It has been a very long time since I posted (with the exception of your regularly scheduled Tow Truck on Saturdays). So much to do before August 22, the official end of summer for me. The last two weeks have been busy as I try to cram as much fun as possible into the last days of summer freedom.
A White Sox/Red Sox game with my husband, my son and his friend (both Boston fans…boo).
A Manchester United/Chicago Fire game at Soldier Field.
Several wonderful poetry readings in Chicago (Real Talk Live with features Patricia Smith and Reggie Gibson was on fire!).
Preparing my manuscript to send off to two contests…wish me luck. It’s a nerve-wracking procedure.
And, to top it off, three days of music, mud, sun, and fun at Lollapalooza Music Festival with my family and friends, always a highlight of my summer, and not only because I love music.
My son has always attended concerts with us – as a matter of fact, one of his first concerts (at age 5) was to see Foo Fighters at Summerfest in Milwaukee. He was about 5, and he loved the song “Learn to Fly“, which he sang in the aisle, his small body covered in a black garbage bag against a summer rainstorm off the lake. Yes, Foo Fighters in the rain. Thirteen years ago.
So, during the downpour that graced the Foo Fighters set last Sunday, it was a serendipitous moment when we found ourselves huddled under a yoga mat and a skimpy umbrella, soaked and shivering, both of our voices singing that same song – I’m looking to the sky to save me, looking for a sign of life echoing under our makeshift shelter. The family that rocks together…I don’t know, gets wet socks together? More tightly locks together? (I guess both of those are true, even though they are horrible rhymes.) Thanks, Dave Grohl.
(Photo by Free and Clear Media)