Orange Blossom Special

I grew up with parents who adored country music. When my father would return home, he’d crank up the Victrola and play his favorite platters, or drag out the old Edison and play his pop’s old cylinders. It was good old timey country music, not any of that pop-infused fluff on the radio today. Lots of good old fashion, bible thumping, twangy hymnal based gospel music. “Sweet by and by”, “Go tell it on the mountain”, “Jesus loves me, this I know”, etc. My mom was a bit more progressive, listening to the likes of Mitch Miller, “Tennessee” Ernie Ford, The Penguins, and Carl Perkins.

Mixed in with my father’s gospel music, you’d find acts like The Oak Ridge Boys, Hand Williams Sr., Johnny Cash, and Loretta Lynn. I can still remember some of the song’s lyrics.

“When I was a little bitty baby, my momma use to rock me in that cradle. In that old… cotton field back home. When that cotton bole got rotten, you couldn’t pick very much cotton. In that old… cotton field back home!”

My father’s favorite song was “The Orange Blossom Special”. A true fiddle player’s song, if there ever was one. It would start out slow, immitating how a steam engine would start moving very slow. The steam pressure building, pushing the pistons of the axles slowly, gaining momentum. The conductor pulling the steam chain, releasing a steady stream into the metallic whistle… warning all passerbys to take heed! The mighty black horse is on the move!

The bow would stroke across the strings of the fiddle, imitating the sound of the whistle in the distance. Then the fiddle player would pluck the strings twice, and you’d have a vision of the train cross from one rail to the next. The metallic sound of the rails clicking into each other as the train’s wheels pressed down upon them. Click Click!

Then the song would increase in tempo as the train built up steam and speed. Slow at first, then quickening to a breath taking speed as the train would top the hill and begin it’s decent into the valley below.

My father’s eyes would glaze over as he’d listen to the song and find himself a thousand miles and a lifetime away. We never knew where his mind's eye took him. What the ghost eyes of his was seeing. We only knew it was a good place, and we left him be.

No one in family was musically adept. But like most parents, they couldn't see the truth of how musically enept their children were. We were enrolled in violin classes at a very young age. I started playing violin well kindergarten age. I played a very little violin, I think about ¼ size. To compare the size, think of placing a mandolin next to a full size acoustic guitar. That’s about the size of a ¼ size violin next to a full size one.

This was the time of the traditional Suzuki music program. I think almost all kids start playing the violin using Suzuki music. Years and years of playing “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star”. My parents seem to never grow old of hearing the same song during each recital. Such patience. Wouldn't you hope your child would learn more than one song after years of practice? A childhood prodigy, I was not.

But they persisted in taking us to classes. They wanted at least one child to be able to play “The Orange Blossom Special”.

There was a nice little girl who also attended these lessons. She was always far ahead of me when it came to playing the violin. Her name was Peggy White, and she was the true violin prodigy.

I had a huge child crush on Peggy. Always blushing around her, following her everywhere. I remember doing all sorts of annoying things to get her attention. I pulled her pony tail, kicked dirt on her shoe, threw snow balls at her after practice, even called her a stinky head. She would scream, call me a mean nasty poo poo head, and end up runing away crying. I would momentarily feel bad, and then overjoyed that she had talked to me!

Now to think about it, I don’t think my courting style has changed much. I still like kicking dirt on my date’s shoes ^_^

I was completely terrified of going to elementary school for the first time, since I didn’t attend kindergarten. After my mom lead me to my first grade class, I looked across the room and there she was! Peggy White! I was so happy, I couldn't wait to go to school everyday. I never could understand why the teacher wouldn’t let me sit next to her. Who's alphabet, and why is he not letting me sit where I want?

We had lots of toys to play with. Blocks with letters our teacher said made things called words. And a big abacus with little wooden balls. I loved moving the wooden balls back and forth on the abacus. Not really understanding I’m suppose to be counting something.

I missed most of my first year of school. I came down with something called the mumbles. Or at least that’s what I wanted to call it. I had these nasty sores in my mouth that made it very hard to talk. Mumps or something like that. Anyway, they didn’t think the other parents would like me playing with their kids so I had to stay at home for 3 months. No playing with Peggy.

When the school year ended, the summer seemed to take a long time to end. I was excited for the first day of second grade, and the chance to see Peggy again. I walked in, and she wasn’t there. I waited all day. Then another day. Then another. Soon it was a week. Then two. Then a month. Where was she?

She never rejoined my class that year. My first day of third grade was scary. My classroom was now down the big kid’s hallway. They were always picking on us little kids. I walked into my third grade class and there she was! Her family had moved the prior year and she fell into another elementary school’s domain. Third grade wasn’t as much fun as first grade. No as many toys and playtimes as first. And we had to learn to multiply. I was slow at memorizing my multiplication tables. Even to this day, I have problems remember what 7 times 8 is. Peggy, once again, picked it up with ease.

We’d still play together and this was the year of the Kissing Tree. So I was a very happy little boy. When fourth grade started, she had moved again and I didn’t see her until junior high. She went to a different junior high, but we still played in orchestra. We’d have combined concerts, and she was always first chair first violin. I would always become tongue tied with her and blush a terrible crimson red. I still don’t think she noticed me.

Our town only had one High School. By then, she had stopped playing in the orchestra. She still played the fiddle, and I had heard she played in a country-western band on the weekend. I never found out the name of the band, and I probably couldn’t talk my mom into taking me anyways. Besides, how uncool would that be?

We’d see each other occasionally walking down the hallways. My heart would always skip a beat as we’d pass. Most times she was with a group of girls, and I wouldn’t say anything. Sometimes she’d be alone and I’d try to talk to her, but she had a bad schedule and had very little time to cross campus to her next class. I’m not sure what I’d do if I saw her again? Would I still have those childhood butterflies?

I have always missed those butterflies. That quicken of the heart when you are around someone you have a huge crush on. When you want to do nothing more than talk to them and what comes out is a thousand words of garble in 10 seconds, because you are so desperate to let them know how very special they are to you, you have no patience with making sensible sentences.

Perhaps that’s why Peggy has always shared a special place in my heart. Not because she means anything to me today, but because she is the first person who gave me butterflies.

I’m not sure why Peggy has come to mind today. I guess it’s because I’m reliving that experience. The butterfly feeling of being intoxicated being around with someone you love. I’m reminded of simpler days, of days when I had no career concerns or bills to pay. When the world was just going to school, playing outside as much as possible, and watching cartoons on TV. No project timelines to keep, no office politics to navigate, no morning commutes in high traffic. Childhood days.

These innocent feelings of warmth, love, and happiness continue to flood into my world as I spend more and more time with SkyPrincess. The butterflies have returned, and I’m running around desperately trying to capture each one to store in mason jars, which I save on top of the cabinets in my kitchen. Each one I label quickly with a strip of masking tape, scribbling the time and date and what it represents. Even now, I have more jars that I ever would have imagined. The first day we met. The first time we kissed. The first time she cooked for me. The memories of this past Saturday when we shagged for the first time. The memories of later that evening when we shagged again. And then again. oh! And then one more time for good measure ^_^

I know the butterfly feeling will soon be replaced by something more tangible and richer. Until that happens, I’m storing as many mason jars away as I can. To save for my twilight years, when my memory begins to fade. I want to never forget this feeling I have right now.

Mizike