Thursday, September 20, 2012

Song Birds

Small pleasures. In this world of transience, I knew about chocolate, coffee, cheese. The benefits thereof are  being found out by science: polyphenols and such. But producing music using one's own epiglottis and uvula? I'm convinced it's medicinal.

Holding forth like a canary or, operatically, like a lady with a helmet on, I sing to my children. Snippets, scraps from the American songbook, showtunes, specifically from my 8th grade operetta South Pacific in which I played the non-speaking role of Sailor No. 5 which I nailed. "Some Enchanted Evening."

Some Ella, the Fireside Book of Folksongs including "What Shall We Do With The Drunken Sailor," a cautionary tale of drink and pirates. I have no pitch and no talent save enthusiasm.

It's whistling in the dark, giving the finger to the eventual end, and I'm going to keep on doing it. Covering my ears and singing la la la, canary in the coal mine,
Oh My Darlin,' Clementine."

1 comment:

  1. Sing it, sister! I have the world's worst singing voice, but I don't let that stop me at home, in the car, or even in public if there are enough voices to cover mine. And your children will treasure the memories.

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