I’ve found myself saying things like “What’s wrong with parents? Don’t they teach manners anymore?,” “The world is going to hell.,” and the ever popular, “They don’t make things like they used to.”
Pop icons aside, and I’m hoping the Paris Hiltons and Britneys of the world are an abberation, I’m starting to think we’re living in a bit of a cultural wasteland. Not an original thought, I know.
I’m lucky because I grew up with parents and an aunt who adored classical music. It ran continuously on the record player. We were poor, blue collar, but it didn’t matter. When I can identify a piece on the car radio, my companions usually look at me like I’m a freak of nature.
I guess it just happens that way. Things pass into memory, and then forever. I took an evening off from everything last night–cooking, writing, reading, excersize, and watched an old movie. Kim Novak in an overly sexual portrayal of a hussy in the historical “Of Human Bondage” with Laurence Harvey. Angst-ridden love and tragedy. But it really had heart, and substance, despite the flaws. A week earlier, I watched another Kim Novak classic, Hitcock’s “Vertigo,” one of my all-time favorite movies. Can’t beat it for overacting and melodrama.
I remember my grandmother, my childhood best friend, playing “On the Streets of New York” and other tinny tunes on her upright white piano. She was born in 1890, so her stories were incredible. She would roll over in her grave if she knew there was a book out called “Big Fat Slappable Asses.” And that I write romance with graphic sex.
Things change, and I’m lamenting some of the changes. I think that makes me like my mom. In a country that worships youth, I’m seeking the substance of maturity.