HM
Sugar Magnolia by Susan Demchak
I was conceived at Woodstock. Seriously. My parents met at Woodstock and my birthday is May 2, 1970. Do the math. Anytime I meet someone new, it almost always comes up, sooner or later. It’s just part of who I am and I feel like if said person is going to be able to “get” me, this is important for him or her to know. Or maybe it’s just important to me. My parents were flower children, all grown up to be hard working sensible people. My Dad was an insurance adjustor, who was good with money. He has suffered the moral injury of wanting to be a nomad and a free spirit but also enjoying the comfort and the security of a steady paycheck and disposable income. He coached my little league team and led my Scout troop. My Mom stayed home with me until I went to school, and then worked parttime teaching art and yoga and volunteering in soup kitchens. They were always the first to volunteer to chaperone field trips. They told me I could do anything I wanted in life and that it was important to find something that made me happy. I went to the College of Charleston and majored in Psychology, but then changed my major junior year to Philosophy with a minor in music. I started 2 different Master’s programs, then took some time off to try to figure out what I wanted to do with my life. They were still pretty supportive, but I was starting to sense little more angst about my making some kind of decision about school and a career. They were both BIG fans of the Grateful Dead. My Dad owned all of the albums. When Jerry died this past August, I thought my Dad would be crushed, and he did seem sad. But he just said, “Well. Jerry didn’t take very good care of himself.” He was right about that. I had seen an interview with Jerry on TV, I don’t know… January? It occurred to me, if I wanted to see them in concert again, this was the time. The tour kicked off in Philly in the Spring, and I didn’t make it to that show, but when the tour came to Charlotte in March, I scraped up the money for the show, some gas and stuff to make tee shirts out of the trunk of my car. My dad loaned me a tent and some camping equipment. “When do you think you will be back?” he asked. “Well… when the tour’s over, or I run out of money.” He reached in his pocket and took out some money. He counted out 10 twenties. They were generous with me. And not too strict. The one time they had caught me with pot, I didn’t get in trouble. The unspoken agreement was that I would make good grades, stay out of trouble, and though they hovered a little, they generally kept their mouths shut. I always believed they had smoked my pot, but could never prove it and they never admitted it. Despite their anxiety about my under-employment and lack of a plan to finish my education, they admired my freedom to pick up and go. It’s the Grateful Dead! They had followed them too, once, before jobs and kid and responsibility. They always told me to travel before life got too complicated. I wondered if they regretted saying that.
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