Almost lost among the Kennedy anniversary hoopla was that yesterday was also the 100th anniversary of the birth of Benjamin Britten.

For some reason I’ve been on a “Britten kick” lately anyway, having taken one of the British composer’s CDs along with me (totally randomly) on my most recent drive to Kentucky. I’m no Britten aficionado — no “Peter Grimes” for me, thank you very much. But the more accessible stuff, like the “Simple Symphony” or “The Young Person’s Guide to the Orchestra” are highly hummable and provide hours of listening pleasure.

Last night, long after dark, I went outside and jumped up and down on the trampoline with Benjamin Britten’s music in my ears. I do some variation of this all the time — bounce while listening to the music of dead white guys. But for some reason last night the miraculousness of it all hit me with extra force.

Benjamin Britten was born 100 years ago. He wrote this piece in 1946. And here I am, 67 years later, his music piped into my ears with a device he could not have imagined, bouncing on a trampoline to its rhythms. Bouncing with goosebumps, I might add.

(Last night’s Benjamin Britten portal.)