Chasing tomorrows
I raised two kiddos, so I understand the concept of “developmental milestones.” What I wasn’t prepared for was my own.
Without dating myself too accurately, I’ll note that when I turned 45, I took an immediate — almost overnight — interest in birdwatching. So did the spouse. “What’s that bird?!” we excitedly ask each other at every opportunity.
“I’ll consult the app!” I say, and then poke at my phone to emerge with a best guess from the indispensable Merlin Bird Identifier app for People Over 50 Who’ve Reached Birdwatching Age brought to us by the even more indispensable Cornell Lab of Ornithology, which is probably run by young biologists who derive great joy from messing with us older folks. The bird in question is usually a house finch or a scrub jay, as those are the ones I can pull up from memory (another milestone).
One other, less fortunate and fun milestone of getting past the fifth decade is the staredown of one’s mortality. I heard someone recently refer to themselves as having more yesterdays than tomorrows, and my heart froze in my chest. (I now have to clarify at my age that this is a metaphor.)
Do I have more yesterdays than tomorrows? Who knows. But it spurred me into action. I decided to have a year (or a long series of tomorrows) of saying “yes” to doing stuff that will keep me from metaphorically becoming a “get off my lawn” person who lives for senior discount day at Kohl’s.
It started last spring when the mighty social media algorithm told the spouse that a certain band we like, Wilco, hosts an annual winter music festival in Cancún, Mexico. Because of the “fewer tomorrows” flitting about in my psyche, we booked tickets and, like our forebear generation of Deadheads, followed this band to the Yucatán Peninsula.
The Sky Blue Sky Festival was hands-down one of the best travel decisions we’ve ever made, despite the fact I danced too long in flip-flops and ended up with an ice pack on my bursitis as I watched the final performance from my hotel balcony. When I wasn’t jockeying for a spot near a music stage, I lived life on the edge by eating food from an outdoor buffet and drank margaritas that had been splashed with lagoon water, but I also wore sunscreen and comfortable shoes and yes, pointed out the birds to our younger friends.
After my back and bank account recovered, we pushed forth on this path of rediscovering a post-pandemic world of live music. Closer to home, we caught Jonathan Richman (a delightfully weird poet) at the St. Francis Auditorium, the Old 97s (of Rhett Miller windmill-arm guitar-playing fame) at Tumbleroot, Brittany Howard (and her face-melting vocals) in Albuquerque, and Neko Case (I’ve never seen a more appreciative crowd) at the Lensic. And we’ll meet up with the Avett Brothers over the July Fourth week in Taos.
I tell you about these experiences not to humble-brag, as the kids say, but to remind us that tomorrows and live music experiences are not to be taken for granted and that you should say “yes” when Instagram (or Pasatiempo) tells you that Mavis Staples is headed to Ghost Ranch or The Decemberists will be hitting the Bridge or any other acid rocker or comic or theater performance is happening, even if you’re tired or don’t think it’s your cup of tea or you think the audience will be filled with too many young ‘uns who don’t know the Merlin app.
As for me, I need to add some Bach and weird electronica and opera to that mix, but just know that if I’m not birdwatching, I’ll definitely be bandwatching.