Same awe

Jubilant.  Isn’t that the perfect name for someone who sings as though his heart has wings? 

The first time I ever heard Mary Did You Know, it was sung by Jubilant Sykes. Lyrics, melody and voice together became something so powerfully moving and memorable that I just need to hear the first notes to feel the same awe and joy I felt then. 

a daisy a day

"I'll give you a daisy a day

I'll give you a daisy a day

I'll love you until the rivers run still

And the four winds we know blow away." 

-Jud Strunk

forever

I grew up singing hymns.
It was like a course in memorizing with zero effort or even the realization that I WAS memorizing.
Hymns have fallen out of common use in most churches.
But, wonderfully, it has been a case of out of sight NOT out of mind.
The words are retrieved just when I need them and often just as I rise from sleep to waking.
This morning I woke to the triumphant words of Low in the Grave He Lay.

Up from the grave He arose
With a mighty triumph o'er His foes
He arose a victor from the dark domain
And He lives forever with His saints to reign 
He arose!
He arose!
Hallelujah, Christ arose!

I heard the bells

I have a favourite Christmas carol. It has been my favourite for so many years that I don't even remember beginning to love it. It is just part of Christmas for me.
I went to a tiny little church in a tiny little town when I was a child. The pastor was a passionate and theatrical man who loved to sing and maybe I first heard it sung there. Or maybe I learned it from the printed sheets that were doled out every December in school, hand over hand from desk to desk.
I Heard The Bells On Christmas Day began life as a poem written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. It was 1863, right in the middle of the Civil War which now that I think of it explains the pain and passion so palpable.
Nine years later a musician and composer named John Baptiste Calkin, set Longfellow's poem to music and it has 'rolled along th'unbroken song' ever since.

I Heard The Bells On Christmas Day

I heard the bells on Christmas day
Their old familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet the words repeat
Of peace on earth, good will to men.

I thought how, as the day had come,

The belfries of all Christendom

Had rolled along th’unbroken song

Of peace on earth, good will to men.

And in despair I bowed my head:

“There is no peace on earth,” I said,

“For hate is strong and mocks the song

Of peace on earth, good will to men.”

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:

“God is not dead, nor doth he sleep;

The wrong shall fail, the right prevail,

With peace on earth, good will to men.”

Till, ringing, singing, on its way,
The world revolved from night to day,
A voice, a chime, a chant sublime,
Of peace on earth, good will to men!

parts

Sometimes old snippets of songs waft out from where ever they are usually held in cold storage. Yesterday it was a Round I learned in elementary school; Sweetly Sings the Donkey. (By the way, there is nothing sweet about a donkey braying. It could stop your heart.)

Sweetly sings the donkey
At the break of day
If you do not feed him
This is what he'll say
Hee haw, hee haw
Hee haw, hee haw, hee haw.
Hee haw, hee haw
Hee haw, hee haw, hee haw.

Some afternoons, our teacher would stop writing on the blackboard.
She would fix us with a sprightly smile and wave her arm.
Hazah, we were divided into groups.
Group one would launch into song.
Just as they teetered on the brink of the second stanza she would fix her eyes on group two and waving her arm, stir them into action. Sometimes there was even a third group and heaven help us, a forth.
Children all around the room squinted their ears and sang with fervor. They tried not to listen to, in fact, they tried not to even hear the person singing one row over. Listening to the song as it rolled out in waves was a fatal mistake as your voice invariably followed your ears.
That is because Rounds are the musical version of patting your head while rubbing your stomach.

I told my grandson today that it reminds me of politics.
People are all singing their song as loudly as they can.
They are not listening to anyone else if they can possibly help it.

Our teacher always let us sing the song through several times and gradually a second song emerged to our amazed ears. A harmony that went in and around and up and away.

That's the hope isn't it, with politics, that somehow, the very different lyrics will blend and become greater in their sum than their parts.

maestro

Some musical instruments are pretty tricky to tune.
Notes can be elusive.
But finding those notes is so satisfying.

He asked for drinking glasses from the cupboard.
Tall, short, wide, even the crystal one that belonged to great gramma. (she used it to press a star into gingersnap cookie dough) 
He asked for a chopstick.
And he asked for a jug of water to pour. ( in and out and in and in and out and in)
There were so many notes to choose from.

Voila! A musical instrument.
My grandson; maker and maestro.

year by year

For several years I gave my Mom hydrangea for Mother's Day. 

They were always one giant pom pom of petals in a pot like a great, pink topiary, and when they finished flowering, we planted them out in the garden.

Pink they were and pink some remained. 

