Writing with Rox WEEKLY—On the Radio

Yesterday, say late afternoon, Jude and I dangled our legs over the cement slab of  Lake Harriet to go see the Loons. It took some convincing. "They're the ones that go 'Ooooooooooooo?Ooooooo' like that little black and white speckled bird stuffed animal you have goes when you squeeze it," I attempted when he wanted to know what the big deal was. Of course I knew Loons was a long shot, that it was likely those fake Loons you see around this time of year, but up at the playground I overheard some more-mom-looking-and-sounding-mom-than-I tell her kids "Let's go see the Loons," so I acquiesced to the fantasy. 

Hope, maybe, and possibility create tension not only on the page, but off it as well. While I had every doubt, I held out hope a long time, even when the Loons looked a little suspicious with their clownish white beaks. Of course that made me feel horribly guilty, extremely un-Buddhist, clearly so overly attached to Loons that I could hardly recognize the individuality of this not-quite-Loonish flock. Still, even as we patiently scoped the bird clown invasion, as the setting in of that "this isn't quite right" feeling thickened, I didn't want to abandon the possibility. 

"Mama, why aren't they makin' the 'Oooo?Oooo' sound?" Jude wanted to know. 

"Give it a minute, honey," I said, "it needs to get darker." I looked around for the know-it-all-mom, but she wasn't around to back me up. "Loons like to call out at dusk."

"What's duksk?" Jude looked around as though dusk would be rounding the corner or emerging from the deep sea, for that matter, along with the Loons.

"Nothing honey. It's just poetry for getting dark." Like I said, I'm not the most momish mom at times. On good weather days, I'm selfish about enjoying the moment without having to break it down.

Still, all too soon, the moment changed when appeared a mid-aged fellow and his Golden Retriever, who kept nosing his tennis ball back into the water. At one point the other mom materialized and her toddler joyously kicked the ball back into the lake after the owner had retrieved it for the third time. Josie howled on the ledge. What was I thinking believing her about Loons, what with a toddler who does that? Still, Jude was amused and I got to go back to feeling the sun on my skin, waiting for that sacred Loon song. 

"Those aren't Loons are they?" I asked Josie's dad as we finally stood to go back. And that's when he broke the news about the Coots. I didn't ask him what sort of sing they make. It didn't matter at all by then.

"Huh. See Jude? Coots. Sort of sounds like Loons, though, right?"

"Sure, Mama. Let's go." It didn't much matter to him either.

Back in the car Jude suggested I put on a song really loud. "I'm tired of all that ram ram hare aaaaaah hare harry aaaaaaaah..." he trailed off, perfectly tired. "Turn on the radio," he ordered. "And turn it up. Loud."

"Good God, the radio? Really?" 

Like mother like son. But really? The radio? What a concept. 

So I took a leap of faith. And where there's lack of Loonsong, there is cheesy 70s music; waiting for me was that perfect sentimental summer song that goes "something something...love isn't always on time! Woe oe ooooe..." which I blasted and belted along with the 3 others just like it to follow. Oh, I was flooded with memories and feeling and drives with Ma listening to radio in LA traffic way too loud, each song better than the last.

When I looked in the rearview, I expected to see Jude conked out, but he was singing right along with me, making up his own perfect words, which never would have happened if the Loons had come down to sing.

Write with me? 

Favorite Radio Songs?

Loon Stories? Er, Coot Stories?