Rhapsody in Blue.
I can still remember the very first time I heard it. Wafting through the house on a warm Sunday afternoon, I was all of five. My mom was here and there, moving about the house, dusting…Dad was laying on the couch listening intently.
I sat down and closed my eyes and listened to the song. Every moment—every ebb and flow. A story unfolded in my mind, as a child’s imagination took over and went for a ride with Mr. Gershwin, by virtue of Mr. Bernstein. A frantic story of love and loss flashed before my eyes. Forbidden, contested love. Two lovers, desperate for one another, but kept apart by the world, by their lives, by another man. A stronger man, perhaps. A story of fighting for what you want, what you love. A story of overcoming the rational odds and winning. In the end, I suppose it was really just a love story. But at the age of five, it was an epic, and one I’ll never forget.
I have this moment because my parents love good music, more than silence, more than television, more than most. I’m fortunate to have a mother and father so full of passion and appreciation for that which is truly beautiful in this world. It’s the very best quality I learned from them. I still have the vinyl record that played that very first time, pilfered from their collection, always available for a Sunday afternoon.