Have you made many friends down there? That’s a question we get asked a lot about our life in Nashville. As if we were kids starting off at a new school, in our first-day-of-school finest, expected to come home with reports of new friendships forged. Only we’re not in elementary school. We’re old. And there’s been a pandemic to deal with. So, no, we haven’t made many friends.

Actually, I have made one really good friend in Nashville. We see the world in the same way. We laugh at the same silly things. We both like snacking, and walking, and watching other people’s dogs march by. We don’t have to talk to each other all the time. Or ever. And the best thing is, he lives right next door, so we don’t have to waste time with Nashville traffic getting to each other’s houses. It’s not so easy to make friends when you are old. I feel lucky. My new friend makes me feel young again. Maybe that’s because my new friend, T.J., just celebrated his first birthday. His parents are some of the nicest people you will ever meet. They are babies - in their very early 30’s - themselves.

I know what you’re thinking and the answer is “no”. This is not my placeholder until I have grandchildren of my own. When I tell you I’ve enjoyed spending time with T.J., I mean it. Look, you’re talking about someone who walked around Amsterdam with her dog, keeping up a steady stream of conversation with him. T.J. is my Casey. A bundle of joy who doesn’t come with the baggage that we grown-ups develop as we stumble forward through the years. I think T.J. would have really liked Casey. And Casey would have tolerated T.J.

“He comes for conversation. I comfort him sometimes,” as Joni Mitchell explains. You may be wondering who gets more comfort out of the friendship: T.J. or me. I think we all know the answer to that question. And as for Joni Mitchell: she is one of the best-of-the-best, and this is one of my faves.

T.J. has heard many of my favorite songs. That’s because I like to sing out loud when we are out walking. How can you resist Alison Krauss’s cover of this song? I want to learn how to do that hiccupy-thing with my voice so many country singers do so well. You hear it when she sings “let you go”, “need you so” and “even though”. I didn’t learn to talk that way at Junior #3, my elementary school in Trenton, N.J.

I so admire the guitar and fiddle-playing on this song and dream of playing like this some day. Also, am I the only one who is listening to these broken relationship songs with a new lens? They’re really about our children getting older and moving on and away from us, right? Listen to Baby, Now That I’ve Found You. “Baby, now that I’ve found you I won’t let you go. I built my world around you. I need you so, baby even though you don’t me, you don’t need me.” If you’re still not convinced, move on to Landslide - and I think you’ll agree with me.

“Well, I’ve been afraid of changing cause I built my life around you.”

A quick shout out and thank you to my dad. He always wanted me to make music a bigger part of my life. “You won’t be able to play lacrosse or field hockey forever,” he cautioned. Blah, blah, blah is what I heard. He would be thrilled to hear I am finally practicing the violin, after all those years when I refused. Now I almost look forward to practicing. My amazing violin teacher - who lives in Brooklyn and teaches me via Zoom, just like my amazing guitar teacher - sent me a song set to 60% speed, meaning I can play the Vivaldi Concerto in A Minor, just at 60% of Itzhak Perlman’s speed. Wouldn’t it be nice to readjust all of life to 60% so I could feel like I was keeping up?

Despite the fact that my dad favored music over sports, he did appreciate my need to play with balls and sticks. And he himself managed to work in a workout when we least expected it, like in the middle of my niece’s 1st birthday party (35 years ago). He was an inspiration for keeping your mind and body active, no matter how old your body is.

Back to my new friend. One thing I love about spending time with T.J. is we don’t bother our little heads about the troubles in the world. We don’t talk about Alito, Covid, or Will Smith. We do talk about Bruno, or at least I hum the song to him as we stroll. “No clouds allowed in the sky”!

T.J. and I don’t just talk. We wonder and ponder. We have so so many, many questions, beginning with some about our own neighborhood. Why has that smashed up car been sitting on someone’s front lawn for months now? And doesn’t the homeowner with the killer view of downtown Nashville get cranky every time he sees that jalopy staring at him from his million dollar deck? And who needs a house as large as the one going up across the street? Another neighbor (Maggie, who is not a one-year-old but closer to my age) calls this house The Orthodontist’s Office. We never tire of the “proximity to Invisalign” jokes we share with each other.

