Every once in awhile my husband bursts into song. I never know exactly inspires these moments of crooning, but when it happens he tends to look passionately into my eyes while mustering his best Clark Gable face. Apparently he does give a damn.
What I love about his music-infused play is the lyrics. They really don’t write songs like they used too. Sometimes he sings about shooting a porcupine out of a tree… but with love…I think. Sometimes it’s about how he loves me truly, or loves me a bushel and a peck. Sometimes it’s an old boy scout hiking song…but, you know, with love. Okay, so Bon Jovi he’s not. My husband can be slippery when wet, and most certainly can be on a lost highway, but those aren’t the songs he sings. The songs he sings for me are about happy bygone memories forged in a simpler time. There is no mention of bitches, ho’s, or booty calls. Nope. Just bringing home the bacon, a little ditty about fever, or ghost riders in the sky—but with love.