An Excitement of Peaches

Good things about growing old(er)

Sitting in the garden the other morning, I wondered “is this what it’s like to grow…old(er)?” Just being still and watching birds and butterflies cavorting, thinking “ooh I’d love a stone birdbath there, or another gazing ball…maybe I should shape that tree a bit.”

I’ve booked a bunch of shows for the fall and they aren’t bids for glory but cozy living rooms, a barn, small community spaces…a field. It’s not a giving up so much as a letting go, accepting this is how it is and it ain’t bad.

I’m waiting for a skirt/sewing pattern to arrive in the mail. Trying to come to grips with metric vs…what do they call the way they do it in the US? I’ve got fahrenheit vs celsius figured out (times celcius temp times 2, add 30 to get fahrenheit - did I already tell you that?) but I cannot get my head around metric and how kilometers is actually more than meters - argh it should make sense but it doesn’t! Anyway, I’ve decided sewing IS the way to go and will be desperately trying to convert fabric requirements from a US pattern to metres. Expecting a Spinal Tap Stonehenge situation where what’s supposed to be a skirt for me ends up being a Barbie outfit - we’ll see.

So this is getting older - seeing a display of donut peaches in the Norwich Marks & Spencer Food Hall and getting the kind of excited I used to get checking in to Bleecker Bob’s when the new crop of singles from the UK came in…or when a Village Voice or New York Times with a listing for one of MY gigs hit the stands - now it’s peaches: they’re here, they’re here…oh wait, they’re from Spain not England. Do the English grow peaches? They have the best word for the little box they come in — a punnet. Is getting older being disproportionately pleased with things like peaches and words like punnet? Probably. A punnet of peaches.

Still, I just sent my book off to the copy editor. I haven’t retired for god’s sake. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to afford to do that. Every new activity I try I see as a potential possible future income stream. That doesn’t make these experiments any less pleasurable.

My daughter’s getting married in the fall and I have to figure out what to wear. “Mother of the bride” - a role I never knew I was born to play! Every person I tell here in England says “ooh you’ll need a hat.” I always loved hats but the idea of hiking one over to the US, wearing it in possibly steaming Los Angeles weather, we’ll see. But the dress, the dress. And Eric and I have to coordinate our outfits somehow, and strike a balance between dress to impress and not embarrassing ourselves and everyone else. Is this getting older? If we’re lucky it is. I am so happy and excited for this wedding. And Hazel has her dress, that’s what really matters.

Getting older is sitting around a table at dinner with friends and realizing every person in the group has dealt with cancer or other life-threatening illness (cue that annoying Covid/vaccine-denying guy who even showed up to comment on my Brian Wilson post, you’re blocked asshole so go away and preach to your followers). “Everyone at the table except me” I said, but Eric reminded me I’ve had skin cancer surgery on both sides of my nose, it wasn’t life-threatening but scary and definitely debilitating. But we are here and survival is a gift and not to be taken for granted.

Getting older is barely making it through two episodes of Lena Dunham’s new series Too Much, gasping “I’m so glad I’m not young anymore!” while deciding somewhere in the middle of the second episode that this. stops. here. I’m no Lena-basher, we loved and of course sometimes hated Girls in this house (well, in our last house) and I squeal with delight anytime Too Much actor Megan Stalter is on screen in Hacks. But this show just lies there. I was so bored, and I can be happy watching pretty much anything.

Maybe part of it is jealousy: “Why can’t I make a series about my big move to England, and cast…I don’t know - Linda Cardellini to play a younger, cuter me? Eric could be played by…let’s see —Daniel Craig, in his first (?) comedic role!” Yes I guess this is getting older too, seeing someone do a thing and saying “God if you’d just let me at it, I would do it better!” When, if ever, does that feeling go away?

