As it is the last day before the full-swing of my semester begins, and because I am feeling a smidge woebegone, I'm spending this Sunday listening to jazz, and reading Summer At Tiffany, the memoir of Marjorie Hart, who was one of the first women to work at Tiffany & Co. during WWII.
I first heard of this book during my maiden voyage to Manhattan this past summer. It was in the gift shop of the Empire State Building, perched between copies of Capote's Breakfast At Tiffany's and Audrey Hepburn coffee mugs. I didn't buy the book that sunny day in NYC, but I did download it to my tablet some weeks later, and have been reading it casually over the last five months. The episodic, carefree nature in which it's penned makes Marjorie's story the perfect little "popcorn read" -- It's light, fun and filling. A simple pleasure, and one that doesn't need to be completely digested in one setting. I can put it down for weeks at a time, but when I'm curious about the madcap, Manhattan goings-on of three college girls, I turn on the tablet, and I'm transported back to the sweltering summer of 1945, my journey made complete with dizzying cocktail parties, dashing Navy boys, and dazzling Tiffany diamonds.
One thing that I truly love about this book is that Marjorie constantly mentions the Big Band music being played during that summer, and always relates the swinging melodies to her personal, sentimental moments. Even the conversations she has with her other twenty-something gal pals are loaded with 1940s lyrical references. I connect very deeply with this. My mind operates in terms of music - my own moments of emotional elation or frustration can often find resonance deep within a song. I hate to admit this, but there is a Taylor Swift song for nearly every romantic experience I've had for the last seven years. And it's not as though I listen to her music and think, "Wow! I had better create a moment that mirrors these words!". Infact, it's quite the opposite -- I can listen to a Taylor Swift anthem and realize quite suddenly, "Wow! That reminds me of [insert year] when I fell for [insert name]."
I'm the kind of person who incorporates music into my everyday. Frustrations at work? Satiated with one quick text of "Haters gonna hate, hate, hate, hate, hate!" to a dear friend during my lunch break. (Yeah, super profound, I know!) Heading to New York for vacation? Better make a playlist with only the best songs about The Big Apple. And my desire to visit the East Coast? Further stoked when I heard Barry Manilow sing about those "long, rocky beaches" in the second verse of the ballad, "Weekend In New England".
Powerful, real lyrics get me every time. Perhaps that's why I so dearly love the music of The Great American Songbook. Lyrics by Berlin, Gershwin, Mercer - no matter the decade in which they were penned, these songs speak of timeless themes. Hope and heartache bloom in every life, and in every century, the saltiness of tears remains the same.
It is one of these transcending musical moments which inspired this blog post. Hours ago, I was reading a passage in Summer At Tiffany in which Marjorie is sitting with girlfriends, reflecting on the end of a lukewarm love affair. Her description of the fizzled romance is very similar to the current pieces of my jigsaw-puzzle heart. Something that looked right on paper, but crumpled when held up against the reality of differing expectation. In the book, Marjorie's friends all show their support by singing the chorus of the Gershwin tune, "Let's Call The Whole Thing Off", the lyrics written in the dialogue. And I am not kidding when I say - at that very moment, Harry Connick, Jr's rendition of that same song filtered through my speakers. I didn't plan it, yet there it was. Harry's 1989 voice, Marjorie's 1945 memory. Both echoing Gershwin's 1936 lyrics. And both entering my 2015 living room at the exact same time.
It was a moment of clarity. Of reassurance and affirmation. Yes, life will bring moments of decision in which I have to choose to move forward or let things go. And those decisions might hurt for a myriad of reasons. But I'm not the first to make them, nor will I be the last. And whatever feelings of frustration, guilt, sadness or confusion I feel - well I can better my bottom dollar that those same feelings inspired Gershwin to write, just as they inspired Harry to sing.
We are not alone in our toiling or our triumphs. And thank God for the beautiful music that reminds us of this connectedness. Otherwise this messy business of living would be a rather quiet one.
I'm the kind of person who incorporates music into my everyday. Frustrations at work? Satiated with one quick text of "Haters gonna hate, hate, hate, hate, hate!" to a dear friend during my lunch break. (Yeah, super profound, I know!) Heading to New York for vacation? Better make a playlist with only the best songs about The Big Apple. And my desire to visit the East Coast? Further stoked when I heard Barry Manilow sing about those "long, rocky beaches" in the second verse of the ballad, "Weekend In New England".
Powerful, real lyrics get me every time. Perhaps that's why I so dearly love the music of The Great American Songbook. Lyrics by Berlin, Gershwin, Mercer - no matter the decade in which they were penned, these songs speak of timeless themes. Hope and heartache bloom in every life, and in every century, the saltiness of tears remains the same.
It is one of these transcending musical moments which inspired this blog post. Hours ago, I was reading a passage in Summer At Tiffany in which Marjorie is sitting with girlfriends, reflecting on the end of a lukewarm love affair. Her description of the fizzled romance is very similar to the current pieces of my jigsaw-puzzle heart. Something that looked right on paper, but crumpled when held up against the reality of differing expectation. In the book, Marjorie's friends all show their support by singing the chorus of the Gershwin tune, "Let's Call The Whole Thing Off", the lyrics written in the dialogue. And I am not kidding when I say - at that very moment, Harry Connick, Jr's rendition of that same song filtered through my speakers. I didn't plan it, yet there it was. Harry's 1989 voice, Marjorie's 1945 memory. Both echoing Gershwin's 1936 lyrics. And both entering my 2015 living room at the exact same time.
It was a moment of clarity. Of reassurance and affirmation. Yes, life will bring moments of decision in which I have to choose to move forward or let things go. And those decisions might hurt for a myriad of reasons. But I'm not the first to make them, nor will I be the last. And whatever feelings of frustration, guilt, sadness or confusion I feel - well I can better my bottom dollar that those same feelings inspired Gershwin to write, just as they inspired Harry to sing.
We are not alone in our toiling or our triumphs. And thank God for the beautiful music that reminds us of this connectedness. Otherwise this messy business of living would be a rather quiet one.
