It
wasn’t Valhalla – but then again, maybe it was…
During
my last year or so of high school, and for a year or two afterwards,
some friends of mine took up a peculiar activity.
My
parents had a grass-filled drainage ditch across the front of the
house I grew up in.
It
was a alongside a road at a crossroads, with a stop sign directly
across.
Somehow
one of us had discovered how perfectly ergonomic and comfortable this
drainage ditch was.
If
we sat in it, we were slightly below ground level. And since we were
below most people’s sightline, the average driver would look
right over us and was not likely to see us.
During
the summer, two or three of us would sit and observe drivers.
My
parent’s house was about a mile from a popular lake with a park
and swimming area.
On
summer afternoons, after a day at the lake, hundreds of people would
drive home past my house.
This
was before cell phones. Or air conditioning.
And
before streaming or even compact discs in cars.
Everyone
listened to the radio back then. And everyone knew – and played
– the upbeat songs of summer.
Drivers,
alone or with family or friends, would drive by, stop at the stop
sign and we would hear bits of conversations or the music they were
listening to through their open car windows.
At
first we just quietly watched, and then some of us began to make
comments about the cars, or the people, or their music.
Americans
in their vehicles are a species unto themselves. They could be
described as Americans in the wild, in their native habitats.
I
don’t know about other cultures, but Americans have a very
strange view of themselves and their vehicles. Americans can be very
possessive of their vehicles, and, when it comes to being in their
vehicles, tend to switch from feeling secure with privacy and then
public within micro-seconds.
Most
of us feel safe and comfortable, even untouchable, in our vehicles.
We hide in them and we show them off. As one car designer put it many
years ago, Americans don’t drive cars – we wear them.
Those
in their cars do not expect a voice, seemingly from nowhere, emerging
and adding to their conversation or commenting on their activities.
Most
of the time, the driver would stare over us, look around, not see us
and say something like “What the…? Who said that?”
and then, totally baffled, after the car behind them honked, would
drive off.
There
was a steady stream of summer traffic.
My
friends and I would gather some snacks, like popcorn and fruit, and
watch the action go by.
One
friend of mine played harmonica and kept one in his pocket.
He
began to play along with the music from the passing cars.
He
eventually brought over a concertina – a small, portable
accordion, and we would play, sing or hum along with the music
passing by.
It
was a continual parade of music, and coming from a time of playing in
the lake, everyone seemed in the mood for even more of the
unexpected.
There
were no sidewalks in our part of town. And, for whatever reason, my
friends and I didn’t do organized activities; we didn’t
have “lessons” or do any team activities on a schedule or
that took special equipment or uniforms.
We
roamed around and improvised.
Eventually,
as the summer progressed, we would gather various instruments and jam
alongside the summer motion in front of us.
I
had a trumpet, once or twice someone had a trombone, we played
various wind instruments, whistles, flutes, bongo drums, tambourines,
bells and guitars or banjos.
More
than once some stranger saw us, caught the vision and joined us.
For
better or worse, my friends and I just couldn’t do “normal”
– we didn’t reject or oppose, but we just couldn’t
relate to it.
Looking
back on it, I think my friends were all geniuses – but that was
when genius wasn’t measured or defined or even acknowledged.
Back then conformity was rewarded.
We
just couldn’t do it. Over the years, we went our separate ways,
and I never saw or heard of anyone doing anything remotely similar.
We
weren’t just moving at our own rhythm, we were creating it,
finding it in the pulse of the traffic and the exuberant mood of a
generation on wheels with nothing to lose and everything to discover.
Schools
and economies and societies in general, are not kind to such
advocates and apostles of the unexpected.
We
couldn’t follow, and we didn’t lead, but we moved to our
own unspecified, unheard pace and the beat of a humanity unleashed –
perhaps as the last generation before the ultimate – and
constant bondage of screens, phones, “services” and
devices.
We
didn’t see it as what it was; a near pure encounter with
serendipitous humanity.
We
didn’t know what we were doing – or what we had –
but few others had it then, and it seems impossible for anyone now.
But
the improvised, jazz, folk, tribal, call and response out of nowhere,
tied to the pulse of the weather and passing traffic seems like a
strange vison from another universe – a universe where we all
gather in an impromptu harmony for no reason, on no schedule and with
no purpose except pure momentary, non-repeatable exuberance.
No
one would call it music – but it sort of was. Or at least it
was strangers meeting and harmonizing and, with each passing moment,
each passing car had its own energy and contribution to the saga with
no end and maybe no beginning.
It
was Huck Finn meeting John Cage and a sonic Jackson Pollack merging
with hyper-activated, sun-drenched wet kids on a wispy summer
afternoon.
It
was what we made it.
And
maybe, in a certain way, it was what made us.
As
I look back, I see a freedom there; no obligation, no schedule, no
format and no defined purpose.
In
the long and dreary days of winter, we had another activity that, as
far as I knew, no one else did; we call them “crazy drives”.
With
a tank full of gas, a dark and rainy night, no agenda and no
destination, we would roam through the night.
We
lived on the edge of what was called civilization. It didn’t
take long for us to get to areas without streetlights or street
signs.
In
sheer, dripping darkness, we would get thoroughly lost, with no
reference points, little sense of direction and guided only by our
fatigue and hunger. We would often roll in the driveway at daylight.
No
compass, no clock, no devices tracking us, no schedule, and no end in
sight, and endless random conversations about any topic or
preposterous idea; we were young, foolish and free.
Those
were the days before expiration dates, user names, websites and seat
belts.
If
anything had happened to us, it would have taken weeks – maybe
years to find us. If ever…
We
went down dead ends, along cliff-side dirt roads and dense forests
with no end. We saw car accidents, helped strangers with flat tires,
witnessed mysterious lights in the dim, soggy darkness, saw shadows
flickering around and over us, and wondered what would happen if…
I
learned more in those meandering rambles than any graduate seminar.
Among other things, the road – and the darkness – are
infinite; we are not.
We
dance, and sing and celebrate on the edge of the abyss. Our comfort,
recognized or not, is in each other and whatever waits for us.
The
sheen of our distractions only numbs our spirits and paralyzes our
hearts.
We
are told that everything, from food to freedom to love has a cost.
But now I am convinced that everything that matters is free…that
freedom is, in fact, free; that if love “costs” anything,
it is in a currency we barely understand, but that, somehow, every
one of is born with.
And
those things that “capture” and “consume” us,
and leach the life from us, those are the things that “cost”
– and keep us paying forever.
Dollar
signs don’t define anything except our bondage.
Several
decades later, I am probably the most “normal” one. There
are sidewalks in my neighborhood. I have a 401 (k), lawn service and
I look out my windows on rainy nights and wonder…
