The Spirit of Radio

In early January, Rush drummer Neil Peart died of brain cancer at the age of 67. It is literally not possible for me to imagine what he’d been going through since his diagnosis less than four years ago. He was a remarkable person in so many different ways, not the least of which was being Rush’s drummer for more than 40 years.

I’ll direct you to Rolling Stone‘s beautiful version of an obituary, but I want to tell you my Rush story.

The first rock show I ever went to was Chicago, at the Hersheypark Arena, in (probably) 1976. I would have been ten or eleven years old, so my dad took me, as I was incapable of driving myself at the time. Little-known fact (unless you, like me, are from south-central Pennsylvania): Hersheypark Arena opened in 1936 as Hershey Sports Arena and served as the home of the Hershey Bears American Hockey League team from 1938-2002. (It also served as an evacuation shelter in 1979 during the Three Mile Island nuclear emergency.) If you want to know more about the fascinating history of this stadium where in 1962 Wilt Chamberlain scored 100 points, setting an unbroken NBA record, read this article.

According to Wikipedia, when it was built in 1936, “as the Hershey Sports Arena, the building was the largest monolithic structure in the United States in which not a single seat suffered from an obstructed view.” Who knew?

Also, I just read on the Hershey Entertainment website that Chicago played at the Hershey Theater in April 2019, and that this was Chicago’s “50th consecutive year of touring, without missing a single concert date!” That is impressive.

Back to my first show:  that’s pretty much it.  I don’t actually remember anything at all about Chicago or the venue itself, just that my dad took me. He probably doesn’t realize this, but my dad is one of the main reasons music is such an important part of my life. When I was a kid, I was always amazed at his ability to name the artist after only a few seconds of a song playing on the radio. I wanted so badly to be able to do this, and it cracks me up to remember my approach:  I would just memorize which songs went with which bands. It had nothing to do with the singer’s voice or the sound of the music itself, and everything to do with learning by rote. Eventually, of course, I realized that bands and vocalists have very distinctive sounds. But I didn’t know how my pop knew, so it was completely magical to me.

Dad took me to several shows when I was in high school, the most memorable–for a variety of reasons–being Rush, the year I was a sophomore at Herndon High School.

The way I remember it, my homettes and I were making plans to go–which in our case included two dads as chaperones–when someone’s parent won skybox tickets off the radio (or were given to them?). Naturally we didn’t want to be seen with said chaperones, so we gave them the skybox tickets, and the girls and I purchased regular seats.

I feel like it’s imperative I mention that in 1981, these two Old Guys who agreed to take us–one of whom was my dad, the other the afore-blogged-about doctor of cow farts–were barely forty. That’s young, as far as I’m concerned–especially since I’m now 54–but for some unfathomable reason, they both felt compelled to wear what equated to polyester leisure suits, shunning ties for a more casual look with dress shirts unbuttoned. I’m pretty sure I remember one of them, at least, wearing plaid pants. They looked exactly how narcs were portrayed in 1970s TV dramas. My girlfriends and I were beyond mortified and made them walk at least ten feet away from us.

The concert, as I remember it, was not only stupefyingly wondrous, but to this day the loudest show I believe I have ever seen. I was both deaf and hoarse for most of the next day. Though Geddy, Alex and Neil were touring their 1981 release Moving Pictures, my favorite Rush song was–and still remains–The Spirit of Radio.

(I love this particular video because 1) at the beginning, it shows the year the song was recorded, 2) it’s clear that much of the audience is my age, 3) the little kiddos with ear protection–something I wish I would’ve known about a little earlier in my life, and 4) Neil Peart’s drum kit is over the top.)

After the show, the dads had delightful stories of their own to share. Unbeknownst to any of us, skyboxes are not private spaces: they can be shared by a number of people who don’t necessarily all know each other. Upon arriving in the skybox, the dads noticed a mini-fridge which happened to be stocked with beer they assumed was complimentary. They decided this was very nice indeed, and were enjoying a couple cold ones when the other skybox occupants returned. Oopsie.

If I remember correctly, I’m pretty sure my dad said their skybox neighbors who so graciously didn’t beat the shit out of them for taking two of their beers “smelled like camels.” I’m not sure on what occasion my dad would’ve noted what a camel smells like, nor why he chose this particular animal, but apparently their new acquaintances were more fragrant than what these two sportcoat-sportin’ narcs were used to. Oh, to have been a fly on the wall.

