"Turn, Turn, Turn" Judy Collins

Being a father is one of the highlights of my life. From a young age I looked forward to becoming a parent, and because I’d worked with children since I was 17 I thought I knew what it took to have a family. By the time my first child was born, when I was 28, I was ready for scrapped knees and childhood illnesses. But I never imagined having to fear for my child’s life.

In August 2015, my son Nick discovered a lump under his arm while showering. He described it as golf ball-sized, but by the time it was surgically removed, just a few days later, the lump had morphed into the size of a grapefruit. Doctors analyzed the mass and diagnosed Nick with a rare form of lymphoma known as Burkitt’s.  Because of its aggressive characteristics, if he’d waited a few weeks longer to consult a doctor, there would have been little chance of him surviving the disease. Nick was 29, married and father to a three-year-old.

If the bad news about Burkitt’s was its rapid growth and potentially fatal outcome, the good news was that science had zeroed in on an effective method to fight it in its early stages. Shortly after Nick received his diagnosis, we learned his only viable option: four months of chemotherapy in massive doses. Research showed that this intense attack on the disease offered an excellent chance for full recovery. Within a week of discovering the lump, Nick was in the hospital, starting his regimen.

Those mega doses of chemotherapy did exactly what they were supposed to do. Just weeks after beginning treatments, there was no sign of Burkitt’s in Nick’s body scans. We rejoiced, forgetting that he still faced another three months of the drugs. Originally, it was thought that Nick would spend a few days each month in the hospital receiving chemo, then return home to recuperate. But once the powerful combination of chemicals began battering his body, Nick ended up hospitalized for nearly his entire treatment.

Most days I’d show up at Nick’s hospital room to find him in bed. For a few weeks the TV filled the long hours, but soon that stopped. Slowly, but persistently, the drugs caused Nick’s near complete shutdown. No eating, no talking, and seemingly no interest in the world. As we moved into autumn, heading toward what we thought would be a Thanksgiving celebration, Nick took a turn for the worse. He confided in a nurse that he didn’t feel he could go on. He had thoughts of ending his life.

Nick’s despair made no sense. Tests confirmed no sign of Burkitt’s return. He only needed to complete his treatment, then rebuild his life. Easy for us to accept. But for Nick, with daily vomiting and diarrhea, and confusion due to clouded thinking—doctors called it “chemo brain”—he lost his will.  For his safety, the hospital instituted a 24-hour suicide watch. Medical staff would need to be with him at all times. This continued for six weeks.

It’s a 35-minute drive from my house to the hospital and those trips in rush hour traffic became the start and end of my worrisome days.  Often riding alone, I relied on music to sooth the stress. I’d listen to joyful music, pumping myself up for the day; I listened to songs that reminded me of Nick’s childhood; I listened to songs of faith, hoping mine would remain strong.

One particularly dark day, both in atmospheric conditions and where Nick was in his depression, I brought along a Judy Collins album, knowing her gentle voice and thoughtful lyrics would be a comfort. The CD had me singing along with each familiar song, feeling like I was releasing stress along the roadway. Then Judy offered “Turn, Turn, Turn.” Click here to listen to the song.

Her guitar creating a rolling, childlike melody, Judy’s graceful version of “Turn, Turn, Turn” honors the Bible verses that inspired it. I learned the song at summer camp, back in the late 1960s, and thought I understood its circle-of-life message. But it wasn’t until that autumn morning, with the natural world around me dying as I drove to my son in hopes he was ready to live, that I truly understood its meaning.

To everything (turn, turn, turn)
there is a season (turn, turn, turn)
and a time for every purpose, under heaven.

A time to be born, a time to die…

It was the song’s reference to death that made me consider something I’d been afraid to think about: Nick will one day die.  In the natural order of things, his death shouldn’t have been something I needed to think about in my lifetime, but his inevitable death had come uncomfortably close.

