Listening to Joni Mitchell in the car – Part One

I’m aware that there are women in this world who don’t care for Joni Mitchell. They’re wrong, to be clear, but today–or perhaps eventually–I’ll address those of us who love Joni. The key word here is “eventually.” First, let’s go on a few road trips.

Port Townsend, Washington

I just wrapped up six weeks of various travels. First, I went to Port Townsend with two friends, Shannon and Katrina, for a writing retreat. In case you’re wondering, they are both writers, and in need of retreat. I drove up the Kitsap Peninsula with Katrina in my old car that still has a CD player. I’d grabbed a stack of options for listening, and asked Katrina to choose what we’d listen to. In there was one of my favorite car-trip CDs, Joni Mitchell’s Hejira. I assumed that at some point, my friend would choose Hejira, but she passed it by in favor of Bluegrass, and then of course the best car trip CD of them all, which is Paul Simon’s Graceland.

I allowed a small doubt to percolate in my psyche. Was it possible that Katrina didn’t like Joni Mitchell? I knew such women existed, but had never thought I’d harbor such an individual in my cadre of friends. To be on the safe side, I cautiously sidestepped the entire topic of Joni. I didn’t want to stir the smooth waters of the writing retreat, which was a peaceful, restorative experience that produced progress on the short story to which I have devoted my entire retired life so far.

And there were deer.

Florence, Oregon

My next trip was to Florence, Oregon, where April and I revisited a VRBO in historic Florence on the Siuslaw River, where we’d stayed at a few years ago. I took a really stressful route to Florence because my phone told me to get off I5 at Halsey. As I hair-pinned and white-knuckled my way through the hinterlands of Oregon, music was not an option. I focused all my attention on the road and my white-hot anger at my iPhone for leading me into this mountainous, rural, stunningly beautiful hellscape. I was going to the COAST, I didn’t need all this NATURAL BEAUTY, I just needed to get to the COAST to enjoy the natural beauty THERE.

At some point, my bladder near to bursting, I stopped at a Chevron and said, “I’ll gladly buy something but can I have your restroom key first?” The young clerk handed me a literal Hula Hoop with a key attached. I bought a Poppi. It was far too sweet but I drank it anyway. Poodle Creek Road finally delivered me to the highway I should have been taking in the first place, which I followed just long enough to be stopped for hours by a terrible (fatality) accident. I was four miles from the VRBO and hopelessly stalled. I turned off the car and listened to The Fine Young Cannibals, an old CD I bought right before the trip. It was still the banger I remembered from the years I’d put it on and my then-husband would groan because “Not again, Karen.” I don’t think The Raw and the Cooked, is responsible for him leaving, but “She Drives Me Crazy” might have been a factor.

The time in Florence was fantastic once I finally got there. April and I had fun of the type we’ve honed over fifty years of friendship. Great meals, some shopping and gallery-going, a ridiculously short hike to the Cape Perpetua Lookout, the Yachats rock shop (if you’ve been you know what a wild place that is). April prods me into moving, which is a good thing, and also a little humbling. At the Port Townsend writing retreat, my more fit companions took daily walks and came home flushed and happy. I just sat there, admiring the deer and writing. In Florence, April made me walk. It’s like she wants to keep me around for a few more years or something. I ate my weight in delicious seafood to circumvent her ambitions for my longevity.

Federal Way, Washington

My next trip was up to Federal Way to see Sue at her charming lakeside cottage for some relaxing days of conversation, aggressive thrifting, and crafts. Sue is an accomplished art quilter who crackles with creative energy and bursts with talent. When I visit her, her artistry feels contagious. So even though I have zero crafting talent, I brought a tiny case with some small craft-type materials in it that I’ve been carrying around for twelve years. I swear one of these days I will finish something.

The weather granted us only one sunny day down by the lake, where I read Sue the one short story to which I have apparently devoted my entire retirement so far, and I found all the places where it needed work.

The other days were cold, almost blustery. We kept ourselves busy with days of thrifting, good food, cocktails, and a Ricky Gervais series to binge watch in the evenings while we crafted (if you’re wondering, I embroidered a small part of a praying mantis on a piece of muslin. Go me!).

One day, Sue laid out material groups for a dozen quilts with my input, which (from me) sounded mostly like, “Do you have a stripe you could put with it?” or “Do you have a check you could put with it?” because I love adding stripes and checks to florals. My suggestions were sometimes greeted with “All wrong!” or “Yuck” or “Hmmmm” or “That might work!” or even “Perfect!” I’d send her into her quilting room to look for a specific color, and at one point she said, “I don’t have a fabric store in here.” Then she came out with a bunch of choices and said, “Okay, I do have a fabric store in here.”

Quilters, get set to drool.

It was glorious fun.

This trip was I5 all the way north and south, so I brought a stack of CDs, and many were Joni. For the Roses, Blue, Hejira, Ladies of the Canyon, Clouds, and Court and Spark. I decided to listen in chronological order, which brings me to the actual point of all this meandering introduction. I’m going to talk about Joni. A lot. Prepare yourselves, because I get personal. But because this got so long, and I intend to talk about these CDs in depth, I’m going to stop here and return to Joni another day.

That’s all.