Morning breakfast in hand, sky just starting to blush. Thought drifted to an old episode of Little House on the Prairie, the one where Mr. Edwards comes striding in with that half grin, a little twinkle of mischief in his eyes, and starts into “Old Dan Tucker.” Banjoless but somehow you hear the pluck and stomp in the air. Pa tapping a boot, Laura’s eyes bright, the room warmer than the fire makes it.

It is not about the words themselves, “Old Dan Tucker was a fine old man,” but about the cadence, the rolling river of syllables that makes you smile even before you catch the meaning. The way Edwards’ voice carries, a little gravel, a little laughter, like he is sharing an inside joke with the whole room.

I have always liked that in songs, the sense that they are not just being sung to you, but with you, across a long table lit by lamplight. The melody and the memory blend, and suddenly I am not in my home, I am in a prairie cabin, with woodsmoke in my clothes and the winter scratching at the walls outside.

The episode fades, but the rhythm lingers. Foot tapping still, coffee cooling, and a smile you cannot quite explain to anyone who was not there in that room, even if that room only ever existed on a soundstage in the 1970s.