Palmtree Contemplations

"Can you give me more of the top voice?" Dr. Whitley asks. I nod and focus on bring the top notes out in the next few chords, looking to him for the verdict. He shakes his head, which in Whitley-ism means, "No, not even close." I play one chord, drawing out the upper note with my pinky while barely playing the other note. This earns me a nod. (Whitley-ism for "Hmmm. Better.") "Again, but much slower."  I play the entire measure. A shake of the head this time. He plays it for me on the Kuwait, so I can hear what he wants. I try again.  "No, no, no. You're not listening to each note." (Whitley-ism for "You're not paying attention.") "Listen to each note, and go slower, much slower." I focus on hearing the melody in the upper voice as I play it. This time we both shake our heads. I can hear how the middle voice of the chord is taking over the melody line, making it indistinguishable. I play it agai

The pre-game show for the Superbowl was on, but no one paid much attention. I sat alone on the couch, while the rest of the family talked and munched in the kitchen and the dining room. On the television, a young man with curly brown hair took the stage. "Oh dear. He's probably going to be annoying like the last performer," I thought. His relaxed stance drew me in, though. I leaned forward as he took his first breath. Halfway through the first verse I was shushing the rest of the family, "Hey, this guy's good. Listen!" "Who is this?" "I don't know. Josh somebody or other." I stayed silent for the rest of the performance, captivated by this Josh guy's voice and the song, You Raise Me Up. Shortly after that, we bought Josh's CD Closer. It was my sister's first year of college at a school only two hours from where lived, and on trips to visit her we always listened to Josh, at least once if not twice. I always sang my l