Dusty and the Big Sur

Musical memories.

This was inspired by Victoria at Carer Mentor. She asked for uplifting memories stimulated by music, because whilst dementia patients may not have words for the past, they don't forget how something made them feel. In my work as a therapist, unbidden responses to stimuli are often the context of trauma, and an unwanted re-experiencing, so I really enjoyed putting this in a different context and thinking about the music that transports me somewhere wonderful.

Son of a Preacher man

Pulp Fiction came out in 1994 and, not being a fan of Tarantino I still haven't watched it all the way through.

Despite my ambivalence however, a year later the film’s sound track turned out to be the only tape (google it kids) my new husband and I had bought with us on our honeymoon.

Still in our twenties, we were beautiful in the way that only the young are and giddy with excitement. We splurged on a red convertible and drove the Big Sur from LA to San Francisco.

Billy Ray was the preacher’s son

And when his daddy would visit he’d come along

The softly sung opening, hinting at barely restrained emotion, takes me back to breakfasts of cinnamon rolls at Pismo Beach through to dinners of chowder in bread bowls on Santa Cruz Pier, sea lions bobbing in the waves below.

The only one who could ever reach me

Was the son of a preacher man

The Pacific Ocean crashed against the rocks below us as we drove, and we gasped at the bloodied faces of surfers emerging from the wash at Monterey.

I kissed me the son of a preacher man

Eventually the Golden Gate Bridge appeared ahead, looking like it does in the movies. We ditched the convertible and rode the trolley busses up and down vertiginous hills. We ate noodles in China town and got swept up in the loving vibe of Castro.

The sweet-lovin' son of a preacher man

It was all so exciting and we drank it in through a haze of love and happiness.

We landed back at Heathrow and picked up the threads of our new married life. Nearly thirty years later those threads have grown into a thick and colourful fabric, a little frayed and worn in places, but we’re still weaving.

Dusty comes to me now on Spotify, and takes me back to California evertytime.

Yes, he was, he was, oh, yes, he was

1. 

   Photo by Joseph Barrientos on Unsplash