Family Music

When Daniel, my youngest, was just over six months old, I took him with me when I flew up to Idaho for my grandmama's funeral. My parents drove up, and my sister Vinca flew in from Virginia. We all had to do plenty of commuting between two small towns in Idaho, the epicenters of both sides of the family. That road was very familiar to my parents, for it was their slice of the world, where they had grown up, gone to school and church, where they'd met. They told stories and pointed out special spots from their courtship.

But my little guy hated his car seat and therefore hated the drive. Like his big sisters before him, he treated it like a torture device and cried inconsolably for most of the time that he was strapped into it. The flurry of family visits and family business that was sometimes comforting, sometimes heartbreaking but a necessary part of saying goodbye and preparing the funeral for Grandmama was hard on him.

One night we stopped at a gas station on our commute, and I comforted and nursed my distraught baby before we headed down the narrow, paved road again. Of course, he was already crying again within moments, overstimulated and exhausted, sick of being confined. My dad felt especially bad for his namesake.

Then Vinca started singing softly to soothe my Danny. It was melancholy and quite beautiful, accompanying the hum of the car and the stillness of the passing rural environment, swathed in consoling darkness.

As Vinca and I sat by my son, holding and stroking his hand and hair, he fell quiet. We were all feeling very sad, and the songs didn't serve to distract us, but simply gave voice to our grief and let us dwell in it together. I listened to Dad, Mom and Vinca sing spiritual songs, completely captivated by their voices as I gazed at my little boy's face and out the window at the trees, fields and streams, my own thoughts hushed.

The five of us on a dark road, grieving and singing hymns to my baby and for our comfort, is one of my favorite memories from that time.

It is not the only memory encapsulated in and kindled by music.

The last night of my visit with my brother Nate this past April, my friend Holly, Natie, my sis-in-law Natalie and I sat at their dining table playing cards, eating pizza and drinking wine. We told family and personal stories, debated a little (something without which my family can't survive), and Nate had a playlist on his smartphone through which he skimmed and skipped. A Gordon Lightfoot song came up, and I asked," Natie, you still like Gordon Lightfoot?"

"Of course."

My heart swelled with familial pride. Dad raised his four kids on Lightfoot's music. I knew my sisters still enjoyed it, but to know that it was honored by Nate, too, made me feel that the years with no visits and the thousands of miles between us, the distance from our own childhoods, was not so great as I sometimes felt.

Natalie and Holly didn't feel the same. Holly said it was sleepy music, and Natalie called it Country.

Nate and I protested. "It's not Country. It's folk music."

But no hard feelings. Nate and Holly sang along to 1990s tunes and made me laugh with their vocal interpretations. Natalie told a story about discovering the true meaning of a song she used to love as a young girl. I confessed that 1980s music made me nostalgic, and Natie pointed out it should be that of the 1990s, when I was a teenager. When Holly said, "Just don't play 'Breakfast at Tiffany's'," by Deep Blue Something, Nate and I banded together again. We have always loved that song.

There are songs and albums that remind me of my parents or make me think of my siblings as soon as I recognize them. "Superman (It's Not Easy)" by Train never fails to remind me of my sister Annie and all the time we spent together when I was first married and still living close to her. Gordon Lightfoot's album, Waiting For You, reminds me of going through the Blue Ridge Mountains with my sister Vinca as she drove fast and sure on those twisty roads. "Good Riddance (Time of Your Life)" by Green Day will never fail to make me smile and say, "My mom loves this song!", or if I'm speaking to my children, "Grandmama loves this song!" And, of course, "Breakfast at Tiffany's" reminds me of Nate and of our time in Idaho with relatives before he left for the military. As for Dad, many Credence Clearwater Revival and Gordon Lightfoot songs connect me to him. The songs that bring Dad most to mind, however, are the ones he wrote himself and the ones I sing myself with great appreciation.

