When I was young, Sunday mornings more often than not woke me with the gentle pops of the needle touching down on my mother’s big turntable. This is how I learned Sundays, and how they remain—this morning, I stretched under the covers, pulled on a sweater, and stopped at the stereo on my way to the coffeepot. Music first; the rest of the day after. Normal—mundane, even—but with its own soundtrack.
I have music on for housecleaning, music for cooking, music for studying. When the weather starts to warm and the birds are singing songs of their own, I turn the speakers toward the open windows and have music for yardwork. Before the age of the mp3, my carry-on luggage would have more CDs by volume than anything else. It may be prudent to carry an extra set of clothes, but I’d rather a few good tunes than clean underwear most days.
I’ve tried my hand at piano and flute, but stuck with neither. I’ve carted a 58-year-old guitar with me across three time zones, but can still only pick out a few chords. I took voice lessons as a child, and again in college, but generally only sing when just the dogs are around to listen. I swoon deeply and regularly over a voice or a guitar line or a well-executed crescendo, but I spend no more time making my own music than I do making my own socks. Both are something I use and take for granted every day, and I leave the crafting of each to folks that I have, for the most part, never met.
My rockstar dreams were doffed along with my last pair of Chuck Taylors. The dream is far simpler now, but worlds more compelling: I’m strumming on the porch while the fireflies emerge out of the dusk. Probably someone else wrote the song, but it’s my fingers, my voice making the sound.
Some other Sunday morning pops were accompanied with the smells of breakfast, Dan Fogelberg will forever bring memories of mom cooking breakfast.