Loud and Proud

I love music. Almost any type of music. I love it. There is always music playing at our house. And there is often dancing.

Growing up I was blessed with parents who love music just as much as me. I remember getting yelled at for dancing too rambunctiously and making my mother's John Denver records skip. She knew all the words to every song and one time told me,

"There is a John Denver song for anything you're feeling."

After only a few decades, he sure has been good at getting me through some tough emotions.

My father and I would sing till we were hoarse on road trips. (Dustin, I think this is where I became fascinated with the repeat feature. Twelve times in a row is not enough.) Everything from pounding on the roof to some Shania Twain, hitting the high notes with Twila Paris, or head bobbing to some Point of Grace. I remember a lot of Barry Mannilow in there too while filling up the gas tank at 88 cents a gallon. (Can I write in the gas book?!)

I thank my father for my appreciation of classical music. The other day I was listening to our entire library on shuffle. After three songs I was in tears while cleaning the kitchen. Music is powerful. It reminds me of some amazing times. And no one can say no to a good trombone chorus.

We have lost something with the invention of the iPod. In Japan, it is very rude if your phone makes a peep. Even the concussive vibrating noise of the iPhone is enough to get some disgruntled looks. While I believe there is a time and place for earbuds and private listening, it shouldn't be all the time.

So pound the roof and shake the walls. Who cares if the neighbors call us rednecks? I want to feel music all around me.