We also wonder what the story is with this food truck around the corner from us. To be specific, what are bubble waffles? Why won’t the owner come out and sell some to us? And also, why are ice cream trucks the only ones making the rounds? I’d love a coffee truck to come tootling around the corner, bells chiming, or a taco truck. T.J., don’t you agree? Neighbor-with-the-bubble-waffle-truck, if you drive that truck around, I promise you the retirees will come out of their homes to try your bubbles.

And T.J., I ask you: are there no zoning laws at all in Nashville? This brewery is smack in the middle of a residential neighborhood, not far from ours. The name Fat Bottom dredges up some memories for me. Here’s where I get to tell a jukebox story. You’re going to have to read further to get to the definition of the term “jukebox story”, which is buried later on in the blog.

Anyway, many many years ago, I was living in S.F. post-college and went out to brunch with some friends. I guess I didn’t cross the street fast enough to suit a driver speeding by, and he yelled out his car window, “Move your fat ass!”. My friends Adriana and Carol saw my face crumble as I fast-stepped across the street. They asked what the driver had said. When I told them, they leapt to my defense, launching into a verbal assault on the driver. Then Carol said, “I don’t think he said fat ass. I think he said, Move, Fatasha.” Adriana nodded in agreement. Now those are what we call good friends. And all afternoon, or probably for months, they called me Fatasha. And now Peter - who has heard that story more than a few times - also refers to me as Fatasha when it’s time to move it, move it.

Speaking of moving it….Back to Nashville we go. T.J. and I notice on our walks how many old Nashville houses are being torn down. And replaced with newer, more modern homes. I tell him I can’t help but take this personally. It’s an age-ist housing market here. Where’s the love and respect for the older folks and the older homes? Some of those older homes are in a sad state of disrepair, but still. I feel their pain. Recently, I happened upon this marker. Like so many other treasures in the U.S., this Old Woman’s Home was torn down to make room for yet another strip-mall. Don’t we still need a home for “the care and protection of aged and helpless women” in Nashville?

W.E.B. DuBois attended Fisk University in Nashville. I sure hope they don’t tear down this building with his mural on it.

Please do tear down the highway that bisects a once-thriving neighborhood in North Nashville, and make the area a pedestrian- and bike-friendly place. You can leave the murals.

T.J. and I are happy to see they haven’t completely squeezed the quirk out of Nashville. These fellows were playing some sort of Lord of the Ring-ish game in the park. When I asked if they were filming a movie, one Lord tried to explain this was some sort of league and they travel to other states to compete. I took one look at Peter’s face silently urging me to move away, and politely excused myself from any further details about the interstate Middle-Earth shenanigans this team was planning.

I love that there are murals sprinkled among the neighborhoods of Nashville, even on folks’ garages. I think this one is trying to tell me something.

And in that same neighborhood, the tree on the left - growing straight up off a dead limb- also seemed to be giving me a message about something. Like, It’s never too late for you to learn to stand up straight?

I still like to look for reminders of our past lives in Europe. Not sure what was Dutch about the dry cleaner, but I was happy to see her nonetheless. And the sign near the nearby Italian restaurant Pastaria: “Sorta close to Italy”? Well, not really. One of these days, we will try a new-ish restaurant that promises to catapult you into feeling like you are in Paris while still being 15 minutes from your home in Nashville. Je ne sais pas. I don’t know.

You know what else I get nostalgic about? My Amsterdam bike. I loved being able to get around and do my errands by bike. I knew to avoid rush-hour, when Dutch commuters glared at me as they sped by, often texting while cycling. But I don’t think about those little problems now, just the joy of having a bike lane safely protected from cars and other wheels. In Nashville? Well, let’s just say it’s a different world here. This bike lane doesn’t look one bit relaxing, now does it? I think I’ll pass.

Thought this photo was taken in the Netherlands? Think again. We found this bike path along the Cumberland River. No trucks to share the road with, just some sheep. They are employees of *The Nashville Chew Crew*. I’m not kidding.

Not sure what is happening with the infrastructure down here. I pick up the pace when I’m running through this tunnel near our neighborhood, in case the trestle gives way. I think all of us of-a-certain-age folks should be required to carry photos of babies around. We should have to pull them out of our wallets every day to remind us why we need to pay for things like crumbling train tracks. Also, if I have to look at T.J.’s face, I will think twice before leaving my car idling, or driving around in a car big enough for a circus full of clowns. I think I’ll let POTUS know about my brilliant idea to save the world for future generations.

