My mother’s piano lived in the front room of our house on Parker Street. On most school days, I could hear Mom playing and singing as I walked up the long sidewalk that led to our front door. I would try to guess the song as I got closer. Was it Rhapsody in Blue or An American in Paris? Sometimes I sat on the front porch glider and just listened until she stopped. Other times I slipped in through the screen door silently, and sat on the floor nearby. Watching my mother get lost in her music was wonderful, even stirring. As a young child, I sensed her passion for music. Playing gave her shelter. It had been a large part of her identity growing up, long before she got married and became a mom. I adored hearing her play and grew to enjoy the music she loved. One would think that I would have been motivated to learn to play the piano. How silly of me to have wasted such an opportunity. But even though I never played an instrument or sang, my mother’s passion, ignited by her own parents, spread from me to my daughter.
|Some of my daughter's books|
for fall semester.