Andy

“Davy, ever the daring one, bought a jumbo peppermint milk shake and got fifty cents back. He talked me out of getting plain vanilla. “You can get plain vanilla anytime!” he said. “Try…” He scanned the chalkboard that listed all the flavors. “Try peanut butter!”

I did. I have never been sorry, because it was the best milk shake I ever tasted, like a melted and frozen Reese’s cup. And then it happened.

We were walking across the parking lot, under the burning sun, with our shakes freezing our hands in the big white paper cups that had Spinnin’ Wheel in red across the sides. A sound began: music, first from a few car radios and then others as teenaged fingers turned the dial to that station. The volume dials were cranked up, and the music flooded out from the tinny speakers into the bright summer air. In a few seconds the same song was being played from every radio on the lot, and as it played, some of the car engines started and revved up and young laughter flew like sparks.

I stopped. Just couldn’t walk anymore. That music was unlike anything I’d ever heard: guys’ voices, intertwining, breaking apart, merging again in fantastic, otherworldly harmony. The voices soared up and up like happy birds, and underneath the harmony was a driving drumbeat and a twanging, gritty guitar that made cold chills skitter up and down my sunburned back.

“What’s that, Davy?” I said. “What’s that song?”

…Round…round…get around…wha wha wha-oooooo…

“What’s that song?” I asked him, close to panic that I might never know.

“Haven’t you heard that yet? All the high-school guys are singin’ it.”

…Gettin’ bugged drivin’ up and down the same ol’ strip…I gotta find a new place where the kids are hip…

“What’s the name of it?” I demanded, standing at the center of ecstasy.

“It’s on the radio all the time. It’s called—”

Right then the high-school kids in the lot started singing along with the music, some of them rocking their cars back and forth, and I stood with a peanut butter milk shake in my hand and the sun on my face and the clean chlorine smell of the swimming pool coming to me from across the street.

“—by the Beach Boys,” Davy Ray finished.

“What?”

“The Beach Boys. That’s who’s singin’ it.”

“Man!” I said. “That sounds…that sounds…”

What would describe it? What word in the English language would speak of youth and hope and freedom and desire, of sweet wanderlust and burning blood? What word describes the brotherhood of buddies, and the feeling that as long as the music plays, you are part of that tough, rambling breed who will inherit the earth?

“Cool,” Davy Ray supplied.

It would have to do.

…Yeah the bad guys know us and they leave us alone…I get arounnnnddddd…

I was amazed. I was transported. Those soaring voices lifted me off the hot pavement, and I flew with them to a land unknown. I had never been to the beach before. I’d never seen the ocean, except for pictures in magazines and on TV and movies. The Beach Boys. Those harmonies thrilled my soul, and for a moment I wore a letter jacket and owned a red hotrod and had beautiful blondes begging for my attention and I got around.”
― Robert McCammon, Boy's Life

“The family were arranged on the veranda under the grapevine, each occupied with his or her own affairs. Mother was knitting, counting the stitches audibly at intervals to herself and saying ‘damn’ periodically when she went wrong. Leslie was squatting on the flag-stones, carefully weighing gunpowder and little piles of silver shot as he filled shiny red cartridge cases. Larry was reading a massive tome and occasionally glancing irritably at Margo, who was clattering away at her machine, making some diaphanous garment, and singing, off key, the only line she knew of her favourite song of the moment.
‘She wore her little jacket of blue,’ she warbled. ‘She wore her little jacket of blue, She wore her little jacket of blue, She wore her little jacket of blue.’
‘The only remarkable thing about your singing is your tenacity,’ said Larry. ‘Anybody else, faced with the fact that they could not carry a tune and couldn’t remember the simplest lyric, would have given up, defeated, a long time ago.’
He threw his cigarette butt down on the flag-stones and this produced a roar of rage from Leslie.
‘Watch the gunpowder,’ he shouted.
‘Leslie dear,’ said Mother, ‘I do wish you wouldn’t shout like that, you’ve made me lose count.’
I produced my hedgehogs proudly and showed them to Mother”
― Gerald Durrell

“Sometimes I get lost in the rhythm of the paddling. I even count the strokes it takes to get me to a point of land, The play of the muscles in one's arms and shoulders, and the feel of palm against worn wood, are preferable to glancing at a speedometer”
― Richard Proenneke, One Man's Wilderness: An Alaskan Odyssey

“He studied scientific truths, then became upset even more by the apparent cause of their temporal condition. It looked as though the
time spans of scientific truths are an inverse function of the intensity of scientific effort. Thus the scientific truths of the twentieth
century seem to have a much shorter life-span than those of the last century because scientific activity is now much greater. If, in the
next century, scientific activity increases tenfold, then the life expectancy of any scientific truth can be expected to drop to perhaps
one-tenth as long as now. What shortens the life-span of the existing truth is the volume of hypotheses offered to replace it; the more
the hypotheses, the shorter the time span of the truth. And what seems to be causing the number of hypotheses to grow in recent
decades seems to be nothing other than scientific method itself. The more you look, the more you see. Instead of selecting one truth
from a multitude you are increasing the multitude. What this means logically is that as you try to move toward unchanging truth
through the application of scientific method, you actually do not move toward it at all. You move away from it! It is your application of
scientific method that is causing it to change”
― Robert Pirsig, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintainance