MUSIC IS LIFE

Music is life? What kind of garbage is that?

For me, it’s not garbage at all – it’s reality. I was raised in a musical family – my father and my brother both played guitars, my sister played a mandolin. She was disabled, but she was a good singer and loved music.  I loved her.  By the time I was born, my mother already had congenital heart disease, and six other kids before me, two in wheelchairs and unable to walk or stand. So my biggest influence was my sister, seventeen years older than me. She taught me to read before Kindergarten, and if I was good, she’d let me operate her record player for her. I could play her singles – pop, rock, country, she loved everything.

A White Sport Coat and a Pink Carnation by Marty Robbins.

My Happiness by Connie Francis.

As Far As I’m Concerned by Faron Young.  

Send Me the Pillow That You Dream On by Hank Locklin.

And her very favorite song, Angel Baby by Rosie and the Originals.

When she let me put records on her player, that was almost always the first one we chose.  My sister sounded a lot like Rosie.

I started school in the fall of 1962, as a half-day Kindergarten student. My favorite part of the day? Singing time, of course. After singing, it was nap time.  I never could get to sleep, so while the other kids dozed, I laid on my nap mat and went through the songs we sang, memorizing the lyrics.

First grade was the same, more new songs, more music and I loved it all. But in the spring of my first grade year, specifically April 1, 1964, came the day that my life became hell. My dear oldest sister went into the hospital with pneumonia. I was scared and walked the ¾ mile to school as I always did, but this time I was in tears. I just knew that she was going to die.  I told this to my teacher when she asked why I was crying, and she said, “Oh, your sister will be okay.” Early in the afternoon,  one of my older sisters appeared in the classroom door and handed the teacher a note.  I stood up and walked to the door with her.

I remember very little of the next ten years. I know I went to school, I know I did well in my classes, I think I had some friends, but not many and the ones I did have were pretty tolerant, because I didn’t talk much. In second grade, my parents got called in for a meeting with my teacher because I avoided playing with the other kids at recess. Instead, I walked around and around the inside of the playground fence, alone and quiet. But parts of the day were okay – when time for music came, I felt better. I paid attention. I can almost remember those times.

When I got home, I did my chores, then I went into my bedroom.  I put on records and listened while I read books or comic books.  Or I watched TV, especially if variety shows were on. I loved the variety shows, because they had singers. I loved the singers. This is the part of my life that I remember best – being alone, reading, listening, watching. Anything that didn’t require me to move around, that didn’t require me to play. That didn’t require me to cooperate with others.

When I was nine, I remember that a new television show was about to start. I loved the idea that it would combine two of my favorite kinds of TV – sitcoms and music shows. The show, of course, was The Monkees.  More and more, the pieces of my life that I felt best were times when I was enjoying music. I sang at school, I was always in the school choirs, and I was told I had a pretty good voice. The rest of the time, though, I didn’t communicate well, I had few friends. The only extra-curricular things I did involved – okay, you get the idea.

Well, the idea saved me. In 10^th grade, my choir director encouraged me to get involved in the school musical. It wasn’t a standard Broadway type show – It was a show that was written by one of our history teachers about the history of the school – our 100 year old school.  I’ll get to that another time.