The old steam radiator hissed loudly, making it feel cozy in my room. Inhaling the earthy scent of incense, I sat cross legged on the rug my grandmother had hooked with her own hands. I don’t know who I thought I was fooling, thinking the Nag Champa would disguise the scent of smoke swirling up from the Marlboro in the ashtray next to me. COMING SOON! A little bit about Graham Nash and what his music has meant to me on my journey.

On Christmas Eve in 1978, I quietly slipped away from the dinner table and made my way to the dimly lit parlor. The bank of windows facing the sidewalk showcased the twinkling lights on the houses that lined Richardson Street. This formal room was reserved for Christmas, Easter, and the occasional visit from Sister Marie James. Sitting down cross-legged on the worn oriental rug, I watched the sparkling lights from our Christmas tree as they danced about the room, casting a colorful, magical glow on everything. From the kitchen, I could hear the excited voices of my brothers and sisters, combined with the clinking of glasses and silverware. Filled with a sense of wonder, I sat contentedly in the near darkness. With my face close to the sweet, sappy scent of…