I'm an odd individual. instead of listening to all of my music collection, I tend to listen to only a fraction of it. I grab everything by an artist that I like, and then don't listen to half of it. Call me odd, but this is who I am.
It was Thanksgiving day and I'd just finished serving everyone their dinners. All eight of them, and had eaten little. I wasn't hungry, I wasn't much of anything other than upset. I'd talked to my sister/mom on the phone, and wanted to seriously sit down and have a cry.
So I sat in a glider rocker, knitting in hand, mp3 player stuck firmly in my ears. A somewhat familiar strain began to float in, and then James Taylor's celestially extravagant voice filled my ears. I listened, and nearly cried. I mentally translated the lyrics from "Carolina" to "San Anton" Because that's where my spirit is forever attached. This is where I have my best memories. Where I was raised, so to speak. This area. It's wacky weather, it's dirty river....
The thirty pound kitty jumped up and nearly broke my legs. It felt like that, anyway. She curled up and began to purr in sheer contentment. The song continued, as tears rolled down my face, and my hands exhaustedly work. Knit one row, purl one row. The blanket grew in length. A baby blanket for a child never to be.
Thank you, James. You've helped me through the hardest times. I don't idolize many people, but he's nearly an exception.