Growing up I knew a girl named Nina who had multiple sclerosis. Nina’s hair grayed before its time and she spent most of the second half of her life in a wheel chair, but that never seemed to dampen her spirits. One of the things I remember most about her was how good she was at saying goodbye. It was something of her trademark. She’d give you a big toothy grin and say “toodles, you.” Even on the phone, you could hear her smile as she said goodbye… and you just knew what was coming: “toodles, you.” It didn’t matter if you didn’t want to hang up… it didn’t matter if you were sad… it didn't matter if you were hating the world... you simply couldn’t help but smile when Nina said goodbye. With her, parting really was such sweet sorrow… but with an emphasis on the sweet bit.
Once, when I was just a teenager, Nina and I went to an outdoor music festival in Seattle with my mother and her boyfriend-du-jour. We saw a few bands play that day, but at the end of the evening we piled into an arena to watch Fats Domino and Jerry Lee Lewis do a set of their hits from the 50’s and early 60’s. Afterwards, we went to the back doors where a crowd of people had gathered hoping to catch a glimpse of the pair as they left, (something we were fairly certain we’d not be able to do). Anyway, someone from the staff must have felt sorry for Nina – who was clearly disabled – because she came right up to us and gave us the backstage pass from around her neck. We were dumbfounded and excited. Nina grabbed my hand and said “quick, before they change their mind” and I pushed her through the forbidden doors and into the long mysterious corridors that led eventually to some well-guarded back rooms. The two musicians were there eating dinner with their band mates and a gaggle of well-wishers. They invited us in and we sat around eating fried chicken and listening to stories from the road. I was no more than 15.
Before we left, we had our pictures taken with them. Jerry Lee Lewis stood between us and put his arm around us both saying “you can’t believe everything you hear about old Jerry Lee.” (Uh huh. Ya Right.)
On our way out the door, Fats Domino called to Nina by name – saying goodbye - she turned and looked at him, then waved and said, “toodles, you.”
~~~~~~~~~~
I’ve never been particularly good at goodbyes. Even on the phone, I ramble on endlessly (18 minutes was the record, as I recall) working my way up to and through the final farewell. Needless to say, I find it hard to let go of people, places and things. Unlike some people who mark their farewells with much fanfare and weeping and gnashing of teeth, (only to reappear within a very short amount of time), I actually mean it when I do finally say goodbye, I just have a difficult time getting to that point. I suppose I just have to be sure before I say those words.
Yesterday evening, when I walked into the door of the old used CD store – where I practically lived all through college – it felt like walking back in time. The bins of new music were lined up against the walls as they always had been – complete with plastic hand written dividers declaring the presence of hundreds of bands. In fact, I smiled openly when I saw that the same handwritten sign marking [i]recently acquired used CDS [/i]still stood haphazardly above the bin closest to the register.. even the primitive listening station with massive headphones and ancient turntable attached wreaked of familiarity. It felt like coming home.
As is my wont, I found myself drawn immediately to the backroom, which I was thrilled to see was still filled with bins and bins of used CDs and vinyl. Within moments I was standing beneath the one speaker than hangs precariously low – where I had, on many occasions, perched myself for hours flipping through titles while the blasting music and smell of plastic washed over me. I stood there as I had so many times before; a girl in search of treasure - only this time I found something slightly different.
Looking through the bin of used CDs I began to feel the tingle of uncomfortable recognition. It felt strange to pick up REM’s [u]New Adventures in Hi-Fi [/u]and Letters to Cleo’s [u]Wholesale Meats and Fish [/u]and realize they’d been traded in/discarded for something cooler… something more progressive… something more now. It was then that I looked up and surveyed the room. True, I was the oldest person in the store… but that didn’t really bother me. ([url=http://lindy.tblog.com]Really[/url] . No… [url=http://filbert.tblog.com]Really[/url] .) And it’s true too that the boy behind the counter wasn’t the same one who used to call me by name when I’d come in and then tell me about what was new and what I should definitely check out. And it’s definitely true that the girl at the end of counter batting her eyelashes at him was most certainly not the same blonde with the ponytail who used to hang out there for hours on end. (*cough*) But I think what knocked me most off center about the whole thing was that I knew that if unexpectedly the world just stopped and the music dimmed and suddenly the four or five of us in there had to have a conversation about the music we love and were currently searching for… there’d be a glimmer of recognition amongst the rest of them that I wouldn't share. A bond that would extend to everyone there - except me.
I can’t say this really bothers me all that much. I’ve never had a problem being the odd man out. I’ve never been afraid of being the blacksheep. In fact, these are the labels I’ve come to cherish over the years. But I have to admit that I suddenly I felt like the gang from St. Elmo’s Fire (believe me, I can’t believe I’m referencing this movie either) looking in the window of my old haunt, only to see a new gang of regulars who look suspiciously like me and (even more disturbing) equally at home in the place I felt certain I’d always belong.
I’ll admit I felt a little sad and more than a little nostalgic as I stumbled upon this epiphany of sorts in the back room of my sacred indie-music store… but deep down I knew this was just how things were supposed to be. We grow up. We grow old. And we move onto new places.. making room for the new gang of regulars who, if they’re really lucky, will find a bit of themselves in the places that helped to define us and the gang who came before us and the one before them and so on and so forth.
So… when I left the store there was no weeping (or whooping) or drawn out speeches. Just a few delicate sighs and one last long look before heading home. As I said, saying goodbye is not easy. But I think I’m doing pretty well. In time, I may very well head back there, but for now I’ve said my farewell.. or make that my “toodles, you.”
posted by: filbert (reply)
post date: 07.11.05 (12:15 am)
*cough* 23 minutes *cough*
~~
I love these little moments and memories, Jennifer.
I'm glad you started posting stories way back when, and I'm glad I found you again shortly after.
Well... that's what I'm telling myself, anyway. In rereading this post I realize I sound a lot more convinced of something that I might actually be. (Ah... the story of my life). :)
As always, thanks for your imput. I like knowing that whatever you leave here... it comes from your heart.
j
posted by: jennjr (reply)
post date: 07.11.05 (12:06 pm)
you made me smile wistfully as I read this. I've had similar experiences, and I remember feeling the same way.
Juess that old saying's true...you can't go home again...
Isn't it nice to know that we all share so many common experiences?
Thanks for stopping by. I appreciate the company.
posted by: jennjr (reply)
post date: 07.11.05 (12:39 pm)
Reply to: juniperflux
It is nice to know...I've found there's a lot more kindred spirits floating around than I originally thought. It's...well...nice.
