it was a done deal. The insanity of it, barrelling through the woods in the dark, nearly flipping, nearly getting stuck, nearly running into trees, we could've so easily been hurt or killed. A few times we stopped suddenly, running into a big rock or tree trunk or bottoming out in a hole and I'd get flung hard against the dash, knocking the wind out of me, but not putting me through the windshield. Seatbelt wasn't even a consideration. Of course I loved it, the thrill of it all, not caring whether I lived or died anyway in my teenage depression, it took these kinds of extreme activities to get me to feel anything at all it seemed. I wonder now if this is when I threw my ribs out of whack. Impossible to know for certain. I couldn't stop laughing. I remember Marty flirting with me, saying we should throw Ronnie out and go for a drive alone. I didn't think he was serious, thought he was just playing with me because I was 14 years old and that made Marty old at 26? 28? So I laughed and said that sounded like fun . . . the look on Ronnie's face, he was horrified. And with good reason it turned out, because of course Marty was serious, would've put him out. Had the gun in behind the seat from hunting. I had to say I was just kidding when he stopped the truck. Then he laughed and said he was just kidding too. But he wasn't. If I didn't know it then, I know it now, he also remembered that night and we talked about it a dozen or so years later when we were a couple.

Poor Ronnie. Part of the reason he was attracted to me was the impulsiveness, the wildness, the attitude, but is it any wonder he ran off with someone a little less insane the first chance he got. Dealing with my teenaged self must've been pure hell. Now, I'm just a boring old broad, content to stay home and watch movies or go to a bar where you can carry on a conversation. Hah! Who would've thunk it? And Ronnie still phones me every year on my birthday to wish me a happy day.

Mood: nostalgic
Drinking: hot chocolate
Listening To: The Motels, Suddenly Last Summer
Hair: Scrunched