To cap off the experience, some guys brought their girlfriends into the men’s room while dad was using the urinal. Good times.

Rush was one of my favorite bands at a very impressionable time in my life, and The Spirit of Radio encapsulates–as does Queen’s Radio Ga Ga–my feelings not only about music, but the role FM radio played in the formation of those feelings. It’s very difficult to overstate how important it was at the time.

So thank you, Neil Peart, Geddy Lee and Alex Lifeson, for being there for me during those traumatic formative years when I wasn’t sure I’d make it out the other side. Your music and your legacy will last forever.

Neil Peart photo courtesy Wikimedia Commons
Hersheypark arena photo courtesy Wikipedia

Today he thanked me for the first time for carrying his books.

Ah, young love.

What must it have been like to be a popular, athletic boy, the elite of my adolescent years?  To have girls fawning all over me, whispering and giggling whenever they saw me, offering to carry my books or wanting to borrow my pen, simply because I had used it?  To be thought and written about to such an extent, in such detail, as to defy imagination?  If I applied half the time and energy to publishing a memoir as I did to boys just during eighth and ninth grade, I’d be working on my second book.

The more I dissect these notes, the more I just sit here shaking my head and wondering how we all made it to adulthood relatively successfully.  Could we really have been the same girls who wrote these?  It doesn’t seem possible.


Heather–

Hi! Guess who’s pen I’m writing with? T.’s! Big wow! Today he thanked me for the first time for carrying his books. It’s about time! I think I’ve found another person to like too. Who is this new Love of yours? I’ve gotta go for a while. I have to write up an experiment for Mr. H.

I had to give T. his pen back. Gosh, I can’t remember liking T. last year. I think I did but I’m not sure. I can’t remember his being in my classes. I know he was in a couple.

I would never have been able to sit up in front of the class like you do, especially our English class!

Did you know that J.D. is practically in LOVE with Doggie? ICK!

Didn’t it just make you sick yesterday in gym? S. just can’t stop showing off can she?

T. is getting crude. I am not going to listen to his and T., and Cs’ conversation going on behind me. I don’t want to know T. to be like that.

See ya,
W/B soon!
K.

I was just thinking, are you sure you don’t want to get T. Not the first way, though.

P.S. Does T. still like L.?

[page 2]
Hi Heather!
Here’s a nice big piece of (almost) blank paper for you to write on.

That thing must have been folded 3 times.

Apparently T. wasn’t the only one among my friends–or the female general public, for that matter–who thought Christopher Reeve was the bomb.  Whether or not he did, in fact, have to fold that thing three times, apparently Superman’s . . . er . . . package is a much hotter topic than I’ve ever suspected.  The Google search term “Superman’s bulge” returns more than 53,000 results, the most comprehensive of which appears to be the brilliant A Brief History of Superman’s Bulge by Ryan Britt.

Be that as it may, with the greatest respect for Christopher Reeve’s acting ability, his post-accident activism and his absolute, total hotness (“even though he is in his 30’s”), I felt compelled to share a second note today.  And I’m so glad I did, because, again, the Universe has spoken to me in its own subtle way:  during my brief research for this post, I read a November 2003 interview with Reeve in The New Yorker which mentions that his 1995 riding accident actually occurred at a competition in Culpeper, VA–the same “Culpepper” to which M & M refers below.


Heather,

Since I have little time to talk to you any more I thought I would write you a note.

You probably think I’m crazy liking a freshman and all but I really don’t care. I think he is nice and mature, more mature than A.K. It is to bad you haven’t met G. and one of these days I’ll have to take you to Youth Group with me (when I think he likes me or I don’t care, because I don’t want to take the chance of your beauty getting in the way.)

Who did you vote for homecoming princes or queen (or whatever)? I voted for S.S. and T.I.

Are you doing anything Sunday afternoon?, because I think you, me C., C., and K. should get together since I hardly see them any more. Sat. is out because I will be at Culpepper with the band.

I’m glad you are enjoying tenis. I wish I could say the same for marching and flags (I liked it better last year). You and I are kept so busy after school and with homework we don’t get to talked like we used to. I don’t know about you, but I’ll be glad when fall things are over.