The song was still playing when I reached the hospital parking lot. I shut off the car and gave Judy my full attention:

A time to plant, a time to reap,
a time to kill, a time to heal,
a time to laugh, a time to weep…

My tears that morning were a surrender. Not just to Nick’s current depression; I knew he had a lot to live for and I would continue helping him see that truth. It was a surrender to all deaths: those I loved who came before me and those who will follow.

A time to build up, a time to break down…

On January 1, 2016, Nick received his last dose of chemotherapy. He remained in the hospital two more weeks, and as the drugs left his system, he rediscovered his will to live. It would be a slow climb to normalcy, with the drugs’ residual effects remaining in his system for months.

As I write this, in April, 2019, Nick has had several clean body scans. He’s “in remission” now, rejoining the rest of us living our days. But I look at my son’s life differently now, as I do my daughter’s and everyone I have come to love. I no longer think of death as something to fear, but rather, as Judy Collins taught me, as something to accept.


To everything, turn, turn, turn,
there is a season and a time…


When you’ve had to confront the delicate balance between life and death, what song helped you accept it?

"Firework" Katy Perry

I’m a bit of a snob when it comes to music. I have no doubt that my favorite songs, all recorded in the 1960s and ‘70s, were the best ever made. The music was revolutionary and the lyrics had important things to say. End of story. Or so I thought. Today’s blog is about a song from this new millennium that changed my prejudiced opinion, but first let me explain the science behind my stubborn allegiance to my favorite songs.

In the last couple decades there’s been some groundbreaking research on how our brains develop and function. Some scientists—the really groovy ones, I’m guessing—have studied how the music we first heard as kids gets lodged in our brains. They’ve even figured out why I can’t always remember my phone number, but I still know every word of “American Pie.” Here’s the reason, in layman’s terms:

During the time that we’re going through some intense development—those supercharged teen years—lots of information gets stored in our brains, with different sections acting as holding chambers for specific data. One of those sections keeps a file of the songs we listened to 20, 50 or 500 times. So, depending on when you were born and who was the leader of the music pack when you were growing up, the folds and wrinkles of your brain might be devoted to Glenn Miller or Elvis or the Stones or Madonna or (insert your favorite here.) Just like we learned two and two make four, we have no doubt that the songs we couldn’t get enough are simply the best.*

My stubborn devotion to ‘60s music ran into trouble a few years ago, after I’d retired from running a children’s summer camp. Throughout my 27 years supervising teenagers who were working as counselors, those budding young adults often tried to introduce me to a song they couldn’t get enough of. No thanks, I’d say with a sly smile, I’ve got my own music.

A few summers after retirement, a staff member I’d worked with was still at the camp and he sent me a link to a YouTube video the staff and campers created. My first thought? We never needed videos for kids to have fun. Is this what summer recreation has become? But out of respect for the staff person, I watched the video. Take a look: “Firework” by Katy Perry

If you’ve ever worked at a camp or organized a children’s program, you’ve got an idea of what it took to make that video. Here’s what I saw that impressed me: In the dog days of August (The lawn’s shade of brown tells me it had been a cruel hot summer.), the staff still had enough energy to stage a camp-wide activity based on this Katy Perry song. Did you notice how different groups of campers had on the same color T-shirt? That means those kids bunked together, and working on their line or two of the song would have been a bonding experience. And wasn’t it cool that Arts and Crafts added props like glistening stars and Sports offered something for boys who thought lip synching to Katy Perry was lame?

I ended up watching the video several times, noticing more ways those counselors created a fun activity. As I took it all in, something stirred in me. Creative camp counseling aside, I was enjoying the song. The tune was hummable, and as I joined in I felt…uplifted. When I checked out the song’s lyrics, I realized that the masterminds behind the video had wisely chosen “Firework,” because it captured what was always the camp’s goal: helping children feel good about who they are. In case you didn’t catch Katy’s inspiring lyrics (she had help from Ester Dean, StarGate and Sandy Vee), here’s a sample:

Do you ever feel like a plastic bag
drifting through the wind
wanting to start again

Do you ever feel, feel so paper thin
like a house of cards
one blow from caving in…


Do you know that there's still a chance for you
'cause there's a spark in you

You just gotta

ignite the light
and let it shine
just own the night
like the Fourth of July

'Cause baby you're a firework
come on show 'em what you’re worth…

Wow! “Firework” is a mini-lesson in self-esteem! Who wouldn’t feel better singing and dancing along? After several more listens, my brain’s decades-old loyalty to my music unlocked and let “Firework” in. The song is now logged in my memory, right alongside “You’ve Got a Friend,” “Lean on Me,” and “Bridge Over Troubled Water.” I was listening to new music—and I liked it.

