Category Archives: grief

“Desperado.”

January 18, 2016grief, nostalgia, poetic prose, psychology, tributes, UncategorizedDesperado, Glenn Frey, pop ballads, the 70's, The Eagles, tributes to our 70's balladeersruth ann scanzillo

Only once or twice in any generation will a pop song rise to the level of universal symbol.

The one that always spoke to me was “Desperado.”

The band: The Eagles. Kind of a southern rock/pop style backed by strong vocal harmonies and blended by not one but two song writers, one of them the newly departed Glenn Frey.

But, that tune, a signature for the intimate, 70’s love song crooner, was about even more; this was the ballad of the touring minstrel, and what he’d learned about life.

My father had been his own generation’s vagabond songbird. He’d met mum, on a night train, its steam engine stopped long, enough, to wake her enough to spy the dashing, raven haired soldier who just needed a seat. He’d sung to her, all night, and spun his stories, and woo’ed her, and gotten off the train, and been pursued by the great American hand written letter, until he let her love him and married her.

Though our generation preceded the technological rush by just a few, short years, our pop idols still knew how to sing alone. But, none of them had been trained in the art, if there even was one, of The Tour; nobody told them they’d live out of a bus, never eat right, rarely sleep, and probably go through so many groupies it would be hard to remember their own names, let alone those of the eager teenage girls who clamored back stage. Yet, they were the last of the clarified poets – lyrics, always close to our ears, never frantic, in time with our lives, right next to our hearts.

None of us knows what inspired the lyrics to that nomad’s song. But, I can remember singing it, loud and soaring, year after year, behind the wheel of the Pontiac Ventura and then the Sunbird, to and from work in the Greek dinor and, later, on the way home from my own pop band gigs, after the latest boyfriend had stood me up. To me, every heartbreak and heartbreaker was a Desperado, out ridin’ fences, never ready to come to his senses. He never did let me love him, and it was always too late.

Rest in Peace, beloved balladeer. Soar with the eagles, now . And, for letting us love you – thanks. ❤

RIP Glenn Frey.

Presence.

December 25, 2015contemplative essays, Deep Thoughts, grief, nostalgia, UncategorizedChristmas Eve, Christmas morning, gifts, memories of family Christmas, presentsruth ann scanzillo

In Christmases past, there were always two kinds of folks: the Eves, and the Mornings. We were, because mum was always up, Mornings. And, it didn’t matter how late we stayed awake the night before; my little brother and I were out of bed, and always before we’d had enough sleep.

I think it might’ve been class related. Rich people opened gifts in the evening, after a posh meal and a high Catholic mass. Poor people liked to savor the sight, one more night; presents, we called them, falling over each other under the tree, in just the light from the strands wrapped around it.

In families where the cousins and grandparents lived nearby, that extra evening gave everybody more time to finish wrapping and delivering. For us, it was always an extended family affair; we had more than one gift for siblings and parents, plus something both for and from every cousin who came from across the street and around the corner and as far away as Lawrence Park.

When we were toddlers, I don’t even remember eating breakfast first. It was all about the living room floor, in pajamas and housecoats. Dad, sitting in the corner of the davenport, eyes closed, robe and slippers on.

Union Bank had a Christmas Club. This was a means of saving meager earnings, all year, so the windfall on Christmas morning could make up for all the sacrifice – that sacrifice, of course, being the exclusive domain of mum, who never bought a single thing for herself, ever, and made all her own clothes and ours, too.

Making mum her special Christmas card was always a big deal. And, in later years, finding her that one outstanding present, just like she had for us – several small, but one big, climactic box which, from her, meant a completely tailored suit or dress – was always the challenge; and, as the years passed, meeting this one successfully became more difficult. From me, the electric potato peeler and portable shower rail were two stand outs; she never had to use the peeler, and died before the shower rail ever became necessary.

We always, as children, had a real tree, too. Mum’s arthritis kept on, though and, once we reached our late teens, green branches made of twisted wire and flexible plastic needles took their permanent place. Yet, like everything else valued by the children of the Great Depression, the glass ornaments and lights as big as your grandfather’s thumb and table candles and window wreaths were as carefully brought out as they always had been, after the trunk was firmly set in its screws in the steel stand.

Dad, raised in an orphanage, had no need for any of this. He already knew that just being in a warm house, having had a solid night’s sleep, his brood all around him, waiting for some hot oatmeal, was more than enough. But, eyes closed, he’d be listening to us, with a smile on his face.

Memories like these are what make the present hard. Living in The Now is overrated; take me back, any day, to what we had growing up. Nobody could have ever told us how it would be later, and we wouldn’t have wanted to know. The Bible says that the poor ye will always have with you; but, there used to be a day when even those who had little could enjoy the reward of being alive, like the baby Jesus. Our parents knew that secret, and this is what I miss. Christmas, my friends, used to be for everyone.

Copyright Statement.

October 8, 2015classical music, contemplative essays, Deep Questions, Deep Thoughts, Fundamentalism, grief, nostalgia, notice, original poetry, personal proverbs, scenes, short storiesclassical music, copyright, intellectual material, plagiarismruth ann scanzillo

Hello, Readers!

Since the Stats on this, my blog, have noticeably increased over the past 36 hours, I am moved to reiterate Copyright notice. I am a Library of Congress copyrighted writer, and established at the Writers’ Guild East under a pseudonym. With the exception of: photos, as indicated; ReBlogged posts, from other WordPress.com authors; quotes, as indicated; and, the poem my mother wrote about my father, all of the poems, essays, and proverbs in this blog are authored by me, and the photos and drawings created by me.

Thank you very much for reading! Should you wish to share, in whole or in part, any of my posts, please send your written requests to: littlebarefeet@msn.com

Yours in earnest,

Ruth Ann Scanzillo – littlebarefeetblog.com

10/8/15