Penkava: Never dance near a picture window
I love music, but I didn’t always. Back in the day in grade school, we had music class once a week … not enough to help me love music, but just enough to make me hate it.
Class usually consisted of the girls singing and the boys listening as their collective eyes rolled. I must admit that I liked “I’ve Been Working on the Railroad,” but I got really confused with the part when someone named Dinah was blowing her horn and then suddenly she’s in the kitchen with a banjo player. And what does “fee, fie, fiddly-i-o” mean, anyway?
Nevertheless, despite Dinah, a darling named Clementine, and an old lady who ate flies, I actually did grow up appreciating music. The first record I ever got was Ray Charles’ “Hit the Road Jack.” I played it over and over until my dad told me that if I didn’t stop playing it then I would have to hit the road. I couldn’t play it no more, no more, no more, no more.
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