Living in a city where you know so few people gives you so much freedom. Freedom to sing along (and loud) to the songs you are practicing on your guitar. Freedom to talk to T.J. without worrying what passersby might think. Freedom to talk to yourself if you are alone. Even when you don’t have a mask on. It’s the freedom that the anonymity of living in a city far from your peeps gives you. And I suppose the freedom that comes from getting older and not giving two f%$#s what anyone thinks anymore.

This all just gives me the opportunity to share the joy of Freedom, by Jon Batiste. “I hear a song that takes me back, and I let go with so much freedom.” This young man brings the exuberance of his youth to the music from my past I know and love. Even if you skip the rest of the videos I posted, treat yourself to this one. You’re welcome.

There’s nothing like hanging with a one-year-old to make you examine your own age and aging. I’m asking myself and T.J., “Where did the years go?” the way “old people” in my life always seemed to. Friends are starting to retire. Retire? I don’t like the word. You were tired before. Now you are just getting more tired, or re-tiring after you thought you felt a little more chipper, it seems to say.

Or is it re-tire as in get yourself some new tires? So you can travel faster down the road of life? That’s a connotation that I can live with, now that I am retired. From wordsmithing to grammar, this feels like a good time to slip in this song about a punctuation mark. “Who gives a f%$# about an Oxford Comma?” I have no idea what this song means, but who cares? I first heard it as the credits rolled on the last episode of the Netflix show The Chair. Watch the show to get in on the magic that is Sandra Oh. I’d follow her anywhere.

T.J., please ignore the curse word in that song. Silly grown-ups.

I used to think that (Sittin’ On) The Dock of the Bay was about an old man, or at least a retired man. He was, “Sittin’…Wastin’ time…Restin’ his bones”. Too tired even to add the letter “g” to his words. Then my boat was turned upside down when I read recently that Otis Redding wrote the song and died shortly afterwards at age 26. The article in the link describes his wife’s ongoing love for her husband, 50+ years after his death. It’s truly one of the greatest songs of all time.

A quick pivot to tell you about some T.V. shows and books I have been filling my little retired head with.

The Collected Stories of Eudora Welty-. Just her name alone is pure literary gold. Welty grew up in Jackson, Mississippi. The stories give me some insight into the cast of characters who live with me in the South. Welty is famously quoted as saying, “Your ears should be like magnets,” describing how she listens in on real people to get ideas for her stories. I am 100% on board with that. Right now, my eyes are doing most of the magnet work, since I still keep my distance from most people. These stories are strange and beautiful and so Southern.
Station Eleven-by Emily St. John Mandel. This is a novel about a global pandemic that I have put off reading during Covid. I just wasn’t ready for a dystopian novel (written in 2014) to have suddenly become realistic fiction. And as many of you have heard me say before, I don’t “do” time travel. Terrifying though it is, this books pulls you right in. I’m going to check out the HBO series so I can further scare my P.J.’s off. One of the stars is Matilda Lawler, who happens to be the niece of dear N.J. friends of ours. That will - sort of - help me remember that the show is make-believe.
Breaking Bad. I continue on my journey to catch up with the shows the rest of my generation is re-watching. What else is there to say about a show that features superb acting, a gripping script, and a chance to pretend I took chemistry in high school? Taught by Bryan Cranston, no less. Now that I’ve finished all five seasons, I feel I could competently manufacture some meth if push came to shove. I just avert my eyes when there is blood, which to be honest is often. Breaking Bad is really a modern Dickens novel, with each episode hooking you until you get you hands on the next one. Aren’t we all breaking bad these days?

In March, I said goodbye to T.J. and experienced one of those brief surges of hope when I visited Rachel and some friends in Boston, and then saw family and friends in N.J. I wrapped up the month with a few days with family and friends in Florida. While on the N.J. leg of the trip, my mom, sister Jennifer and I took a quick tour of my hometown: Trenton, N.J There’s nothing like a literal trip down memory lane to get a healthy dose of nostalgia coursing through your veins. Here we are in front of the house we grew up in. The homeowner looked perplexed as we stood in the backyard and cracked ourselves up with stories about the garage, and my unfulfilled dreams of buying a horse to live in it. Right off busy Route 29, mind you. Wait, mom, are those marijuana leaves on our shirts? Once again, you were ahead of your time in so many ways.

