“The Sound of Music”

We’re on the homestretch out here in Colorado. A reception follows worship this Sunday, June 8, after which Jennie and I will head east on I-70. After a night somewhere in central Kansas on Sunday, lunch with our longtime friend Bob Hill in Kansas City on Monday, and a few days in Columbia, MO, with Laura and Ryan, we’ll be Bluegrass bound, arriving home by the end of next week.

Someone asked us what we’ve missed most about our Kentucky home over the past 7½ months. 

I named The Maple Loft, the cozy writers’ den Jennie created for me when I retired in August of ’22. What was a seldom-used, smallish spare bedroom on the second floor is now festooned floor to ceiling with memorabilia I’ve hung on to over my lifetime for reasons silly, sentimental, and sacred. The heart and soul of the room is an old roll top desk (featured in the banner photo on my website homepage). 

Jennie named her piano. It’s a Baldwin Baby Grand we bought in Arizona to replace a century-old Kanabe Upright that originally belonged to Jennie’s grandmother. Despite its heft – what a backbreaker! – it accompanied us through three decades from St. Louis to North Carolina to Indiana to Arizona until we parted ways with it in exchange for the Baldwin.

Truth be told, I miss the piano, too – specifically, the sound of Jennie playing it and its music wafting through the house. Not being a musician myself, I’ve been blessed throughout our marriage by second-hand music – Jennie’s – as have our children. 

Which reminded me of a piece I wrote over thirty years ago in August of ’94.  

Enjoy it, even if you can’t hear the music.

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Last week, Jennie attended the annual conference of the Association of Disciples Musicians at DePauw University in Greencastle, Indiana. Will was at Camp Caroline when his mother departed, so Betsy, Laura, and I chauffeured Jennie to the airport for her flight to Charlotte and points west.

I pulled up to the passenger unloading area, thereby saving the dollar it would have cost for short-term parking as well as the long, drawn-out farewell which would have transpired had we gone all the way into the terminal, waited in the baggage check-in line, and accompanied her to the gate. As it was, I jumped out of the station wagon, tossed the suitcase on the curb, pecked Jennie on the cheek, said, “Have a good week,” and hopped back in for what I trusted would be a quick, painless getaway.

No such luck. 

As I pulled away from the curb, two-year-old Laura screeched, Maaamaaa! From her perch in the car seat, she craned her neck so as to catch a glimpse of her departing Maaamaaa, the sight of whom only increased her wailing. 

Meanwhile, five-year-old Betsy asked me, “Daddy, when will Mama be home?” 

“Next Friday at three o’clock.” 

“Is that tomorrow?” was her response.

“No, it’s six days from today. Today is Saturday, then Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and then Friday.” 

After a noticeable pause, she said quietly, “Gosh, that’s a long time, isn’t it, Daddy?” 

With Laura screaming Maaamaaa! in my right ear, I turned left out of the airport onto 23rd St. and headed home.

“Yes, Betsy,” I said, “It could be a long time.” 

I’m glad to report my fears were unfounded. By the time we reached Princess Place, Laura’s storm had passed, and Betsy had repeated “Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday” enough times to convince herself that six days wouldn’t be too bad after all.

It wasn’t. In fact, I’m more than willing to do it again … next year.

One particular moment struck me, though.

Laura never quite fully understood what happened to her Mama. Occasionally, she would waddle over to where I was sitting, slap me on the knee and throwing her arms out to the side, her palms up and shoulders shrugged, she would say, “Mama aw gone.”

On Sunday morning, we arrived at the church and, with Laura in my arms, I walked down the hallway to the sanctuary to put my things in order for worship. As soon as I opened the door to the sanctuary and walked in, Laura gave a jolt. She jerked her head up, threw her arms in the air, and began to kick her legs with abandon.

Maaamaaa!, she shouted. Maaamaaa!

What was the cause of her jubilation? She heard the organ being played. 

I told her, “No, Laura, that’s not Mama. Mama aw gone. That’s Miz Sara. She’s substituting for Mama today.”

But that was lost on Laura. When I put her down, she raced down the aisle by herself, scaled the three steps to the chancel, and with a final Maaamaaa! peered around the corner of the partition behind the communion table … only to see Sara, our accompanist, practicing.

Laura looked bewildered. 

All of which made me wonder. My two-year-old has come to associate her mother with the sound of organ music being played in a sanctuary. Not a bad legacy to leave with your children – your being brought to mind every time they hear music being played on a keyboard.

One day down the road when I am “aw gone,” I wonder what kinds of things my children will associate with their father. I shudder to think of what they might be.

What will stir a remembrance of you in those who know you best?