I have a great idea for older folks who, like me, can’t sing a lick.
I have this little hike I go on that gets me away from everybody. Up there, rising above the sagebrush, is a big flat rock about three feet off the ground. One day, while sitting on the rock, I had this great urge to burst out into song. I looked around, took a deep breath and began to shout out my mother’s favorite song, “Oh, Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling…”
It sounded good – too good. Almost like it wasn’t coming from me but from the rock. I continued to bellow, “From glen to glen and down the mountainside…” I wasn’t sure of the words, but I couldn’t stop. “The summer’s here and the flowers are growing big…” A jackrabbit darted for cover, but I didn’t care. I’m a rock star.
Since this first discovery I have secretly extended my repertoire to include “Yesterday” (Beatles) and “Candle in the Wind” (Elton John).
So now I have a little musical haven of my own where “I’ve Gotta Be Me” (Sammy Davis Jr.) and no one thinks “I’m Crazy” (Patsy Cline).