My Mom’s Best Gift

My mom’s been gone just a little over five years now.  A few days ago I put a CD in my computer   She plays. “Beautiful Days”; a song she learned at the tender age of 11.  Her long gray hair is pulled back in a ponytail and as she sways back and forth on the organ bench, her arms pull the bellows in and out as fingers fly over unseen black and white keys, a look of pure joy on her face.  It’s a mesmerizing sight. 

and in a moment, on my screen, is my mother as she sits in front of her Yamaha organ, in a pair of slacks and her signature white short sleeved blouse, accordion strapped to her chest.

It was February 28^th, 2001 and she indulged me in my request to videotape her while she played the accordion and then the organ.  She wasn’t very comfortable about the idea of doing it, but went along with me anyway.   I was honest with her in my reasoning in that I’d listened to her play my whole life and couldn’t imagine that one day I’d never hear her play again. The tape was my insurance policy against that happening.

The day was cold and I’d gone to their house and set up my camcorder on the tripod in their living room.  We chatted for a while and had a bite to eat and a pot of tea.  It was a delightful afternoon. Afterwards, I played the video only once, to insure all had worked and then put it away.  I didn’t think to put it on a CD and share it with family members until after her death in 2009.    

When she started playing, her instructor first taught her the classics, telling her once she mastered those, she’d be able to play anything the rest of her life.  On the screen she moves now through those classics to popular favorites like “Harvest Moon.”  I’m back in elementary school, hearing the notes when I reach the end of the driveway after walking home from school.  Entering the kitchen from the back porch, I’d find her perched on the kitchen table edge, eyes closed, swaying to the music.  Again, that look of pure joy on her face.

I never tire of watching her.   She always played this large and cumbersome instrument with a measure of grace and lightness that defied reason.   The left hand playing chords as the right hand carries the melody.  Knowing she never learned to read music and that it’s all done by ear and memory only adds to her mystique. 

She flows into a song, mentioning it was her parent’s song.  When she’s done I ask her if she remembers the title and her voice breaks…“I Never Knew I Could Love Anybody Like I'm Loving You”, and then continues softly with the main verse…

“I never knew I could love anybody,

Honey, like I'm loving you;
I couldn't realize what a pair of eyes and a baby smile could do.
I can't sleep, I can't eat,
I never knew a single soul could be so sweet,
I never knew I could love anybody,
Honey, like I'm loving you.”

And in a moment, I remember my grandmother never referring to my grandfather as anything but her ‘Honey”, and it all comes together. 

The last song she plays on the accordion is my favorite, “Twilight Time.”  In hindsight, I think it may have been one of her favorites as well.

After a short break, she switches to the organ and the music I remember her playing most, at night, as I lay upstairs in my bed before I fell asleep begins.

Her back is to the recorder now as she flows through “I Get Misty”, “I Don’t Know Why I Love You Like I Do” and “Apple Blossom Time”.  I made a collage of family pictures to scroll as she plays – her and her parents, as a young girl with her brother, through her marriage and us kids growing up and her grandchildren.  It’s bittersweet to listen to her play this lovely background music as a slideshow plays of her life.  My favorite is her standing at a ledge at the Grand Canyon, a lifelong dream of hers and as beautiful as the canyon itself. 

I didn’t know that five short years after making this tape, she would have a traumatic brain injury.  For three years following until she passed, the music was gone as all her efforts were put into rebuilding other areas of her life and maneuvering her injury on a daily basis. 

I didn’t play the tape during those three years, instead waiting until after she passed for the time it was purposed for.  And a few days ago, as every time I play it, it serves the purpose.  Some days I just watch the screen and enjoy the sight and sound of her.  Other days I’ve just put it on while I was cleaning or writing, as background music.  I’ve even found myself walking towards the living room a time or two to request a song before I remember she’s not there.

My mom gave me a lot of gifts over my lifetime, but I've come to cherish that gift of her indulgence that cold February afternoon most of all.  Her music, the memories it holds for me and the joy it gives me each and every time I hear it.  

ZEBRA (A-Z April Blog Challenge)

I never see a zebra that I don’t view as a “horse in striped pajamas”.  This song was part of my childhood and sung by my family all the time.  “Look there daddy, do you see? There’s a horse in striped pajamas…”

And NO ONE else knew it.  None of our friends. Either then, or now.  I’m embarrassed at the number of times I’ve subjected friends and coworkers to my “singing voice” in the attempt to find SOMEONE who knows the song besides us.  Then the other day, I Googled it.  Just the words “horse in striped pajamas”.  And there it was!   

I found a version by Captain Kangaroo and Mr. Green Jeans and another by Eddie Arnold and his daughter.  So even if I haven’t found them, I KNOW there are people out there who’ve heard the song.  I won’t admit to how many times I’ve played it over the past few days, but will say it’s been such a joy!

