Movies rely on a soundtrack to carry a story forward and my life is not much different. Like those before me and those after, I married much too young, believing I would manage to succeed where others had not. Some of my dreams turned to disappointments, which eventually led to that other “D” word, even though Carly Simon warned about the mundaneness of it all when she sang That’s the Way I’ve Always Heard It Should Be.

And, like Carole King, I had to finally admit that it was indeed too late. They were great songs when they didn’t hit the bull’s eye. Greater songs when they did.

Now my children — the glorious melodies from an inharmonious marriage — have moved on to make their own way in the world. In this day of angry rap and blatant sexuality, I wonder what their soundtrack is. Sometimes I catch them borrowing what had been mine, appreciating the sounds of yesterday and carrying them over to today. But it is not always the case. When I tried to get my daughters to listen to a particular Jackson Browne song from a CD I’d recently purchased, they rolled their eyes and dashed off. But what did I expect? How could they possibly appreciate where I’d come from when they are trying to make sense of their own whys and hows of life?

So, in the quiet of my home, I pour myself a glass of Merlot, hit play, and believe Jackson Browne and I are in total agreement when he sings, “No one ever talks about their feelings without dressing them in dreams and laughter. I guess it’s just too painful otherwise.”

Indeed. What insightful old friends I have.

That’s why the way I think of them is, they are a part of my past. A history. Yet, they are very much present. I’m talking about the friends I’ve made along life’s journey, some having died, others simply fading away. And others that have managed to resurface due to the mellifluous impression they left upon me at one time or another. I began replacing these old friends once my timeworn stereo with the broken needle had gone the way of the dinosaur, with CD versions, cherishing once again the music that had brought color to my sepia-toned world back when Herman’s Hermits told Mrs. Brown she had a lovely daughter.

For as long as I can remember, music provided not only inspiration for me, but enjoyable company. I have a vivid memory from when I was a young thing in school and was escorted with my classmates to the auditorium to hear my first orchestra performance. Since it was the high school band, I’m sure there were wrong notes hit, but not long after the concert began did one of my classmates nudge another and whisper, “Look at Carol.”

Their giggles broke my reverie and I was immediately red-faced at having been caught being lost in the strings of the violins. Watchful students ready to laugh at me again kept me from enjoying the rest of the concert, but as I grew older and graduated from 45s to full-length albums, I found I could spend hours alone in my room with Dionne Warwick, the Guess Who, and yes, even Herman’s Hermits, and hear that my dreams and yearnings were validated by the songs sung.

My love for music was so strong that I attempted to teach myself to play the piano and guitar. However, without the direction I needed, I never accomplished either endeavor. Still, I kept my favorite radio station on hour after hour and stayed tuned while Dusty Springfield gave way to Joni Mitchell, and Paul Revere and the Raiders rode off into the sunset while Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young appeared on the horizon in a smoke-filled haze. The sound was fresh and, even though I never conquered the piano or guitar, the songs inspired me to write.

Remaining holed up in my room for hours, I’d compose the most doggerel poetry ever written. I’d roll one sheet of paper after the next into my second-hand Smith & Corona, bottles of Wite-Out at my side, and would clickety-clack incensed rhymes to express my teenage angst, angst that had been galvanized by my parents’ inability to understand both the free-loving world I wanted to belong to and the war-torn world thousands of miles away that I was protesting. I’d blast Buffalo Springfield’s warnings For What It’s Worth from my bedroom, where a peace sign poster hung on my wall showing solidarity about a cause for which I had little understanding. Pot was smoked, baked into brownies and, on one particular amusing evening, replaced the oregano for the pizza sauce a friend and I had made. All the while the tinny sounds of Whiter Shade of Pale and Fortunate Son blared from my cheap record player.

Alice knows all about this. Go ask her when she’s ten feet tall.