My parents like to mess with me...

Last summer, much to the dismay of my children, my sister and I went on a “sister” vacation. We packed our bags and flew to visit my sister-in-law, who conveniently lives right outside Daytona Beach!

For years we talked about a trip like this, but it took her family’s tragedy to make us all realize that today is our someday.

This particular sister-in-law of mine has a home in a residential neighborhood, with a lovely screened in pool in her backyard. (And a well-stocked bar, I might add.)

On this quiet Sunday morning, K. and I were floating in the pool on rafts, soaking in the sun and probably laughing about something. During a lull in our conversation I heard the faint streams of a beautiful song wafting though the trees. It was Dean Martin singing “Everybody Loves Somebody Sometime.” I strained to hear, thinking I was surely hearing things. As I floated, another familiar song, Dusty Springfield singing You Don’t Have to Say You Love Me, came softly traveling on a breeze.

I insisted that my sister go put on her hearing aids, and we got out of the pool and walked toward the part of the yard that the music appeared to be coming from. It was filled with dense foliage so we couldn’t see anything, and the songs maintained that soft but sure sound.

We decided to return to the pool, and as we continued to float on the rafts for the next hour we were serenaded by all of the familiar songs of our childhood. I could see my father and mother sitting on our back porch, cocktails in hand while listening to these same songs on the radio and laughing about something that happened that day. It was eerily comforting.

When my sister-in-law returned from church and joined us in the pool the music vanished. I asked her about the neighbors behind the forest, and she was puzzled.

The only music she ever heard coming from that direction was rap.