Sing Me A Song

The list he put together was painful, lining me up and shooting me straight at middle aged suburban motherhood when I was just barely 30. He started with Michael Bolton, and then it got really bad, Celine Dion, Rod Stewart. We were sitting in his car, listening to his edgy Nebraska music, which caused me angst and occasional pain, whereas Celine and Rod would put me to sleep, the latter preferable as it was late and I was ready to go home. Jack thought he knew me so well, smug so early in our relationship.

Several years ago he bought me a Barry Manilow CD for my birthday. "Barry Manilow, come on", but I loved it, and I knew all the words. There is no such discovery when John Denver sings and no hiding the love, John Denver is the music of my childhood, of summers spent in Colorado listening to him sing of poems and prayers and promises while breathing in the crisp evening air tainted with smoldering logs on the fireplace next door. Perhaps I can hide my Barry love but I'm all out when it comes to John Denver.

But in high school, when everyone else was listening to Prince and Madonna and Michael Jackson, my heart belonged to the Piano Man,

A bottle of red, a bottle of white, perhaps a bottle of rose tonight.

I'll meet you anywhere you want, in our Italian restaurant.

He sang that and an amazing list of others, but of course there was so much more, including my favorite love song, that missed the cut. Elton John was there also, they sang together, they sang apart, and I sang along, every single song, my middle aged housewife self, serenading my husband, and 40,000 others at Wrigley Field last week.

Two years ago I was a purist, music at Wrigley Field? Please no, Wrigley Field is for baseball. No longer do I stand on antiquated baseball principle; bring on the music, it was a magical night.