My mom’s mom died when I was only about nine years old. All my memories of her and her home involve opera on the radio in the background. I guess for an Italian immigrant at that time, opera was the popular music of the day on the radio. Certainly my grandmother would not have ever gotten into rock and roll. Even Sinatra probably came across as a bit unseemly to her.

So now I am trying to learn to appreciate opera by putting the TV on to the all-opera-all-the-time channel for my birds during the day. I don’t know if it’s working for me, but Abdul is having a blast. He hits those high notes with the divas and holds them for hours longer than any human possibly could. And if he finds a note he REALLY likes,he repeats and repeats it in sheer joy at what he must consider the beauty of the sound.

Me, I’m not so sure it’s all that beautiful. Especially if I’m in the same room. Especially if he’s repeating it for the hundreth time that hour.

Ah, opera.  It speaks to the parrot in all of us.