But a song’s importance can only be confirmed with the passing of time. It’s been five years since I first saw the camp’s video, and when I started creating this music blog and listed the songs I wanted to write about, “Firework” was near the top. I know an old-timer like me shouldn’t be writing about a song by a pop star who looks like a model from People magazine. According to the science of the brain, there’s no way Katy Perry’s music should matter to me. But thanks to some counselors at a summer camp, whenever I’m having a bad day her song sings me out of my slump. ‘Cause, young or old, baby you and I, we’re like fireworks.


Have you heard a song from recent years which suddenly upended your “Best of the Best” list? Share it with me here and help me keep the musical folds of my brain from freezing over.

*Of course, the science of the brain is a lot more complicated than my one paragraph. If you want to read more about the link between music and the brain, check out the article, “Why Do We Love the Music We Heard as Teenagers?” by Mark Joseph Stern. The article mentions a book that helped me wrap my mind around this whole music-brain connection, This Is Your Brain on Music: The Science of a Human Obsession, by Daniel Levitin.

The Mamas & The Papas' (Im)perfect Harmony

Today’s blog is about The Mamas & The Papas, that powerhouse of a vocal quartet. Though I’ve been a big fan of the group for decades, I’ve never been able to properly put into words what their music means to me. I’ve decided to give it another try, though, because I recently learned some details about the foursome that helped me understand why their songs have always sounded so good. My story begins back in the 1960s.


I’ve got two childhood memories of The Mamas & The Papas. First, I remember watching my older sister listening to one of their albums. She was home from college and I was just entering my teens, so I looked to her for guidance on this whole growing up thing. On that day, sitting cross-legged on her bed, my sister was singing with the group, harmonizing with them. She sounded happy.

Hearing my sister’s vocal pleasure would have been new for me since music was rarely played in our home. Any sound traveling from room to room was more apt to have been my parents arguing, which they often did. (Later in life, when I asked them why they fought so much, they assured me they weren’t arguing; they were just discussing.) Added to that family tension was the confusion that I kept bottled up inside me, frightened by my emerging attraction to other boys. So when I saw my sister happily singing along with The Mamas & The Papas, I wanted to feel it too.

My second memory of the group was seeing them on The Ed Sullivan Show, which our family watched together. If a rock band was on, Dad would have some commentary: Send them back to England! he suggested for the Beatles. When The Mamas & The Papas appeared on Ed’s show they looked like they were having a heck of a good time, especially Mama Cass. Dad’s opinion? They’re all on drugs. Maybe he was right, but long after seeing them, I remembered the fun they had harmonizing with one another. Here’s a glimpse of that performance: The Mamas & Papas on Ed Sullivan

Harmony wasn’t what most groups were offering back in the ‘60s. Many successful bands were rewriting the definition of popular music by amping up their guitars and adding psychedelics. The Mamas & The Papas, however, had perfected how to sweetly blend their voices. When the four members of the group—John Phillips, Michelle Phillips, Denny Doherty and Cass Elliot—layered their voices just right, they created, as music reviewers nicknamed it, “the fifth voice”: a pleasing sound that couldn’t have been created by only one person.

The Mamas & The Papas hadn’t cornered the market on harmonizing. There were other groups whose combined voices produced beautiful music. Crosby, Stills & Nash comes to mind; the Beach Boys, the Vogues and the Association, too. I loved all that harmony, because, to me, it sounded like peace. Long before fully understanding why a peaceful life was so vital to me, The Mamas & The Papas were how I wanted the world to sound. So imagine my surprise when, decades after first falling in love with their blended voices, I learned that their world was anything but harmonious.

