Name That Tune

Piano

BY D. H. LAWRENCE

Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me; 

Taking me back down the vista of years, till I see 

A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the tingling strings 

And pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who smiles as she sings. 

In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song 

Betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong 

To the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outside 

And hymns in the cosy parlour, the tinkling piano our guide. 

So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamour 

With the great black piano appassionato. The glamour 

Of childish days is upon me, my manhood is cast 

Down in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past. 

A room full of 60 to 70ish women who gather to play cards on Fridays.chatted and nibbled on the goodies assembled. 

It had been a while since we'd gotten together. The hurricane had put a dent in schedules, houses, and priorities. But it was high time we got back to cards and we were ready.

Usually the TV is tuned to some generic music playlist station from the cable stations. Sometimes Alexa plays Pandora or Spotify. How we listen to music has all changed so much since I started collecting albums. So much easier to let some someone else do the algorithms 
Last night Carole queued up the tunes by modern methods. This time it was whole albums of some of my favorite 70s artists -unshuffled just the way I once knew them.

So we played, ate, talked, laughed, forgot whose turn it was,.At least one of us was too hot. That's pretty much how it goes every time. The music usually stays in the background. 
In spite of every effort I could muster, I quietly sang along with Joni Mitchell,

and crooned with Judy Collins. In that room, I was arranging cards in suits and sets. In my head, I was brooding and sketching in my dorm room; huddled in someone's apartment listening to music; electrified at the concert.adventures.

The power music has to put us back into precise places and moods is remarkable. I always thought smell was the most nostalgic of the senses. But the older I get, and the uglier the news, the more I lean on music to put my mind in the place it needs to be. 

I can walk the beach with meditative 
New Age instrumentals, or charge thru grass cutting on high blast with a little

 Fleetwood Mac

or Rolling Stones. 



I have even turned around a whiny grandson moment with just my phone and a recording of "You Can't Always Get What You Want".

 Even now if he starts to whine, I can start to sing it and he laughs.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jv9sDn_2XkI

As the future shortens, and each moment becomes more precious, music seems to be able to tie little pieces of my life into larger spans. Sometimes it is nice to be able look back, even without weeping for the past. Sometimes it is nice to have it to hold on to as I move forward. Wherever there is a room full of cheerful women my age, with Joni Mitchell playing in the background, I know I am grounded; I am home.

Music when Soft Voices Die (To --)

BY PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY

Music, when soft voices die, 

Vibrates in the memory— 

Odours, when sweet violets sicken, 

Live within the sense they quicken. 

Rose leaves, when the rose is dead, 

Are heaped for the belovèd's bed; 

And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone, 

Love itself shall slumber on.