Roadtripping: Norah Jones: Not Too Late

There are cherished habits you have with those you hold dear. My mother, when we were adults, would like to charm me into her car, and we would take a drive on sunday afternoons. Silly that I never remembered where we would go; often just an errand, mixed with a small lunch, and purposeful detours. I think it was her way of trying to connect with me. We were never good at talking, and I always seemed to shy away from her in a room. In her car, I was a captive audience, we could talk about politics (ugh), or feminism, or window treatments (she didnt believe in them). The first time I fell in love, a cherished Sunday getaway would always be a drive to the ocean, somewhere close enough but just far enough to let music, and trees, and ocean air start to unravel the anxiety I would always have building for the week to come. There would be a stop for coffee, and a NY Times, and some delicious fish from a small seafood shop with a garage door to make room for more customers. It was our time to dream, we would look at condos, or drive past other places we had eaten. Simple, but quietly beautiful, the way that she was. There was a CD of Cole Porter covers that I adored listening to. Nancy Wilson would croon how nice I would be to come home to. Harry Belafonte would sing Miss Otis regrets. The song that always made me laugh was My Heart Belongs to Daddy. That was the beginning of the weft and weave of our fabric, our language, our love. It was beautiful, I would memorize it all and relive it on my drive to work on Mondays, from the west side to the east side of town. Sometimes we would listen to Diana Krall or Norah Jones, and then I would sing along, watching the mountains blur past, holding her pinky with my index finger. I have a friend who likes to talk about people or things he loves and he says simply “Its so good.” or “She’s so good” He reminds me of this visceral terroir, a remembrance that fuses the heart and the mind in a way that is good, and makes me grateful.