- Mitch Albom, “For One More Day”
This was the opinion of Charles, a character in Albom’s book, but sad to say, Albom himself suffers these days as well, for as he said on a recent television interview, his mother has had strokes and can no longer talk.
I understand these very strong feelings about mothers, for though my mother has been gone since 1975, I still miss her every day. She and I had a very close relationship through both music and literature. She was a wonderful pianist who could play any song she knew in any key.
We both loved playing by ear, for we could feel much closer to those for whom we were playing if we didn’t have to look constantly at printed music. I still remember my mother’s comment on playing by ear: “The paper just gets in the way.”
Mom and I played together very often on piano and violin without music, and thus I grew up feeling that playing music was nothing but fun. We played regularly at home and at my grandmother’s house, and we also played for my grandmother’s friends in nursing homes and for the small children in the Sunday School class my mother taught.
These days I still play regularly in nursing homes and assisted livings, and people really appreciate that I can walk around the room, playing close to each person, even if that person is a wheelchair or in bed.
Though we were both serious about playing music, neither of us wanted to deal with music as a full-time occupation. True enough, we both pursued it most every day from early childhood through our adult lives, and I played in symphony orchestras including 31 years here in Battle Creek, but it was never a career. I finally retired when the orchestra became more and more professional, and I realized I was one of the only “amateurs” in the whole group.
My mother was also an enthusiastic reader and writer. She majored in English in college and graduate school and taught English in various schools for many years. Here, too, we had much in common, for I had the same major and the same career. We not only loved to read and teach novels, non-fiction books and poems, but we both also loved to write letters, stories, articles and poems.
It was especially sad when Mom died suddenly at 66 from a blood clot.
I’m 74 already, thus already having had eight years more than Mom to play music, read books and write various items.
My mom would be over 100 years old now and would no doubt be in bad shape if she were alive, but I can’t help but to wish that she could still be alive to play music and share her various writings with me. I know, too, that she’d enjoy reading my columns in the Enquirer and could no doubt suggest good subjects each week for me to pursue.
This was the opinion of Charles, a character in Albom’s book, but sad to say, Albom himself suffers these days as well, for as he said on a recent television interview, his mother has had strokes and can no longer talk.
I understand these very strong feelings about mothers, for though my mother has been gone since 1975, I still miss her every day. She and I had a very close relationship through both music and literature. She was a wonderful pianist who could play any song she knew in any key.
We both loved playing by ear, for we could feel much closer to those for whom we were playing if we didn’t have to look constantly at printed music. I still remember my mother’s comment on playing by ear: “The paper just gets in the way.”
Mom and I played together very often on piano and violin without music, and thus I grew up feeling that playing music was nothing but fun. We played regularly at home and at my grandmother’s house, and we also played for my grandmother’s friends in nursing homes and for the small children in the Sunday School class my mother taught.
These days I still play regularly in nursing homes and assisted livings, and people really appreciate that I can walk around the room, playing close to each person, even if that person is a wheelchair or in bed.
Though we were both serious about playing music, neither of us wanted to deal with music as a full-time occupation. True enough, we both pursued it most every day from early childhood through our adult lives, and I played in symphony orchestras including 31 years here in Battle Creek, but it was never a career. I finally retired when the orchestra became more and more professional, and I realized I was one of the only “amateurs” in the whole group.
My mother was also an enthusiastic reader and writer. She majored in English in college and graduate school and taught English in various schools for many years. Here, too, we had much in common, for I had the same major and the same career. We not only loved to read and teach novels, non-fiction books and poems, but we both also loved to write letters, stories, articles and poems.
It was especially sad when Mom died suddenly at 66 from a blood clot.
I’m 74 already, thus already having had eight years more than Mom to play music, read books and write various items.
My mom would be over 100 years old now and would no doubt be in bad shape if she were alive, but I can’t help but to wish that she could still be alive to play music and share her various writings with me. I know, too, that she’d enjoy reading my columns in the Enquirer and could no doubt suggest good subjects each week for me to pursue.
No comments:
Post a Comment