I’m not a musician. in fact I joke that I can play amazing music. I play both the radio and the record player. I used to also play the 8-track and the cassette but I lost that ability as I aged. But I love music and I’m thankful for every note that has blessed these ears except, “I wish I was in Dixie.” I could have gone my whole life and never missed that song.
My Dad was a singer, and I always knew that the man I married would have to sing. In fact I think I loved the “Little House” books mainly because Pa sang and fiddled through them all. So I married a man who I first saw when he was part of the Northwest Singers. To me, that group was amazing, they had come to sing every now and then through my school years during assemblies that surprised us in the middle of dull routine with the gift of energy and joy.
The songs of my childhood were often storytelling songs, or songs my mom would dance the twist to in our kitchen while washing dishes. Dad sang songs that were tear jerkers and I loved them, I know now they were oh so inappropriate, not in a sexual way but racist. One of my favorites as a preschooler was “Son, don’t go near the Indians.” Uh huh. Really. Sorry. Others were “Running Bear” and “Kowliga.” I also ran and war whooped as I went anywhere, to the park, to the neighbors, and at night in my bed alone, I told myself stories where I lived in a Teepee and rode a horse named Singing Moon. My fantasy life wasn’t accurate, but it was filled with love.
Growing older I loved the music of long haired boys. That began with David Cassidy and the Partridge Family. I saw the Osmonds and I saw Kiss live at the Metra in Billings Montana. Then I met Greg and we played the albums belonging to his big sisters and brothers and I learned to love Cat Stevens and the Beatles and Leonard Cohen and Judy Collins. I learned to love sitting in darkened theaters at musicals like Godspell and Once Upon a Mattress.
I never quite learned to love the screeching of beginning violin and cello and trombone players but I endured and soon orchestra recitals and summer band concerts filled our lives and house with a joyful noise.
I adored any concert I didn’t have to sit quietly and breathe softly and fear needing to unwrap a cough drop because the noise of the crinkling wrapper would offend the serious music lovers. But married to a music teacher I saw a lot of those too. I finally compromised and went, but left at intermission. The concerts I stayed for were the kids music concerts at the local schools usually directed by my husband, or music for kids like Bev Bos, Raffi, and the concerts in the park at Azalea and Britt. Pat Benatar, Judy Collins, Toby Keith, Kansas, Chicago, Starship. I don’t really care who, if the music is live and I can move, I love it.
Now again my favorite music is sung by a child. The granddaughter who loves “Lean on Me” and “Blackbird Singing in the Dead of Night” and the music of “Zombies”
