Sing, sing, everyone sing

It is a given that when we are alone in the safety of our home, we do things that, under normal circumstances, we would not; things we would never do in public.
So unless you have been hiding in my hall closet on a regular basis, you may not know that I partake in a certain activity.
This week seems like a good opportunity to share my secret. I’m snowed in—again—and the hope of surviving until spring arrives has all but crumbled and disappeared.
I doubt very much if spring will ever come, and I will remain buried in mountains of snow; having a tunnel for a driveway and a huge supply of despair. So what do I have to lose?
When I am alone, with no one around other than “Casey” and “Finnegan,” my orange feline brothers who think chasing their tails and engaging in regular roughhousing is great fun, and “Gracie” (who sometimes referees said feline wrestling), I sing.
I sing loudly in a made-up language that may resemble Latin but most likely doesn’t.
You may have heard Amira Willighagen, born in 2004, from The Netherlands. A video of nine-year-old Amira singing with Andre Rieu live in concert is making the rounds on YouTube and I listen to her every day.
She sings like an angel. I do not. But I pretend I do. I sing her version of “O mio babbino caro” and in my head, I sound just like Amira (again, I do not).
The translation of “O mio babbino caro” is “O my dear papa.” I sing for my father. I also made him rhubarb pie when I was eight that he had to saw through with a knife and fork while I watched on, eagerly awaiting his praise.
He did praise me for the pie, without batting an eye, right after he finished swallowing with a chaser of water.
He would praise me now for my Amira impersonation, if he could, as fathers do, especially mine.
It is a known truth that singing loudly is good for our health. I must be very healthy if that is so. My pets choose to run for cover rather than sticking it out to enjoy my performance.
My children used to berate me for singing in the grocery store and on the ski slope for my annual skiing outing with them. Samantha perfected her drawn out “but Mom” with hands on her hips and her face filled with an appropriate amount of disdain.
It didn’t stop me. I had to think of my health.
I can’t help myself; I sing. I love it and when I am alone, I don’t have to worry about tone or diction or being on pitch, though I pride myself on being pitch-perfect (others might disagree).
I sing while I vacuum and even though I can’t hear myself, I rather enjoy that particular rendition. I sing while I iron and while I dig hair out of the shower drain.
I sing while I fold laundry, but oddly I don’t sing while I cook. I’m not a great cook so it requires my concentration (we can’t be all things, it turns out).
If you don’t sing, you should give it a go. Don’t worry about the details, just sing, at the top of your lungs—and your body will thank you even if no one else does.
wendistewart@live.ca

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