Growing up in a blue collar, Pentecostal home did not exactly lend itself to listening to highbrow classical music. Rather, I was fed a nice dose of Barbra, Dino, and Billy Joel. Each Saturday, while attending to the never ending duties of household chores, at least two LP's were spun to get Mom, my sister and I in the cleaning spirit. The first was Barbra Streisand's self titled album "Barbra" and the second, usually a contemporary Christian CD of songs or hymns. Mom innately sang harmony, insisting through her sweet timbred chest voice that she was, in fact, an alto. I, however, knew better as she faked her way past high C with extreme ease. Not one foot stepped outside before she inspected and approved of our work. Re-vacuumming was not unheard of and so Saturday mornings, and often afternoons, were spent with ammonia and Streisand.
In between albums, Mom and I played the "Can You Match This Pitch?" game with my sister.
"Sing this note.....Laaaa."
"Laaaa."
"Close. Hahaha!"
Mom and I chuckled, knowing full well that my sister was terribly off pitch. Clearly, singing in our house was reserved for Mom and me.
When I was sixteen, after a couple of years of studying voice with my cousin and a few months of muscling under the direction of a misunderstanding operatic diva, Mom enrolled me in the preparatory division at Mannes College of Music. This is a high class institution with a world renowned reputation and I was lucky enough to have a mother who researched the educational opportunities available to her child. Each week, she drove me to the Upper West Side of Manhattan (nearly a 2 hour drive each way), where I studied voice and music theory. She was determined that I be prepared for college auditions. So, while I sang on the third floor of an old Manhattan brownstone, Mom sat alone at the corner diner waiting to hear if this week's lesson was a success. In true mom fashion, she silently vowed to join me on this difficult journey of pursuing a career in music. Although this was not her personal journey, she chose to travel it with me and even today, she is there. Her dedication never waivers, but it is painful to see her weary in spirit. When I experience joy she too experiences it but when I experience sorrow, which unfortunately is more common, she feels that as well. Perhaps I should let her go, allowing her to worry less, but who will then travel this road with me?
The songs my mother taught me were not songs of discipline or technique. They were songs of whimsy and love, faith and hope. They were songs that spoke to her heart, lifted her spirit and helped her through the mundane responsibilities of life.
Mom still sings but she also cries. She wonders what happened to her baby girl's joy. I wonder too.
Dvorak's "Songs my Mother Taught Me" sung by Kirstin Flagstad.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TyV_zExfj10
Songs my mother taught me,
In the days long vanished;
Seldom from her eyelids
Were the teardrops banished.
Now I teach my children,
Each melodious measure.
Oft the tears are flowing,
Oft they flow from my memory's treasure.
