'Such Sweet Sorrow' DH McCarty 03/15

We love our lovin'....but not like we love our freedom.” 
― Joni Mitchell

Detroit in 1970 was rebellious young men.  Iggy Popp, Alice Cooper and the MC5 paced the stages at The Grande Ballroom and The Fillmore. The center of the local music scene, yelped......an unnerving primal scream.

It was the women I met that introduced me the poetic side.  The intuitive side.  The drama   the soul.  Joni Mitchell, Ricky Lee Jones, Carole King and Annie Lennox.     

In 1976, I was in my Senior year.  Lynn and I had just finished a survey for Sociology Methods 420 in downtown Grand Rapids, took a sidetrip to Marrakesh, and then retired to a Fountain St. piano bar.  Silhouettes were set in little alcoves in the wall.  Dandies with slicked back hair kissing a lady with padded shoulders and a Veronica Lake hairdo.  The  Zoot Suit band had a muted  trombone, a clarinet, snare drums and a piano player that sang into a microphone straight out of a Cab Calloway movie.  And two trios from the crowd, perfectly attired in 1944, just killing their Andrews Sisters covers. They were in their 50's,  ladies with catseye glasses and cinched waist dresses. Gents with two tone jackets and spit shine shoes.

It was the bees knees.  

When the band took a break, Lynn took a sip from her rocks glass, set it down and strolled  to the Victrola.  She pondered the playlist for a moment, pumped a couple of quarters into the slot,  punched the buttons, watched the disc settle into place and turned back to face me with her hand on her hip and a side order of Rita Hayworth.  She was wearing worn levis, embroidered China shoes and a denim shirt with a lace camisole underneath.  Proper attire for a Boomer, not for the GI Generation. 

She pulled it off anyway. With aplomb.  I was doll-dizzy and she was killer-diller.  She strolled back to the table and stood to the side.   I arose smoothly and drew her chair out.  She crossed her legs, drew a pack of Virginia Slims from her purse and tapped one out.  Long fingers with red nail polish slid a gold colored Zippo my way.  She lifted her eyes to mine and drawled.

"Hey Dish, got a light for a doll?"

Her eyes were asparkle.

She had chosen this joint well.  There was a buzz.

Joni Mitchell's 'River' started playing.  A dozen catseyes glanced our way with a knowing smile.  They knew this dance.

"Ever had your heart broke?"

"No, I can't say I ever have."

"Then you've never really been in love."

I sat back in my chair and raised a  Labatt's Blue to my lips.  She wasn't expecting a response.  Her upper foot started a slow bounce in time with Joni's rhythm.

"Only a Canadian could have written this song.  Rivers don't freeze here.  Can you imagine skating away forever in the night,  air crisp and cold against your face, with your blades flashing in the moonlight.   That fluid, rhythmic skating movement slowly relaxing you as the tears flow ... then freeze on your cheeks.  Such sweet sorrow."

"I wish I had a river I could skate away on
I wish I had a river so long I would teach my feet to fly
Oh I wish I had a river I could skate away on
I made my cry."

"I have a good bottle of Chardonnay that I've been saving for the right moment.  Can I share it with you."

She had a third floor walkup in a turn of the century mansion on Heritage Hill.  Her kitchen had a door that opened onto a little porch on the roof.  The view was superb.  The lights of Grand Rapids spread along Fulton Street hill and down to the Grand River as it wove its way through town.  We breathed  in urban perfume and sweet Coli and shared crisp chardonnay.

I could hear the words of.  'Help Me'  coming through the JBL's in her kitchen.  The tune transported me .  I closed my eyes and watched her skate away over the rooftops of the city.  The length of Fulton Street, past the Childrens Museum and down the hill to the Grand River.   She glanced back  with moist eyes and a woefull smile....  and her blades.... flashed like lightning.

 "Help me
I think I'm falling
In love too fast
It's got me hoping for the future
And worrying about the past."

When her  head drooped against my shoulder, I carried her in and laid her on her couch and pulled a blanket up around her shoulders.  I turned to close the door to the roof.  A cold wind was blowing, crisp and clean off of the river.  It would feel good on her face.  She needed to cry this one out alone.  To glide away in her dreams over the rooftops of the city,  to Montreal, to Halifax, maybe her Fortress of Solitude.

I turned away and headed down the stairs to the street.