Papa John was the group’s leader and chief songwriter. He composed most of the group’s hits, using what was happening in his world as inspiration. During the years the group was popular (1965-68), John’s world was The Mamas & The Papas and I can summarize their intense closeness in one sentence: Though John was married to Michelle, she was in love with Denny, who pined for her in return, while Cass carried a major torch for him. That entanglement of emotions created a messy discord, which showed up in the lyrics of the songs they harmonized so beautifully on. For example, “Look Through My Window”

We both knew people sometimes change
and lovers sometimes rearrange;
And nothing's quite as sure as change…

On “Got a Feeling” John and Denny co-wrote the lyrics, giving us a look at their inner struggles with the group’s four-way love affair. John starts it off:

Got a feelin' that I'm wasting time on you babe;
Got a feelin' that you've been untrue.
I got a feelin' that you're stealin'
all the love I thought I was giving to you.

Denny weighs in on the sticky situation:

Got a feelin' that you're playing some game with me, babe.
Got a feelin' that you just can't see.
If you're entertaining any thought that you're gaining
by causing me all of this pain and making me blue
the joke's on you…

The group’s most famous autobiographical song, “Creeque Alley,” summed up their rocky journey to find love in a couple lines:

Make up, break up, everything is shake up
Guess it had to be that way…

Virtually everything written by John (and an occasional group member) rose from the ashes of The Mama & The Papas’ dysfunctional group dynamics. All that turbulence made for some great music, but it tore the group apart. John and Michelle divorced, Denny moved to Canada, and Cass rode her soaring contralto to a short-lived, but successful, solo career. Fifty years later, three of the four are dead (Michelle is still with us), putting to rest any remnants of their struggles with love and life.

What we still have, though, is the recordings of their unified voices. Every time my world spins out of control, every time the noise gets to be too much, I play some Mamas & Papas. Hearing those four bruised souls harmonizing always works like a salve, like a much-needed lesson in how to find peace in a chaotic world.


Is there a group or duo who brings some harmony to your life? Let me know in the Comments section below.

"Good Morning Starshine" Oliver

I never got to experience joy as a kid. The carefree days of childhood escaped me, though most people back then never would have guessed. I had two parents who provided for me and my siblings, our close-knit extended family welcomed me into their ethnic traditions, and the homes along our country road provided a slew of playmates. There appeared to be nothing that would have kept me from joy. But something always did.

After I realized I was gay, at ten years old, the exhilarating high of happiness was always just out of reach. When I learned what gay meant from a schoolmate’s wisecrack, I knew for certain that’s what I was and it didn’t take me long to figure out that being who I was wasn’t going to be much fun. No one in my 1960s conservative hometown identified as gay, so not only did I begin to think of myself as different, but also alone. Things weren’t much better beyond my town’s borders: every TV show, book and song on the radio informed me it was all about boy meets girl. In an attempt to fit in, I hid my gayness, and life became like living with a slightly elevated temperature: I could function, but I never felt great.

I didn’t realize what a childhood without joy meant until many years later, after finally breaking through the chains of my denial. As happens so often in my life, it was a song—“Good Morning Starshine”—that helped me reclaim my lost joy. In case you aren’t familiar with the song or haven’t heard it for a while, take a listen: “Good Morning Starshine”

“Good Morning Starshine” got me reflecting on my joyless youth when I was driving one day a few years ago, my car radio tuned to an oldies station. The deejay mentioned that “Starshine” was a major hit from 1969. I thought back to my 14-year-old life, my truth deeply hidden, while the world, with its escalating Vietnam war, Woodstock mania and race riots, seemed out of control. To forget about the inner and outer chaos I’d listen to Casey Kasem’s American Top 40 radio show. Casey always had interesting details about the hits, and I remember him explaining that this version of “Good Morning Starshine” was by a singer named Oliver. He’d adapted the song from the Broadway musical Hair, a groundbreaking play drawing huge crowds due to its actors performing in the nude. I liked “Starshine” enough, though back then I wouldn’t have been able to figure out why. Only after hearing it decades later, riding in my car, did I understand why this golden oldie sounded so invigorating.

