August, 1975
Out beyond the breakers, the sea was surprisingly calm. I hugged myself, in a small shiver of bliss, as the afternoon sun warmed my tanned shoulders. Sinking my toes into the delightfully soft sand, I took in the scene. Labor Day weekend beachgoers lined the mile or more of sandy beach; their brightly colored umbrellas dotted the landscape. On the south side, “the jetty” marked the entrance to the harbor. On the north side, the small peninsula of Boars Head jutted out into the landscape. The bluest of skies was decorated with an occasional bright, puffy cloud. A splattering of kites displayed their vibrant colors, as their tails softly waved in the gentle breeze. Seagulls soared above, calling out to each other. A single-engine plane flew overhead, trailing letters behind it that read, “I love Mama Leones Italian Restaurant”.
With my father policing the shore, I didn’t usually make it out past my knees; but I was with my older sister Regina, who had promised to keep an eye on me. My cousin Bethie* was with us, too. The three of us held hands in a Ring-around-the-Rosy kind of way. Back on the beach, a transistor radio broadcasted Boston’s WRKO. I started singing the song I had just heard. The other two spontaneously joined in. As we bobbed up and down with the gentle swells of the sea, together we sang the song:
“Doctor my eyes have seen the years,
and the slow parade of tears.
Without crying, now I want to understand…”
June, 2016
What happens at Hampton Beach stays at Hampton Beach.
We sing and dance on the beach at midnight. We laugh so hard. Always a lot of laughing. My sister Mary Jane used to say the two of us were like Thelma and Louise, but she neglected to tell me they DIE at the end of the movie, so I’m not sure I like that analogy.
On the morning of June 8th, 2016, I decided I could not sit at home that night while Jackson Browne was playing at the Casino Ballroom. When I texted my sister mid-morning, I knew I would not have to twist her arm. By mid-afternoon, we were headed north on Interstate 95. It was a little chilly that day, but we are diehard New Englanders; we had spent a pretty decent chunk of our lives at Hampton Beach. This June afternoon, the two of us sat by the edge of the water, bundled in our sweatshirts, watching the tide recede until the sun began to sink into the fiery, pink sky behind us.
This was how the adventure began; the night we met Jackson Browne.
My car was parked on a little dead-end side street near the beach. It was a weekday. Offseason. Not another vehicle on the street. When it was time to get ready for the evening, I think it was my bright idea to change in the car because there was no one around. (Oh, also my car was brand new and Mary Jane thought she was funny “christening it” with a pile of sand on the floor in the front seat. Funny. Ha-ha.) I was huddled in the backseat trying to get a rather tight shirt over my head when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw people on a porch. I jammed that shirt over my head so fast. I felt something pop in my upper arm and ended up with shooting pain in my arm and tingling fingers for months after. I didn’t seek medical attention, but I’m pretty sure I tore my tricep or something.
I was whisper yelling…
“Mary Jane, don’t move. There are people right over there. Don’t let them see us.”
So there we were, half a century old, give or take, hiding on the floor of the car until the people were distracted enough that we could get out of there with a bit of dignity.
Strolling past the shops, which were mostly closed, Bucs’s Lagoon Mini Golf, and the sixteen foot tall Beach Santa, with the Hawaiian Shirt, we stopped for dinner at La Bec Rouge, which had great food and live music in the bar downstairs. The spot has now been replaced by today’s money making monstrosity, Bernies Beach Bar. When we arrived at the Casino Ballroom, we started out with assigned seating fairly close to the stage. The way they pack you in, and you feel like you can’t dance because you’re at a stupid table just sucks, so we usually end up hanging out in the back of the room at that venue. When we were kids in the 1970’s and 1980’s, some major acts came to Hampton, and we listened from the back steps in the parking lot. While waiting in line at the ticket booth, I could see the Fun-o-Rama Arcade, where we used to hang out on summer nights. It was closed this particular night, but I thought about how it feels when a warm gust of air blows out of those open garage doors and that scent of the old wood floors and musty room, the sounds of the skee ball games and the music of the little carousel. If I closed my eyes, and just inhaled, I could be back there. My face warm and glowing from lazy days in the sun. My grandmother, my mother and father, my own children growing up, countless cousins all over the place. I even remember the boy who asked me if I’d like to take a walk downtown when I was thirteen. Mitch. He had a puka shell necklace, white overalls and a really nice tan. He stayed next door to our cottage that year. Such a sweet and happy place for me to be.
During the first set, we sat at the tiny table for four, with a couple. We tried to be friendly, but the guy ignored us. The girl looked at him with daggers in her eyes as he loudly announced how much he paid for the tickets to be sitting at such a small table with others. Sorry dude. You gotta lighten up. My sister and I silently had an entire conversation about him with our eyes. After the first few songs, I finally adapted to my new surroundings enough to focus on what I came to hear. That would be Jackson Browne, who was just hitting the first note of Fountain of Sorrow. Boom. Here it is. The song I’ve been listening to for so many years, in my car, at my desk, in the bathtub, singing to myself in the mirror. That’s Jackson Browne himself, right there; playing it; singing it. I’m in my goddamn glory. This is about as happy as I could be. The irony is in the content of the song. I’m the girl in that song. He’s singing about me. I’ve been running away from pain for as long as I can remember. “You’ve known that hollow sound of your own steps in flight…” You wouldn’t think that smiling girl with the chronic glass of Chardonnay in her hand could possibly have any sorrow, but I do. And I think we all do. In the safety of the music, right there, sheltered by the black and white keys on that piano and all of the sounds and the silences in between, Jackson’s beautiful voice carrying those words softly through my heart, I allow my sorrow out into the light for a moment and really see it. And every time the music brings me there, I heal just a little.
