Growing Up Musical

I do not remember a time in my life when music wasn't a part of it. My father was a singer and musician. My grandmother was an opera singer. My mother played piano. Growing up, Crow and I were always involved in something musical. While it never felt forced, I remember looking at Daddy at one point in my late teens and knowing it had been intentional that we had grown up musical.


For ten or so months out of the year, the music that floated through and around the house was usually classical and showtunes, with some 1970s protest folk thrown in for good measure. But from the Friday after Thanksgiving to shortly after Epiphany, it was all Christmas music, all the time. The Canadian Brass. The Philadelphia Brass. The Kingston Trio. Later, Manheim Steamroller and George Winston were added into the mix. And, of course, Handel's Messiah.


After my dad died, we were quieter for a while, but I knew I was healing when music started making its way back into my world. In light of all this, we're going to try something: musical posts. Just for the season. If I actually remember to do it everyday.


We'll start here because, while Daddy had already died by the time flash mobs came into being, I think he would've approved. Especially of this one.


Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you an eggnog latte.