It's Bastille Day. I could write about the French Tricolor; about Marianne, berets, baguettes, and pétanque. Or about champagne; champagne's always good. But today was just another day of long hours and feeling depleted. Am I getting one of those rotten summer colds going around? I've got no real symptoms, but there could be something to it, since I'm craving licorice. What does licorice have to do with anything? With Bastille Day? Well, nothing except that I ate half a bag of it at lunchtime: deep, black, gooey, stick-in-your-teeth licorice. And it now brings to mind an odd home remedy from nearly twenty years ago. I was back from college for a stretch—I suppose it was summer vacation—and I had the beginnings of a cold coming on. I remember my mom and I driving to Westport, to a health food store there. I don't know what was originally on the shopping list (if we even had a list), but I do know what we came home with: a bag of hot wasabi chips and a box of black licorice. The wasabi chips at that time were a new discovery for us. They were white, flecked with seaweed, and laced with wasabi mustard that you couldn't actually see but that had a way of sneaking up on your taste buds, knocking them out with all the subtlety of a lead weight in a tube sock, and then going on a rampage up the nasal passages to do a little dance and singe your nose hairs. Being a bit of a masochist, I loved them immediately. I'd feel the sting and eat some more. And then soothe myself with licorice. My mom and I agreed on the oddness of the combination, but we both indulged. And, lo and behold, the next day, I never felt better. Symptoms completely gone. For some time after that, we were convinced we'd found the perfect remedy for any under-the-weather feeling. And it worked more than once, though not always. Today, I ate the licorice. Maybe tomorrow I'll go in search of wasabi chips, just to make sure.
Here is an early music memory: I am very young. If not still a toddler, then not much older. I am running around the living room, squealing with unrestrained delight, while my dad chases me to the tune of "I Am the Lion" by Neil Diamond (Ba-pa-la ding-ga!). He's reached deep down and pulled out his big baritone voice—the one he also used for "Old Man River" on occasion; the one that always awed me. It's the early 1970s, and although hopelessly pop and showy, there is no shame in liking Neil Diamond. Not at this time. Later, I'd go through nearly two decades of keeping this (admittedly) often schmaltzy artist at more than arm's length. When I bothered to remember Neil Diamond, which generally I didn't, I thought of him more like a skeleton in my musical closet; a dirty little secret that, if exposed, would set me up for some heavy razzing from friends. I don't remember when it was that I recovered my dad's Tap Root Manuscript album. It wa...
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