Something in a guy's Celtic soul, which has been marinated in more than 200 years of Appalachian hill and holler culture, makes him a sucker for the maudlin. Personally, I can even get into "The Green Green Grass of Home" which offends my George Shearing side.
About this time of year it is Roger Williams. Even without the molasses-jug lyrics, "The Falling Leaves" tops the goopiness scale, and I wish I could get his damned piano version to quit earwigging me.
I am working this gray morning in front of the big south window, noticing that the cottonwood leave are definitely yellow.