Q-107 is playing my song Games without frontiers war without tears.

Remember after lunch I told you Superman was cute (even though he is in his 30’s)? When I saw him I said is that for real. You were right that thing must have been folded 3 times.

La
(L)ove y(a)
M & M

Oh, I think about candle-light diners.

After yet another long absence, I’m celebrating my wholehearted return to the work involved in becoming a published memoirist.  I’m now three years past my self-imposed deadline of procuring an agent by age 50, but who cares?  Everything happens when it’s meant to happen, and I’m having a blast.

Today I offer you this darling, heartfelt missive from a lovesick tenth-grader: my dear friend T., now a happily married attorney. This is one of my favorite notes from her, as it contains an adorably detailed, Harlequin romance-style fantasy about her current crush.

T. and I have been friends since seventh grade–forty years, in other words.  She recently embraced her note-writing roots and started writing letters again by hand on actual stationery.  Though some of the topics have changed (she still writes about TV shows she’s currently into), it is both remarkable and delightful to see how consistent her thought patterns and writing style have remained.

Thank you for this masterpiece, T.  We’ve come a long way, haven’t we?


Heather,

Dearie! I appreciate that “heart to heart” talk you gave me in German class. It meant a lot to me and set me straight on a whole lot of problems (mental and physical) I’ve been having. You are a sweetie and I treasure your friendship. Many people don’t understand my feelings such as J., J. & everyone else. You and H.G. are the only two people I know who care. Well, J. cares but she can’t relate to my problems. J. doesn’t care at all! All she wants to know are the hard facts, she doesn’t care about the sweat & tears. I seriously thought that she was one of the people who cared about me! All she wants to do is tell C. junk & stupid stuff for me (as she calls it!). You see, J.L. got moi très interested in C. in the first place by telling me how cute, innocent, sweet, clean cut (don’t make any jokes about his hair) and lovable he is. She persisted and I slowly (but surely) fell madly in love with him. Now she ignores me.

Now, to get to my main subject of life, C.C. who is in 9th grade has beautifully hazel eyes and is the perfect height of 5’8”. I think of him always (the way you do of A.). Right now as I’m writing this letter I’m thinking of C. and me (me is the correct gramatical form becauce it is an object, Ha Ha) sitting in front of a blazing fire. He is just out of the cold outside with firewood. I’m sitting in front of the fire, staring out into it (thinking about C., of course). C. tiptoes behind me & creeps behind me. He puts his arms around me and his cold cheek against mine. My cheek is warm from the fire. We sit like that for awhile, looking into the fire. Then, C. speaks, “I love you”, he whispers into my ear. We kiss passionately. You know the rest. Through out the following series of letters I will be telling you my dreams of C. As you told me in German you have them too, with A. of course. When I’m washing the dishes, brushing my teeth, washing my hair, eating dinner or doing anything ordinary. Oh, I think about candle-light diners, him watching me proudly as I win Wimbledon or us dancing to the music of a radio in a secluded cabin during a snow storm. Can you believe my imagination? Well, there are no laws against wild dreams that will probably never come true. Please write me back and discuss your problems too, because I feel that I can relate to what you feel inside. It aches and makes your stomach turn the more you think of the problems. I think that together we can both overcome the problems we are both facing in this terribly difficult stage of growing up. I hope you agree with me because I am in despret need of a person to talk to. You already know it all and I think you care if I live or die. I feel so unwanted. Today in geometry I did a nerdy thing. D.M. asked me about “Mop head”. I still don’t know how he found out! I said “Don’t talk about him, he doesn’t like me!” D. replied with a “I know what you mean.” That left me stunned. I’m starting to discuss my life & problems with people I’ve known for awhile but not personnaly. Please excuse my terrible spelling, I’m not in the mood to spell correctly.

Love
T. (the lonely one)

P.S. I’m happy cuz I’m drug-free.

I told my mom I want clogs for my birthday & she said MAYBE

Happy belated birthday, girlfriend. I hope you got those clogs.

I love you.


[Note is in tiny envelope that says:  
Re-used envelope!
I forgot to open the card & so today I was going to throw the box away & found the card, it had monee in it!]

