I talked to one of my very good friends yesterday for the first time in a few years.  Circumstances and life had managed to squeeze between us.  I had been thinking about her so much the past few months.  Wondering how she and her hubs were doing and knowing that I should pick up the phone to reconnect.

She beat me to it.

I was scheduled to go in late for work yesterday.  I had an hour or so before I had to leave when the phone rang.  I looked at the caller i.d. and could not believe who it was.  My heart jumped a little and I smiled.   I answered and we talked until the moment I had to walk out for work.  It was as if not a day had gone by since the last time we talked.  We picked up right where we left off.  True friendships never die.

Her hubby is a total music guru.  Music pumps through his veins.  He was born of parents who had it in their soul and were “in the biz”…so to say.   He is artistic and soulful.  I connect with him on this level.  Passion for music is a common bond that he and I share.

I grew up in your typical 60’s/70’s colonial style home.  It was decorated n Harvest Gold and Avocado green hues!  It had a dining room which was connected to the kitchen –  which in turn, led to a living room.

Back then living rooms were large.  The largest room in the home.  And they were used.  Not just for holidays, but year round.  When company came over.  To sit in after supper.  For privacy when boyfriends came over.  A place to be when listening to or playing music.

My love for music started at a young age.  It was always the backdrop in my home.  My parents had an old, wooden consul stereo that stood in the corner of our dining room.  It looked like a piece of furniture.  Like a dresser, sort of.  The top lifted up and you’d place the album onto a turntable.  The speakers were built into the front of it.

Back then you’d spin vinyl records.  33’s.   They were large.  And thin.  And came in cool looking album covers with a cool picture on the front.  Usually a picture of the artist who had recorded the songs.  Or a band.  Or some creative image relating to the album title.

My parents had loads of these.  I loved those albums.  My sisters and I would flip through them and look at the covers.  Perry Como, Bing Crosby, Dinah Shore, Tommy Dorsey, Peggy Lee, Doris Day.  And of course, Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin.

My mom owned one from Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass.  It had a picture of a girl in a wedding dress made out of whipped cream on the cover. His music was loud and brassy and jazzy.  I Loved it.

Often, after supper, my dad would disappear into the living room to listen to his music.  He especially loved the 40’s pre and post war genre’s.  The haunting melodies telling a tale of someone shipping off to some war and someone being left behind to wait.

He had lots of records.  He saved them all.  In the evenings, you could find him stooping over the vinyls – choosing which to play.  He’d put it on the stereo and his face would light up.  He knew all the words by heart.  And, he’d sing them.  Enthusiastically.  Usually with his hand over his heart.  Putting on a big show for us girls.

During my teens,  my weekends would be filled with trips to the record store.  They were once a semi-hangout for teenagers, a place to escape parents, burn allowances and absorb the latest trends in fashion as well as music.

You’d walk in – loud music playing over the store system.  The end caps smartly displayed the new album releases.  The employees always had the allure of being cool and hip ~ veritable music authority’s on all genre’s of music.

I loved those stores – the scent of plastic wrap & laminated cardboard, the posters hanging from the rafters, the sounds and the people.  I never got tired of the endless browsing.

These days?  If you re lucky enough to find a record store,  know that it is fast becoming a temple of nostalgia for shoppers old enough to remember “Frampton Comes Alive!’’

I love how music can take you back in time instantly to a moment, or a place, or even a person. No matter what else has changed in you or the world, that one song stays the same, just like that moment.

I have come to believe that there are two kinds of people in this world.  Those who are moved by music ~ and those who are not.  I’m lucky enough to have inherited a great passion for music – probably from my Dad.  Or, maybe I was born with it in my soul.  I tend to bond more closely with friends who also have a passion for music.  There is a truth behind your actions and emotions when surrounded by the music you love.

My dad was moved by music.  I am moved by music.   It is a wonderful and most treasured gift that I will never take for granted.