"Oh, Kaye!" chats about music, memories and blind dates - oh, my

oh, my.


The songs.


The songs and those memories.


They do come back, don't they?


We know this happens.


We know hearing a particular song can transport us back to a particular memory, place and/or person we've attached to it.


It may not even be a memory we're fully conscious of, or one we'll fully remember until BAM, we're there, all wrapped up in it.


And, sadly, it may not always be a pleasant memory.


There's a song that takes me back to being a kid taking car trips with my parents. Back in the day, we made up games to play and I'm guessing a lot of you played the very same ones. Keeping track of how many different states we would see cars from by their license plate was one.


And we sang. Even if none of us could carry a tune in a bucket, we sang. And we sang with great gusto!


The song I remember us singing most often was a little ditty called "Playmate."


Remember it?




OH PLAYMATE, COME OUT & PLAY WITH ME
(Words and music by Saxie Dowell)
Copyright 1940 by Santly-Joy-Select Inc.


There's a catchy little tune a floatin' through the air,
You hear it here and there,
They sing it ev'ry where
How it started, where it started
seems nobody knows.
But what's the diff'rence where it came from,
here's the way it goes


Oh PLAYMATE, come out and play with me
And bring your dollies three.
Climb up my apple tree,
Look down my rain barrel
Slide down my cellar door
And we'll be jolly friends forever more.


It was a rainy day, She couldn't come out to play,
With tearful eyes and tender sighs
I could hear her say:


I'm sorry Playmate, I cannot play with you
My dollies have the flu,
Boo-hoo hoo hoo hoo hoo.
Ain't got no rain barrel,
Ain't got no cellar door
But we'll be jolly friends forever more.


(Note: I had intended to insert a YouTube video of the song here, but I was concerned about how many of you might actually threaten my life, so changed my mind. But - there are, indeed, a few different versions right there on YouTube just waiting for you to click on one for your enjoyment, if you dare).


And, oh my, so many others . . .


Scooting ahead to my sophomore year at Brandywine College in Wilmington, DE (which is now, I'm sad to say, no longer Brandywine College, but part of the law school for Widener University). 


I went home with a girlfriend one weekend. She wanted me to meet her boyfriend's best friend and I said yes.


Dumbest.


Thing.


I.


Ever.


Did.


Blind dates may work out for some people. I was never one of those people.


But this one?


This was the worst.


This girl and I were friends, and I liked her lots.  We were not what I would call, extremely close, and after this, we were, um, less close.  I had not met her boyfriend before this fateful weekend, and obviously had not met his friend.


Well, short version - I disliked her boyfriend immediately (and the feeling was mutual). And the friend? oh, my. Suffice to say, it was never going to go beyond one date, and if I had had a way to escape shortly into the date, I would have.


The date was dinner and a movie.


I don't remember dinner, but I do remember the movie, and it was "The Sound of Music."


I loved it, of course.


But, sadly, whenever I hear a song from that oh, so lovely movie, even to this day, I'm immediately and rudely bumped right back to sitting in the movie theater next to this guy. This guy wearing a weird floppy hat.  

Yes.  a hat exactly like this hat - I swear.  Would I kid about this hat??


And, bless his heart, he may suffer the same feelings now, who knows.


But, 'tis a sad thing when Don Barley says to me, "Sound of Music is coming on tonight if you're interested," and I immediately get an upset stomach and a headache and say, "oh, no, I don't think so, but thanks."

Julie Andrews deserves so much better.






How 'bout you Reds? Any music related memories you want to share?  Or, how about some blind date stories??  Come on now, if I can share this one,  surely there's one you can share.  Especially ones that involve odd articles of clothing . . .