3/17/79

Heather,
Bonjour, gawd I’m hungry!  It’s not 10:55 & I’ve been here since 7:45.  So far 8 judges have talked to me.  There’s this real cute guy sitting right across from me, we’ve been talking since 8:40, and he’s really nice.  (He even gave me some of his Doritos!)  He plays trumpet 4 Kilmer.
Good, now the food stand is open, be right back . . . . . . . . . . . .
Here I is, relief, a Snickers!  Sweettarts!  Coke!
Still no more judges.  I’ve got 8 already & we still have 45 more mins.
I just got another judge (MIT).  9 now!  
12:05 All right we can go home!
Hi, I’m home, now I’ve got to wash de auto so gotz to go!  W/B
Happy St. Patty Day!
C-ya later
Did you c Paul McCartney & Wings Over The World?  I fell asleep at 10:30 cuz I took a bath.  Then I did every exercise on our list even 200 of those leg things to tighten yore tummy.  Whew!
Yesterday I got a “Hawaii” T-Shirt from me Grams & Gramps4 me b-day!  It’s reel purty.  I told my mom that I want clogs for me b-day & she said MAYBE.  W/B  C.

White bread

I am the captain of my ship–as well as the author of today’s note from 1979 or 1980.  And, as you’ll see, in 9th grade I was already on my way to becoming a master of race relations and cultural sensitivity.  (My former boss and friend, Kirk Koepsel, once told me, “Sarcasm doesn’t translate into writing.”  I have always hoped this isn’t true, but if it is, please know I was just now being sarcastic.)

I grew up on the east coast–elementary school in the Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, area and intermediate and high school in a D.C. suburb–so, consequently, my formative years were blessed with a fair amount of racial and cultural diversity.  I had White friends, Black friends, and every shade of brown in between.  There were plenty of Latino, Indian, Southeast Asian and Middle Eastern kids at Herndon Intermediate and Herndon High School.  In 9th grade, I had an Iranian friend whom I asked to teach me some Persian (Farsi) words and phrases.  Sadly, all I can remember today is halet chetore, which means “How are you?”

However, my closest friends were White, and, if I think about it, I can only remember being at their homes, knowing their families and spending most of my one-on-one time with them.  Time spent with friends of color was always in school, or at school-related social events–rarely individually, and never at home.

What many of my peers probably don’t remember is that I attended our senior prom with my friend K., a Black football player whose family had moved to Herndon from Zaire (now the Democratic Republic of Congo).  I am ashamed to confess that I told my parents I was going with a different (read “White”) friend because I didn’t think they would approve.  K. and I wore matching tuxedos, and double-dated with the mutual friend and his girlfriend, who deigned to join the three of us in our dapper finery and wore a dress instead.

It’s particularly fascinating to reflect on the scenario briefly referred to in my note–of which I have absolutely no recollection–at age 51, when I spend half of each workday in a community college diversity center.  I’m far from being the most culturally fluent person in the room, but in the past couple years, my horizons have expanded enormously thanks to my job.  My Latino boss–with whom I have almost daily conversations about some aspect of cultural competency–has brought both Tim Wise and Robin DiAngelo to our school to speak on White privilege.  I’ve read several of their books, I participated in a year-long Inclusion & Cultural Fluency leadership training series, and I’m learning to speak Spanish because my inability to communicate with so many folks has been driving me crazy for a long time.

In other words, I’ve made a personal choice to improve my cultural competency and increase my understanding of White privilege.  This is a priority I will work on throughout the rest of my life, whether or not I continue to pursue a career in higher ed.  I may not remember why the Korean boy made me nervous, nor why I thought I needed to “feel sorry for him,” but from the perspective of more than thirty years later, I now know to challenge myself when I have thoughts like these.


hey chic!

How’s life?  mine’s just boreamundo.  actually it’s pretty gross.  my life is in a rut.  it’s been there for the longest time.  but i’m planning on having a heap o’ fun this weekend.  Friday night I’m going to a party, Saturday night I’m going skating, now I have to find sompin’ to do sunday.

i told C. about ya not being allowed to go to Roanoke.  She’s really upset.  I think we could try and talk your parents back into letting you go.

I sit with this Vietnamese Korean guy in Bio & M. isn’t here.  He carries a Korean-American dictionary around with him.  I feel sorry for him but he makes me nervous.

