Reggae in Heaven

Doesn’t some music just say home to you?

Now, don’t laugh…but Reggae always speaks soothingly of home to me. Spending my summers in Bimini meant that I absorbed the music and rhythms of those around me.

Whenever I hear some of my favorites, I am instantly transported. I think of The Lady Up On The Hill who made the Johnny cakes and Bimini Bread on the other side of the island, or of the dances done at Brother Ozzie’s downtown bar to “Come Back MaryAnn”, or the radio tuned to reggae as the islanders cracked open the newly fished conchs for all of the tourists.

The music was everywhere. It flooded my soul almost as much as the summer sunshine did.

Reggae makes me relish those innocent summers when I played with the dozens of stray puppies without worry for where they would end up.  I miss doing the ring toss in Brown’s Bar downstairs from the hotel, without concern for anything other than how much candy we’d be overloaded with for all of our wins.  I fondly remember dancing with the Islanders, whose only aim was to teach a young lady how to keep time and rhythm to the flow of the island music.

To this day, put some Bob Marley on and I am instantly taken back to that time and place where I was free from stereotypes and ran the island with all of the other children that called Bimini “home”. That music reminds me that there was a time when there were no adult worries beyond what to rustle up for dinner amongst the things that were freshly caught in the waters that day.

Yup. I’m pretty sure there will be Reggae in Heaven.

Three little birds told me so.

Yes indeedy.


What music takes you back?

Tuning In To His Song




Cringing and grimacing are often seen, along with some snickering thrown in for good measure, whenever I sing.  I can’t carry a tune to save my life.  Thankfully, I’ve never had to.

That’s why I find it so laughable that the man I call “husband” has such an amazing voice.

He doesn’t think he does, but, oh, how he can sing.  Not in a you-should-go-out-and-start-a-band kind of way.  No, no.  I’m talking about the I’m-gonna-stop-my-catterwauling-to-listen-to-you kind of way.  Others might move a few rows farther away when I get fired up, or wish they were in a different car.  Not so, when he does.  Others tune in and scootch closer.

He doesn’t think his song is all that special, because his brother sings, too. And well!  As in, already-an-artist kind of way.

But, each time that my man chooses to belt it out, and thinks he’s just blending in with the host of other voices around him?

My own singing ceases (thankfully).

I look up at him.

And I.



To his song.

Because it’s always beautiful.

It’s Five Minute Friday time over at Lisa Jo Baker’s place. Dontcha’ just love it?  Today’s prompt is “song”.  You know you want to read what others had to share about this little word.  Click the button below and you can!


Same Song, Different Words

Have you ever spontaneously made up new words to a favorite song?  I must admit something.  We do this all the time around here.  And I do mean All The Time.  This tradition goes way back to when Sweet Man and I were dating.  One over-long car ride at the beginning of our relationship, I got a little punchy.  It must have been around Christmas because I broke into a rendition of “Silver Bells” the likes of which NO ONE has ever heard before.  I shocked even myself with how many words I was able to come up with that rhyme with “bells” and that rendition lasted 25 exits along the Interstate!  I called it poetic license. Sweet Man called it my version of loony tunes. No wonder he fell in love with me, huh?

Now I’m beginning to believe that we’ve seriously hindered our children from ever fully being able to appreciate the music industry and the hard work that goes in to coming up with lyrics, creating arrangements, and even to songs sung in tune and on pitch.  You see, we subject every song known to man, woman, or child to a “rewording” around here; whenever it suits our needs. And, we aren’t particular about which genre the song is from, or which era, or who the original artist was/is.  In fact, my children didn’t realize that there really was a “Brush Your Teeth” song until some poor unsuspecting mama played the original version by Raffi one day in her car while driving my kids home.   She received a chorus of “Hey, that’s our mama’s toothbrush song!”.  And when they got home?  They were amazed that someone else had come up with something so similar to “your brush your teeth song, mama!”.  Then there is the Blue’s Clues “Time to Get the Mail” song.  And don’t even get me started on the explanation I had to give Sweetboy the first time he heard Eddie Murphy’s “My Girl Like to Party All the Time” on the radio! You see, desperate times call for desperate measures.  He was still not even remotely potty trained by 4.  So, we put that song to new words.  Something along the lines of “Our boy likes to potty all the time…”. Or something exactly like that.  Poetic license people; poetic license!  Or desperation. How about both?

Now, you parents, aunties, uncles, and grandparents out there? I’m fairly certain that you’re going to get this.  And if you’re not any of those yet?    You will.  Oh, you so will.  It’ll be the same songs, just different words.  Mark mine!