Mom has always loved music.
At the family homestead, there were plenty of LPs on the shelf near the big old console stereo. The turntable played 78, 45, and 33 RPM disks, and was fully automatic. At the end of each record, the mechanism would sense the position of the heavy gray tonearm with the eye-dots that made it look like a snake, and pick the needle up off the disk to return to the rest position.
In addition to stopping after playing a single record, it allowed loading a bunch of records on the tall spindle. When one record finished playing, and the tone arm was retracted, the next record would flop down atop the first, provided the catching mechanism was doing it’s job and the whole stack didn’t come crashing down. Not only was it a mechanical marvel, the tubes from the electronics provided the side benefit of heating the living room.
After my Allan Sherman period exhausted itself, and I declared myself the DJ for the family, I began placing my own records on the player for the educational benefit of the entire family. The Tijuana Brass was followed by Blood, Sweat, and Tears, which was followed by initialed bands like CSN and ELP (REM and UB40 came much later, and AC/DC and ABBA were never appealing, for completely different reasons. Totally missed MC5.) and many others with actual names.
Can’t say that there are many memories of actually hearing it played, but the record that was most often replaced when my superior recordings were about to be heard was the South Pacific Soundtrack. I’m sure Mom was fond of the tunes.
That record and console are now just memories (Or maybe not. That’s another long story that won’t be told right now). But old music never dies.
The two last qualities of life that Mom has been able to at least partially enjoy are food and music. Her appetite remained healthy until just recently, even with pureed selections filling the menu. But with that in the past, the last vestige is music. One can’t be sure how much is getting through, but while music is playing, she breathes easier.
The Hospice Music Therapist brought his guitar to play and sing for Mom. He sat in the chair next to her bed, and asked, “What do you think she would like to hear?”
“Maybe something from South Pacific,” I said. “She likes that.”
“Hmmm...How about ‘Some Enchanted Evening,’?”
“That should work!”
The Therapist launched into the familiar tune. “Some enchanted evening, you may see a stranger….”
He provided a very soothing and melodic rendition. But the lovely finish caught me by surprise. At the last word, seeing my mother lying in bed so close to the point of departure was more than I could bear. I walked out of the room to unsuccessfully manage my emotions.
“Never...let...her...go...”
Sometimes, you have no choice.
