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Seal's "Crazy" came on the radio today as I was driving home from the RWA chapter meeting (where a retired female police officer from the Syracuse force entertained us with stories of undercover work, "hooking" for the job, and other interesting tales).
"Crazy" is one of those songs I've loved since it came out, but for years it's touched off a very specific memory for me every time I hear it. It's visceral -- if I shut my eyes (which I don't do while driving, naturally), I can be in a certain place and time.
And with this song it's riding -- no, speeding -- down a narrow, gutted rural road in the Adironacks, in the backseat of my friend's car, an open can of beer between my legs and a cigarette in my hand. Six of us (five? that's not clear anymore -- six would have been tight) were in that car that day, ostensibly hunting wildflowers for the wedding we'd come to the Adirondacks to attend. The bride was driving -- in a pair of still damp bike shorts from a dip in the green lake, and a bikini top beneath a cut-off T-shirt -- and when this song came on, she cranked it.
It was one of those perfect summer days, softly hazed with sun, the sky a rippling blue sheet, and the air full of the scent of damp earth, wildflowers, car exhaust, and lake water. The wind in the backseat was terrific, but it didn't matter -- the bride turned it up louder, and we were all singing along, shouting, heedless. There was no one around to hear.
"...we're never gonna survive unless we get a little crazy..."
Totally trite, but true that day -- four of us had drive up from Jersey the day before, without two of our husbands and two of our boyfriends, who were meeting us later on that night. We were away from the world for a long weekend, staying in a deserted church camp, with free booze, music, and food to look forward to, and we were already a little crazy. It felt like a day from summers past, with nothing to do but drink beer and smoke cigarette after cigarette, passing around the last of the Marlboro Lights and fighting each other to control the radio.
It was freedom, remembered, missed, pure wind-in-the-hair, speeding, reckless freedom, and it felt good.
"Crazy" is one of those songs I've loved since it came out, but for years it's touched off a very specific memory for me every time I hear it. It's visceral -- if I shut my eyes (which I don't do while driving, naturally), I can be in a certain place and time.
And with this song it's riding -- no, speeding -- down a narrow, gutted rural road in the Adironacks, in the backseat of my friend's car, an open can of beer between my legs and a cigarette in my hand. Six of us (five? that's not clear anymore -- six would have been tight) were in that car that day, ostensibly hunting wildflowers for the wedding we'd come to the Adirondacks to attend. The bride was driving -- in a pair of still damp bike shorts from a dip in the green lake, and a bikini top beneath a cut-off T-shirt -- and when this song came on, she cranked it.
It was one of those perfect summer days, softly hazed with sun, the sky a rippling blue sheet, and the air full of the scent of damp earth, wildflowers, car exhaust, and lake water. The wind in the backseat was terrific, but it didn't matter -- the bride turned it up louder, and we were all singing along, shouting, heedless. There was no one around to hear.
"...we're never gonna survive unless we get a little crazy..."
Totally trite, but true that day -- four of us had drive up from Jersey the day before, without two of our husbands and two of our boyfriends, who were meeting us later on that night. We were away from the world for a long weekend, staying in a deserted church camp, with free booze, music, and food to look forward to, and we were already a little crazy. It felt like a day from summers past, with nothing to do but drink beer and smoke cigarette after cigarette, passing around the last of the Marlboro Lights and fighting each other to control the radio.
It was freedom, remembered, missed, pure wind-in-the-hair, speeding, reckless freedom, and it felt good.