Blues, the blues that make the walls rush in ~ Walls that tell you where you've been

If you even noticed her tonight, you would think that she looks like an ordinary suburban woman.  Jacket, boots, calf-length skirt identifying her as a teacher in a religious school.  Standing in the aisle looking for lean doggie food and Charmin Ultra.  Standing in the checkout line reading the local newspaper and noting with satisfaction the defeat of the city councilman who sought to void a gay rights ordinance.  Driving the several blocks home in the early darkness, enjoying the light from the houses set closely together when the neighborhoods were created seventy, eighty, ninety years ago.

But there's something about the waning nights of fall that evokes the melancholia of youth.  Fall evenings when she strode across the fields of the Connecticut River Valley, wearing a jacket and boots with a much shorter skirt and much longer hair, ruing the demise of a relationship rushed into too fast and too far and ended too soon, trying to sort out whether she should let that hair swing down and waitress on the Vineyard or put on her big round tortoiseshell glasses and head for halls of ivy.

There's only one thing for a night like this.  Pop a CD in and play Laura Nyro, LOUD ~ VERY LOUD, all the way home.

~ So let the wiiiiiind blow, Timer, I liiiiike your song.
And if the sooong goes minor, I won't mind . . .   .  ~