Growing up at my house on Saturday morning was a musical/cleaning festival. My dad would put on a record (gasp!) in the very olden days that were my childhood, and later, CD's. He had a penchant for the Beach Boys and we were happy to indulge. (Nothing like mopping the floor to "Help me, Rhonda, he-help me Ronda. Help. me. Rhonda, Yeah! Get 'er outta my heart!")
We liked like classics (Surfin' USA) we liked the more folky stuff (Sloop John B). When I Grow Up to be a Man was great because you got to count along as those sun drenched boys contemplated the ages before them.
The more birthdays I have the more I realize that age is relative. I remember thinking as the song came to an end, counting out the coming years, that yeah, that was old. At least it struck me as old until recently when I pulled out a Beach Boys CD and turned it on and heard the familiar run from young fourteen continuing on to...
What will I be when I grow up to be a man? (twenty-two twenty-three) Won't last forever
(twenty-four twenty-five) It's kind of sad (twenty-six twenty-seven) Won't last forever (twenty-eight twenty-nine) It's kind of sad (thirty...)
Yes. If you listen hard enough you can eek out "thirty-one." But to the casual listener they end at age 29. Won't last forever indeed. Excuse me, I need to get my Geritol.
I grew up cleaning and jamming to records blasted to music deejayed by my Dad as well ... "This diamond ring won't shine for me anymore." I loved painting to this song.
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