Donny & Marie Osmond’s “Morning Side of the Mountain”: A Duet of Love’s Near Miss – A Song About Two Hearts Kept Apart by a Mountain’s Divide
When Donny & Marie Osmond released “Morning Side of the Mountain” in late 1974, it climbed to No. 8 on the Billboard Hot 100 and held the top spot on the Easy Listening chart for a week, a shining moment from their album I’m Leaving It All Up to You, which reached No. 35 on the Billboard 200 and earned a Gold certification. This gentle ballad, a cover of a 1951 tune by Tommy Edwards, became a sweet milestone for the sibling duo, charting equally well in Canada and the UK, a testament to their universal appeal. For those of us who were there—maybe flipping a 45 on a turntable in a shag-carpeted room or catching their bright smiles on a grainy TV screen—“Morning Side of the Mountain” wasn’t just a hit; it was a soft glow in the fading light of the ’70s, a song that older hearts can still hear lilting through the years, tugging us back to a time when innocence hung in the air like morning mist, and love felt like a dream just out of reach.
The journey to this song feels like a family scrapbook page, curling at the edges with time. Donny, barely 16, and Marie, just 14, were already stars by ’74—children of the Osmond clan, raised in Utah’s quiet folds, their voices honed in church halls and Vegas lights. They’d struck gold earlier that year with “I’m Leaving It All Up to You”, and producer Mike Curb saw a chance to keep the magic alive. The original, penned by Larry Stock and Dick Manning, had been a modest hit for Edwards—No. 24 in ’51, No. 27 in ’59—but the Osmonds dusted it off, recording it in a Nashville studio with strings that sighed and a melody that floated like a paper kite. Picture them there: Donny in a wide-collared shirt, Marie with her hair falling soft, their harmonies blending like a sunrise meeting dusk. Released as Watergate soured the news and disco loomed on the horizon, it arrived like a postcard from a gentler world, a sibling serenade that wrapped around us when their Donny & Marie show flickered on Friday nights, all toothy grins and wholesome hope.
At its tender core, “Morning Side of the Mountain” is a wistful story of love thwarted by distance, a boy and girl so close yet forever apart. “There was a girl, there was a boy,” they sing, Donny’s bright tenor chasing Marie’s warm alto, “if they had met they might have found a world of joy.” But he’s on “the morning side of the mountain,” she’s on “the twilight side of the hill”—“they never met, they never kissed, they will never know what happiness they missed.” It’s a fragile ache, a rose that “never grows without the kiss of the morning dew,” a Jack without his Jill, a love that’s “just a kiss away” but never bridges the gap. For those of us who grew up with it, it’s a memory of longing stitched into simpler days—the hum of a fan on a sticky porch, the glow of a radio dial in a darkened car, the way it mirrored those teenage dreams of someone waiting on the other side of life’s hills. It’s the ’70s in a soft blur—platform shoes scuffing a dance floor, a TV tray rattling with popcorn, a song that held the bittersweet pang of what might’ve been.
This wasn’t their flashiest moment—no “Paper Roses” or “Puppy Love” dazzle—but “Morning Side of the Mountain” was Donny & Marie Osmond at their purest, a sibling bond that glowed through every note, a hit that bridged their Mormon roots to a world craving comfort. It lingered in their live shows decades later, a staple of Vegas residencies where fans, graying now, sang along with misty eyes. For us who’ve walked the long road since, it’s a bridge to those innocent nights—when you’d save pocket money for a record, when their variety show was a weekly ritual, when music was a hand to hold through life’s first sighs. Slip that old vinyl from its sleeve, let it spin, and you’re back—the rustle of leaves in an autumn breeze, the flicker of a streetlamp on a quiet lane, the way “Morning Side of the Mountain” felt like a love we all missed by a hair, a song that still hums with the ache of almost, tender and true.