Bellingham
The Rules of Summer
October 2011
The Rules of Summer
October 2011
Who would not be troubled during these troubled times? I could continue to sulk and pour absinthe over my corn flakes in the morning, tumble shamelessly back into bed, and eventually be too irritated by The View to lie prone for so long. It’s all bad for the metabolism. Besides, I’m not a big fan of corn flakes. Arise, you beast!
So it’s off for a walk up Nob Hill. It’s the landscape for grownups. “You’ve been going down hill lately, Bellingham!” That was a recent admonishment from an old friend. Gawd save us from people who mean well. Truth is, as time goes on, it really seems to go uphill. I’m not sure which I prefer.
Out I go, into the blazing light of late September. The sunny assault over Clay Street, the fresh breeze on the trek over to Grace Cathedral – it’s restorative and sweet. Watching the kids challenge the labyrinth in the courtyard. It’s amazing how well they do it. I always seem to walk in circles for no apparent reason. But the kids are fantastic in their ability to pick up on new concepts. They easily reach the heart of the puzzle. Or maybe they’re just quick at absorbing ancient concepts. It must take a young mind to get the age-old notions. As the old song goes, “Youth is wasted on the young.” That’s silly. A nice song (The Second Time Around), but it’s not gonna get us our squandered years back. They got lost in the stock market. Or just the menacing passage of time.
Now it’s twilight. It’s off to the Big 4 – always walking – where Michael Larsen holds court at the keyboard. Michael has played the piano at the Big 4 – as David McCullough says, “the best saloon in San Francisco” – for over 30 years. He knows more about key changes at the piano than the capricious political changes that have afflicted this city over the decades. Yes, even as a newcomer – just 41 years – I know this.
Michael, like many in this town, is kind to me. He always plays my song when I saunter into the Big 4. It’s Two for the Road. It’s a sad song by Henry Mancini from an even sadder movie with Albert Finney and Audrey Hepburn. An excruciating look at a failing marriage. A fine romance. With all this melancholy, I know I am home.
The other night, perhaps beguiled by the kids racing fearlessly through the labyrinth at Grace, I asked Michael if I could sing a song with him. Now that takes moxie. I’ve seen Debbie Reynolds and Florence Henderson sing with Michael. Not only that, I made up the song. It’s called “The Rules of Summer.” I was gripped by the warm, sweet night, the giggling children, the sense of something ending in a careless, pleasurable way. So Michael played a few wonderful chords and I made up the melody. I sang, “The rules of summer, they leave us alone / except when fall comes and claims its own. / The summer recedes like a shy boy and girl / as we were drawn to each other / clutching each other / ‘til the rains came pouring down. / We were suddenly cold, wet and awake / The world was back again / Those are the rules of summer.”
Always seeking another chance, I asked Michael if I could do the song over again – a nice couple who were visiting from San Antonio wanted to hear it. I wanted to know if I could remember it, after I just made it up.
“What do you think Michael?”
“No,” he said. “I’m not a composer. I just came up with the chords for Alfie. You just made up the words and the melody over it all.”
I thought it sounded pretty good. Now I know why. It’s a great avocation to delude oneself.
The rules of summer are like that. They are destined to fool you and then slip away without a thought. And never call you again.
That’s why those kids are up there on Nob Hill, racing gleefully, dauntlessly through the Grace Cathedral labyrinth. Around and around with brave, reckless steps. They have it all figured out. There’s no lasting lesson. It’s the rules of summer. The rules play with you, give you a run for the money, and then vanish in this October breeze.
Bruce Bellingham writes for Northside San Francisco and is the author of Bellingham by the Bay. Tell him the rules: [email protected].
So it’s off for a walk up Nob Hill. It’s the landscape for grownups. “You’ve been going down hill lately, Bellingham!” That was a recent admonishment from an old friend. Gawd save us from people who mean well. Truth is, as time goes on, it really seems to go uphill. I’m not sure which I prefer.
Out I go, into the blazing light of late September. The sunny assault over Clay Street, the fresh breeze on the trek over to Grace Cathedral – it’s restorative and sweet. Watching the kids challenge the labyrinth in the courtyard. It’s amazing how well they do it. I always seem to walk in circles for no apparent reason. But the kids are fantastic in their ability to pick up on new concepts. They easily reach the heart of the puzzle. Or maybe they’re just quick at absorbing ancient concepts. It must take a young mind to get the age-old notions. As the old song goes, “Youth is wasted on the young.” That’s silly. A nice song (The Second Time Around), but it’s not gonna get us our squandered years back. They got lost in the stock market. Or just the menacing passage of time.
Now it’s twilight. It’s off to the Big 4 – always walking – where Michael Larsen holds court at the keyboard. Michael has played the piano at the Big 4 – as David McCullough says, “the best saloon in San Francisco” – for over 30 years. He knows more about key changes at the piano than the capricious political changes that have afflicted this city over the decades. Yes, even as a newcomer – just 41 years – I know this.
Michael, like many in this town, is kind to me. He always plays my song when I saunter into the Big 4. It’s Two for the Road. It’s a sad song by Henry Mancini from an even sadder movie with Albert Finney and Audrey Hepburn. An excruciating look at a failing marriage. A fine romance. With all this melancholy, I know I am home.
The other night, perhaps beguiled by the kids racing fearlessly through the labyrinth at Grace, I asked Michael if I could sing a song with him. Now that takes moxie. I’ve seen Debbie Reynolds and Florence Henderson sing with Michael. Not only that, I made up the song. It’s called “The Rules of Summer.” I was gripped by the warm, sweet night, the giggling children, the sense of something ending in a careless, pleasurable way. So Michael played a few wonderful chords and I made up the melody. I sang, “The rules of summer, they leave us alone / except when fall comes and claims its own. / The summer recedes like a shy boy and girl / as we were drawn to each other / clutching each other / ‘til the rains came pouring down. / We were suddenly cold, wet and awake / The world was back again / Those are the rules of summer.”
Always seeking another chance, I asked Michael if I could do the song over again – a nice couple who were visiting from San Antonio wanted to hear it. I wanted to know if I could remember it, after I just made it up.
“What do you think Michael?”
“No,” he said. “I’m not a composer. I just came up with the chords for Alfie. You just made up the words and the melody over it all.”
I thought it sounded pretty good. Now I know why. It’s a great avocation to delude oneself.
The rules of summer are like that. They are destined to fool you and then slip away without a thought. And never call you again.
That’s why those kids are up there on Nob Hill, racing gleefully, dauntlessly through the Grace Cathedral labyrinth. Around and around with brave, reckless steps. They have it all figured out. There’s no lasting lesson. It’s the rules of summer. The rules play with you, give you a run for the money, and then vanish in this October breeze.
Bruce Bellingham writes for Northside San Francisco and is the author of Bellingham by the Bay. Tell him the rules: [email protected].