This class is sorry.  I wish I could’ve gotten into Mr. S. 2nd period, because I’m pretty sure that’s where A. is now.

Mr. S. sez they need pitchers on the softball teams ‘round here.

Later!

Love moi

Do you feel spirited?

I know y’all have been waiting with bated breath for the next note.  And I also know I keep saying this, but I really should post more often.

So, at long last:  here’s a gem from 10th grade (1980-81).  While you enjoy it, ask yourself the following questions:

Would you appear in public wearing all white?
Do you remember being completely mortified in 10th grade biology by the chapter on reproduction?
Do your kids see you more often than once or twice a week?
Do you feel spirited?


How do, mademoiselle?

I hope you’re not so spastic today!  You ought to be in our biology class.  Mr. S. says things you wouldn’t believe.  And today I was looking through the book & discovered the chapter on reproduction—w/ illustrations!  There’s no way in the world I’m gonna do that chapter w/ J. as my partner!!

I have some good news.  Mr. H. ordered a couple more desks yesterday so there is a lot of room left for you—4 whole desks.  Pleeeaassse switch to 3rd pd!  Pleeze?

Do you feel spirited?  I honestly did have on all white this morning.  I took it off ’cuz it looked weird & ‘cuz I wouldn’t dare going into Hist. & Math in all white!  Juniors would murder me!

Have fun at the game.  I wish I could come, but I already promised D. I would sit tonite.  I hope she comes home super early ‘cuz I desparately need sleep.  I even have a 9:30 a.m. hockey scrimmage tomorrow.  Ho, boy—no sleep!

What are we gonna do ‘bout Sun.  I think C. said she could take us.  All we need is a ride home.  Maybe I can—I’ll have to check next time I see my mom.  I haven’t seen her since Mon. from 5-6 pm.  [I’m pretty sure this note was written on a Friday, so WTF?]

I just goofed on a Math test.

I have a Hist. test on Monday; a French dialog on Monday; & a biology Chapt. test on Wed.  Plus I have to read 1 English book & 2 history books.  Plus I have to make all those Christmas gifts.  Also, I have to dance, babysit, guitar lesson (when do I ever practice?), build a float, & do all this other crap.  I AM SO OVER MY HEAD!!  HELP ME, I’M DROWNING!

I feel like Frampton’s song:
I’m swimming in a circle
I feel I’m going down
There has to be a fool to play my part

Well, I better finish, it’s 1 minute ‘till the bell rings.

Luv,
C.

Sexual harassment – 80s style

Transcribing K’s note below made me wonder just how often this type of situation happened during my six years of intermediate school and high school, and to what extent it’s still happening.  I’m pretty sure if this occurred nowadays, the geometry teacher referenced would be suspended without pay–or possibly fired–and both he and Fairfax County Public Schools would be sued from here to eternity.

It is simply mortifiying to think about this happening to K or any girl around her age.  I can’t imagine how humiliating and embarrassing it must have been for her.  K was short and very amply endowed, even in seventh grade.  She was extremely self-conscious about her appearance:  she viewed herself as overweight and spent huge amounts of money, time and energy on losing weight, as well as her skin, makeup, hair and clothing.  Read more about her in If I had a bunny, I’d call it Led Zeppelin.


Hi Heather!
Geometry was embarassing! Mr. S. likes to make up stories about people in the class to help explain things.  So guess who was in his story today!  Me and P.D.!
He started out, “You all know K.D., don’t you?” and of course they didn’t because they were all sophomores, but one guy said, “She must be a freshman.”  Then Mr. S. said, “Have you ever seen her walk down the hall?  She’s no freshman!”
Embarassment!!!!!!!!!!!
Then he proceeds to tell this story of me and P. driving down the highway when he hears this thumping which he thinks is my heart but it turns out to be a flat tire which I have to change while he watches the traffic.  So embarassing!  Hey there’s cute little R.L. walking along the road in the rain!  Poor baby!  How was the Ortho man?  Fun I bet!  I have to go to Dr. B. at 3:30.  Fun-ness!
R. is on the bus looking very cute in his red, black & white shirt and gorgeous new white Adidas jacket.
Well, almost home!
Bye!