The Brown-Eyed Girl
(For Mothers Day)
May, 1969
Kiss me each morning for a million years,
Hold me each evening by your side,
Tell me you’ll love me for a million years,
Then if it don’t work out,
Then if it don’t work out,
Then you can tell me goodbye.
The boy reached over and pushed the button on the car radio; the indicator slid across the dial to 1300, WAVZ, for these were the golden days of AM radio.
“Don’t you like that song?”
“No.”
In fact, the boy hated that song. It spoke to him of a sort captivity that was too fearful for a sixteen year-old kid to consider, and for sure it wasn’t something a fellow wanted to talk about. And who were those guys, singing a song that seemed to come from straight out of the 1940s? Furthermore, who wanted to listen to saxophones, or clarinets, or whatever-they-were, anyway? Now the radio was playing Light My Fire, by The Doors–that was better–guitars and drums and swirling music, led by a brooding singer who wrote lyrics that were both mysterious and confusing. Yes, the boy liked that, for this was 1969, and his teen-aged world was one of mystery and confusion. And nothing was more confusing to him than girls.
He had picked up the Brown-Eyed Girl for their first date, and now they were on their way from New Haven to Savin Rock in the family’s 1961 Plymouth Valiant; they had just watched a movie in one of the theaters on College Street.
No, the boy didn’t like that song; but the Brown-Eyed Girl must have seen some promise in him, because she stuck around; and accordingly, five years later there were wedding bells to be heard above the thump-thump-thump of the disco music that prevailed in that era. And on that day, the bridegroom resembled a young peacock, uncomfortably clad in pastel ruffles and a velvet bow tie, for these were the flamboyant years of the Seventies. And there by his side was the Brown-Eyed Girl.
Soon, the Brown-Eyed Girl put her own life on hold, for she had freely chosen to endure the pangs of motherhood, and spend her days and nights amid cloth diapers, formula, bag lunches and dirty dishes. And bills that were too big. And a budget that was too small. And was it only a couple of years later that the music turned to songs about Winnie the Pooh and Smokey the Bear, coming from a record player that looked like a little blue suitcase? But first there came the deliveries; and no music would play there, for they were difficult ones.
Time passed, and then came the Eighties; and as the children grew, the music came to them with the riff of MTV. And somewhere during that period the parents lost track of contemporary music, and regressed to their musical past. And like the bills, the years came and went; and likewise, so did the decades, one after another.
There comes a time in a man’s life when he begins to spend more time looking backwards than looking forwards; and then perhaps he takes stock of his life. And one day, maybe he finally realizes that someone has given their entire life to him, and that you can’t give someone anything more than that. Eventually, that day arrived for the boy.
And sometime later, the day came when that old song was playing on the radio again. But somehow it didn’t sound the same any more: in fact, now it returned to him like an old friend; and it even sounded pretty good. What was it about the song that had changed? At first, the boy did not know:
Then if you must go,
Mmm, I won’t tell you no,
Just so that we can say we tried;
Tell me you’ll love me for a million years,
Then if it don’t work out,
Then if it don’t work out,
Then you can tell me goodbye.
So here’s to The Brown-Eyed Girl, and to all of the wives and mothers who labor at their ancient craft: working, loving, caring, and nurturing, for days and nights and years without ceasing. For where would we be without them?