Carry a Tune

From the yearly band concerts she gathered we could play trumpet, but Grandma really wanted to know if we could “carry a tune,” hoping that more than our curls resembled Shirley Temple. We’d shake our heads. Disappointed, she’d move on to Daddy, could he hold a note? We would tell her of the made-up song Daddy would belt out in a near operatic voice each time we crossed over the Point of Rocks Bridge. A love song to Virginia as we drove in, a dirge as we headed north back home. Happy to imagine her son singing, Grandma would smile.