There was a time when life felt like music was always playing—and honestly, it was.
In my last post, I mentioned living at 51 N Columbus Ave in Freeport, Long Island, New York. That block was filled with love, friendship, and nothing but music lovers.
On one side, we had Mr. Henry and Miss Lois and their family. On the other side, Mr. Bill, his wife Miss Jean, and their family. Across the street lived the Graces — an elderly couple who kept their house immaculate.
We lived in a triplex—us on top, the Joneses downstairs, and Miss Kathy, her daughter, and her boyfriend in the back. Our place had a nice-sized porch, and that porch is where everybody came to hang out.
Now the real adult parties happened next door at Mr. Henry and Miss Lois’s house. But trust and believe—Miss Juanita (my mama) and Miss Louise from downstairs kept some parties going in our triplex, too.
Music was a part of everyday life. No matter where you were, somebody was playing something. Dancing. Grooving. Living.
One of their favorite songs was “Ring My Bell” by Anita Ward.
Just thinking about that song still makes me laugh.
That song—and that disco ball spinning on the stereo—felt like an amusement park to me. The moment it came on, all the ladies would holler “YEAH!” and get to dancing and clapping.
I was watching a live, at-home version of Soul Train on a regular basis.
The only person missing was Don Cornelius… but honestly, who needed him? The dancers were the real show anyway.
Looking back, music kept our community together—and sane.
I remember arguments breaking out among the adults, and then someone would put on Al Green’s “Love and Happiness” or Marvin Gaye’s “Sexual Healing.” Just like that, everything shifted. The tension eased. Singing started. Laughter came back.
And yes… sometimes there were a few dance moves I probably wasn’t supposed to be seeing.
But listen—don’t act like I’m the only one who got told to go to bed and kept getting back up to see what the grown folks were doing. (Smile)
I was that kid. Watching. Listening. Learning.
And it didn’t stop with soul and rap.
Gospel music lived in me, too.
Whenever something sad or heavy hit the neighborhood—or when the adults decided it was time for a full-on “Super Soul Sunday”—those gospel songs took over.
My mom would be cleaning and singing “The Rough Side of the Mountain” like the world was ending. It was her, the broom, and her Newport 100 cigarette, smoke floating through the air like part of the performance.
Those moments. They did something to my spirit.
Stay tuned… because the gospel memories.
They deserve their own story.
Until next time—
Enjoy the music.
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