Sometimes I like taking an old 78rpm record from its sleeve, smelling its musty odor, placing it on the platter with the great anticipation of opening a grand door to another time and place, just as my grandparents played them and conjured up the lost worlds of their childhoods in the old country. The crackling sounds are like specks of dust on an old sepia photo of homesick immigrants standing together in front of their tenements on the lower east side. If you look closely in their eyes you can almost hear the old, passionate songs playing once again. The eyes of today's immigrants are also lit with the music of their homelands that helps sustain them through their myriad obstacles. If we take the time to listen it will sustain us as well. ©David S. Goldman