***The Roots Is The Toots- The Music That Got Them Through The Great Depression And World War II…

 

 

…and memories of that girl (or guy you fill it in but I, male, am telling this story) who got away, the one that you spied in the hallway in school, who kind of looked, well, interesting, and then you, relying on your boys’ lav Monday morning before school talkfest about what did or did not happen that previous weekend found out that she was “spoken for,” unapproachable anyway, and you let it go at that. Moved on to the next furtive glance and then put that in the back of your mind. Always wistful though when you saw her down that now forlorn corridor, wishing that she could be your friend what with what lay ahead as the war clouds of the world were gathering and you knew you had do something about it, about stopping the night of the long knives.

Or still dreaming about that night when another she, a she from work downtown all beautiful and alluring, who kept making glances your way, especially after you got your number picked and were getting ready to head out, but who was also very married, married to a guy, a guy your brother hung out with, whose number had already been picked and was on his way to Europe, told you in no uncertain terms that you were her choice to keep the morale of the boys at home up and took you around the world one night. You then slogging it out in some basic training hellhole getting, ah, funny feelings thinking about that and about whether she would still be interested in keeping morale up when you get leave before shipping off to that same Europe.      

Or try this- you were married to another and yet another she, maybe alluring, maybe not, but available could be coaxed into doing her “duty” to keep the morale of the boys waiting for their numbers to be called and meeting in a crowded bar, a little drunk, a little flirty and not particularly worried about marital status what with the shortage of men around kind of led you to that room and showed you like that beautiful and alluring fluff what was what.

Or maybe story-book Hollywood bill of fare all misty and good that girl next store who would not give you a tumble but would talk to you for hours, go to the dances with you, share a soda, drop nickels in the jukebox but who, drunk, sober, or in between would not do her duty although if you came back alive them, well, we will see buster.

Or one of a thousand other reasons for parting, some good, some bad but in misty future time regret, after accounts were settled and the world, your world anyway, got back to jukeboxes and furtive glances, regretted for that maybe first love, she of the hallway school looks, she of the alluring downtown look, she of the coax-able disposition, she of the frosty no, and why things hadn’t worked out.

Or maybe a she (remember a male speaking) thinking, thinking too hard for the times, although war could not banish longing thinking  looking out over some Eastern harbor watching the endless rows of troop ships anchored or setting sail as far as the eye could see sending that high school corridor flame’s sweetheart to some mangled beach, that beautiful and alluring office mate’s beau to some busted bridge (she will catch seven kinds of hell if that GI hubby ever finds out), that available woman’s last fling to some muddy fox-hole, that Johnnie next door freezing his ass off in the gunner’s turret over some European sky to fight the good fight against the night-takers.  And Western harbors thinking universal home fire girl dreams about that guy coming back, coming back in one piece to take up their dream. And he in some muddied trench, some dank cave, some frozen beach-head, catching flak over some hostile blood red sky thinking whether she will be waiting, waiting alone, for him. Thus this song to get one by on that cold, lonely remembrance night.