I mentioned on the first day that when my family gets together, we sing. We also shoot guns (at targets), but that's a story for another day. At some point, the guitars and egg shakers come out and we sing our way through hymns, old songs my grandparents and great-grandparents taught all of us, new songs, and every song my cousin Matt or Uncle Tony has ever written. We all know them. And we know all the harmony and echo parts too. You'd think it would get old, but it just doesn't. It's always wonderful. Whether we're around a fire outside, or around a futon in the basement of my aunt and uncle's house, it doesn't matter. The songs are the same. The people are the same. That's what home feels like to me. I lived in the same house from the summer of 1987 until May of 2011, but that's not what I think of when I think of home. I think of music. But not just any music. Our music.
My mom's family is mostly all musical in some capacity. On my dad's side, dad sings and his brother plays every instrument. Just about. That's how it felt when I was growing up, at least. He mostly plays the fiddle, and he gave me a violin for Christmas one year. I took lessons for a couple of years, and I wish I had stuck with it. Just like those pesky piano lessons. I want to play everything now and I wish I had learned when I was younger.
My love of music came from both sides of my family, and I wouldn't trade it for anything in the world. If you find yourself with nothing, and everything seems lost, you still have a voice and a song in your heart. Regardless of the circumstances, music just always IS.
No comments:
Post a Comment