Music and my mom

I'm a little out of sync today. According to the calendar, I should be writing a tribute to my dad. But since I spoke to him this morning, all I can think of is my mother. She took another fall in the bathroom the other day. Thankfully, she sustained only bruises and a few scrapes, but it's another sign of her decline. My mother turned eighty in February; Dad will be eighty in July. She's recently been diagnosed with lupus, and the symptoms are piling up. Decline is inevitable, but so difficult to witness, especially from many miles away. They'll be here next month for our daughter's wedding, and I've already committed to spending more time with her then. Time--such a precious resource, always slipping away.

Today I watched an American Masters episode about Pete Seeger. This little clip tells only a piece of the story. I love these shows because you find out about so much more than just one life, you see the forces of our history. My mother taught me to love history and to pay attention to it, to think about how our lives are built on the lives of those that came before us. And while she was no Pete Seeger, she also knew the power of song.

When I was a child, we sang a lot. Even outside of church, which we attended several times a week, my mother loved singing. She sang to wake us up, she sang as we worked around the house, she encouraged us to sing with her. We were all hams and didn't need prodding. We sang four-part harmony in the car on long trips. She would switch from the soprano to the alto line whenever it suited her. My father would pat his leg because he can not carry a tune. He'd join us only for the comic renditions of strange little ditties from the past. "Deedee umpy, deedee umpy, deedee umpy, dum, dum, deedee umpy, deedee umpy, deedee umpy, dum, dum." Yes, that really was one of the choruses, don't ask me why. In between the nonsense choruses were made-up-on the-spot verses that went something like: "I'm a girl, I'm a girl, and the time is spring, I like to dance and I like to sing." Any variation that fit the rhythm was permissable and rhyming was the goal, but totally optional.

Mom always loved music. She knew it could motivate, unite, strengthen. She sang a passionate rendition of "Hand me Down my Silver Trumpet" in a soulful style that was more like Ella than the choral version I've linked to here. I remember how she would patiently point to every word in the hymnbook for me as we sang in church, an action that no doubt had a role in my early reading. Her singing voice is quieter now, and I'm not around enough to know, but I hope she's still singing.

Like Pete Seeger, she also believes in the power of protest, the idea that true Americans speak out, even when their opinions are not popular, even when they are dangerous. She taught us about women's rights while rarely bringing the topic up, taught us tolerance by example, taught us the value of loving others through everything.

I wish I could spend the day with my dad today, but for reasons stated and unstated, I miss my mom.