It sounded like a flock of dying cats. Whining, howling, singing voices, accompanied by out-of-tune guitars and laughter.
It was marvelous.
My neighbor. His family was in town for the holiday weekend. While their grill smoked, they sat on the porch working up a good beer-glow, singing.
I sat outside, my ear cocked toward them.
They sang tunes like: “Uncloudy Day,” or, “Peace in the Valley.” And when they got to “I Come To The Garden,” somebody's wife joined in and put them all
to shame. She knew every verse.
I remember my grandaddy saying once, “Record players stole common folks' voices."
As a five-year-old, all I could do was reflect on this, and answer, "Did you know butterflies can taste with their feet?"
Which is true.
He ignored me and went on, "Boy, there was a time when the only way to hear a song was to watch a man…