This week, we took stock of the tall trees waving in the cold wind under a heavily clouded sky, and decided it was a day for a pity party. With no one coming to share our self-inflicted misery, we began to think how it would be when the sun came out, its warm rays spreading across the farm fields and woods, glistening on the water and changing the whole outlook. And just as we reached our lowest note, the sun did come out and everything looked different!

Much of our family sunshine came from music. Our first music was sung to us by our dear mother; she had been sung to her by her mother. And we passed the music on to our children.

“Good morning Merry Sunshine,

Why did you wake so soon?

You scared away the little flowers

And shined away the moon!

How did you get way over there,

And where have you been staying?

I did not go to sleep dear child,

I just went down to see,

The little children of the East,

Who rise and wait for me.

I woke up all the birds and bees

And flowers on my way,

and best of all the little child,

Who stayed up late to play!?

My dad grew up on his father’s Tennessee plantation, and learned to play the mandolin. He sang all the old southern songs, like “Way Down Upon the Swanee River.” The Mississippi River also flowed in Dad’s music. Our mother’s home was in Missouri.

Our grandmother, Mary Colvin Harris, told us about her big family who, on summer Sunday afternoons, surrounded the old pump organ and sang hymns that still echo, like “The Old Rugged Cross.”

In those days, there were no automobiles and folks taking Sunday outings rode the dusty roads in wagons drawn by horses.

As people neared the Colvin home, they heard the music and the wagons slowed to a crawl, sometimes stopping altogether to hear the music. Radio, even phonographs, were unheard of.

Church was the most likely place to hear music of any kind, especially in the country.

Mother took up the guitar and accompanied Dad’s mandolin. Summer evenings were spent on the front porch, singing old tunes and a few popular songs, and it made quite a chorus. People walking by slowed to hear more and we noted that this happened to the few autos that traversed Division Street in Mount Vernon.

Our earliest remembrance at about three years old was sitting between Mother and Dad in the choir loft of the Christian Church, and we had our own hymn book.

Our sister Tinkie played the piano beautifully, and home made music continued. When we had children of our own, music lessons were part of the weekly routine. Our house was filled with kids and tunes, especially when the high school dance band practiced. The old piano that had come to Oak Harbor from Seattle aboard the steamer Atalanta furnished the songs — songs from our memories and songs to add to our memories.

Music! How wonderful thou art!