Go outdoors and play says my father around eight on Saturday mornings as he heads to work in the middle of the 1950s, when the brainchild of Philo Farnsworth and company was yet creeping, it delighted me to gallup into adventureland,
My stint at the Idiot Box enough for an episode or two of Hopalong Cassidy, following ten, fifteen minutes of test pattern mesmerization, accompanied by In The Hall of the Mountain King, the original earworm, which teased me and tickled me and finally made
Me feel on par with the happy people fifty years on when I attended history’s most improbable mashup: Seiji Ozawa and the Boston Symphony Orchestra, together with Wynton Marsalis and the Lincoln Center Jazz Orchestra, who play both the European
Classical version of Edvard Greig’s Peer Gynt Suite and its adaptation for jazz band by Duke Ellington, alternating movements back and forth the score of players led by Marsalis seated in the midst of the four score musicians under Ozawa’s invisible baton
At Tanglewood, on Mahican land in Massachusetts, two hundred miles from my boyhood home sited five blocks from the mouth of the river that was Main Street to Haudenosaunee and Onondaga Fire Keepers twenty five miles upstream of Lake Ontario.
Ten years earlier, according to a report March 13, 1945 in a New York newspaper, my father was chased out of his comfort zone by Nazi Germans in an airplane bearing down on “the first American airman, on the first American airstrip, east of the Rhine river.” A few weeks later, Hitler was dead, then World War II ended, then the Baby Boom began.
May we remind the New Zealand solon, and others with errant slurs, that my generation amounts to more than a demographic and marketing phenomenon, and that we Baby Boomers come by our patriotism honestly, as it was our fathers who rescued us all from the twin terrors of popular autocracy and racial madness.
Now pray tell, kids, what does your Saturday look like?
– Dave Read