In this issue’s special section, you’ll read all about what drives us to lead more fulfilling lives through fitness. A few page-turns further back, we’ll also have some discussion of how human wellness can be so profoundly affected by music. That’s right. We’re talking tunes. Tracks. Jingles. Numbers. Music affects us all in a myriad of subtle ways, but in all its guises, what it does best is provoke emotion. Think of that first heartbreak, or wedding day, or the birth of a child. Even if the lyrics or tempo don’t quite jive when you first hear it, the music has a way of mapping itself over your feelings for the long haul. The more we feel, the stronger the connection. Example: I don’t know what Don Henley’s “Sunset Grill” ever had to do with me getting dumped by my first girlfriend. The lyrics don’t resonate with that experience in any meaningful way. What I CAN tell you is that 28 years later, I hear that song and want to break something. That’s how it works. Think of a song from your youth, and chances are good your thoughts will quickly drift to some emotional event in your past. The signature moment might be a breakup, but it might also be a newfound love. Luckily for me (and for most of you, I’d guess), the uplifting associations far outweigh the downers. On that note (pardon the pun), meet Dell, an 84-year-old former rodeo star, current resident at Mt. Vernon Assisted Living and client of the locally- based service organization, Hearts for Hospice. For many folks in their later years, it is through the melodies of the past that minds and hearts are lifted. In Dell’s case, it’s all thanks to the efforts and talent of Casey Kelley, a local guitar player and employee at Hearts for Hospice. I.F. magazine staffers had the honor this spring of listening to Casey play a series of vintage pieces for Dell. Songs ranged from numbers by Willie Nelson and John Denver to a long list of campfire classics. Also in the mix was one very special ballad written by Dell’s own daughter. “My daddy’s just a rodeo cowboy,” his daughter wrote, “and Number One in the eyes of his girl.” The most touching moment of our time with Dell came at the tail end of that personal number. The final chord rolled off Casey’s strings, and in the fading reverberation you could see a well of tears in the old man’s eyes. If only for a moment, he was there again. Stirrup in hand. Head bowed. Heart pounding. Knees tight against the saddle. Then the gate flies open. The crowd roars. The dance of man and beast begins. It’s over in mere seconds. But in the halls of Dell’s memory? Who knows. That moment, anchored in song, could be timeless. Ben Franklin once opined that you should believe none of what you hear and only half of what you see. I have trouble following that advice, because I believe there are times when it is blindingly obvious that something is true. To both the ear and the eye, truth resonates, although it does so in some forms better than others. One of its best conduits, I’m convinced, is music. In its simplest form, perhaps it is nothing more than a metronome, timed to the beat of our own hearts.