I can see tonight's keyboard highway stretching far from the starting point: a glass of chilled vodka sitting next to this morning's empty coffee mug. (I wonder what sorts of conversations they have; I hope they're amiable). Anyway, this road looks fairly straight, but unpaved: and in that state there's a measure of brute honesty. What is it they say; something about the path being the destination? So hop in, buckle up. Find a cassette in the case: passenger's choice. I like them all.
Whatever my first memory of one Judith H. Melton is, I can at least say with some conviction, that it was rare, but blanket-warm. I can recall back to preschool, where she supported my early affection for the opposite sex, letting me buy an extra Winchell's donut for my first crush: Miss Jackie, daughter of one of the school staff who often assisted with the daily activities of early education. Mom was a bit of a romantic, I bet.
And the rarity? Because I can't recall a time when Mom wasn't working. So she was usually an evening Mom, so to speak: home for dinner, and if I pleaded, a bit of story time before bed. And despite her not achieving the career heights she desired, nonetheless the family work ethic was never far from her thoughts. Thank gramma Barbara for that gift.
Now you don't grow up in the 70s and 80s, in California, without music. I can't imagine such a terrible thing. Mom's music tastes seem to be reflected in her children: indulgent and eclectic. From the combo 8-track, tape deck and record player that sat near the piano, the living room hummed with the voices of Bowie, The Police, 50's Doo-Wop, Mozart, Kenny Rogers, and just about everything in-between. And yes, everyone (except yours truly) was fairly adept at tickling the ivories. But I'm forever grateful for the music education. (Oh, and since we're on the subject: yes, music influences fashion, especially in the younger folks. But it was the 70's, so hey, Mom gets a pass.)
But what better way to experience music than with friends? Mom seemed to have secured a small group; small but close-knit. I wish I had their names written somewhere: they were always kind and smiling. I hope they've led interesting lives.
And if she wasn't listening, Mom was sharing the family pastime: reading. 'Damn near everything: from cheap checkout line gossip rags, to... well, I can't name her particular favorites. That's a rather good question and deserves pondering.
Mom cared. She cared a lot: about beautiful things and doing what she could to help make others happy. So otherwise normal holidays were her shining hours: any excuse to whip up a batch of fudge or break out the decorations. But looking back, I think part of that drive; that wrapping-gifts-'til-midnight, up at dawn with a cup of black coffee type of devotion, was that she wasn't just going through the paces for little Richard. She was trying to be the mom she couldn't be, for the children that couldn't be there.
I imagine it's due to my only having the perspective of youth, but in that caring spirit Mom possessed, I rarely saw she outraged. Angry, disappointed, frustrated at my teen angst and rebellion, sure. But she rarely yelled. Seems that passed on to me as well. I just sincerely hope she didn't carry the weight of the darkness like I do. Anyway...
Despite debates on why I shouldn't be allowed to stay up past 11 or why the financial needs of American teens are woefully underfunded, the only real impasse we found was smoking.
Mom was stubborn, and the honest consensus of those near to her was that she struggled with other, rather tenacious demons; most likely Depression. Unfortunately, the tobacco industry had their claws buried fairly deeply into this lady, and never let go. Neither did she. Even when cancer opened its gargoyle wings in her chest, only to be beaten back with pharmaceutical sticks, yet returning years later: stronger, faster, vengeful. But Mom wouldn't quit; stubborn 'til the end. She went out on her terms, and in the end, there is something darkly romantic in that.
Well, the road ends here. I hope the ride was worthwhile; I'm glad there was someone to listen. And good call on the music selection: Synchronicity is a rock classic.