My parents tried to give me music when I was a kid. They bought a secondhand guitar and drove me to lessons each week.
But the lessons didn’t take. Maybe it was a lack of self-discipline. Or we could blame my guitar teachers, who kept moving out of town after teaching me a lesson or two. How could I not take that personally?
To be fair, I don’t have a good ear. They said Granny could hear a note and repeat it even though she never had formal training.
Music might be in my blood, but it’s not in my ear. Granny’s gifts went to someone else.
In sixth grade, we gathered for a music test. The band teacher played tones and rhythms, and we were supposed to mark which was higher, lower, faster and slower.
I don’t even have to close my eyes to travel through decades to see that paper awash in red ink.
The band wasn’t for me, so I joined the choir and had a surprisingly successful, though short-lived, run.
End-of-the-year awards were reserved for eighth-graders, but I was in seventh when I won a certificate for “Most Diligence in Choir.”
I’d earned it by sitting up straight and putting on my “inner smile” whenever Mrs. Gandy told us.
But you’ll notice the award wasn’t for “Best Singing Voice” or “Person Most Likely to Be on Key.”
Nope, that wasn’t me.
While I contributed under Mrs. Gandy’s watchful eye, I managed only one year with the high school choir. They created an A choir and a B choir. I was assigned to the Z choir, and that was the end of my musical training.
On the plus side, I still have music in my life. My daughter plays flute, and my son plays saxophone, so they’ve filled with house with melody and rhythm over the years.
In addition, I’ve got enough music on my iPhone to make 99.9 percent of all the kings ever born jealous.
My college roommate, Jeff, was my gateway. He found new music, bought it and shared it, so I was exposed to all kinds of stuff. (The Ramones, anybody?)
I owned a small number of albums and CDs as well as a bunch of tapes that I wore out in my car. But it wasn’t until graduation, when Jeff took his music with him, that I started seriously building my collection.
To this day, our hall closet contains thick black CD books. We threw away most of the cases to save space.
The CDS mostly sit in their slots because I’ve downloaded them onto my computer and transferred them to my phone. I’ve got thousands of hours of listening pleasure at the ready every day of the week as long as my phone is charged.
My daughter and her friend mock me for actually owning music. They’re renters with Spotify accounts.
They have a solid point. I’ve eased up on buying music when it’s digitally available in so many ways.
But I was walking the dog and put on a favorite by pianist George Winston. It was a wet, cold night, but I played his “Summer” album.
It used to be my go-to for writing. It blocked out the noise and didn’t have words to distract me.
I’ve played it so much that it’s carved permanent grooves into my brain. While bopping to every note, I realized that I might not have music, but I positively overflow with music appreciation.
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