Kids These Days

ful. I'm pretty sure that the torn meniscus in my right knee results from a spontaneous burst of river dancing on St. Patrick's Day. When I hear Irish music, it transports me immediately back to Savannah's River Street, day-long parades, and gallons of green beer. It also makes me think I have Lord of the Dance skills. Sadly, it does not remind me that I never did.

Fossils dating back 530,000 years indicate that our ancient ancestors' bodies contained all the pertinent parts to give them the physical ability to sing. Musical instruments date back even further. Darwin even wondered if our language abilities began with singing. He theorized that might be the reason for our continuing connection with music. I've certainly seen instances where people act like Neanderthals when they hear music, so who knows?

Whatever the reason we store music right alongside memories, and whatever allows it to offer a ticket to a happy place, it is sure worth the price of admission. My momentary time travel back to my youth made me happy for days afterward. Imagine what that kind of experience might offer someone whose memories are alive again, even if it is just for those few moments. What a gift that would be.

I'll never be seventeen again, but I'm grateful for the notes that take me back, and for a moment, let me think that I am. I'm happy to know that somewhere deep inside us, memories waiting for the music to release them and that as the song says, "Even if the whole world has forgotten, the song remembers when."

For a fascinating glimpse of the magic of music, go to the Music and Memory Foundation website, musicandmemory.org, and see what happens to one nursing home resident, Henry, as he listens to his music. AM

KIDS THESE DAYS European Vacation

by Tara Bailey

“We missed you at this morning’s Wes Anderson breakfast gathering.” “Lol miss u guys.” For those unfamiliar with Wes Anderson films, they are a visual feast of color and symmetry, featuring characters so absolutist that they become absurdist. Children and adults often trade roles. Dialogue lacks subtlety. The above text exchange was between my daughter and me once she had returned to her host family in Spain after several days of traveling together. She had spent the past few months finishing college in the picturesque village of Trujillo, and we had gone to see her over Spring Break. As did my parents. And my sister. For ten days. So…that’s three generations, a nine-passenger rental van, dueling personalities, and Google Translate. For ten days. Use your imagination. The trip began at my parents’ house the night before our flight. My dad and I were having fun showing each other things we had packed in our

Wcarry-on bags like magicians pulling animals from a hat. “I have toothpaste!” “I have a Jon Meacham book!” “I have a charger!” “I have…extra socks!” “Why do you have socks?” “You just never know.” (Cue my mom, appearing with a pair of socks the length of my body.) “My doctor says if you’re over fifty to wear compression socks on long flights or you’ll get blood clots. I have an extra pair.” “I’m good, thanks.” “Are you sure? My doctor said.” “Yes. All good.” “Suit yourself.” And so it began. After landing in Madrid we loaded into our rental van and promptly

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KIDS THESE DAYS

headed the wrong way out of the garage. By the grace of God we reached the exit lane unscathed only to become stuck at the gate, not knowing how to get out. Cars in lanes all around us were using what appeared to be magic to cause the arm of the gate to lift while we sat there and held up the line behind us. My dad pressed a call button for help, and the woman’s response was, as one might guess, not helpful to his foreign ear. However, her tone was unmistakable, and due to either kindness or frustration, she ultimately lifted the gate. My dad shifted and hit the gas, propelling us—backwards.

“Expletive!” I shouted. “Glad we got the full insurance,” said my husband. And we were off.

Once the city was behind us we headed south, passing olive groves, vineyards, the occasional castle, and a lone bullfighting ring. Approaching Trujillo we saw a colossal silhouette of a bull standing above the trees. The billboard (bullboard?) was the historic town’s welcoming ambassador, introducing arrivals to the dated but still-active sport that regularly takes place there.

Entering Trujillo transports one from a graffiti-lined highway to a storybook village of cobblestone, geraniums, bell towers, and a hilltop castle. I have to hand it to my dad: he navigated that van through winding stone streets the width of a dishwasher like he was born to do it. We found our lodging - housed in a 16th-century convent - and parked, heading out on foot to meet our daughter at a local cafe.

The girl we had crossed the ocean to embrace looked the same and felt the same, but something within her had definitely changed. She bore the confidence of someone who knew ancient secrets and languages, someone capable of finding her way through a dark forest guided by stars and gods. She was our child, but with childhood long behind her. A new wisdom had found her.

She had pre-ordered a basket of croquettes for us that complemented the sunshine and beer we were absorbing