I met a woman at a concert the other night. The show was held at the beautiful stately home our friend Simon owns. He’s a rare book dealer and also a writer and he had Eric accompany him for a forty minute set of autobiographical material that is sort of like poetry, very compelling. He’s just a magical figure, as is his house, Voewood. The woman I met had bought one of my framed prints and it made me feel so proud, I know I’ve printed loads of tea towels, shirts and totes but this was framed to hang on the wall and it really touched me to think she wanted to look at it every day. I know I’m an artist but I feel a need for it to all be applied art, to serve some purpose (shirt, towel, song, book) so this felt like an elevation - art for art’s sake. It’s an idea to work towards. The important thing is one doesn’t have to nullify the other. You can do both. I long to visit Charleston, the home of Vanessa Bell and Duncan Grant who were painters, artists, designers and bohemian in every sense of the word- the high and the low; the useful and the gratuitously lovely.

Also at Voewood, after Simon did his set, there was a performance by an accomplished poet and comedian Luke Wright - he made us all laugh and think, was so open and endearing with his poems, and inspiring. The next night Eric and I went to our local new tavern The Peasants to see one of the owners play a set of covers—not expecting much as there’s a lot of that around here - well Adam the owner was just so good. He played his Martin really well and sang great. I want to play in this local pub, just to have a gig where we live. Nobody around here knows anything about me, that I’ve been writing songs and making records, touring for nearly forty years. They think of me as Eric’s wife. He’s an icon, a legend in this country and rightly so. It’s humbling to be at square one around here, even though I’ve been in all the UK music mags and newspapers over the years, played weekly on Marc Riley and Gideon Coe’s BBC 6 Music show last year! (I list my achievements not to dazzle you so much as to remind myself I have a few fans and supporters in this country) But I really just want to play in the local pub and connect with my neighbors somehow, and do a good enough job that I can hold my head up shopping at the supermarket the next day.

So imagining myself there in the pub, playing my songs and maybe a cover or two, I thought it would be good to have a poem about …being in this place. It’s a start anyways. There are always new things to learn and try— maybe I’m not really ready to “get older” all the way, yet.

But I do have my eye on this terra cotta gazing ball…

Here’s the poem I’m working on A Yank In North Walsham:

Yank In North Walsham

My husband said we can live near the sea

That sounded pretty good to me

They got Waitrose and a Sainsbury

I’m a Yank in North Walsham

Black Swan, White Swan, choose your poison

Chubby Panda, duck with hoisin

We have QD, what’s Roy’s all about then?

I’m a Yank in North Walsham

Coasthopper me, down the road to Mundesley

Out on the beach, to catch some sun

We …are nobody here without a dog, hon

Just a man and his Yank in North Walsham

Work in the yard, oops sorry—garden

Neighbors say they beg our pardon

Silver chard gives us all a hard-on

Yank in North Walsham

My husband declares “I’ve ordered a third shed”

A man’s wealth is measured in sheds, he said

I’m a shed widow, and he ain’t even dead

I’m a Yank in North Walsham

Sipping tea at Shambles, or at Peasants Real Ale

Hear a retiree tell a long, sad tale

About his wife’s IBS and all that entails

I’m a Yank in North Walsham

American friends ask to reserve

Now they have the leader even they don’t deserve

We got sheds out the ass, and we’re here to serve

Send those Yanks to North Walsham

Coffeesmith, Boots, PACT clothing drop

England’s premier thatched kebab shop

Lonely Travel Hub where the buses stop

I’m a Yank in North Walsham

“Where are you in Norfolk?” posh people say

We tell them North Walsham and they kinda look away

Say “Hmm I’ve never been” well, let’s keep it that way

I’m A Yank in North Walsham

If I look like some fish out of water

I’m no different than you — just a wife, mother, daughter

Sister, songwriter, cook, bottle scrubber,

Driver, dancer, dreamer, lover,

I did it all before and I’ll do it again,

Right here where the A149 Bypass ends

I’ve seen a lot, but there’s nothing like glimpsin’

The sun setting low over the car park Timpson

If they don’t have it at Sainsbury’s I probably don’t need it

It’s only life and right here I’m gonna lead it

A Yank in North Walsham