I was quietly sipping my morning latte, and generally contemplating my navel, when the chorus of a song I heard I-know-not-when poured out of the "deep, dark recesses". Now, I know that my deep, dark recesses are not as deep as some others, but this is a fairly regular occurrence lately and is the source of some concern to me. What is happening to my brain; is it springing leaks?

The chorus that came to mind was this:

       When I can't play, I'll sing
       And when I can't sing, I'll whistle
       And when the day comes I can whistle no more
       I'll sit myself down and I'll listen.

(from "When I Can't Play", written by Canadian singer/songwriter, Joan MacIsaac)

Well, I can whistle. An uncle taught me when I was about seven years old and was assaulted with a cacophony of "tch, tch, tch's" and "oy, oy, oy's" from my Ukranian aunties who reckoned it wasn't lady-like for a girl to whistle. Well, we have come a long way, haven't we? In some countries, that is. It breaks my heart, though, to see the Taliban at work in Afghanistan, and to consider the plight of women subjected to such insane thinking and actions. To be chided for whistling is nothing in the face of such situations.

Yes, I sure can whistle. In years gone by, coworkers were alerted to my arrival at the workplace when they heard the elevator doors close and my trademark whistling in the hallway. Once I sat down, though, the whistling stopped. Mine is not a stationary whistle; I must be in motion. Whistling, for me, is associated with a sense of freedom, and I value little else as much as I value freedom. Which takes me right back to Tom Robbins' character Sissy Hankshaw, who, though burdened with enormous thumbs, transmuted her apparent deformity into a vehicle for "Greater freedom of movement." My physical freedom of movement is sometimes hampered by the circumstances of my life right now, but music allows me to soar on another plane. Through music I can travel freely wherever my heart leads me.

So whether I'm singing or trying to learn to play an instrument, whistling or just sitting down to listen, I sure have "got the music in me". That's the beauty of a folk song. If it touches you, it can stay with you in some shape or form for a long time; maybe it stays with you forever, but I haven't lived here all my life yet, so I can't attest to that!

Delf and I hope that you enjoy this anniversary edition of The Broadside; we've worked like dogs producing it! Thanks to those who contributed to this edition of the newsletter; it is the member stories, opinions and other contributions that make this newsletter distinctively our own. Special thanks to Stephanie Fleming for her story. We know she put a lot of work into it. Oh, and thanks to Jean Hewson for using your ethereal connections to obtain the song lyrics and other information about the song for me. I hope to get back to those singing lessons soon, Jean!