Good Morning Starshine.jpg

“Starshine” starts out like any easy-listening pop song from the 1960s: light percussion marking the beat, guitar strumming dreamy chords. Then the song takes an unexpected turn. As if from a distant planet, starting quietly and then building in intensity, Oliver’s voice swoops in with one long la-a-a-a-a-a-a. After a breath, he lets loose with another 14 seconds: la-da-da-da-da-da-da-da.... Take another listen to the song’s first half-minute: Intro to “Good Morning Starshine”

When Oliver finally gets to the lyrics, we’re treated to a song that’s fitting for a musical about peace and free love. But, riding in the car that day, it wasn’t the words to “Starshine” that surprised me so. It was Oliver’s voice. He sounded like joy.

As I listened to “Starshine,” quivering in unexpected elation, I had to remind myself I was driving on a busy highway. My brain was working overtime to process it all: Why had I never heard the song’s joy—why had I never felt it—before? Safely arriving home, I logged onto YouTube, typed in “Good Morning Starshine” and kept replaying the beginning, filling myself with Oliver’s joyful intro, making up for lost time.

YouTube also had the Broadway cast of Hair’s version of the song, so I clicked on it, hoping to get another jolt of joy. Instead, I was shocked by how pale their version sounded, which skipped Oliver’s exciting intro altogether. Who was this Oliver guy, anyway, and how did he decide to interpret “Starshine” the way he did? A Google search provided details. Oliver’s singing career barely lasted a year. After “Starshine” became a top five smash, his second song, “Jean,” released the same year, also hit big. But after those two songs, Oliver never cracked the Top 40 again. Discouraged with the music business, he switched careers and began managing a pharmaceutical firm. It’s hard to imagine him breaking out in some ecstatic la-las doing that kind of work. Never returning to his career in song, he died at age 54.

The spontaneous joy that Oliver brought to his music may have been short-lived, but what an enduring gift he gave me. Today, whenever I’m caught up in joy—yes, that feeling often comes my way these days—Oliver’s voice appears. Sometimes all it takes is a walk on an early morning, breathing in the promise of a new day, and I hear his intro to “Good Morning Starshine.” I always sing along, because when you’re filled with joy, it feels so good to share it with the world.


Is there a song in your life that feels like joy to you? What song do you automatically sing when happiness over flows?

"Bridge Over Troubled Water" Simon & Garfunkel

I imagine you’re familiar with “Bridge Over Troubled Water,” though it’s been nearly 50 years since it topped music charts and took home a handful of Grammys. The song’s message of devoted friendship has a way of resurfacing when it’s most needed. People found comfort when it was played over news reports of the 9/11 rescue efforts. Singers recorded new versions of the song to raise money for hurricane and earthquake victims. And in smaller, more personal, ways, it’s been a soundtrack for challenging times. Here’s my “Bridge Over Troubled Water” story.

In 2007 I was on a bus, gritting my teeth with each shift of the engine’s gears. If we could just get up to cruising speed, I prayed, this bus’s painful cries could end. But that wasn’t going to happen. Not when it was stopping every few minutes, picking up commuters as we made our way to the railway station in Stamford, Connecticut. There I would board a jarring train for Grand Central Station and then endure a couple stop-and-start subway rides before reaching my New York City destination. This is all worth it, I kept reminding myself.

That unsettling ride to the City was due to a much-needed vacation I’d planned for myself. An out-of-control work schedule and ongoing difficulties accepting my failed marriage had my mind, body and spirit in search of some joy. Music has always been my answer for tough times, and in a moment of creative dreaming I pictured piano lessons as my savior. Not ordinary lessons; New York City piano lessons.

I’d been playing piano off and on since the sixth grade, when I first became aware that music magically made life better. I wanted to learn how to replicate my favorite songs and after a year or so of lessons, I was doing so. Life was good until my peers—I hesitate to call them friends—made it clear that playing piano was for sissies. Despite my enjoyment, I wasn’t ready for that kind of social pressure. I quit playing.

