Dear Harry,

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It was 1991. Wait, how is that possible? I was just a kid. You were just past being a kid. When Harry Met Sally had been looping on the CD player in Mom's Caravan for months and we were addicted. I'd been playing the piano for about 10 years by then and fancied myself an expert on amazing. I knew amazing, and you, Harry, were pretty amazing.

I'd seen Memphis Belle about a dozen times, too. It was a running joke in the family - someone was always bringing home the videotape from Blockbuster. Ha ha ha...hurryupandpushplay!

Once, thinking I could do what you do, Mom called "your people" to see if sheet music existed for your version of Winter Wonderland. We were told by a very nice gentleman that "No, Harry doesn't do sheet music," and I think he sent us some type of songbook instead. I cannot do what you do.

It was one of the most spontaneous things I'd seen my mom do - the paper said you were performing that night and she decided we would go, without tickets. While my friends were sneaking out to G'n'R shows, I was buying scalped Harry Connick, Jr. tickets with my mom. I've always been that girl.

We weren't so lucky with tickets - we found two, in different places. She let me have the one that was a few rows closer and I took my seat in an empty section. I'd not made myself comfortable before an usher approached me. I wasn't going to be able to see from there, she said. She wanted to take me to a place where I would be able to see better, she said. Somewhere like the front row, right behind the keyboard, no more than 10 feet from you.

So there we were, you and I. Getting to know each other - you with your band, me trying to keep the dumb smile off my face and play it cool. It was the Blue Light/Red Light tour, with songs from We are in Love, and I was, most definitely, in love. You probably don't remember.

Since then, I have sat in a few other audiences, still trying to keep the dumb smile off my face, still trying to play it cool. Never again in the front row - though my triumphant last minute crashing of the Pajama Game on Broadway landed me in about the 5th - but always, always, toe tapping & dumb grinning.


I do feel our history allows me the privilege of one little question: only 90 minutes on Saturday night? I know it was Boca, and aside from us you were the youngest person in the venue by 20 years, but please, next time, stay just a little bit longer. For me, and our 20 years together.

Sincerely,
Amy from the front row in 1991

Could this sound creepier? Harry, if you're reading, I don't still live with my mom and save my money to stalk you around the country. I promise.

Comments

Mary @ Giving Up On Perfect said…
LOVE this. I won't be surprised if you tell me it's come up before and I've already told you my story. But just in case I haven't...

My mom and I also loved Harry (because I also played, which you know, and always with the sheet music). But when we went to buy concert tickets, my mom was floored by just how expensive they were. So we didn't go.

Seeing him live and up close last year at Blissdom made up for it. But THAT concert was only about 30 minutes! So while Harry might think your post is creepy (nah!), I don't!
April 19, 2011 at 10:08 PM
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