THE SOUNDTRACK OF YOUR LIFE

I don't know the origin of that phrase--in a quick rummage on the Internet I discovered it's the title of a song recorded in 2006, and has become a school assignment, a therapy routine, and I don't know what all. It swam into my view a few years ago in a book on writing by the late Louise de Salvo. She suggested many ways of getting into writing the text of memoir--she taught writing classes at Hunter College in New York City--and one of the ways was to explore the soundtrack of one's life.

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At this moment, late on a Wednesday afternoon in May, the soundtrack includes going-home traffic; neighbors pounding things (who knows what) in their yards; lawnmowers finally getting a chance to do something about the overgrown grass (daily rain makes it grow, did you know that?); bird song, dog song . . . .

To put all those outdoor sounds in their place, I surfed YouTube for some vocals I wanted to hear. Here's a sample of what I added to the above mix:

   --Ella Fitzgerald, singing "Summertime" with Louis Armstrong
   --Ella alone, in a 7+-minute serenade of "These Foolish Things"
   --Julie Andrews and Richard Burton in duet: "What Do the Simple
        Folk Do?" from Camelot
   --Eva Cassidy, playing her guitar and singing "I Know You by Heart"

That's today's soundtrack.

Going back a few decades, the daily soundtrack was often like this:

   --doors banging, screens slapping shut
   --dogs barking
   --kids yelling--at each other, at the dog, at their friends
   --TV shows playing in another room
   --phone ringing, doorbell shrilling
   --piano practice by the kid scheduled for a lesson the next day
   --neighbors calling their kids for supper

In those long-ago days, I could disappear inside a library book. Funny thing, though, a certain screech of pain could haul me back from mysterious Cornwall into the Indiana present day to whichever kid needed first aid.

A decade or so before the door banging/dog barking/kids yelling, my life sounded softer, on a college campus where buildings were old, trees were mature and wonderfully shady. Going from class to class required walking across expanses of well-mown grass. In those days, it was always sunny, skies were blue, flowers bloomed in tended gardens . . . clearly it was always Camelot in those days.

Of course it wasn't, really. There must have been rain sometimes. But I don't remember rain. Or icy paths, or snow that kept us from getting to class. Selective memory can be such a blessing.

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Nowadays, I have various sources of music in my life--in my vehicle an Oscar Peterson jazz piano CD that I've listened to for months and still love; and on Sundays, the church music for services--which I practice at home on a Conn organ. The CD seldom changes, though I have several of Oscar's recordings. The Sunday music changes weekly--different service music, different hymns. Another source is either YouTube or something from my CD library.

My neighborhood soundtrack is louder in summer--everyone's outside: folks working in the yard, on their vehicles, disciplining the dogs; when they have visitors, there's bonhomie to spare. My lawn mowing team (the big guy and two younger ones) makes quick work of my lawn--they look like a tag-team out there. 

We still have a good supply of dogs in the neighborhood, and they do love to greet each other and any human they catch sight of.

Indoors, where you'll find me most of the time, there's the whirr of the sewing machine, the tick-tick of the iron heating up or cooling down, the voices of a DVD that keeps me company while I sew. There's an occasional phone ringing, but my landline seems dedicated to cold calls from any state in the union, so I mostly turn the ringer off--if I can't hear it, it won't irritate me. Besides, I have caller ID to help me sort the wheat from the chaff. The cell phone has its own system--name of caller pops up--somebody I know, I'll answer.

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Nighttime, though, everyone settles down for sleep. Phone ringers set to OFF. No noisy traffic, no rowdy folks. Amazing, the quiet. The soundtrack dials back to low volume.

Blessings to you, this week.