On that day, I had become a full-time student, bent on earning a degree and settling for nothing less than a 4.0 GPA. That was all that was important to me then and remained so until one week ago. Seven days ago, the news of Frank Sinatra’s death was announced. Seven days ago, I began to emerge from my cocoon of self-imposed academic entrapment.

Prior to Mr. Sinatra’s passing, I had ceased, since January 12th, communicating with my friends. I had also stopped appreciating the wonders offered by nature. In addition, I had refused to allow myself the pleasurable distraction of recalling memories of times gone by that had caused me to smile and, on a number of occasions, cry. My scholastic responsibilities were all that mattered and I had successfully shut myself off from anything that might interfere with my quest.

Last Friday evening, my spouse asked me to insert a CD of Frank Sinatra’s recordings into our player. I responded, “Cindy, I’m very tired. I’ve worked my butt off at school this week. I’ve got two exams to study for. I’ve got to work at the school tomorrow morning and must complete a Psychology case study paper before the weekend is over. I will, however, put the CD into the player, but you’ll have to listen to it on your own. I’m going to bed. Oh, and please keep the volume down.”

While I have always loved Sinatra’s music, Cindy is a truly dedicated aficionado of the Hoboken, N.J. native’s voice and stage presence (she has had the privilege of attending four of Mr. Sinatra’s concerts). She speaks very passionately about only a few things in this life. Her all-encompassing love for every cat that has ever walked this planet is one. Her joy of gardening is another. Her undying admiration for Frank Sinatra’s musical offerings rounds out the trio. Of course there are other things that she revels in, but those three are right at the top.

On that night of seven days ago, Cindy was very disappointed regarding my refusal to sit back and enjoy an hour or so of Mr. Sinatra’s music. She wanted me to listen to the songs with her. She wanted me to share her celebration of Sinatra’s life and the sorrow of his passing. She didn’t want to be alone.

In a completely self-serving manner, my answer was one of rejection. My response inferred, “I haven’t got time to care about anything other than my scholastic responsibilities. Don’t you understand that I’ve got to get some rest in order to keep up my energy so I can continue to get perfect grades in my courses? That is what is important to me and I don’t have time for your feelings and needs.”

As I looked into Cindy’s eyes, however, her sadness began to soften my heart. She was mourning the death of a remarkable singer and was asking me to help her remember all that Mr. Sinatra’s music had meant to her over the past many years. Cindy isn’t a very vocal person and so I didn’t believe that she would tell me, in words, how important Sinatra’s songs had been and would always remain to her, but her eyes spoke volumes about what she was feeling.

Cindy doesn’t ask much of me, in regards to sharing moments of great importance to her, thus I decided to agree to her request and settle in for an hour or so of listening to some of Sinatra’s songs. I hoped that sixty minutes would be the maximum and not the minimum required period of time.

Within a few moments of altering my stance, the magic that is, “Let Me Try Again,” began to fill our playroom with soaring overtures of dignity, inspiration, and triumph of the spirit. I hesitantly looked over at Cindy and smiled in a very gentle manner. She returned the smile with a delicate facial expression of her own.

A short time later, the gorgeous melody and poignant lyrics of, “The Summer Wind,” caused us to reach out and touch each other’s hand. We hadn’t done that in a very long time. It had indeed been a very long time.

Throughout the next hour and a half, we listened to a host of beautiful songs and each of Mr. Sinatra’s musical jewels helped us to recall memories of times gone by. Concerns about my impending homework assignments disappeared just like strangers in the night are fated to do.

The final song of the evening was to be, “In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning.” As the opening sounds of this treasure filtered into my ears, I began to recall the times when I had experienced so many moments of precious solitude, deep introspection, and awakenings of my soul. The wee, small hours of my life have always been the most serene and I’ve yearned to relive them. Of course, other times of the day and night have been wonderful as well, but there is something magical and intimate about the very early hours of the ‘morn, however my responsibilities have prohibited me from experiencing them as of late.

The hours between midnight and 3 a.m. seem to be my most private and soul-searching of all. I can recall so many occasions when, during those hours, while cradling a solitary glass of fine Merlot, I’ve come to grips with great difficulties in my life and realized that if I would only try again, my problems could be surmounted. Somehow, I have managed, over and over again, to try once more and the answers provided to me, during the early hours of those ‘morns, have proven their worth when the sun has risen.

There have also been those special times, while sitting on the deck and dreamily gazing out on the branches of the trees being kissed by the early morning breezes of summer, when I’ve vividly remembered the love presented to me by so many good friends.

Somewhere between midnight and 3 a.m., I’ve also, on some occasions, imagined that I was strolling over the moors of my beloved Scotland. I’ve never been to that wonderful land, but during the wee, small hours of the morning, my imagination has undeniably transported me to Scotland.

Sometimes, as the wee, small hours of the morning passed by, I’ve also revisited the pain of loss over those, be they animals or people, who’ve been a part of my life, but have now entered heaven.

Above all else, however, I cherish the wee, small hours of my life when I’ve been able to save a few animals from certain doom and no, those events haven’t occurred during the early hours of the ‘morn that I’ve been writing about.

As you must know by now, if you’ve read some of my other columns, I love animals and would do anything to help them. I’ve only managed to save the lives of a few, but the honor of doing so has given me a greater sense of accomplishment and happiness than so many other events in my life have blessed me with. Only a few wee, small hours have been spent trying to help animals. I’ve got, however, plenty of time left and will devote many more hours to the crusade of aiding God’s creatures whenever I’m able to.

On that evening of seven nights ago, the final notes of Mr. Sinatra’s song ended and I stood up and held Cindy close to my body. At that moment, our past troubles and distance evaporated. I felt closer to her than perhaps at any time in recent memory. It was one of those, “best of times,” moments.

Eventually we released our embrace. I then turned off the stereo and followed Cindy upstairs. Along the way, I glanced at my watch and noted that it was 12:30 a.m. The wee, small hours of the morning were upon us.

Since that night, I have taken time to recall other wonderful memories. I have also taken the time to contact a few friends and have not placed so much emphasis on my homework. Oh, I’m still trying to do my best and will surely be awarded another “A” or two as I walk along the path to my degree, but I’m never again going to fail to pay attention to the type of sun-kissed day that occurred on January 12, 1998. In fact, I won’t ignore whatever type of day is presented before me.

I also know that I’m not going to allow my drive for academic excellence to take precedence over my appreciation of love, nature, and all that life has to offer. If I run the risk of doing so, I’ll only have to remember the night when Cindy asked me to share an important period of reflection with her and appreciate the wee, small hours of the morning. Thank you, Mr. Sinatra. Thank you, Cindy.

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You can find more articles in the archive under Reflections on a Dream