Others morphed into every shade of purple, changing year by year.

part art

Once upon a time, there were record players.
Then we listened to music on stereos with speakers the size of refrigerators.
Now music wafts out of our computer.
Nothing children enjoy today can compare to the fun we had with record players. George Beverly Shea and Bing Crosby sounded like Alvin and the Chipmunks when we switched speeds. We laughed and jumped around the living room like crickets. Then we switched the speed again and the voices  s..l...o..w...e...d  w...a...y  down and took on an ominous tone, a sort of robot voice of doom that we found even funnier.
Interactive music; part sport, part theatre, part art.

excelsis Deo

"Angels we have heard on high," I sang, handing my grandson a wooden angel to hang on the tree.
Without missing a beat he joined me.
"Sweetly singing o'er the plain, and the mountains in reply, echoing their joyous strains."
"Glo, o,o,o,o,oria, in excelsis Deo."

I knew I would always remember him just as he was in that moment.
A picture engraved,
like a snapshot,
of a nine year old,
so tall now,
singing,
our voices blending as we hung the Christmas ornaments.
Me re-learning how to say excelsis Deo.

all around

All around is heat.
And color.
His bright blue pants,
a smolder of purple shirt,
and hot pink T-shirt,
a rosy red electric guitar,
and a couple dancing the samba on the sand.

i felt it

The Harrison Festival of the Arts was as hot as a jalapeno this year.
Maybe hotter.
I survived by darting under the icy spray of the beach shower several times. My dripping hair was dry in a blink and waywardly curled by the steamy breath of July.
The music was pretty hot too with songs like, Save Me For Later by bluesy Suzie Vinnick.
"They say cookin' it slow brings out the flavor darlin' save me for later."
Her voice, rich and sweet and warm.
Drums like hail and thunder.
And bluesy bass.
Big, bad, bluesy bass that played up and down our spines.
And Matuto shouting, "I say feel it...
feel it,
feel it,
FEEL IT."

I felt it.

just for me

I was driving to work the other morning when a song began to play on the radio.
In that brief moment when the opening bars of music give way to voice, I felt.... surprise.
It was like running into an old friend in a city far away.
That unexpected delight of recognition.
That flash of something...almost longing...for another time, for memories shared.
It was Keith Green.
And he was singing Your Love Broke Through.
I turned into the parking lot at work and reluctantly turned off the car.
I found myself thinking about the lyrics and humming snatches of the song all day at work.
Sure wished I could have heard the whole song.
On the way home, I listened to the traffic report and music, eventually flipping back to the station I had listened to on the way to work and found myself just as startled as I'd been in the morning.
There it was again.
Your Love Broke Through.
And right in the middle of the song.
An acapella group this time, singing the second half of the song.
Felt like it was just for me.

Your Love Broke Through--Keith Green

Like a foolish dreamer trying to build a highway to the sky
All my hopes would come tumbling down
And I never knew just why
Until today, when you pulled away the clouds

That hung like curtains on my eyes
Well I've been blind all these wasted years
And I thought I was so wise
But then you took me by surprise

Like waking up from the longest dream, how real it seemed
Until your love broke through
I've been lost in a fantasy, that blinded me
Until your love broke through

All my life I've been searching for that crazy missing part
And with one touch, you just rolled away
The stone that held my heart
And now I see that the answer was as easy

As just asking you in
And I am so sure I could never doubt
Your gentle touch again
It's like the power of the wind

Like waking up from the longest dream, how real it seemed
Until your love broke through
I've been lost in a fantasy, that blinded me
Until your love, your love broke through

Like waking up from the longest dream, how real it seemed
Until your love broke through
Until your love broke through

sound of courage

My Dad loved bagpipes.
He was proud of his Scottish heritage and that pride influenced the musical climate of the home I grew up in. Ballads and anthems, pipes and drums, they swirled and eddied around the living rooms of my childhood.
When my parents came to live with us here in the city, we trekked off to hear bagpipers whenever we could,
watched them compete,
watched them march in parades.
We especially loved the Delta Police Pipe Band. 
Their evenings were always a wonder.
When it came to the place in the program where the lone piper entered the darkened auditorium, my father always gulped back tears.
He was a veteran and I know that bagpipes made him remember.
It's because bagpipes are the sound of courage.

