Malinda, my longtime loyal musician friend  finally persuaded me to leave my isolation and venture out to some musical activity called open mike, where just anyone can get up and sing a couple songs.  They didn’t have to be famous or be in some kind of group.  

When I saw how simple the performances were I began to come back to life, knowing at that moment, I could and would get up there in front of other participants the next time.  Singing someone else’s song was difficult for me.  It was clear in my head,  I could even hear the artist’s voice.  What came out was passable, but nothing like it had sounded in my head or on a CD.

One singer sang pieces he’d written, and they sounded great, so I decided to test my talent.  When I sang my first song, they loved it. This inspired me to compose more.  Every month I had another song.  

My compositions grew increasingly bizarre but very good.  It got to the point, if I didn’t have a new song, people were even a little disappointed. I wrote about life with great metaphors. I was inspired to write a new one when Malinda’s husband told me I needed a backflow valve for the sump pump in my cellar.  This all tied in when I heard a friend say he couldn’t go back to his old town because his ex was there, and she didn’t want to ever see him.

    Our Past 

Our past is like the sump pump buried in the cellar of our mind 

We turn on the switch to make it all go away 

We feel a sense of relief as the last of it disappears  

We walk up the steps into the daylight to begin again 

Only to hear a gurgle  A terrible gurgle   A deafening gurgle 

We don't want to hear  We don't want to see  We don't want to know 

That everything we had worked for  Everything  worked against   

Everything we had  worked to get rid of   Everything we thought was gone 

Was back   It was  all  back  

But we should remember that forgetting our past is like a sump pump 

Without a back flow valve to make sure it all stays away 

There must be a place to hide it in some dark corner 

But water in the cellar is not good  

 No amount of water a the cellar is ever good  

It erodes away  It eats away at the foundation 

Everything will crack, crumble and collapse 

So all who would heed this warning    waste not a day nor a moment  

Rush out  to get your sump back flow valve today 

********************************

Scruffles 

My confidence was greatly and excitedly challenged when one of the group asked me in front of everyone to write a song.  I thought he must have been talking to someone else.  What made him think I could write a song about someone who’d had a pet die?  Knowing I couldn’t write an entirely sad one, I inserted my surprise humor into it: 

 Midnight Blues 

My heart is full of midnight  I'm as blue as I can be 

For my baby kitty's  gone and left me   My heart is full of midnight   

That's all that I can say  The sun just ain't shinin' on me today 

Where's my friend when I need him warnin' me a spider's comin' down  

on my head  He's no longer sittin' by me   He's cold  and dead 

He was the color of midnight and so is my heart 

What will I do without him, How can we be apart 

He used to lay on my feet at the end of the bed 

He won't be warmin' nothin' now  He's cold instead    My heart is full of  

midnight  And so empty too Without my baby kitty what will I do 

His bowl sits so empty on the kitchen floor 

I'm sure I hear him callin' to come in the door 

His little catnip mouse sits on the window sill  

Just like my baby kitty who lies so deathly still  

I've no one to talk to about the troubles of the day 

My only baby kitty has up and gone away 

He won't be puttin his clawless paws on these tears comin' down my face 

He won't be sittin' on the couch in his favorite place  

My heart is full of midnight  as I wait for him to come 'round 

I shake my head in despair and hear not a sound 

His brush sits on the counter I haven't the heart to throw it away  

And there's the ball I'd take out for him to run and  jump and play 

He'd jump and twist about and bite at the garden hose 

Suddenly stops all that, and lies in the grass to doze 

I took him to the vet's for his regular checkup but I never 

thought  I'd hear the Doc call and say your baby kitty's checked out forever 

My heart is full of midnight  I'm as blue as I can be 

For my baby kitty's  gone and left me   My heart is full of midnight   

That's all that I can say  The sun just ain't shinin' on me today 

Sadly, I only had to change the last two stanzas when my dear sweet Scruffles signed up for the Rainbow Bridge. 

Scruffles had a sweet way to say yes to me, letting me know that yes, he did want to go outside, and yes he did want a snack, by opening and closing his mouth. The most heart-wrenching yes was when he was in my arms at the vets, preparing for his journey to the Rainbow Bridge. 

The compassionate vet had given him his first tranquilizing shot. I was having doubts everyone has about whether I was doing the right thing. I decided to ask him, do you want to go to the Rainbow Bridge?  He looked up at me and opened and closed his mouth. I sobbed wracking sobs. 

All along Melinda was encouraging me, but I wanted Melinda who had written poems long before this to enjoy the same feeling of pride.  It seemed simple to me to imagine Melinda's poems put to music, or for Malinda to just write some new ones for songs.  

The reality of this idea seemed too remote an endeavor for Malinda, however with gentle coaxing ,she finally wrote something which of course was excellent.  Malinda also seemed to get caught up in the thrill of having others applaud her composition and performance.  I was thrilled for her.

                                                                **********

Music has always been an important part of my life.  A 45, a 7-inch vinyl disc, played one song for about 4 to 6 minutes in the 1950s.

I had to have my music with me when we were tenting overnight in the front yard. My small navy blue 1950s,record player entertained us with one of my many 45’s, a 7-inch vinyl disc.

Each disc had to be replaced with another every four minutes, to sustain our musical ambiance.  Four short minutes was the amount of time my friends, Timmy and Trudy, my brother Nike and I had for building up our courage against a potential zapping experience.”  

When the buzz came through the cloth speaker on the record player, the next chosen brave individual was alerted there would be a pretty good-sized number of volts passing through the extension cord lying in the night, dew-damp grass. 

Even less electrical insulation was provided by a metal TV tray, upon which the record player sat. We will revisit the subject of the TV tray at a future time.

We knew if we didn’t let go of the needle arm real fast, that record player was going to be the conductor of a great surge of electric energy. It became an adrenaline-rushing game for us as we took turns risking getting zapped and learning what voltage felt like as it surged through our bodies.