I returned to piano when my daughter was in her tween years and showed an interest in playing. We signed up for classes and I found that keyboard basics quickly returned. After my daughter moved on to other hobbies, I continued, and in 2007, along with looking for a respite from my troubles, I was ready to take piano to the next step. A magazine ad for a “New England Piano Camp” looked appealing until I found out it ran during summer, my job’s busiest season. But the idea was too good to dismiss, so I called the camp’s director, who pitched an idea. He lived in New York City and if I could get myself there, find lodging and show up at his studio each day, he promised me my own week-long piano camp. Sold.

My vacation plans came together without a hitch. A friend who lived an hour outside New York offered me his place. I’d do the daily bus/train/subway into the city, then walk the dozen blocks to my teacher’s studio. After a day immersed in piano, I’d do the reverse. A packed lunch, a week’s worth of train passes and subway tokens, and I was on my way to music nirvana. Halfway through this dream camp, though, my high hopes were heading for a crash landing.

What I hadn’t accounted for—actually, what I couldn’t account for since I didn’t yet know this about myself—was my difficulty coping with noise and confusion. Having lived most my life in a small town, aside from a rowdy pep rally or a crowded Woolworth’s at Christmastime, I’d never known much other than quiet. It wasn’t until I’d returned home from New York City that a few counseling sessions helped me realize how time in the Big Apple had triggered my anxiety. But even while in the thick of it, I knew something wasn’t right.

I managed to survive the daily commute for the first few days, using self-talk to convince myself that any unease was due to a radically new schedule. I ignored the discomfort, focusing on the fact that I was learning so much, but when my alarm went off Wednesday morning, I was ready to admit defeat. Only the thought of wasting money got me out the door. I arrived at the studio, where my teacher, who’d informed me he always ran a few minutes late, had the studio unlocked.

I walked in, shut the door to the street’s noise, tossed my backpack on a chair, and collapsed at the piano. Hands on keys, I began searching for a song that my teacher hadn’t assigned, but had been playing in my mind since setting off on that morning’s commute.

When you’re weary,

feeling small…

It was Art Garfunkel’s choirboy tenor on “Bridge Over Troubled Water” that had offered a healing contrast to my troubled morning. If you’ve forgotten how beautiful Garfunkel’s voice is, take a listen. (Enjoy the whole song if you’d like, but to understand my story you only need its first 30 seconds.) “Bridge Over Troubled Water”


It was “Bridge”’s first two lines I kept hearing on my way into the City. But I didn’t just need to hear them, I had to feel them. Though I’d never attempted to play the song before and without sheet music, I wasn’t sure where to begin. But I knew how to play chords and through the process of elimination, I managed to find ones that sounded right:

E flat: When you’re weary…

A flat: Feeling small…

I played those two chords over and over until they became a meditation. There was no need to venture into the rest of the song; with the tiniest shift of my hands I’d swept away the morning’s stress. Later, I would have to again face what was tearing me up inside. But in that moment, I was okay. I’d taught myself to play peace.


When times are tough, what song brings you peace?

“Sweet Caroline” Neil Diamond

Hearing a good pop song at the right time can be life changing. Case in point: An evening in 1989 when I was working as a traveling deejay. In the two years I had that job I did hundreds of gigs: weddings, bar mitzvahs, holiday galas, and country bar trivia nights. I spun thousands of records (actually, we used cassette tapes), and here’s the story of one song that proves the power of music.

Has there ever been a more uplifting song than “Sweet Caroline”? Neil Diamond’s gem has long been popular whenever people gather, its singalong chorus perfect for ready-to-party crowds. I call it our national anthem of feel good songs, as we saw after the Boston Marathon bombings, when the city rebuilt its confidence by singing its chorus with full voice. If you’ve forgotten how good it feels to sing it, click here: “Sweet Caroline”

Great song, right? But I never thought of it as a dance floor favorite, until that night in ‘89.

