A Horse With No Name

Not my type of music by any means, yet, this song by "America" moves
me in a way that no other does. I love opera and classical music, not
hippie songs of the seventies.

When I hear this song, it evokes a feeling of utter utopia in me. I do
not associate this song with romance or a singular event, but a time, a
few hours on any given Saturday.

In 1972 I was a new bride. It was the first time I lived in a place of
my own, first time out of the parent nest. At twenty-two I felt
liberated; to think, this refrigerator was mine, this bed, the towels,
sheets, all mine. (Oh yes, and his.) But this is not about him. This is
about my experience of having my own place and what it meant to
me.

After a week of hard work at the office, I would look forward to my
weekend at home. Not because I was going anywhere special, but because
Saturday was my day to clean. I would chase the husband out of the
house with instructions not to return before 4:00. The first thing I
would do is open all the windows and let the summer winds flow through,
rip the sheets off the bed, throw away old food, get my cleaning
weapons out of the cabinet and get ready for action.

I would perk a pot of coffee, which, with my radio, would be my
companions of the day. And then I'd get started. Putting up a fresh
sauce to simmer for hours was my first task. I could then focus and get
to the hard labor.

Scrub those floors, shine all surfaces, wash, fold, press, put away the
essence of my week. While some would consider this drudgery, I found it
to be pure pleasure. While enjoying the solitude of the day, I would
listen to the radio, and popular songs would be played over and over
and over.

"A Horse With No Name" a song by the popular group "America" was the
hit of the time. I still don't know what the song is about, what
messages lie in those words, but when I hear that tune I immediately
feel the wave of joy that lived in me back then. I am brought back to a
time that is etched in my mind, remembering the newness and
pridefulness of having my own home. I have often heard my old wedding
song played, and my eyes do not blink and there is not a trace of
melancholy. But the memory of those summer Saturdays fill me with pure
joy.

I am now single, I still have my Saturday ritual of cleaning my
apartment, with coffee by my side and music I understand. Once in
awhile I cheat and go back for a dose of that horse. I am still in awe
of that blissfully potent effect that old horse song still has on me.
And, I am eternally grateful for it.