The Sky Was Purple

Categorize as “Rambling Memories”

Back during 1978-1982, while away at Mt. St. Mary’s University, when it was still a “college,” a habit was started that has spanned over thirty-five years.

The lead in story: One of my buddies there was a guy name Jack Sonntag, who like myself, was a “Jersey Guy” but unlike me, he was years ahead of his time when it came to music and women.

This morning I want to focus on the musical aspect, although someday I’d like to ask him about a few of my girlfriends that he may have “borrowed” during those years like I borrowed his records.

Jack was DJ at our college radio staion (WMSM). Consequently, he had access to a vast number of new records and artists and I benefitted from that access.

Jack provided the introductions to Steve Forbert, Jean Luc-Ponty, Mike Oldfield, Larry Groce and Dean Friedman. (There probably were others, but these are the five that immedately come to mind and that you can read about by putting the names in the “search this blog” window in the upper, right corner)

Now, after that lengthy lead-up, I will finally get around to discussing the habit of listening to Dean Friedman music on Sunday mornings.

I have told different chapters of the story over the years, one example being a story about a rocking chair.

Dean’s music is a weekly reminder, albeit for less than an hour, of those care-free years of college and a temporary escape from the confines of responsibility and growing gray. Everyone needs a temporary escape now and then, and some escapes are healthier than others.

Jack and I still stay in loose contact via Linkedin, but I hope we ge a chance to meet in person one of these days to share some stories about what has happened since 1982. Another name added to my bucket list. Jackie, you listening?

Let the memories begin again with the first track from Dean’s first record.

By dean friedman

Autumn seems awful lonely here whenever we think of you.
Last night the sky turned purple and we wanted to share the view.
Leaves on the trees are turning and the woods are all ablaze
They smell of timber burning in the fireplace.

Sunday we woke up early and we drove out to tice’s farms,
Gorging ourselves on all the cider and doughnuts we could fit under both our arms.
Picking out penny candy in the country store,
Till we collapsed on the porch with our bellies sore.

So what’s it like to be on your own, a roaming vagabond, away from home,
In search of some forgotten door?
Is it half as good as it sounds? tell me, have you really found
The peace and calm we’ve all been looking for?

Freckles still misses you. she always sleeps on the floor in your room.
Ruth says she smells, but you know it’s just her very unique perfume.
The tree in the back bore apples but they’re green and full of worms.
Guess we’ll sit tight and wait until the cider turns.

Everyone sends their love; they still don’t really believe you’re gone.
Everyone’s jealous of this crazy odyssey that you’re on.
Hoping this finds you happy and healthy and sane.
I pray that your strength will ease you through the growing pains.

Songwriters
WAYNE CARSON THOMPSON