It’s a sultry summer day in Tennessee. My hubby and I have finally caught up on the pressing chores of the day and have settled in the backyard beside the creek. The most exciting thing going on out here is watching my female cardinal defend her spot in the creek that tumbles through our yard. At the pinnacle of “mid-life,” David and I are blessed with good health, relative security, and, most importantly, a wonderful family, particularly our son. Today, I’m even more mindful of the blessings of life because one of our classmates lost his life Thursday. That classmate is Michael Jackson.
As we sit here relaxing in the peace of our quiet Southern backyard, we’re listening to a satellite radio station that is playing, with no interruptions, the music that flowed from Michael Jackson. I can tell you how old both he and we were when he recorded each song that is playing. From going to our first boy-girl parties and dancing to the early tunes of the Jackson 5, to recognizing both the talent and the confusion underneath his and our gawky mid-teen years, and, finally, to coming to his own with Thriller and Billie Jean – all his songs parallel these stages of our lives. As a Motown girl, the music of Michael Jackson is the sound track of most of my life.
Today, I weep for the great talent and notoriety that came to rob my classmate of the vast riches that David and I share, for we live extraordinarily ordinary lives. Lives free to watch birds frolic in the creek, to attend public gatherings like last night’s hockey draft party, to stroll the streets of Europe unnoticed.
Both David and I are fairly recognizable in our own small worlds, but we have no claim to fame. And that, to me, is an extraordinary blessing.
Rest in peace, dear classmate.
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