Some Songs Chose You

"You know I like my Chicken Fried. And cold beer on a Friday night. A pair of jeans that fit just right. And the radio on." Chicken Fried by Zac Brown Band.

I can't remember the first time I actually heard this song. But I like to imagine that some part of me knew the feelings it would bring for years to come.

Throughout the entirety of my life, I've had a peculiar way of listening to music. One that my friends and family all acknowledge, one that they will tell you is obnoxious. But I think it's beautiful, because it has made it absolutely effortless to attach memories to songs. Listening to old playlists is like flipping through photo albums.

When a song really speaks to me, I listen to it on repeat for weeks, until slowly it no longer gives me the emotions that it did when I first listened to it. Then, when I finally hear it again, months or years later, just that first note sends me through space and time as I sing my heart out one more time. It's a release of the energy, the emotional blocks.

Music is meant to be emotionally charged. That's why it's so easy to listen to the perfect song on repeat. Because somehow songs find you. Because somehow the perfect song always reveals itself when you need it most, and chooses you. It's difficult to listen to the angry songs when you're not angry. Or the hurt songs when you're not hurt. But, certain songs defy this and become more than the emotion. They transform to the people we love. Places long forgotten or times that have been replaced. This is when the music speaks louder than any artist originally anticipated. This is when songs evolve you and evolve with you.

My grandfather was the wisest, most humble, loving and clever man that I could imagine. Especially as a kid. A genius when it came to mathematics and physics. Someone who, when asked a question, would squint his eyes and lean back in his chair as he contemplated his response. While all the while, maintaining his inner child in his playfulness.

Do you remember those giant, blow up "Socker Boppers?" The ones that you would put on your little balled up fist as a kid, and they would be on commercials right after "Moon Shoes?" Well, these "Socker Boppers" were some of my favorite toys. As a child, when my grandfather would come to visit, my siblings and I would watch out the window for his rental car to pull up. As soon as he arrived we would rush behind the front door with our bonkers, as we called them, on our hands. Do you know how hard it is to fit three children with blow up fists behind a door? It's even harder when you have to spend a bit of time back there, because on his way to the front door, he would be blowing up and putting his bonkers on too. The second my mother opened the door for him, she would jump out of the way, because it was every man for himself. All of us bonking each other as our hello greeting. This is how he came to the nickname, "Bonk."

I can't remember which came first, his nickname or ours. To him we were all vegetables. I Pumpkin, my sister Tater, and my brother Green Bean. These may sound a bit amusing, but it perfectly illustrates how our relationship was.

He was a best friend, a father, a protector, a teacher. He taught me how to ride a bike and pushed me through swim lessons and girl scouts and guitar recitals. He supported me in everything I believed, without believing it himself. He put on a terrifying clown mask for my eleventh birthday party so my friends and I could enjoy a haunted house in our garage. He dragged me to Ace Hardware countless number of times, but every time he bought lifesavers at the front counter for us to share. He sat through Taylor Swift songs on repeat and never forgot to remind me that when, "somebody tells you they love you, you're gonna believe them," but when I'm fifteen, I shouldn't. I remember his same finger-pointing dance moves when a song played that he enjoyed. But I also remember sitting in the front seat of his green and white truck, seeing him get lost in a song he loved. "Chicken Fried" was one of those.

We played this song at his funeral when I was twelve. Some days I wanted to avoid it and others I played it a hundred times over. This song took me through his death and tearful remembrance, but it's also provided clarity for memories I was unaware existed, and laughter as it played. The real magic behind this song though, is the number of times I've heard it without choosing to listen to it. The number of times that it has chose me.

It's chose me in grocery stores and restaurants. It's chose me on the radio in the middle of an emotional breakdown. It's chose me on the first day at a new job, on playlists it's doesn't even exist on. It's chose me in conversations with people I just met. It chose me when I attempted to skip it, but it refused to be passed. It's chose me by being the song out of hundreds the new person in the passenger seat plays off my phone. And when it chooses me, I don't hear what I have made of this song. But instead a new "interpretation." I hear him.

This song has told me, it's all going to be okay. It's told me to be brave. It's told me to take the job, or travel far away. It's told me to reach out to old friends. It's told me that this guy is right for me. It's gotten me through terrifying trips on airplanes and the darkest feelings of being alone I've ever had. It's told me I'm loved and to trust that everything happens for a reason. It's provided validation.

This is the song that made me believe in signs. Because I still don't know how it's chose me in all the times and ways that it has. The song I can identify from its first note. The only song that has seen me through everything from screaming to crying to karaoke sessions in the shower to dancing in the rain or a little bit of everything all at once. A song that has seen all the adventures I've been on, all the people I've loved, and all the stories I've never told. A song that I have years of journal entries for. A song that will see all the experiences and choices and car rides yet to come. A song that will see my birthdays, my wedding day, my children. He's in the lyrics, the melody, the rhythm, the banjo picking. He's in this song.