Okay, anyway. More silent sister talk… “Someone’s gotta get us another glass of wine because this waitress is NOT coming back any time soon, also we don’t want to get caught in a tab with this guy.” I can just picture him at the end of the night, itemizing. I’d rather pay the whole damn thing than listen to someone itemize the check. Seriously. I hate that shit.
The next thing I remember hearing was Song For a Dancer. This song contains that question that I think we all ask ourselves from time to time. Is there life beyond this one? Jackson Browne’s words, the first time I ever heard them, quieted that question in my mind. I’ve always worried. What if there is nothing on the other side? I don’t think that’s the case, but even it is, it’s all the more reason to live out our purpose.
“Perhaps a better world is drawing near
Just as easily, it could all disappear
Along with whatever meaning you might have found
Don’t let the uncertainty turn you around (The world keeps turning around and around)
Go on and make a joyful sound”.
By the time Jackson got the second set going, we had vacated the table situation. The second set usually evolves into the songs everybody knows. The radio hits. And they were patiently, reverently delivered. Running on Empty, The Pretender, Doctor My Eyes…the Load Out. Stay. You know. We danced and smiled and sang along until the last note ended. Everybody started milling out. Mary Jane knew some of the ushers, so we stopped to talk for a minute. The crowd was thinning out pretty well when we walked down the side street behind the casino to the parking lot.
There was Jackson Browne’s Bus. You don’t really get this close at the larger venues, so we thought we’d take a walk over and check it out. There were a couple of people leaning against a makeshift fence barrier where roadies were coming out one by one wheeling all the equipment to the buses. Pretty soon, the members of the band started slowly heading out. They were nice enough to greet the people watching at the fence. Friendly and humble. Gracious. All that. It was cool watching them from a behind the scenes perspective. More and more people started standing behind us as we waited to see if Jackson himself was going to come out that door. We were getting a little squished up front, but we kinda of wanted to be in the front row in case he did come out this way. (I know. We sound like groupies. Whatever.) There were about 15 maybe 20 people lined up along the fence in the front row. Mary Jane and I were on the far end near the corner.
This bouncer came outside. Big guy with a scowl on his face. Of all the people, he decided he was going to pick on me and my sister. He didn’t like us for some reason. Now, you have to understand that there is NOTHING not to like about us. We are not rude, disrespectful, even impolite. We would never, ever do anything to cause us to be treated the way this guy was treating us. I think our extreme excitement and happiness were too much for his dark miserableness to be around. He kept yelling at us for moving the fence, but we were being (I’ll use the word lightly) trampled on by the crowd behind us. We were not doing anything. I wanted to get away from him.
….but then Jackson Browne walked out the back door.
Right freaking there!!!! Maybe 15 feet away. He started talking to the people in the front row. He took his time and greeted every single one of them, stopping to exchange a few words. This was a dream come true. We were in the front row and pretty damn close to meeting Jackson Browne. The bouncer who hated us saw Jackson making his way along the fence and decided to step up a few feet. He crossed his arms over his chest. Grounded his feet in a wide stance kitty corner to the fence making it look like the people next to us were the end of the line. He sneered back at us.
When Jackson turned around from shaking hands with some people, he started walking with so much purpose right toward the bouncer. There was something in his demeanor that made the bouncer suddenly step aside at the last second and Jackson Browne walked right over to me and Mary Jane.
He was wearing his brown, leather jacket. He reached his hand forward and I awkwardly hugged his arm. I touched Jackson Browne’s leather jacket. I smelled the leather.
Oh, yeah, and my sister did too. She also cut off half of my face in our selfie with him. But I digress.
I can’t remember exactly what I said to him. It was more about the look of gratitude and reverence on my face. I looked him in the eye. My thumb and forefinger pressed into his leather jacket. He looked at me with his sparkling eyes. That’s all I can really remember. It was brief moment. But aren’t all the best moments? Sometimes we don’t fully appreciate the value of a moment until long after it has passed.
There is one other part I remember. That grouchy bouncer was taken down a notch. Haha. I don’t mess with people. I mind my own business. But when people mess with me, I do enjoy that little bit of karma when they lose the moment. I grinned at him from ear to ear before I turned to walk away.
Since our car was parked on the side street near the cottages we stayed in growing up, we walked back via the beach instead of the street.
Strolling along by the water’s edge, we headed down toward the jetty. The same jetty from that first memory of Jackson Browne when I was seven years old. It must be hundreds of times I walked to that jetty. There were those times with my parents growing up. I remember my mother standing by the jetty in her yellow bathing suit, with a bandana tying back her pretty blonde hair. She was so beautiful in this place where she felt safe and happy. My father, who was always carrying a camera, hanging from a strap on his neck, stopped to take a photo of her standing there.