On that little March trip, I managed to reconnect with friends from three stages of my past: high school, college, and Amsterdam. Sue- in the middle photo - is the proud wife of husband Dan who uses the phrase “jukebox stories” to describe the recycled stories from our past we have told so often. When we are together, it’s as if we just press some buttons and listen once again to the exact same old story. The stories are still so damn funny they make our cheeks hurt from laughing, no matter how many times we have heard and told them. There were jukebox stories filling the rooms when I was with all these wonderful people.

“They've been wasting most their time
Glorifying days long gone behind”

The lyrics to the next song don’t really fit. Or do they?

Just in case you do think I’m wasting my time thinking about the past, it turns out nostalgia has medical benefits. According to this study, thinking back on the past helps you control pain.

So for medical reasons, I’m planning on going to my 40th college reunion in June. That will dispense enough nostalgia to cure anything that ails me. Also, nothing like a reunion to vault you into a collision course between past and present. This passage, from Station Eleven got me thinking ahead to my upcoming reunion: “The disorientation of meeting one’s sagging contemporaries, memories of a younger face crashing into the reality of jowls, under-eye pouches, unexpected lines, and then the terrible realization that one probably looks just as old as they do. Do you remember when we were young and gorgeous? Clark wanted to ask.” Mind you the author, Emily St. John Mandel, is 43 years old. How does she know all this? I look forward to remembering my young and gorgeous days at my reunion in June. I promise to tell you all about it.

For that matter, how can Brandi Carlile sing this with a straight face?

“All of these lines across my face
Tell you the story of who I am
So many stories of where I've been
And how I got to where I am”

What lines, Brandi? When I look at your face, I don’t see any. You want lines? I’ll show you lines.

Talk about timely. This article about virtual “reminiscence therapy” just popped into my lane via The NYT. I didn’t know “reminiscence therapy” - helping seniors deal with depression by introducing them to photos and music from their past - was a thing. And now you can strap on a virtual reality gadget and see yourself participating in your jukebox stories. “In addition to reliving trips to places like Ireland, users can teleport to nightclubs that remind them of their youth.” Yes please to the Ireland trips. The nightclubs? I’ll pass, like I mostly did back then.

Now from the past back to the present we go. In addition to liking dogs, T.J. enjoys checking out the birds that visit our houses. Like many of you older folk, Peter and I have come full circle, reverting back to the birdwatching we no doubt also did as one-year-olds. To enable this new habit, I bought Peter a bird feeder for his birthday. He keeps a pair of binoculars by the back door. And bird-watching books, so we can identify our new friends. Hey, I just saw a red-breasted grosbeak! Don’t laugh. You know most of you do it, too. T.J. may make me feel young again, but there is no fighting the inevitability of senior birdwatching.

Recently, we visited an aviary in a local state park. For birdwatchers, getting this close to an eagle is better than seeing Bruce Springsteen up close in concert. I’ve told you all about my friendship with T.J. While we’re talking about friendships, you need to know that the close relationship Steve, the park ranger, has with this eagle is priceless. Who am I - a 60+ year-old boasting about a friendship with a 1 year old - to make fun of this man for having an eagle for a b.f.f.? Also, I found out I have things in common with injured eagles in captivity. Food and being in water help calm them. Heat and loud noises from people are stressful. I couldn’t agree more.

Not birdwatching, but flower watching. Part of the gradual shift into retirement age: the patience for flowers moreso than people.

When I start to complain about Nashville and Tennessee, it helps to go to places like this. Here’s the Harpeth River as seen from the Harpeth River Greenway, a meandering walking and bike path. This helps me forget other things Tennessee is known for these days, like guns and banned books and tornadoes.

I’m a To-Do Lister. I like this one on a nearby mural. I wonder: if you put, “Be Great” on your list, does it happen, just like that? Anyway, I like the last item on the list. We all need that reminder to breathe from time to time. Now go get a photo of a child and put it in your wallet. And let’s make sure these little people have clean air to breathe when they are retired. Or that people in my posse do now for that matter.

Hard to believe that before we know it, this young man will be in college. And nodding his head politely as I regale him again and again with jukebox stories about how we used to walk around Nashville together.

So, what do you think? Is time on my side? And what does that phrase even mean? For a glimpse of someone out of sync with his time, take a look at the video (below) and see how Mick Jagger looks compared to his bandmates. It’s like he’s been videoshopped in from a different era entirely. For now, I’m not going to worry about time. I’m going to take a page from T.J.’s book and focus on the important things in life, like sleep and snacks and being silly. I hope you’ll join me.