Probably ten years or so at Christmas, when the family was all together, someone brought up the song.  Someone started it and then all five of us kids were singing as were dad and mom.  It was off key, and some mumbled through areas of forgotten words.  It was loud and filled with laughter.  Looking back, it was one of the most connected moments I’ve ever felt to my family. We reminisce in my family – a lot.  We tell stories and kid around, and it’s a good close time.  But there was something so singular and spontaneous about us all singing that simple song.  At that moment, we weren’t married, we didn’t have kids, we hadn’t all grown up and gone on with our lives, separate from mom, dad and each other.  We were just the Wood clan.  Mom, Dad, Craig, Keith, Brooke, Darcey and Amy.  It was nice. 

There was one other song that my family sang.  Well, I honesty, my mom sang it mostly.  Standing by your bedside in the morning, she would sing “Birdie with a yellow bill, hopped upon my window sill.  Cocked a shiny eye and said, aren’t you awake you sleepy head’? We moaned.  We groaned.  And yet we loved it. Or grew to love it.  How could you not love it you’re your always chipper and happy mom wakes you up with a little song in your ear? 

And again, upon Googling, I find it’s actually a poem, titled Time to Rise, by Robert Louise Stevenson.  A poem.  That my mother put to music.  Not surprising, and a revelation to me to find I fell in love with my first poem long before I thought I did.  

And we all sang Birdie with a yellow bill. We sang it in mocking fun to each other over the years.  And when we started having children, we sang it to them.  They moaned and groaned just like we did and it is my fervent hope that they will sing it to their children as well.  If they don’t, well that’s a shame. 

I know Abram grew up hearing both songs, and if the blessing of having children enters his life, I feel confident he will. And if he doesn’t, I’ll be waiting in the wings with my “singing voice” ready.

MUSIC (A-Z April Blog Challenge)

Love seeing mom with both her instruments!

Coming home from elementary school, the sounds of her accordion would reach me at the end of the driveway.  I knew when I got inside, I would find mom sitting on the edge of the kitchen table, foot propped on one of the chairs, her dust rag forgotten on the kitchen counter.  The full accordion would be strapped to her thin frame and her body would sway with the movement of her arms as she pulled the bellows back and forth, moving air through the chambers to produce this beautiful sound as her fingertips worked the keys and buttons, sight unseen by feel and memory.  I’ll never understand how she looked so graceful while she played. 

She took accordion lessons as a child, learning the intricate classics before anything else.  She never learned to read music very well and instead learned and played every piece by ear; she was flawless, never missing a note or chord.  No matter the song, once she heard it, she could play it on the accordion.  She would blend one song into the next, humming along with each one, a smile, always, on her face.  Music was the center of her and she could never resist that call to stop what she was doing to play a little. 

Looking back, I feel fortunate that it never became common place to listen to her.  It always felt like a privilege.  Sometimes I wouldn’t go inside, but sit outside on the steps to listen.  She never minded you coming upon her playing, but there was an intimate quality to when you listened and knew she was just playing for herself.  A shared moment of her self fulfillment.   

Those hands played magic!

Besides the accordion, she also played the organ.  Her mom played piano in a group that performed at local neighborhood pubs, so my mom grew up with piano music in the house.  One day my dad and her were shopping and walked past the Yamaha Organ store.  She fell in love and even though they didn’t have two extra dimes to rub together, somehow he found a way to get her that organ. 

She took a few lessons, but again reverted to playing by ear and it was magical.  She didn’t play the classics, instead playing the pieces that her mom had played and popular music from her time.  Mostly music from the 40 and 50’s – romantic pieces. 

By far my favorite time to listen was in the evening, after I’d gone upstairs to bed.  I’d lie in bed and listen to her adjust the volume and then the music would start.  I’d picture her, fingers softly flowing over the upper and lower rows of black and white keys as her upper body swayed back and forth on the bench.  Her left foot would glide across the pedals at the floor, her right foot controlling the volume pedal.  To this day I marvel that her arms legs all worked in unison, each one having its own role to play in the music, conducted by her to perfection.  What I wouldn’t give some days to drift into sleep listening to her play Edelweiss or Stardust.

She loved sharing her music...

Shortly after my parents moved back to Grand Island in 1999, I asked my mom if she’d let me videotape her playing.  I went down to their house, set up the camcorder on a tripod and sat for a few hours. I worked my way through a couple pots of tea and she played the accordion and organ.  We talked and joked throughout and it was a lovely afternoon that captured the joyful essence she found in her music.

She passed away in 2009 and not often, but enough, I put the tape in and relive the afternoon with her as I putter around the house.  And still, after three years of her being gone, when I hear her call out myname, I head back into the room to see what she has to say.