I love music. And, from an early age I have loved to sing. My houses have always resounded with music. Long before I was thought of, Mum and Dad sang in the church choir. In fact, that was where they met and fell in love - Dad sending sign-messages to Mum from the men's choir stalls across to the women's choir stalls in St Mathews - "I-l-o-v-e-y-o-u".
Although they were very careful with money, I think I can just remember when my parents bought a turntable and we had a large collection of LPs and children's story records which we played often, and over and over again. In our first house, a cosy little white stucco affair just outside the village boundary, and then later in the little cottage in Lindsay Street, I remember listening to the following:
The Flower Drum Song
Porgy and Bess
The Pirates of Penzance
The Sound of Music
Olivet to Calvary
Fiddler of the Roof
West Side Story
The King and I
Victor Borge's 'Caught in the Act'
Danny Kaye's 'Hans Christian Andersen'
My Fair Lady
Peter, Paul and Mary
Cliff Richard's 'Summer Holiday'
The Red Army Ensemble
Holst's 'The Planet Suite'
Grofé's 'The Grand Canyon Suite'
The Four Seasons
The Tucson Arizona Boys' Choir
Grieg's 'Peer Gynt'
and my three favourites: Prokofiev's 'Peter and the Wolf', Handel's 'Messiah' and 'Carmen Jones'.
I wrote a poem about singing the other day. In magnets (very limited words), on my fridge.
In case you can't read it, here it is:
On praise by us
Make your splendid sonata.
Eddy to whirlpool cascade,
Swirling waterfall of choir and fever of harp.
The tumbling lyrical tempest!
That voice shall inspire Neptune
Under the turquoise green ocean.