Veterans are gathering outside businesses for the annual sale of poppies.
As I waited in line to pay for my groceries this week, I heard pipers somewhere out in the parking lot.
There is a wildness to that sound, an irresistible call.
I felt a surge of unexpected emotion and tears rising like a tide.
I felt such sorrow for the suffering here and around the world, now and ever.
The battle for freedom is waged against forces of darkness with such immense courage and sacrifice.
On that day, it seemed to me, bagpipes were the soundtrack of freedom.

poor elvis

I flicked on the radio, my eyes on the traffic light.
Elvis was in full cry.
He sang about being caught in a trap and at first, I felt kind of sorry for him. By the third chorus my sympathies had dried up like a hot August afternoon.
Suspicious Minds has a nice be-boppy rhythm that is surprising happy sounding considering the lyrics. I did consider the lyrics though, and decided that blazing heat and heavy traffic were enough all by themselves to give me a bluesy feeling without Elvis.
The miles flashed by.
The air-conditioner did what it could and I soon stumbled up the stairs of home.
A fan, a cold drink and supper fresh and summery were there.
And company blithe and bonnie.
Poor Elvis.

those songs

My grandson happily hums as he plays. He's always done this, always created his own sound track for play. I used to call it The Sound of Danger because of its epic quality, a theme song sort of sound, like Star Wars meeting Chariots of Fire. Those tunes accompanied Dinosaur Disasters and all sorts of Lego adventure. 
I've noticed of late, that the sound has changed. I recognize the tunes now I have even startled him by singing along.
Songs of praise and even worship.
It makes me feel so happy.
Those songs will be with him all of his life, just there at the edge of his memory to be called upon as needed.
'I have hidden your word in my heart.'

me too

"Who walks the stairs without a care
It shoots so high in the sky.
Bounce up and down
just like a clown
Everyone knows its Slinky.
The best present yet
to give or get
The kids will all want to try.
The hit of the day
when you're ready to play
Everyone knows it’s Slinky.
It’s Slinky, It’s Slinky
for fun,
the best of the toys.
It’s Slinky, It’s Slinky
the favorite of girls and boys."

Just so you know, I can still sing that jingle.
I got my slinky when I was in grade three in 1964 or 65 and it still walks the stairs without a care.
So do I, thank goodness.
It can still bounce up and down just like a clown.
Me too.
And I'm ready to play.....

sinatra by the sea

He was happy.
So happy that he sang as he worked.
He was a crooning Ice-cream man.
Dean Martin with a cone in one hand.
Sinatra by the sea.

all my life

I love poetry.
When I read it, I always think (rather passionately) so THIS is what is missing from my life!
It sometimes seems to me that my feelings are just out of my sight and all it takes is the right words to fling wide the door. 
I remember when my daughter told me what song I would be walking down the aisle to at her wedding. Mothers always float in to some special song.
Mine was to be In My Life by the Beatles.
"Oh," I said my eyes brightening, "I know that song."
And I began to sing, :"There are places I remember, all my life, though some have changed, some forever...." and then I surprised myself by bursting into tears.
Oh oh.

It was because of my brother.
I realized that in a moment.
The marriage of a child is such a huge moment in time, that I had turned on the path, to my companions on the journey, and found my brother gone......

I listened and listened and listened to that song, and when the August sun rose above the chestnut tree I was ready.
I could hear the first strains of that tune and glide across the grass as serenely as befit the mother of the bride.
It is a dear song to me now.
There ARE places I remember all my life. Places and people and love.

someone wild

My friend has been living alone until very recently.
Until someone wild shocked her by moving in.
Without asking.
Someone hairy.
Someone that loves the night and revels in the dark.
No, it's not a biker.
Think smaller.
No, no, smaller, smaller....
Yep.
A mouse.
A solitary trespasser.
At least she hopes it's solitary.
An anti-social mouse.
One with no extended family.
No friends either.
Just a lone mouse.
A lone mouse who thrives on adventure and is just passing through.
Not a domestic sort of mouse that plans to set up home.
To settle in.
To grow old along with her.
And so, she is doing what she must do.
She is locking up the food.
That should give him a clue about her feelings.
But just in case, she is bringing out the big guns.
She is turning up the sort of music mice hate.
Super sonic music that vibrates on mouse eardrums.
Like mall music only worse.
Like ipod music on the bus.
That mouse will feel the urge to flee.
The irresistible urge to head for the hills.
Or else.

soundtrack

I leaned forward and stabbed at the radio button. The hysterical vitamin seller was replaced by music. Ahhhhhhhh. Oldies.
The last notes of a song trailed away and a new one began.
I pulled up to the light and flicked on my turn signal.
A voice began to sing.
Music seemed to well up and surround me and the strangest thing happened.
I remembered.
It was the song.
The music.
It was as though I remembered being nineteen.
No, that's not it.
For a moment, I swear, I WAS nineteen.
I felt such an overwhelming flood of the strongest, sweetest sort of recollection.
I felt the extreme emotion, the extremeness of that age, that moment in time.
It was so potent; passion and angst in equal portions.
The singer just kept on singing and my euphoria changed to tears right on cue as the lyrics shifted.
I cried for two blocks.
Fortunately Gordon Lightfoot followed and jarred me back to my senses.
I rolled my eyes at myself but when I began to sing the song a few miles later, I choked on the words.
Music, the soundtrack of our lives.