There are over 3.8 million breast cancer survivors in the United States.
A fair statement about an aspect of my behavior would be, “CJ sings.” I sing to the people whose company I enjoy at the cidery that I frequent, and the people that I encounter in my travels about my micro-hood. Not that my singing is remarkable, but song is likely to burst from my mouth at any time. At a recent reunion of former coworkers, my youngest daughter met a woman named Nancy. Nancy told my daughter that her father sings a song when meeting her. It begins, “She takes the winter and makes it summer…” I sing this song to everyone I know who is named “Nancy.” But “Nancy” is not the only name that calls forth song.
When I was young, I would sing in various churches with my brother and sister. My mother took her first three children to those churches, and when we were old enough, we would sing. I have previously recorded in this space my view that my sister has a voice that would challenge the greatest singers in the world; my song is a mere shadow of the joy that issues from her throat. But I still deliver that song, and in my youngest years, was unaware of the possibility of criticism. My eldest child chuckled when I told her of singing in the hallways of one place of employment; she knew that some of the lyrics were not socially acceptable, and that I was clueless about them.
And yet: I sang this for the joining of two people: “The Wind Beneath My Wings.” And for two other couples: “Ave Maria.” And for anyone who should ask, any song that I might know. I will fill my lungs with air and try to deliver a song. When it snows and I go into the street, I sing to my neighbors “Let It Snow.” My youngest granddaughter goes with me into the rain, where we jump into and out of puddles, with me bellowing “Singing In The Rain.” I’m also partial to “The Donkey Serenade” from the 1937 film “The Firefly.” I’m not sure when I first heard it – probably when I was a kid – but I lean into “there’s a song in the air, but the fair senorita doesn’t seem to care…” Then, I sing to the mule, braying “eyawww” as Mario Lanza does. When my friend Paula (a co-owner of this publication) plays CDs in her car, she plays them endlessly; one CD will stay in her player for weeks. When I gave her a CD of Eva Cassidy’s music, I would sing along with it, and Paula would lower the volume on the machine so that the man’s voice was audible.
Some songs have memories attached to them that make it difficult for me to sing. Though I had no problem when I sang “The Wind Beneath My Wings” at a co-worker’s wedding, I can no longer bring forth that song without crying. It reminds me of my dead brother, who walked in my shadow and put the wind beneath my wings. And Eva Cassidy’s “Anniversary Song” makes me think of my friend, whose husband I sat with as he lay dying. “Today has been a special day, an anniversary,” Eva sings. She continues “I never thought I’d get this old dear, never had a reason to last so long…” When I get to that part, I start to break down, thinking of my friend who has missed nine anniversaries with her husband, who died in 2012. But still, I struggle to the end of the song:
“I love you, and goodnight.”
cjon3acd@att.net