The core of the soul of some people can be so well protected that not much reaches it. Hardened from continual exposure to vagaries and vicissitudes, accretion of psychological concrete is layered on, layer after layer during life's battles leaving few hidden trap doors to the inside. Throughout life's odysseys, moats go up, kevlar-like protection is constructed, behaviors adapt, vision may constrict and feelings become comfortably entombed within a nearly impenetrable vault.

But every once in a while, when one's guard is taken by surprise, innermost sensitivities can become vulnerable from the simplest events. Things that, by their nature, succumb the soul, breach that bulletproof armor of the spirit, sucker feelings into a trap to ambush all that protected inner self. The snared ego is laid bare by a tune, an odor, a thing of beauty, or some other unthought of thing from which there is no sanctuary.

A tune, for example, still epoxied to and enmeshed with an event repressed and secreted away so deep inside that home-made vault and submerged over years or perhaps decades by other forgotten trivia, can instantly excite moribund feelings, even way down in the secret, forgotten bowels of that soul. It instantly melts its way up through the coatings of decades of

security and explodes onto the surface into reality like gangbusters or fireworks. And there you are non-plussed, egg on

the face, perhaps embarrassed or weepy, but definitely shocked to find that you too, are human.

It's the knock-your-socks-off realization that forces the question, "Wow, where did that come from?" Your concentration retro-rockets from the present, directly passed STOP, right back to whatever it was that happened when that tune or other thing impacted your psyche. Do you smile? Perhaps even grin? or do you wince? Was it a thumbs-up event, or, perhaps not?

That sort of thing happened to me and it's one of those old events that can be discussed out in the open. Others are, well, no body's business and are long forgotten.

I was pulled onto the dance floor by my oldest son's girl friend during my middle son's wedding reception. You know, being the father of the groom thing. I was delighted to have the opportunity to chat with her, having been on the other coast for so long and unable to have spent much time with either of them. The disk jockey played, Unchained Melody. "Oh my love, my darling, I hunger for your kiss, the long lonely night..." I looked at Laurie and related the following vignette, because I can't hear this tune and not think about what happened then.

Shortly after the Korean War truce, a soldier on Okinawa went to his bed, near mine, every night in our Quonset hut barracks. He had a 45 RPM record player, if anyone remembers

them, that he played long, long into the night, continually, every night. He sorely missed his girlfriend, Unchained Melody was their song and his only record. I heard that song way too often. I told Laurie this story and that I would like to become unchained from that melody, even now, after over forty years.

The term incurable, often precedes the word, romantic. It's probably seen more in that context than in medical literature. It may indicate a compulsive personality, one who never learns from experience, or merely one who can't. And music is inexorably connected to the romantic, like it or not. It's like a chemical compound, i.e., table salt. The sodium can't be diluted away from the chloride just by dissolving it. That only makes salt water. The romantic is stuck with the association with music.

The romantic may just be an immature person unduly influenced by the entertainment industry. How many people really think that one enchanted evening, you will see a stranger, across a crowded room? And boom, it's love? Lust, yes. Love, I don't think so. Will that same person feel the emotions in Mascagni's or other intermezzos, rhapsodies, arias, symphonies, as well as

the pathos in pop tunes of World War Two? And will he/she be accused of liking elevator/dentist music?

It was easy being a romantic decades ago. The airways were replete with love songs backed with a fox trot beat that you could dance to, with the object of your affection actually in your arms, actually touching. What a concept. Tunes like Canadian Sunset, Red Sails in the Sunset, Theme from Picnic, among others on wonderful lists of very danceable songs. Can't identify many of them because somebody's favorite would be missed, for example,

Stardust. One could dance to any of these without upsetting your stomach and although wonderful love songs are still being written, dancing to current tunes raises more perspiration from fast gyrations then emotional perspiration from just being close.

I don't suppose comments about love songs would be balanced without including a note about country and western music. Too sad. Way too sad. Lovelorn taken to the pathological, so I have to get picky. One of my favorites is Neon Moon. Poor cowpoke. Do cowboys cry in the saddle?

Music, like so many other things, is kinda like a horse race. Everyone picks their winners, but with music, you can't lose. Even rap. I can't handle rap. It actually upsets me. Way too primitive. But hey, it's in the horse race too. Will lovers

who are rap aficionados lovingly reminisce over rap tunes in twenty years?

And now for something completely different. Other events do similar things to me like the Unchained Melody thing. Some things which remain locked tight in the preserve centered somewhere in my alleged soul, flare up from time to time. For some reason, old cars can flood my head with totally lost memories. It's called reminiscing, nostalgia or memorabilia or something.

Each year the most beautifully restored cars in the country, four thousand refurbished, refinished, refitted, restored project cars show up in Reno Nevada for a week of Hot August Nights. Impeccable products of compulsive owners, literally and

figuratively driven to an art form by obsessed, impassioned, preoccupied enthusiasts.

As a kid, I never thought that cars that I drove would be lovingly restored, seen cruising on parade as works of art, and generating enthusiastic applause from a quarter of a million other enthusiasts lining the streets several deep in Reno and environs. But it happens every August.

I drove a new 1950 chartreuse Ford convertible while a disinterested undergraduate in Pennsylvania whose main interest in life was the coeds at the women's college four miles away. One of the reasons I never made it to calculus, even when disinterested students were usually drafted into the army. Although I remember some of the early stuff, sometimes I couldn't remember to stop to buy gas on the way home from work. Hate when that happens.

Everything automotive, from the earliest cars and trucks, magnificent roadsters of the thirty's, pre and post WW II behemoths, those massive, marvelous monsters of the fifty's and sixty's, all immaculately restored with insatiable craftsmanship by possessed owners are represented in Reno. And may be available for purchase at the auction held in the convention center. The owners don't own those cars, the cars own the owners. As with any out-of-control person, the money so lavishly spent on those beauties boggles the mind.

An occasional Jeep, a-là MASH fame, along with Hudson, Nash, Packard, Kaiser, Henry J, and DeSotos among others, would conjure

up the past for any moldy oldie.

Guys and their toys. I'd love a 1948 Lincoln Continental convertible. Or maybe a '48 Ford convert, like the one I drove after the army and back in college with a slightly different perspective on education. Or even a 1956 Cadillac convert. Yeah, or maybe a ..., whatever.

I never thought a car would ever be considered a thing of beauty, an object d'art, until Hot August Nights in Reno. Hell,

everybody should have a hobby. Especially one that stirs the soul.