I could not name all the songs that remind me of special people or specific times in my life. It's a gift that keeps on giving. Music powerfully binds people together, weaving our memories into its melodies and lyrics by capturing our emotions, embracing, even enlarging our experiences, and expressing our culture. It transports us back in time and keeps us forever young, reminiscent of time with family and friends.

I, for one, am grateful for the memories.


 

Bring Back the Joy - guest post by Valencia Bowman

We can all relate to this one. At one time or another, we have all felt like the Grinch or Ebenezer Scrooge.

I am very honored to introduce my big sister Vinca for this guest post. May she inspire you as much as she did me.

It's that special time of year- that time of year when you look askance at your neighbor's gaudy decorations, and complain that they brighten your bedroom too much at night; when you swear at the driver who starts backing up at the mall without checking to see if there's a car already in motion; when you go to the mall to find that one extra gift for your kids that you just know they'll love; when you snap at those same kids that "I'll get the decorations out tomorrow, ok?!"- and then you watch their bright little faces fall, and they leave the room because they don't want to be a bother.

Wait...what? Are we talking about the Christmas season? When did this time of year become a time of stress, pressure, anxiety, anger and impatience? When did we stop feeling joy, and hope, and peace? Perhaps a better question would be: Why? In our society today, there are fewer people who go to Mass, or a special church service of some sort, on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day. I know several families who celebrate Christmas without believing in the Christ Child whose birthday it is. To many, it's a season to give, and get, expensive gifts; to join in the whirlwind of parties; to add to the clutter of our overflowing lives. We have taken Christ out of Christmas. As a result, we have taken the joy, hope and peace out of the season.

A few years ago, I was looking at the newly developed pictures of Christmas morning (back when you had to wait to see if the photos turned out). And there was the picture I take every Christmas Eve- the picture of the tree after Santa has visited, the stockings are filled, and the last toy has been assembled. The tree was worthy of a Macy's window display, with piles of presents beautifully wrapped and stacked under a perfectly decorated tree. I gazed on this picture in shock, and began asking myself some questions. Was the pile of goodies under the tree really that big? Did my children really get that much stuff? Then the big question: Did my children really need that much stuff? That was the year I vowed to cut back- to not buy every little thing I found on clearance that one of them might love, to not buy every item on their Christmas list, to give more to those who are actually in need. That's all well and good, and our family has done pretty well on the present side of things, but then there's the "Time" issue. And that's where I've failed.

This time of year, it's hard to say no to all those little gatherings that people have. It's only natural to want to join with your friends in making merry during what should be a joyful season. But before you know it, your calendar is full, and you are stressed. After all, you really should bring the host or hostess a gift- something not too lavish, but quite possibly more than you can really afford. So you go, and go, and go. By the time Christmas day rolls around, you're too exhausted to enjoy it. I used to love Christmas time. I couldn't wait to get my tree up. I couldn't wait to start baking, and wrapping, and decorating. You can read about my feelings here: Christmas in February...or March...why not April? . But now? Well, now I work a full time job, and I'm tired. My weekends, and many of my weekday evenings, are booked until after the New Year. That person at the beginning of this post snapping at her child that she would get out the decorations tomorrow? That was me, snapping at my daughter just last evening, as I rushed to get dinner done before I ran out to choir practice. That was my daughter whose face fell as she left the room with tears in her eyes because she didn't want to be in the way. It was my daughter who went to bed before I got home, leaving an undecorated tree in the living room. And I'm sitting here wondering when things changed. When did I lose my joy?

When I think back to my childhood, I remember the joy of celebrating Christmas- the smell of cinnamon and vanilla, the lights and ornaments on the tree, the books that Papa read aloud, and the nativity story from Luke that brought a hush of reverence to our home-not really the presents, or the parties, or the concerts. Our family struggled to make ends meet, and we frequently went without more than one present apiece under the tree. But there was joy, and hope, and peace. Joy in being together, hope for a brighter future, and peace in knowing that come what may, we had each other. What presents we got were nice, and I always enjoyed singing in the various concerts. We rarely celebrated the Christmas season with others while I lived at home, though my parents were able to host Christmas parties as their children left the nest and their finances eased. Most years, it was just the 6 of us, and we each might only have had one present, but it was enough to just be together in a house full of love.

