Que sera sera.

When I was a kid, my mom used to sing the song, “Que Sera, Sera” as it was popularized by Doris Day, a then well loved actress and singer. We had the recording, and Mom played it often. It was one of those songs that basically said, “stuff happens, and it will happen” – along with a “whatever” underlying message in the backstory.

I don’t think that this relaxed philosophy was adopted in our household. I think that it was actually the opposite. Nobody was relaxed and in our family, there was always the underlying contention of subtle disapproval of all sorts of things due to unrealized expectations, dashed hopes, and the like.

In fact, once my dad was promoted into a new job with more responsibility, and we were transferred away from our “hometown” (Mom’s and mine), that came with a slew of mandates from my mom. Her dreams of building a house with my Dad, near ready to break ground when the promotion came about, were suddenly harpooned. The lot had to be sold. The move was eminent.

Upon getting to our new home town, the choices of where they would rent or buy a house very much went many directions as they evaluated available houses and locations based on schools, proximity to Dad’s work, etc. It was the usual dilemma for transplanted families.

We ended up pretty far out of the town center, by the metrics of the day. Dad had a long slog to work. I attended school in a “top” school district, which meant that they saved bucks on my having to attend a private school, because inner city public schools were apparently not fit to attend. That is not necessarily the case everywhere, but economics had to be right for wherever we lived.

It was not my old school. But, as far as me adjusting to school, that had been an ongoing process. From the time I started attending any sort of group learning, I was likely a handful for the teachers. I colored outside the lines a lot. One early preschool experience involved Mom being asked to visit with Miss Harvey, the owner of Miss Harvey’s School, to discuss my tendency towards “not coloring inside the lines”, literally, when we were in the coloring activities she carefully designed and provided for us. This put Mom in a spot.

She had encouraged my free association coloring and drawing.

Now we had this situation where she would have to explain that sometimes I had to color inside lines, and sometimes not. I was four. Imagine explaining this to a four-year old, somewhat precocious, little girl who was quite imaginative and very busy… and very stubborn. Now I know how stubborn I was based on raising my own children. Likely genetics plays a part in all this.

Referring to past posts, dear reader, you might understand that my Mom was at times challenged with carrying the load of motherhood. She relied a lot on my grandmother (her mother) to help, and on my father when he was off of work, which most families do in some sort of variation. She would have to enlist everyone to help with this situation of teaching me that I had to follow rules, and “color inside the lines” at selected times.

Non-conformist? Moi?

The need for me to begin conforming was apparent.

Whether it was coloring outside the lines at Miss Harvey’s or doing whatever I did in first grade that landed me in the dark closet (time out) for a spell with Mrs. Keys, who was a strict disciplinarian, levying her punishments for breaking the rules, or by second grade, my chatty nature got me in the hot seat… by third grade and our move with Dad’s promotion, I started working on the conformist part of my adaptations.

However, without even realizing it, I was at that time, also at the beginning of my non-conformist development. Later on in life, I discovered that I had to conform, just enough, yet underneath was always the non-conformist base, struggling to get through.

The music did it.

When I follow the thread from these early days throughout my life tapestry, I can see where those days of being an “only” and allowed to just free associate and imagine living in a mostly adult environment at home with bright parents, one very practical, one kind of “out there”, but nonetheless very interested in architecture, engineering, art, and science – my days were likely a montage of watching Captain Kangaroo, going to Miss Harvey’s, then real school, and imaginative play and “artsy craftsy” activities with a healthy serving of being outdoors doing whatever – swinging on the swing set, hammock in my grandparent’s yard, or playing in the water hose.

Gotta ask, why my music preferences are more eclectic bordering on edgy, when I grew up hearing Doris Day? I love rock and roll, but really don’t like bubble-gum pop.

I listen to music from my grandparent’s time especially the old blues and the masters of jazz, and even those tunes and bands that my parents so dearly loved, if not just for the nostalgia. But, skip the fifties, my true roots are embedded in the beginning of the sixties revolutions in rock, psychedelic music, then hop-scotching into the new wave and indie/alternative genres. But, oddly, the Texas roots, and the Texan-folk-rock – that Americana vs. country and western genre. Gotta throw those in.

Roky Erickson, and the 13th Floor Elevators. The early 1960’s. I still look back on that time as one of mystical influence. The whole scene of the psychedelic culture in Texas influencing later generations of musicians. Janis Joplin. The Moving Sidewalks evolved into ZZ Top. Big name bands. All of these musicians influencing each other in the huge revolution in music that this was. Often referencing Buddy Holly and Howlin’ Wolf, Charles Brown, and others, these bands drew from old influences and converted them into new sounds.

Later, it was well known that Roky was diagnosed as schizophrenic, but he was before he deteriorated, a landmark influence in Texas music. After many years in hospitals for mental breakdowns, Roky was released and did perform supported by his wide net of friends and associated musicians until his death. He opened the gate for Texas Music to truly thrive with a huge place in modern music history.

I think about that and just say “wow”, and I think, as detached as our generations were, my parents left me alone in my unique eclectic musical tastes, honored it and even supported it. Embedded in my tapestry are those roots.

The non-conformist conformist. Yep, that about sizes me up.