Driving one night (and keep in mind this happens often, but this one time inspired me to write this), I was listening to a radio station that plays everything from turn-of-the-century jazz to swing to big band to 50’s rockabilly and crooners. I don’t know the name of the song nor do I know who the artist was, but this song (a slow sad song about a lost love) transported me to another time …
I felt sad. I had the strange sense that I was a young man about 18 years of age going off to war and my love and I were calling it quits. I pictured myself with a buzz cut and green army fatigues as my love sat there in a diner booth wearing a pink sweater and poodle skirt and hair in a pony tail tied with a white bow.
… It was 1950. I was going off to fight for freedom and liberty, but my love did not want to wait. My heart was broken … And the music played in the background as a tear trickled down my cheek …
I then found myself back in my car and nearly at my home. It was present day, but my heart and my gut had this sense that I just experienced a sensation from another time, but a sensation that was very real to me. I was there. It had happened to me. At least that is how real it seemed.
This is not the first time. I get these feelings a lot. They mostly come when I listen to this one particular station. When I listen to the jazz of the 20s, I am transported to the Gold Coast of Long Island, in the thick of the debauchery of the Roaring 20s, rubbing elbows with Fitzgerald, the Vanderbilt’s, and the Pratt’s! When the big band music of the 30s and 40s plays, I can smell the air of a wood burning stove, fresh baked bread in the oven, and feel the warmth of a family sitting around a radio receiving news of Hitler’s invasions between melodies and shows.
It’s crazy. It feels so real, but it must be impossible nostalgia, right?