By Robin Garrison Leach
I was at my chiropractor’s office, waiting in the private cubicle for a crack at my turn. After putting on the “Velcro in the back” gown, I glanced in the mirror on the wall to be sure my hair was not sticking up and I had no traces of breakfast on my face.
There I was, dressed as if heading for surgery, in a flowery sack draped against a matronly body. I grimaced and turned away.
The rooms aren’t soundproofed, and music streams from overhead speakers to mask conversation in the treatment room. My chiropractor has great taste in music.
In moments, an all-time favorite song from my teen years wiggled into my ears. It wound itself around my memories, taking me back to a time when music accompanied every aspect of existence.
This was not a love song. It didn’t remind me of fumbling embraces or sighs of heartbreak. And it wasn’t an ethereal instrumental of technical beauty. No “Love is Blue” or “Classical Gas.”
I was surrounded by the thumping rhythm of a bass guitar. The swish of a drum brush. Synthesizer whines. Clicks and taps. In seconds, the melody strummed against my spine.
I knew the song the second it began.
“Come Together” by the Beatles grabbed me where I stood and took me to another time.
I closed my eyes to absorb the sensation; music like this demanded concentration. It was meant to be “felt” in the soul.
I can’t explain what happened at that moment. Maybe I was temporarily hypnotized by the chiropractor with subliminal messages beneath the tune. Maybe I experienced sudden amnesia that erased all the years between 1969-2024.
My body started to gyrate.
The beat gave my legs reason to slide this way and that, as if tiny Swiffers were attached to my shoe soles. My artificial knees earned their investment, bending slightly and springing back, following my feet as they swiveled.
I was feeling so cool. I was at the Armory building in my small hometown, dancing with my best friend, Donna, and giving flirty glances to all boys in the vicinity. We WOULD dance with a boy before the dance was over. We were sure of our allure.
For the complete column, see this week’s edition of the Centralia Fireside Guard