And maybe that's the key: it was enough. There’s a pearl of wisdom that I try to remember throughout the year- Enough is as good as a feast. The gist of it is, that if you have enough, just enough- enough clothing, enough food, enough money- then it's as good as having an overabundance of those same things. I do a pretty decent job for much of the year. Indeed, many of us try to live that way throughout 11 months of the year- content with our lives, and with what we have. Then Thanksgiving comes, with Christmas looming large on the horizon, and it's suddenly a race to get the best deal on this year's hot new toy, or that new gaming system that must be better than the 2 year old system we have at home. We fill our calendars with parties, caroling, concerts, and events of one sort or another. We buy gifts, and give them to our families and friends, even when we can’t afford it. We send hundreds of cards to people that we don’t think about the rest of the year. And we do more than is possible for one human to do and remain sane.

So maybe it's time to say no. No, I appreciate the invitation, but I really can't fit in one more party. No, I really can't bake a cake for your event, though I'm honored that you asked. No, I'm not giving up another evening when I could be sitting home with my daughter, my teenage sons, and my husband, sipping wine, decorating and admiring our tree. My children are growing up so fast, and I don't want to be the one responsible for killing their joy in this blessed season of Christmas. So, no, thank you, I'm not going anywhere this weekend. I believe I have a date with a blond-haired, blue-eyed angel who needs her joy restored. You'll find me sitting in front of a lit tree by the fireplace, snuggling with my husband, sipping wine, and watching the twinkling lights sparkle in my children's eyes.  

My wish for each and every one of you is that you take the time to nurture your family’s joy. Read the Gospel of Luke, and treasure the wonder of knowing that this tiny baby whose birthday we are celebrating is the Savior of all. Look at Christmas through the eyes of your children or grandchildren, and remember what it was like to think of Christmas as a Season of Blessings- of Joy, and Hope, and Peace. Peace be with you all. Happy Christmas!

 

 

Trick-or-Treat, Elephant Snot

Come late October, fall reigned in Tennessee. The changing leaves, overhead and under foot, always thrilled me on the walk down the lane to catch the bus as a child. The cooler weather with its sighing breezes invigorated me, and though it stripped away, patch by patch, its exotic, multi-hued cloak that hid our little home from the world, late October brought with it Halloween. In all its trick-or-treating glory, it presented us with a new multi-colored splendor to relish: candy.

There was very little decorating in our house. The only thing I can remember is a scarecrow with accordion legs dangling from our living room closet door. How I loved to see that scarecrow! He cemented my admiration for all such persons fashioned from straw, sticks and old clothes. But no ghost, witch or ghoul friends bore him company in the vigil for Halloween.

It didn’t matter that decorations were sparse; no trick-or-treating would take place at our home or those of our neighbors. Trick-or-treating would have entailed walking the half mile or so between houses - uphill both ways, of course - and likely as not, if we had attempted it, we would have been greeted by bemused stares and given a crumbly corn muffin, hint of mashed potatoes on the corner, left over from our neighbors’ dinner.

So we ransacked our house on Halloween night to find the things that added up to a presentable costume (like a scavenger hunt, you couldn’t be sure what it all might signify at the end), and anyone who needed make-up of some sort presented themselves to Mom. Then we drove 30 minutes into the town of Dickson, and Dad navigated the car into one of the fancier neighborhoods where we were certain to amass a splendid cache of sweet booty. Out of the car we four kids spilled onto the sidewalk. Costumes straightened, treat bags ready, Dad would point out the first street to attack and away we’d sprint.

