CMT Blog: Archive

When I was a child back in the previous century I dreaded that annual Thanksgiving essay when I was forced to tell my teacher everything for which I was thankful. Of course I trotted out the expected home and family, even my stinky little brother, but I also threw in the important things, like David Cassidy and bubble gum.

Then age happened, or, as I like to think of it, maturity, and the realization slowly began to dawn upon me that I do have things in my life for which to willingly give thanks. Nowadays I truly am grateful for my home, job and family, even my younger brother, who isn’t quite so stinky these days, and I’m also thankful for things I never would have dreamed of way back when, like the fact that my mother sang to me. My mother taught me to row, row, row my boat in the bathtub, she sang the Beatles in the garden, she waxed the floor with Loretta Lynn, and the dishes were washed with the Platters. (“Smoke Gets in Your Eyes” remains one of my favorite songs.) My mother gave her life, and mine, a soundtrack. I particularly remember one autumn day when Mom was in the kitchen preparing dinner while Johnny and June Carter Cash sang “If I Were a Carpenter.” Johnny sang. June sang. Mom sang. I lay under the old converted Victrola and listened, not daring to add my voice for fear it would disrupt the moment.

Now the tides of time have turned, and it’s my son telling me to puh-lease quit singing and stop embarrassing him. His love of music is evident – he plays the guitar, trombone and a little drums, and he, like his older brother, listens to everything from Nirvana to Johnny Cash to Tchaikovsky. I just hope one day he can look back and say it was because his mother sang to him.