Mom died last week after battling a long and trying series of serious health problems. As I reflect on her remarkable life and our relationship I can't help but appreciate the role music played therein.
I remember stories of her college years at Capital University in Bexley, Ohio. Capital is perhaps best known for its Theological Seminary, and the Conservatory of Music located in Mees Auditorium in the center of the campus. Mees Auditorium is one of Columbus' historic performance halls. Constructed in 1926, it was one of the largest performance and gathering spaces in Columbus and played host to touring orchestras. Mom regularly attended these concerts, frequently seeking out the featured performers afterwards in hopes of a handshake, a few words, or an autograph (that of Arturo Toscanini was one of her most treasured).
Columbus' own symphony orchestra was born in 1951. Mom was an early supporter of that organization with memberships in the Women's Association of the Columbus Symphony and the Symphony League. One didn't have to know of her work with these groups to appreciate her status as a classical music enthusiast; from early morning until shortly after dinner the radio was tuned to WOSU, "her" classical music station. One of the most wonderful things Dad ever did for her was to install an intercom system when we remodeled the house; afterwards this wonderful music filled our entire home from the built-in FM tuner. One of the most wonderful things Mom did for me was to give me the gift of this music as I grew up.
Church was an important part of our family life and Christ Lutheran Church in Bexley was indeed fortunate to be located across the street from Capital University. The adult choirs under the leadership of Capital's Ellis Snyder included many of the University's music faculty and vocal performance majors; to this day memories of their heavenly sounds and classical repertoire are the standard to which I hold church choirs. Few come even close (thanks, Brenda, for restoring my faith). Dorothy Riley was our spirited and accomplished organist. Discussion during Sunday dinner at my grandparents' house after church almost always included a critique of the service music. When we got old enough (3rd grade), my siblings and I were sent to choir practice. I stayed in the youth choirs at Christ Church through high school. Thanks, Mom, for getting me into those choirs; I don't believe I'd have the sublime pleasure of choral music in my life today without that early experience.Mom wasn't tremendously fond of choral music; her real passion was fed by instrumental works. Church was probably the only place I regularly heard her sing anything with lyrics. So it should be no surprise that she also encouraged me in my desire to join our junior high school band. Some of my favorite music on the radio had featured trumpet and in no time at all I was the proud owner of a silver Czechoslavakian instrument. In spite of private lessons from the best trumpet player in the city and continued encouragement from Mom, I never progressed past 2nd chair, 2nd trumpet and stopped playing after a particularly disasterous run-in with the high school band director. Mom, bless her soul, came to all of our rather miserable performances and heaped praise on our efforts afterwards.
After I left home for college and a life of my own, we regularly swapped notes on music and would call each other with questions from time to time ("it sounded like Haydn and went 'tum-ta-ta-ta-tum' but I can't quite place it, can you?") She could generally name that tune in four notes or less. It was always interesting to go home and root through her music collection to see what had been added since the last visit. I discovered quite a few personal treasures in so doing. She seemed to take great relish in my accounts of concerts I had attended. We shared a particular interest in watching the conductors during performances. Peter Jaffe stories were guaranteed "hits".
Several years ago, I joined the Stockton Chorale. Dad's health had deteriorated, Mom's back pain was a major problem, and they weren't traveling much any more. She so much wanted to hear us perform. As a national tour going through Columbus was not in the cards, the best I could do was send concert recordings. Even after a stroke left her partially paralyzed, she vowed to attend our concerts "someday" and always asked if the performances would be taped. Always eager to hear the details of every concert, she was undoubtedly my biggest fan.
Confined to nursing homes in the last years of her life, Mom continued to listen to her beloved music. Thankfully, her hearing remained acute. My brother and sister kept her supplied with CDs that appealed to her taste and played them for her during their frequent visits. At hospice, instrumental works of Delius, played softly from speakers near her pillow, seemed to help calm her and ushered her from this life to the next.
I like to think of Mom's life as a symphony: rich, deep, and brimming in passages marked allegro, vivace, and con brio. These last few years, the last movement, have been adagio lamentoso in many respects, but with a few bright surprises such as her attendance at a granddaughter's wedding. This has been one of those never-ending movements that seems to build to an end only to have the theme creep slowly and impossibly back into the score, increasing in intensity to give us yet one more variation. Again and again. Finally the last soft notes have played and the conductor has lowered his baton. The symphony has ended; her music goes on...