Looking back, Halloween was like a date night for my parents. I envy what they were able to glean from it. They strolled down the tree-lined sidewalk, holding hands. They had their conversation, and Mom’s laughter would drift through the air to us kids as we stood before a door with treat bags spread wide. They seemed so relaxed, so thoroughly in the spirit of things, and thankfully oblivious to the school day usually waiting on the morrow.

Occasionally, they did call out to us to keep us in line, prevent us from tripping over garden gnomes or yard lights or from decimating flower beds in the eager rush from door to door, and to keep us from grabbing more than our fair share from unattended candy bowls with signs that courteously commanded, “Please Take One”.

We cut through a lot of yards on Halloween night, flashing through the easygoing grass. The only lawns to which we gave a wide berth were those inhabited by vampires and smoke, webbing and bubbling witches’ brew. Inevitably, Nate and Annie egged each other on to those houses, returning with abundant candy for their bravery.

When our bags strained our wrists, we beat it back to the car where Dad popped the trunk for us to spill our treasure into waiting receptacles. Then with empty, expectant bags we felt re-energized and doggedly pursued fresh streets with untried houses.

So it continued until we stumbled to the car at an hour when most respectable revelers conceded to give up the treat hunt, leaving the teenagers to toilet paper houses and smash Jack-o-lanterns until some ungodly hour of their own choosing.

The car ride back to the boonies let us weigh the fruit of our efforts by the amount of pressure our bags put on our tired legs, and it also served as a necessary opportunity for our stomachs to settle with all the candy we had sampled between doors. Heaven knows, as soon as we dumped out the glorious piles of booty on the living room floor, we would eat a hearty second round of gut-busting sugar with unabashed glee.

And that’s when my sister Vinca and Dad unleashed their strategies. Vinca waved all kinds of miraculous bite-sized chocolate bars and little bags of candy corn in the air to beguile us into relinquishing our stores of bubble gum. We were weak and took what she proffered, trading over fat rounds of Dubble Bubble. Unfortunately for us, our candy always disappeared much quicker than her gum stores. She would make them last for months afterwards, and we were left to ask covetously now and then, “Is that from Halloween?” Vinca would nod, chew, and blow boastful bubbles without even looking up from her book.

Dad, of course, sat in his chair and called for his “daddy tax” (most have heard of this tax, because dads are upfront in their claims on candy, while moms, cackling like wicked chocolate-seeking witches with lusty thighs, simply raid the bags when their sweet, silly children are asleep). My dad demanded his share of Sugar Daddy suckers, and, as most would agree, they had his name on them, so it was only fair. Besides, we couldn’t begrudge him the suckers, because the only other thing he really took was something we didn’t want at all: Elephant Snot.

“Ewww,” we’d say when we’d find them, “Gross!”, or “Uggh, not these again!”

And then Dad would grin and wave us over, “Bring them here,” he’d say. “Bring me the Elephant Snot, kids.”

So we’d pick the plain orange or black wrappers out from our decent candy between thumb and forefinger, taking handfuls over to dump on Dad’s lap. He’d unwrap them and stuff the wrappers in the corner of his recliner as he chewed comfortably on their peanut butter filling, saying for our benefit, “Umm, Elephant Snot – good stuff!”

I never knew the proper name of the candy. Dad’s pet name for it seemed so much more appropriate, especially given its color. They were bite-sized chews with peanut butter inside and I don’t know what kind of horrendous coating on the outside, almost like peanut taffy. I haven’t seen any in years. Perhaps people wisely stopped patronizing their manufacturer, perhaps they were banned for their atrocious flavor by the FDA, or maybe my dad orders buckets upon buckets of them for himself each Halloween, and so there’s none left for the stores. But if I ever see any Elephant Snot come through my kids’ treat bags, I know just where to send them, along with the memories that spring from their gaudy little wrappers:

For you, Dad
With love
Some elephant snot
Happy Halloween!

Love, Hoodoo