My mother used to haul around one of those gigantic RCA camcorders when we were kids. You know, the kind that had its own (suit)case, shoulder cushion, and area code. She captured some solid stuff with that monster – Levi chasing his first (and only) show cow down our gravel road, Cody sneaking handfuls of melting M & M’s into his overall pockets.
I was a dainty child with wispy blonde hair and large brown eyes, a delicate peanut until I opened my mouth. Even as a kid, my voice was deep and serious, as if I had a grown woman trapped somewhere inside my tiny body. Yes, Mom’s VHS tapes show a 30-year-old toddler belting out various homemade songs – never softly, sometimes gracefully, always passionately.
Music makes colors brighter and emotions richer; it heightens reality in a way nothing else can. Kids get it and adults forget it – until they bust out “Grease” and “Pitch Perfect” with a roomful of friends … and their veins, infused with burnt popcorn and cheap beer, begin to pulse with adrenaline. Because – well, because I’m cool enough to break out in random song throughout the day. I look just like Sandy when I sing about my first love, after all, and I can totally rock that a cappella swag with my homeys (spellcheck insists this is the correct plural of “homey,” by the way).
Wait, no? Just me? Well. That’s embarrassing.
But life is so much cooler when it’s a musical, don’t you think? Drinking coffee in choreographed bliss, grading papers in harmonized heaven, balancing checkbooks in rhythmic perfection.
You rock it, childhood Kara. You go, girl.
Savannah and I have a new summer jam. It’s called “Put Your Records On” by Corinne Bailey Rae and it’s what every summer jam should be – pure awesomeness. Every time we listen to it, we dance like tomorrow isn’t coming and we sing like that’s okay because today is enough.
And I record my daughter while she belts out the lyrics.
Because someday she and her sister may need reminded that life can be is a musical.