I used to think that there is a standard for quality in many areas of life and that it is part of our task to try to meet that standard. I still believe that to a great extent but I know now that there surely are exceptions.
My mother loved to play the piano and organ. She had had few lessons but she had a wonderful ability to listen to music and then to play it without seeing any notes. Her tastes were formed by the music she heard in church and on the radio and so although she often played hymns, she just as often played popular music, including ragtime. She was a mild-mannered, shy woman with a wonderful sense of humor and I think now that music was her way of escaping from what she perceived as the loneliness and tedium of farm life.
During most of our childhood we children went to sleep with the sound of her music coming up to our bedrooms through the cold-air register in the floor.
Amazing Grace, Oh, For a Thousand Tongues, Alexander’s Ragtime Band, Redwing, It is Well With My Soul, followed one after the other. She didn't really want suggestions for song titles but preferred to play according to whatever pattern happened to be in her mind that evening. Sometimes I would climb out of bed and poke my head down into the cold-air register box in the floor to watch her play in the living room below. In the other part of the room I could see dad's foot and knew that he was sitting there reading and listening to her music.
One night I heard him say, "Adelia, why do you mix your songs through each other like that? Don't you think you should separate them and maybe play hymns first and then the popular songs?" (He was an elder in the church and knew how things should be done.)
I scurried out of bed and poked my head down to see whether her feelings would be hurt by his criticism. I could see her sitting at the piano with her back to him and her hands in her lap, her right hand rubbing the stump of the missing finger on her left hand, as she did when she was worried.
Suddenly she straightened her shoulders, raised her chin, and without looking at him said, "Amos, I have to play the songs the way they come to me. I'm sure God can straighten them out if He thinks they need it. But it's hard for me to see why He would want to do that, anyway." And she quickly turned back to the piano and began playing again before he could answer.
Mom was a widow for the last eleven years of her life. Her organ and piano were important to her in those years but so were her friends. During our weekly Saturday morning long-distance conversations she would tell me about the bread and rolls she had made for her neighbors with young children. She described at length the book she was reading over the telephone to her blind friend, often adding, "I'm so glad that my friend went to college because when we come to the hard parts she can explain them to me." And she usually had just completed recording a cassette of her own playing for one of her children or grandchildren. She called it "paying attention" to her friends and often chided me because I didn't set aside enough time in my own life to pay attention to my friends.
At the beginning of what was to be the last year of her life my mother was told that she had a recurrence of cancer. She told us that she had lived for a long time and would rather not go through the series of treatments, which might or might not have helped her live a bit longer. Instead she began to use the time remaining to her for taking care of what she considered to be the most important final matters. One of these was preparing the tape cassettes that were to be played at her funeral. She had played for her family and friends throughout her life and wanted to do so at the end of it.
In a telephone conversation I asked her how the music was coming and she said, "Oh, just fine. I have two cassettes ready for when the people are sitting, waiting for the service to begin."
"Two cassettes?" I asked. "But your church is quite large. Do you really think they will have to come early in order to get a seat? I think that only happens for queens and presidents."
"You only think that because you don't pay attention to your friends. I have many, many friends in this town and they will all be there." Then she chuckled, "And you'd better be there on time or you may have to stand in the back." Then she told me that she had one more tape to make, which should be played during the coffee time after the service.
My mother's funeral was on a chilly, wet September morning. There was a private burial service with just our family and then we all went to church to join the others for the memorial service. As I walked into the church I was astonished to see that almost every seat was filled. Mom's music was playing and I could picture her nudging me, whispering, "Isn't it a good think I made that second tape?"
After the service everyone was invited to stay for coffee, as is customary in the community in which my mother lived. As we moved to greet people, I could hear
How Great Thou Art playing in the background and I knew that the "coffee tape" was being used. I was standing talking with one of my sisters when suddenly she smiled and said, "Listen". Over the voices of the people we could hear the beginning of
Easter Parade. Next came
Memories, and then
Missouri Waltz.My brother hurried over and asked, anxiously, "Marcy, didn't you listen to those tapes before you had them played?"
"No," my sister answered, "and I wouldn't have changed them if I had listened to them. This is what Mom planned." She spoke gently but I knew she loved what was happening and she turned away so that he wouldn’t see her laughing.
My brother turned to me with a frown and asked, "But do you think the people will mind?" In the background we could hear Alexander's Ragtime Band begin. It sounded just like home.
I assured my brother that Mom's friends were not likely to be offended by her choice of music. "In fact," I said, "This is the happiest looking group of people I've ever seen at a funeral." Just then an elderly gentleman, a former grade-school classmate of my mother's, came up and said with a warm smile, "Girl, your mom sure could play. We really are going to miss her." About that time the music changed to
God Be With You Till We Meet Again. I was pretty sure Mom was telling us that it was time to leave and that she had already gone.
If anyone present was offended by the music they were kind enough never to mention it to us. For me it was a wonderful day, exactly the kind of day my mother would most have enjoyed. She had set her own standard and was paying attention to her family and friends, even as she left them.
