I am not a music person. My office is silent when I plan classes or
grade papers. I don’t plug my ears with earbuds when I walk. NPR plays
on my car radio. When I write, I prefer to hear the words in my head.
Should I write in a public place, the music must be loud enough to drown
ambient conversations. And though there are musicians I appreciate and
enjoy – Dylan and Cohen, Marley and Cliff, Muddy Waters and Louis
Armstrong – when I listen, I want to listen. I’m not fond of background
music. Our home is a quiet place.
In my teen years, I attempted to teach myself folk guitar. Didn’t we all? Wasn’t that the thing in the 1970s? I didn’t get far. I lacked both patience and a singing voice to accompany the guitar. “My bags are packed, I’m ready to go …” was such a disappointment to my own ears, I gave up.
Still, when my daughter began kindergarten, I was convinced of the importance of a music education, and Erin started piano lessons. Read more . . .
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