My deejaying usually entailed working two shows on a Saturday: an afternoon party and an evening event. This particular day I’d done a doubleheader and, as it crept closer to my midnight quitting time, I was feeling the drain of the day. The dance crowd had already grown thin, partyers limping off to grab one last drink. With the exception of an occasional slow song that gave tipsy couples a reason to cling to each other, the dance floor was empty and I wasn’t putting any effort into finding the perfect party song.

About ten minutes before quitting time, as I was cleaning up my workspace, an older woman approached me. I crossed my fingers that she just wanted to say thanks or complain about my song choices. Please don’t request a song, I begged to myself.

“Do you have ‘Sweet Caroline’?” the woman inquired. I looked up, her carefully applied makeup worn thin from an emotional day. The easy answer would have been to politely say I didn’t have that wonderful song, emphasizing my regret with a disappointed expression. But I did have “Sweet Caroline”—in fact, I had a whole Neil Diamond tape—and I worried that this woman might be part of the family who’d purchased my services. The company I worked for had a strict policy about pleasing customers. Family members listed their favorite songs and we guaranteed to play them. With the woman waiting for an answer, I didn’t have time to scan my sheet to see if “Caroline” was on their list. It was decision time.

I took a second look at the woman, searching beneath her fading makeup to notice something in her eyes. They weren’t demanding or pitiful; they were… hopeful. I was raised right and knew what to say.

“I sure do, ma’am. Would you like to hear it?”

“Yes!” she stated, walking away.

I could have at least have gotten a thank you, I muttered, cuing up “Caroline” on the tape. I checked my watch: three minutes to quitting time. Time for one last tune. Sure hope the crowd likes this song, ‘cause it’ll be ringing in their ears on the drive home.

“Caroline”’s melody, with gentle organ and muted horns, ushered in a change in the evening’s music. Gone was the steady thump of dance classics or the sweeping violins of a ballad. Neil’s voice, reserved at first, strikes gold when he gets to the chorus:

Sweet Caroline…good times never seemed so good…

This is a happy song, I noted, tapping my foot while returning tapes to their cases. As I lined up my equipment to lug to the van, I glanced at the dance floor. One person—one more than I expected—was swaying alone, singing with Neil. It was the lady who’d requested “Caroline.”

I looked over at the crowd, who were ignoring the lone dancer. Probably the bride’s eccentric great-aunt, I surmised. I tried to follow the family’s lead and ignore her, but I was getting a kick out of Ms. Dance The Night Away waltzing with empty air: eyes closed, purse dangling from her arm, moving as if she were partnered with Fred Astaire. Looks like she enjoyed the open bar.

Good deed for the day done, I gave the song an early fade, thanked the crowd, congratulated the bride and groom one more time, and turned off the power. Get me the hell out of here.

As I piled boxes onto my travel cart, daydreaming about my warm bed, I saw my dancing friend heading toward me. Oh, please, don’t be a hanger-on. Don’t let her be as strange as her dancing.

“Thanks for playing that song,” she said, catching her breath. “It was my husband’s and my song...we always danced to it…This Tuesday is six weeks since he died. My name’s Caroline, by the way,” her hand offering a wave as she turned to leave.

“You’re welcome,” I managed.

Cart in tow, I headed out as some young man—her nephew, perhaps—helped Caroline with her coat. She opened her purse, fished out keys, and headed out the door alone.

After loading the van, I took hold of its heavy rear door, ready to slam an end to the day. But something made me stop and I climbed back in to grab my Neil Diamond tape. On the ride home, I listened to “Caroline” over and over, hearing its final verse as if for the first time.

dancing couple.jpg

…but now I look at the night
and it don’t seem so lonely,

we fill it up with only two

And when I hurt,
hurting runs off my shoulders,
how can I hurt when holding you

One…touching one…reaching out…touching me…touching you

Sweet Caroline, good times never seemed so good.


Do you have a song that reminds you of a friend, relative or person you met only once, but who forever changed your life? Share your story in the comments below.