Soundtrack

A tribute to my mom, on the third anniversary of her death.

My mother loved music.

One of my very first memories, I’m on her lap in the rocking chair, which my dad bought her when she was pregnant with me. It’s the same rocking chair where I sang to my own babies. I remember the red area rug, the fireplace, the orange cat, and the record player. We’re listening to Bobbie Gentry and Glen Campbell, “Little Green Apples”, my head rests under her chin while she rocks, and I can feel her singing along as much as I can hear it. It feels like home, this sing-rocking. There’s The Continentals and The Gaither Trio, BJ Thomas, Carly Simon, ABBA, Frankie Valli, and always, The Eagles. There’s an entire collection of yacht rock I know by heart because it was what was on the radio–and the radio was always on.

I remember the looks she gave us girls from the choir loft when we were being naughty in the pews. (Correction: when my sisters were being naughty–blowing bubbles or laughing over something they had said to one another using their sign language–I wasn’t naughty in church! Ahem) She never liked the songs that talked about the blood of Jesus. There was one she thought sounded like ice skating music and we’d always giggle. She pointed out the words and the notes, as I was learning to read both. She would stomp or tap her fingers on the hymnal if the pace was dragging–and lean in with a little head shrug and her wordless way of complaining about it. She always thought it was funny when the choir director would stop the singing so the third verse could be “instruments only”. She’d say, “how do they know they’re playing the third verse? It could be the first or the fourth, it’s all the same!” We loved Sunday night “Singspirations”, especially at the Alton Bay Tabernacle. She sang in the quartet, always the soprano. She liked the choir robes with the golden stole.

We used to roller skate at the place in Alton, where the floor was soft and creaky and the guy still played live on the organ as we whizzed around and around. She’d always hum along. We roller skated at the place on the Milton Rd, where they played pop music and doo-wop. She could stomp along to “Knock Three Times on the Ceiling” without falling. She taught me how to do the Stroll, and talked about going to Teen Haven in the gym at a local school in the 50s. Every once in a while, she’d get out there when a big band played, and swing or waltz with Latham. She knew all the words to “In the Mood” and “Mack the Knife”. There was the little yellow boom-box by the pool, and the boat battery running down so we could listen to the radio while we anchored and swam.

I remember harmonizing–to hymns, to jingles, to showtunes, to the Eagles–I was always impressed by how she could automatically sing the mezzo parts without getting sucked back into the main melodies. When I was five, we moved to NH, into a rented house that had a piano in the parlor. I was very proud to buy her a piano book of simple Christmas songs. We didn’t live in that house long, and afterward, she longed for a piano. Latham bought her one for her 50th birthday. She took lessons, and delighted in playing, though she *never* played in front of anyone. It was her treasure. I walked into the house once or twice while she was playing and she didn’t realize anyone was there. She’d gotten decent at playing, and I tried to stay hidden as long as I could to listen. She was always mad when she realized anyone had heard her. I found the book of Christmas carols I’d given her 40-something years earlier, tucked away in her piano bench, along with her lesson books and a “borrowed” hymnal.

She couldn’t resist a John Philips Souza march, or singing along to “Grand Ol’ Flag” on the fourth of July. We lost our minds the first time we saw “Les Miserables” live, and again every time we replayed the official Broadway soundtrack. She became fond of saying “I am agog, I am aghast”. She knew every song on the Dirty Dancing soundtrack. She gained ultimate respect from my high school boyfriend when, as she’s driving us somewhere or other, and we think she’s not paying attention, she belts out “has anyone seen the bridge? Where’s that confounded bridge?” at the end of Zeppelin’s “The Crunge” She sat through all of our concerts, found ways to pay for our lessons-clarinet, flute, trombone. She encouraged singing even when we messed up the words or sang off key. She splurged on live music, and snuck me into the Cider Press when I was 13, so I could hear Skip’s band when everyone went to see them. She sat in the front for my college a cappella concerts and my boyfriend’s gigs at the Elvis Room. She bought the record we made at All State, and the recording of the Seacoast Singers “Faure’s Requiem” because I sang soprano among 100 others. She was always up for live music. We loved the Christmas sing along at the Music hall. She even came to Boston for Pat Metheny, even though she “hated” jazz.

Her love of music lingers in my own kids; the way they love songs of all genres, the way they say yes to any chance to see a concert, the way we harmonize in the car, the way they light up the same way I do, whenever a favorite song comes along.

We made a playlist together, my mom and I. Hymns–A Mighty Fortress was her favorite, Survivor, Anne Murray, the Eagles, Enya, Lee Ann Womack’s “I Hope You Dance”, and a good sprinkle of Piano Winterlude–music sustained her, and me– during those last days together. And now, her life lingers within the playlist of my memories, each moment with her holds a song.

My mother loved music.

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