King of the Road

"Because a song can take you back instantly to a moment, or a place, or even a person. No matter what else has changed in you or the world, that one song stays the same, just like that moment." -- Owen, from Sarah Dessen's "Just Listen."

"Trailers for sale or rent,
Rooms to let, 50 cents.
No phone, no pool no pets,
I ain't got no cigarettes ..."

Every Spring, Lock Haven has what is known as Bar Crawl -- a great excuse to get rip-roaring drunk and be given a t-shirt to commemorate the experience, so when you wake up with "I gave it a shot! Lock Haven Bar Crawl" emblazoned across your chest, you can piece together whatever the hell you did the night before. Last year, Biz and I actually took part in Bar Crawl by going to the Fallon and hitting their dance floor, 2-for-1 shots of Superman, and $4 Red Deaths -- which taste an awful lot like fruit punch and are therefore extremely easy to get wasted on, because you forget you're drinking booze. Because of this and my body's tendency not to properly process or digest things -- which I conveniently forgot in the spirit of acting stupid -- I was hung over for approximately 3 days after my one night of wanton partying, and thereafter swore that I would never, ever, ever get that drunk ever again.

So when Bar Crawl rolled around this past Thursday, I gave brief thought to all my classmates sitting at the Hangar getting pre-wasted to prepare for a night of getting evermore wasted and rationalized my non-attendance with: 1. You, Tiffany, are broke. Too broke to drink. 2. You have a final at 8 a.m. tomorrow. 3. How much do you really want to spend the next few days feeling like you've been run over by a pack of wild hogs? I went down to the coffee shop instead, ordered up hot roast beef on an everything bagel with provolone and honey mustard and a cold orange cream soda, cracked open a book, and listened to the band play.

"Ah, but 2 hours of pushin' broom
buys an 8-by-12, four-bit room,
I'm a man of means by no means,
king of the road."

Roger Miller. I sang along, and for a few minutes I wasn't in the big green chair by the picture window in a coffee shop in Pennsylvania anymore. My memory re-wound itself and dropped me in my Aunt Jo's house in French Lick, listening to the clink of poker chips and smelling the rich, heady spice of cigar smoke while stuffing myself with homemade macaroni and cheese. I was there, clear as anything, just up in my own head. The guys were playing poker, the ladies were playing spoons, the boys were running around underfoot -- I had a new Little House book from Aunt Sandy and Uncle Larry, and later I'd shut myself up in the living room with a plate of cheese and crackers and read till I fell asleep on the couch with my cheek against the pages. If I got really, really lucky, Daddy would carry me to the car, and the sky would be clear and cold, and the moon would be out, and I'd pretend to be asleep so he wouldn't put me down, because I liked it when he held me.

And then the song ended.

It started me thinking on other songs that reminded me of things that strongly, though -- I didn't just go right back to my current book without a hitch in my memory. I spent a few moments in the car with my mother's mother, eating fries out of a greasy Druther's bag and listening to the Kentucky Headhunters sing "Dumas Walker."

"We'll get a slaw, burger, fries, and a bottle of skeet,
bring it on out to my baby and me."

I spent some time in the basement with my father, listening to the crack of the air hockey sticks against the plastic puck and CCR belting out,

"Good golly Miss Molly, sure like to ball,
The way you're rockin' and a rollin', can't hear your Momma call." I walked with him down a path at Tucker Lake campground, too, watching a lantern flicker in his hand while the two of us sang his favorite song
together:

"Jeremiah was a bullfrog,
was a good friend of mine.
I never understood a single word he said, but I helped him a-drink his wine,
'Coz he always had some mighty fine wine."

I went back to junior high, to a rainy day and three girls under an umbrella -- me, Becky and Danielle, slogging through town to Danielle's church to meet up with her mother. I stood in the sanctuary with my jeans soaked past the knee from a misstep involving a particularly huge puddle and sang "I'll Fly Away." I went back to the first time I ever heard "Bohemian Rhapsody," sitting in Becky's car like, "Whoah! What is this AWESOME SONG?!""

I had a few flashing images of my mother singing  Garth Brooks and Patsy Cline and Reba McEntire (with my refusal to get stuck right there and go no further being a symbol of the way things have changed for me lately), then careened forward in time to sitting next to Larry Crouchley in the front seat of the Blazer with brown-sugar ham sticking my fingers together, listening to John Denver:

"Oh Montana, give this child a home,
give him the love of a good family, and a woman of his own;
Give him a fire in his heart; give him a light in his eyes,
give the wild wind for a brother, and the wild Montana skies."

I went back to BCM meetings at USI, too, and I had to smile a bittersweet smile at how world-weary and wise I thought I was back then, trying so hard to find something that mattered, trying to fit in with something bigger than myself and pretending I knew up from down and what was best for me when I was really just a lost little kid looking for a place to belong. Now I'm old enough to know that I don't know shit, if you'll pardon the expression, but I thought I had eternity mapped out at 18.

I have always known that I do best with a song on my lips. Any song. Ever since I was a little girl I've sang out loud to comfort myself, or when I am happy: there don't even have to be any words, just happy, aimless hums and la's, or the same three notes over and over when I'm upset. I don't know why I do it. I've done it for so long it actually escapes my notice sometimes -- I'll catch myself in mid-trill on some nonsense syllable and wonder how long I've been singing. When I'm at the Common Place and it's a confusing morning, when I'm struggling so hard to put my walls down and really listen, I'll pour my voice into the music and give it everything I have. Music connects me with my own longing, my own need, better than anything else. Music calms and soothes me, helps me let down my guard. It's visceral. It's the most human part of me.

Lately, I've set out on a journey of letting things go. It's terrifying. I have no idea what I am doing, trusting someone other than myself to help take care of me. I've always been in charge, always been the one to control every little aspect of everything I possibly can. I do not know what strange beast has possessed me these last few months, this creature helping me pry my claws off the past and lay it down. I kind of want it to go away, because now I find myself being pulled, somehow, to do things that make me extremely uncomfortable -- like put my damn foot down and go to French Lick so I don't spend the rest of my life letting that part of my fear get bigger and bigger until it swallows me whole. I don't want to do some of these things, but a part of me knows that I have to, so I don't get stuck. So I can keep moving forward. Sometimes, you just know it's time to bite the bullet and put yourself out there. This is one of those times for me, and music seems to be telling me that these days: Hey, you. You're strong enough now. You can do it. So I think I'm going to do it -- but I might have to sing the whole time.