Growing Pains

Before I can complete today's post, there are two things you need to know:

1. I have a beautiful and talented daughter who is musically inclined. She has hummed and sung her way through life, filling our home with beautiful music.

2. I have a darling husband who is struggling with his beautiful and talented daughter growing into a beautiful and talented young woman.

Okay. With that in mind, I give you the laugh of the day.

This morning, I was in my room, painting yet another set of doors. Jess was the only other person home, and she would wander in out of my room, and we'd have short little conversations. At one point, she came in singing "I'll Make a Man Out of You" from the movie Mulan.

Jess: "Did you hear what Dad said to me about that song the other day?"

Me: "No."

Jess: "He said it was 'inappropriate.'"

Me (incredulous): "What? Why?"

Jess: "He said I shouldn't be singing a song like that. So I told him that it's a song from a Disney movie and Donny Osmond sings it. I said it was a song about preparing men to go to war, and if Donny Osmond can sing it, then it's probably okay for me to sing it."

Me: "And what did he say to that?"

Jess: "He said, 'OH! I thought it was a song about a young girl making a man out of a boy!"

Need.
I.
Say.
More?

Music To My Ears

When I was a teenager, my dad and I installed a pretty nice stereo into my piece-of-junk car. I listened to it with the volume cranked to the max. It distracted me from the fact that I was driving a plank on wheels. I'm sure everyone could hear me coming a mile away.

When my daughter came along, I turned the volume down, wanting to protect her tiny ears. As the kids got older, they dictated what we listened to and at what volume (not loud). Last summer, the CD player in my car gave up the ghost. Living way up here in the mountains has its advantages, but good radio reception isn't one of them; so I became an A.M. talk-radio kind of person. Fortunately, I have a short commute.

All of this became a habit and I got to the point where I was driving in silence because well, A.M. radio sucks. Finally, I dug out the old iPod, added the F.M. tuner, and voila: I am back in business. The last few times I've been in my car, the volume is up and the music is good.

Sometimes, all it takes is a little Erasure* to liven up the icy drive to work.



*Erasure: you love 'em and you know it.

Better Than McCartney

Last summer, the big news around these parts was when Sir Paul came to town. The fabbest of the four, in my book.

Last week, a new hire at my husband's company came to town to shadow him around for a few days. We took her to dinner and drove her around Park City on the eve of Sundance. I asked her if she'd ever been to Utah before, and she said (in her very cool-sounding South African accent) "Once; I came last summer to see McCartney, but then I flew back home the next morning." She then went on for several long minutes, gushing over his performance. At the age of sixty, she has been a life-long fan.

Through the course of the week, she admitted that she had always loved listening to the Mormon Tabernacle Choir as a young girl in South Africa. She said it had always been a dream of hers to see them perform live. Being the great guy my hubby is, he found a way to make it happen. Though she wouldn't be here for their weekly Sunday performance, she would be here for their weekly Thursday night open rehearsal. So between work and family duties, not to mention looking in on his 93-year-old grandmother who recently took a spill, he managed to get Lynn to the tabernacle on Thursday night. He said her face lit up the second they walked in; and when they walked out, she said (in her very cool-sounding South African accent) "That was better than McCartney!"

Maybe it's because I'm a Mormon and the choir is practically in my back yard, but it makes me wonder, is there anything on my bucket list that would make someone else say, "Oh that's easy. What are you doing on Thursday?" Because if you've got any connections to anyone working on the next Star Trek movie, it just so happens that I'm free on Thursday.

The Brain of a 'Tween

Warning: celebrity gossip to follow. I really couldn't care less about celebrity gossip, but I promise this is going to be good.

So we've established that I'm a John Mayer fan. He's got the chops, but he's what I like to call a "mimbo." You know, male bimbo. His song, "Half of My Heart," to which Taylor Swift adds some harmony, is up for a grammy.

Yesterday, my sister called to ask me if I'd heard the song "Dear John" by Taylor Swift. She told me it has been rumored that the song is basically for Mr. Mayer, in retaliation for a brief relationship gone wrong.

When I got home, I asked my 11-year-old daughter to grab her Taylor Swift CD and play me the song. Let me tell you, this kid idolizes Taylor Swift. She plays her music, wears her beret, and sings her songs in the shower. So she plays me the song. Then she asks why I wanted to hear it. I tell her it's because the song is supposed to be about John Mayer.

Her reaction: "Oooooo, busted! I'd be mad if I was her too! She sang on one of his songs and she only got to sing the same six words over and over!"

Oh, the innocence. I'm locking this kid in a tower.

Coincidence?

Yet another random thought:

For as long as I can remember, whenever I purchase/download/pirate a new CD, it's pretty much a given that my favorite song on the CD will be either track #7 or track #9. My second favorite will be the other one. Do you think the music industry does this to me on purpose?

By the way, after a month of Christmas music, I'm currently listening to John Mayer's new album, Battle Studies. All I can say is it's good bath music.

Chicken Soup Month

Because it's December and we all love those feel-good stories, I thought I might try my hand at sharing a few good ones here and there throughout the month.

This story was told to me several years ago, by my father-in-law. He is an active member of the Rotary Club in Salt Lake City. This particular club sponsors a local inner-city elementary school, where most students are minorities, many of them refugees. These children have very little and so the Rotarians help by providing books, dictionaries, and other school supplies. One summer, the school's music teacher came to the Rotarians, asking for help to purchase violins for each and every student. This was no small undertaking, but he wanted to require that all students in the school learn to play the violin. He gave many reasons for such a request; it would help improve their academic achievement, it would give them exposure to the arts that they might not otherwise have... the list went on.

So the Rotarians, doing what they do best, dug deep into their pockets and managed to provide the school with violins for each and every student. The months went by and the Rotarians had moved on to other affairs, having somewhat forgotten about their generous donation. That is until the music teacher came back and asked if the students could perform a song for them at their December meeting. He promised that Michael Ballam, a well-known opera singer and Utah native would also be a part of the performance. The Rotarians were delighted and the date was set.

My father-in-law explained it something like this: "Michael Ballam sat at a piano at the front of the room. The students were standing between the various chairs and tables throughout the rest of the room with their violins. Michael Ballam began to play and sing 'O Holy Night.' The children accompanied him. There was a little girl, about nine years old, standing right next to my table. When I looked at her she had tears streaming down her cheeks as she played her violin. Then I looked around the room at the other children and all of them had tears as they played that beautiful song. By the time the song was over, we all had tears streaming down our faces."

This is a story that I have remembered for years. Can you imagine the impact it had on those kids? To know that not only were they not forgotten, but that they were loved. To have a chance to play a beautiful song with a professional musician; to hear the words and feel the message of that song: that is the magic of music.