Melodious Wrap

Outside it's raining. Inside the house, I'm thirteen again. Lost in a morass of memories, I'm recollecting adolescent years when I flopped across my bed and immersed myself in music emanating from either WNAT or WMIS. Each session introduces a new singer or group whose talent is instantly evident. I could not know then that more than half a century later, I'd still be listening and appreciating these sounds.

Recordings from the 50s are swirling around the living room. My technologically expert husband has devised a way to bring Sirius Radio to his laptop. He's attached a couple of speakers to enhance the soothing sounds.




Inventively, Henry's found a solution to the wrapping blues. The room teems with ribbon, gift bags, rolls of wrap, and tissue both plain and adorned. Presents are askew and I soon realize that I don't quite remember collecting all these gifts.








My mood changes immediately. In a few minutes, I'm dancing around the table, tossing tissue in bags, singing familiar lyrics. True, I first heard these songs fifty plus years ago. I'll remember the words forever. Maybe part of me remains eternally thirteen.



I should mention that my singing is not something anyone wants to hear. Fortunately, I'm wrapping alone. As a child, my daughter used to admonish me whenever she caught me humming. She'd say in her sternest little voice, "Stop humming, Mom." I always did, though reluctantly. I really enjoy singing and am seriously considering accepting an invitatiion from the same once critical daughter to join her at Ladies Rock Camp next year.

My son, even more direct, once asked, "Were you born tone deaf or did it happen after that?" How does one answer such a question? I believe I told him that I was the only person I knew who had actually been asked to leave the church choir. Not a proud moment. I admit that when my musically gifted husband and I are driving and a tune from the 50s or 60s is playing, I sing along. Very badly.

Unwrapped gifts are disappearing. The dancing must be a tonic. My silly self is showing and no one is watching. Giddily, I'm accompanying Gary "U.S." Bonds as he wails about "New Orleans." Little Richard provides the follow-up with his immortal "Long Tall Sally." I chuckle as I recall the evening we took our very disinclined daughter to see this icon. She loathed him and worse. To this date, she laments the concert. We think she'll relent, maybe decades from now. Or maybe never.

Music is magic. I've found the antidote to holiday wrapping procrastination. Shall I share the recipe?