It occurred to me today that music is family to me. Also, music. Makes the people. Come together. Yeah.

Thank you, Madonna.

In fact, I have musical memories from nearly every year of my life. Songs attached to memory. Songs attached to people.

My Dad put himself through college playing jazz trumpet in Al Anderson’s band. Now and again, when I was very young, he’d take his horn out after dinner and walk through the house playing whatever struck him. I followed him room to room in speechless awe.

My Mom, was and is, a lover of the show tunes. When I was still little enough to be bathed, she sang, “I’m Gonna Wash That My Man Right Outta My Hair,” from South Pacific in her most dramatic voice. This was, of course, to distract me from the fact that she was actually washing my hair.

When she wasn’t bursting into bits from show tunes, my Mom listened to Jonathan Schwartz, the mellifluous-voiced, storytelling DJ on WNEW 1130 in New York, who played an array of jazz and yes, show tunes.

I’d wander into the kitchen on a lazy Sunday; Mom cooking or cleaning or just puttering about and hear Jonathan Schwartz’s mellow voice stretch out a story and a song across the length of an entire afternoon.