I’m not one to hold a grudge, but there are some things that are just hard to let go of.
The year is 1952 and I am four years old. Sometimes my mother would take my sister and me with her to the movies, and that afternoon she took us to see Singin’ In the Rain. Today the film is often chosen as one of the all-time top ten American films, and generally considered one of Hollywood’s greatest and finest musicals. But all that was lost on me then.
I vividly remember that film, not because it would be critically-acclaimed, but because of an event that happened immediately afterwards. My mother took us to Potawatomi Park for a picnic, and though the sun had come out, there were still puddles on the ground because it had rained while we were in the movie theatre. And what does any small child do who has just seen Gene Kelly cavorting in the rain? Well, of course: he splashes in a puddle.
My mother yelled at me to stop, but I have never gotten over the perceived injustice of her reaction. I’m not screaming “child abuse”—believe me, in my day, I’ve certainly seen much worse than that. But she was like the cop at the end of the scene. And I have never forgotten about that movie.
So I guess I’d have to thank her for that.
Groove of the Day
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