In the end, I listened to The Beatles’ song The End on their album Abbey Road.

My Mom came to the end of her worldly journey last week at the age of 96. She shuffled off her mortal coil and went to meet her maker. I was tempted to add the Norwegian Blue list, but resisted. 

Mom wasn’t what I would call a musical person. She enjoyed listening to Dad play guitar and sing, but that was pretty much it. She didn’t play any instruments herself and seldom played music in her daily life. When she was younger, she went to a few live shows, notably Johnny Horton, Kitty Wells and Ray Price. Dad played many standards from the 1950s and 60s, lots of Hank Williams.

A couple of musical moments come to mind when I think about Mom and music. The first is the first album that I bought, The Best of the Bee Gees. We had one record player in the house; I listened to my new record on it, and Mom listened. There were no headphone jacks on the old Sears phonograph. She surprised me and liked that album, which I proceeded to play dozens of times. Radio was hit-or-miss in some of the places we lived, so records became my only option. I listened to Dad’s albums, including “King Of The Road & Other Country And Western Comedy Hits” and “30 Grand Ole Country & Western Favorites,” until I could sing the songs from memory.

The next memory moment was a double hitter: John Lennon‘s album Imagine and Jethro Tull‘s Aqualung. Mom was a devout Christian and didn’t want any blasphemous music in her house. “Imagine there’s no heaven, it’s easy if you try” was too much for her evangelical ears. “Cross-eyed Mary” and “We are our own saviours” were too touchy for my mother Mary. I played the records when she wasn’t home, until I could buy my own stereo and listen to anything I wanted, anytime I wanted.

In conclusion, Mom, rest in peace, you can spend eternity listening to Dad play Hank Williams.