My Foolish Heart
Foolish heart; well, it's kind of a universal thing, isn't it? There's a romantic in all of us. Even at a tender age we seek companions, more particularly a singular companion. Someone with whom we can be intimately relaxed, someone with whom we can truly relate in the most personal of ways, someone with whom we can share experiences and the adventure of a live well lived, alongside a love well loved.
Although we met when we were pretty young, both of us fourteen at the time, and we've since been together for - let's see - fifty-six years, we keenly recall those days of our youth. Music was important to us then, as it is today to many far younger generations. But the quality of the music was far different then. It was slow, dreamy, romantic and sweet. Not saccharine: sweet. The same cannot be said for the loud and frantic and often defiant music of today.
We used our music differently in the way it translated into moods for us, settings of peace and security in the presence of each other. The music was not adversarial, it was inviting for relationships to bloom and for people to bond. Social hostility and aggression were on the outer edges, the sidelines, practised by the socially displaced and they were a distinct minority of those who felt themselves aggrieved and excluded from life.
It was another era, a completely 'other' time in history, the evolution of social mores, the appreciation in a deeply-felt way of others. Was it superficial? Perhaps in part, but when society practises gentleness and inclusiveness on a superficial level it becomes engrained and begins to assume an importance, a larger meaning leading to acceptance and equality.
For us personally it represented a benign and warm atmosphere where we could learn about others and ourselves, where we could discern what truly mattered in this world, where we could determine how we would live our lives and select those whose values and visions most clearly defined and embraced our own.
He stole my heart. As a child, even as a child, I had dreamed of the possibility of a companion. Someone to whom I could confide my heart, someone with whom I would learn all about life's potentials. We danced to the slow, sweet music of the time. It was a time of innocence. We took long walks together and talked about what we had up to then experienced in our short lives. Everything seemed meaningful.
Today, after 52 years of marriage, it doesn't seem to us that much has changed with us. He still surprises and delights me with his sense of humour, his passion for learning, his interest in the world around us, his spirit of adventure. He tells me he loves me and why should I doubt it? He demonstrates it amply in so many ways large and small.
During our morning shower he reached for the shampoo bottle and measured into my hand the right amount. I scratched his back between the shoulder blades, then soaped, just as he had scrubbed my back. At breakfast, I brew tea and he prepares his coffee. After our long cold walk in the snowy ravine we did a few chores independently, then he went down to his basement workshop.
Only to come running upstairs a few minutes later, up two flights of stairs, calling to me something that sounded like "you've got to hear this!". I knew it would have something to do with music, since over the years he often runs upstairs saying something similar. In his workshop he turns on an old radio and on occasion a piece of music will be played reminiscent of our early years.
He dashes upstairs to wherever I happen to be, puts on the radio so I can share the pleasure of the music with him, and claims me as a dancing partner. When we were still looking after our granddaughter as her week-day care-giver this little ritual would puzzle her and she'd find it hilarious. Our little dogs are accustomed to it. But it hasn't happened in a while.
Today it did. It was an old Tony Bennett recording of "My Foolish Heart".
Although we met when we were pretty young, both of us fourteen at the time, and we've since been together for - let's see - fifty-six years, we keenly recall those days of our youth. Music was important to us then, as it is today to many far younger generations. But the quality of the music was far different then. It was slow, dreamy, romantic and sweet. Not saccharine: sweet. The same cannot be said for the loud and frantic and often defiant music of today.
We used our music differently in the way it translated into moods for us, settings of peace and security in the presence of each other. The music was not adversarial, it was inviting for relationships to bloom and for people to bond. Social hostility and aggression were on the outer edges, the sidelines, practised by the socially displaced and they were a distinct minority of those who felt themselves aggrieved and excluded from life.
It was another era, a completely 'other' time in history, the evolution of social mores, the appreciation in a deeply-felt way of others. Was it superficial? Perhaps in part, but when society practises gentleness and inclusiveness on a superficial level it becomes engrained and begins to assume an importance, a larger meaning leading to acceptance and equality.
For us personally it represented a benign and warm atmosphere where we could learn about others and ourselves, where we could discern what truly mattered in this world, where we could determine how we would live our lives and select those whose values and visions most clearly defined and embraced our own.
He stole my heart. As a child, even as a child, I had dreamed of the possibility of a companion. Someone to whom I could confide my heart, someone with whom I would learn all about life's potentials. We danced to the slow, sweet music of the time. It was a time of innocence. We took long walks together and talked about what we had up to then experienced in our short lives. Everything seemed meaningful.
Today, after 52 years of marriage, it doesn't seem to us that much has changed with us. He still surprises and delights me with his sense of humour, his passion for learning, his interest in the world around us, his spirit of adventure. He tells me he loves me and why should I doubt it? He demonstrates it amply in so many ways large and small.
During our morning shower he reached for the shampoo bottle and measured into my hand the right amount. I scratched his back between the shoulder blades, then soaped, just as he had scrubbed my back. At breakfast, I brew tea and he prepares his coffee. After our long cold walk in the snowy ravine we did a few chores independently, then he went down to his basement workshop.
Only to come running upstairs a few minutes later, up two flights of stairs, calling to me something that sounded like "you've got to hear this!". I knew it would have something to do with music, since over the years he often runs upstairs saying something similar. In his workshop he turns on an old radio and on occasion a piece of music will be played reminiscent of our early years.
He dashes upstairs to wherever I happen to be, puts on the radio so I can share the pleasure of the music with him, and claims me as a dancing partner. When we were still looking after our granddaughter as her week-day care-giver this little ritual would puzzle her and she'd find it hilarious. Our little dogs are accustomed to it. But it hasn't happened in a while.
Today it did. It was an old Tony Bennett recording of "My Foolish Heart".
"Her lips are much too close to mine
Beware my foolish heart!
For this time it isn't fascination
Or a dream that will fade and fall apart
It's love, this time it's love
My foolish heart"
Labels: Personally Dedicated
posted by Pieface @ 11:17 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home