Spice of Life

When I think back on my life, it's a series of songs. One comes on the radio. If it's I Want to Hold Your Hand by The Beatles, I immediately think of chicken salad sandwiches, big crisp apples and icy cold chocolate milk on the quad at my high school. Lush green grass underneath us, we'd sit and talk, listening to music piped out from big speakers. 

The Beach Boys, Simon and Garfunkel, Everly Brothers, Doors. It was quite a mix back in the sixties. It's funny. They play those same songs all over the nation now, but they call them oldies. I guess that's what I am. One of the oldies. After school I'd go home and get out the accordion and practice until my sister wanted to tear my hair out. Hers was too pretty to tear out. 

Music was important. Dad would come home and play his guitar, and the best times of all  were listening to him play. I sure wish we'd had a tape recorder, so I could hear him play again. Even a scratchy tape would sound like heaven to me today. Les Paul, Chet Atkins. He sure knew how to copy their styles. Too bad I didn't decide to pick up a guitar while he could have helped me learn.

One of those dumb questions I'm always asking people is if they'd rather be deaf or blind. Obviously, nobody wants either, but if you had to take one or the other, what would it be? Could you choose if necessary? Sunsets are great, but you'd never forget them. I'd miss looking out over my yard, seeing the deer and rabbits. But not to hear music? Not to know the voices of my grandchildren, or the song of wind in the trees? 

I know. I'd lose a powerful gift with my eyesight gone. Couldn't drive. Probably couldn't crochet anymore. Couldn't paint. Have a hard time reading. Typing might be a problem for a while. But to live without music? Nope.