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Girl on the Park gave me a copy of Mumford and Sons Sigh No More the other day.  She had heard me playing “Little Lion Man” a little while back and correctly guessed that I was a big fan of the band.  Her description of them as being “like Great Big Sea if Dave Matthews was the front man” was kinder than the explanation offered by my favourite radio morning show: “Like Great Big Sea if Great Big Sea were good.”

I popped the CD into my surround system this gray, rainy morning, cranked it up, and picked up my little girl.  How long has it been since I had a whole album to listen to?  The MP3 movement has made me much pickier with my music.  No more will I be lured into buying $15 worth of music while only getting $3 worth of listenable material.  (Pearl Jam, I’m looking at you and thinking about Vitalogy.  That was complete crap.  You ruined 1994 and the better part of 1995 for me.)

Acoustic brilliance filled my living room as those boys from London worked their magic.  How they could not have won the Grammy for Best New Artist I will never know.

Three songs in, I was sobbing hysterically.

The first reason was that I was slow dancing with my daughter.  I held Abby’s little hand while she sat on my hip, her other arm slung about my shoulder and gripping tightly to my shirt.  Her little legs kicked and swung against me.  That kind of thing is enough to make me misty-eyed.

The second reason was that “Winter Winds” came on.

Yeah, that song is a bit of a killer for a Dad that often imagines what it will be like to dance with his daughter at her wedding.

I spent five minutes weeping as we danced, my face buried in her little shoulder, smelling my daughter’s little-girl smell, hoping that she was still too young to be worried that her Daddy had melted down completely on her.  To her credit, Abby stoically remained the emotional rock I needed, neither crying nor laughing, merely quietly and contentedly allowing me to cry it out on her.

Daughters (even very little ones) are good for that kind of thing.

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