Singing For My Supper

It is only fair that I sing for my supper. When I am engaged in my full-throated roar, I am too busy to note the pained expressions of those around me. This is just good fun for all of us, isn’t it? I am just entering into the spirit of things, and covering for those lacking a musical sense, aren’t I? Or perhaps they are just too shy, a failing from which I do not suffer. Surely they are enjoying the noise just as much as I am?  I worry only if people start to leave.

I sometimes sing in the rain, something like whistling in the dark, to keep up my spirits as I venture into unknowable places. Let the winds blow the clouds away to deliver to us another sunny day, I say.

We were fortunate enough, at one time, to have had a second home in Arizona. Really only a trailer, it permitted us to spend the worst winter months away from the cold and drear of Ireland, when we lived there, and the rainy season in the rain forest where we live lately. What had brightened our time even more, was to have fallen in with a group of Canadians, (of course, there are Americans there as well,) fleeing the winter cold. And, wonder of wonders, one of them played the guitar and liked to sing.

Well, was I happy? You betcha! We’re just a small group, and at those times I was out there in the evening between the homes, belting out songs as loud as I could. It is as if I was back at camp. And they tolerated my enthusiasm. And sometimes they fed me. I was singing for my supper, again.

Now, in our current hideaway, we’ve joined a group, mostly oldsters, who meet weekly to reprise all the melodies reaching back across recorded history. My Bride is a witness, and if I perform as required, she will serve me a heaty brunch as a reward when we return home. I can do this!