I heard an old familiar refrain, while reclining on our deck the other evening, pondering the arrival of fall. The clear, deep, distinctive voice of Jim Reeves was singing:
“Put your sweet lips a little closer to the phone
Let's pretend that we're together all alone
I'll tell the man to turn the jukebox way down low
And you can tell your friend there with you, he'll have to go”
It brought more than a tear to my eye, the sobs and wailings of the longing heart and the rushing images of the mind’s reserved memories conspired to transport me back to a time and place, and person that I seldom visit anymore. To hear her record player once again, and the albums of primarily “country and western” obtained from being a member of a record club, probably Columbia House, but, maybe RCA, I do not recall. Sometimes to listen together, in the living room, on a quite afternoon. Other times, to play them solely for my own pleasure in the order I desired, while reading the latest edition of Life magazine or the weekly paper Grit. So, raid the fridge, to form your sandwich, grab the old fashion bologna and bread and butter pickles, a thick slice of sharp cheddar, a glass of iced tea, and head to your quite place on the back deck or porch with your phone and pad and tune in to the song or hymn that will transport you back to your happy place of solace.
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