Phyllis had the worst singing voice I’ve ever heard. Essence of tone-deaf.  Florence Foster Jenkins was Streisand compared to Phyl.  Phyl was quite aware of her dreadful vocals, but being Phyllis, that didn’t prevent her from wailing away her favorites, top volume, head thrown back, sounding like a wounded frog with tourettes.

Our music was like our marriage; many opposites.  We both loved the Beach Boys, Beatles, the schmaltz of Barry Manilow, and Jersey Boys.  Otherwise, nuh-uh.  Never the twain… Norman Greenbaum, Sha na na, Art Garfunkel, John Denver, Roberta Flack.   Noise to me, however only one actually hurt.

When her fave of faves, Neil Diamond intruded, I knew pain.  My ears’d ask for witness protection.   Aside from quintessential lyrics; “good times never seemed so good” “song sung blue, sleepin’ on my pillow” “pack up the babies, and grab the old ladies.” “no-one heard at all, not even the chair,” was what was called music. We attended about umpteen of this charlatan’s concerts.  Phyl would wail away at the unsurpassed esoterica of Sweet Caroline (“was in the spring, then spring became the summer”) and Song Sung Blue (“when you’re feelin’ good and make a song, you sing it out again”)  Yup, can’t beat Neil for depth. “So good” is irony.

She’d especially rock her favorite vocals, Brother Love’s Traveling Salvation Show and Cracklin’ Rosie.  And despite everyone over 50 at his concerts (which IS everyone at his concerts) singing along too, even Neil kept looking to see if a dying goose was mating.  I know Phyl had to go through natural childbirth twice, but I had to endure the duet of Phyl and Neil multiple times, multiple nights.  Even people around us would look to me.  I’d lean in to shush my librarian, and, before I got the first ‘sh’ out, Phyllis would stop “singing” for a fraction, glare at me with that fire, and, in that deliberate, low, gravelly voice, she’d snarl, “Don’t!” She loved it. She didn’t care. And I envied that.  Really, I adored it.  That passion imbued everything she cared for.