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Personal soundtrack

Recorded music has suffused my life. It began during a time when my afterschool chore was to milk the cow, and beside the milking stall was a cobwebbed portable radio. One afternoon while I was squeezing the cow’s dry, calloused teats and listening to the radio, I heard a menacing baritone intone the words, “I shot a man in Reno just to watch him die.” Those stark words made an impression. The baritone, of course, was Johnny Cash, and the song was “Folsom Prison Blues.”

 

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