Talking Stick has a blog here at JournalScape. He recently wrote about a reconditioned ukulele he was trying to learn how to play. Talking Stick writes well with good use of words with IMAX-like descriptive phrases that I enjoy so much. During this particular post, he mentioned the Ukulele Symphony of Great Britain.

Of course I immediately dashed to YouTube (my fingers fumbling in the rush) because one can find every footnoted mote in the universe at YouTube, and of course this was true regarding the Ukulele Symphony of Great Britain - the sounds and humor were most engaging - much more than I expected. Check it out.

The upshot, but certainly not the entire thrust of Talking Stick's post, reflected on the difficulty of learning as we age. I suspect he and I are close to the same age so I read, with interest, his thoughts regarding plans to learn how to play the uke.

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It's been a while, but I thought about my mother's piano. I grew up in a simple Cape Cod home on a cul-de-sac called Maple Circle in Northport, Long Island. I had a magical childhood. We all did. Northport is an historical shipbuilding town that continues to be overrun with charm. My childhood home had two bedrooms upstairs where my parents and sister slept. The bedroom I had on the first floor was by today's standards the size of a walk-in closet. I loved it. Adjacent to my room was the very spacious fourth bedroom. Mom called it the Music Room. She grew up with money.

My mother had oodles of talent. She loved to play the piano - mostly Gershwin tunes because one of her schizophrenic delusions was anchored in the belief that she was his *love* child. And people wonder why I miss her! She also had a glorious singing voice. My strongest memory is of her singing It Had to be You, which had nothing to do with Gershwin, but I suspect had everything to do with her love for my father:

It had to be you, it had to be you
I wandered around, and finally found
The somebody who could make me be true
Could make me be blue or even be glad
Just to be sad just thinking of you
Some others I've seen might never be mean
Might never be cross or try to be boss
But they wouldn't do
For nobody else gave me the thrill
With all your faults I love you still
It had to be you...

I vividly remember evenings when cast members from Northport's Summer Stock Theatre would gather in our Music Room. Martinis were swilled after being stirred in the tall glass aqua martini pitcher with its clear glass rod, and my mother leaning elegantly over the pianist, swirling and elevating her long, long slender black cigarette holder as she belted out one tune after another. Oh my goodness - my life was so iconic mid-century. Mom often wore black. Her lips painted red. She laughed a lot. That was my norm.

So stop right this moment wondering why I am like I am.

There was nothing Ozzie and Harriett about my youth, but I was rarely unhappy. Kids in Northport's 1950s/1960s didn't have the angst that today's youth have. I never realized until later that any brilliance to enter my own essence was born amidst all that eccentricity. Throughout my childhood, I waded through quicksand but didn't realize it. Drama was our norm. My life was a John Cheever story with a different ending every day. My mother was a lunatic, but she was my lunatic and I loved her.

I miss her.

I'm in Nashville as I type this. I have a photo on my home computer that better illustrates my mother's spirit during the time I'm referencing.


Mom with her Easter Bonnet


Mom and Hansel

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While reading Talking Stick's post I ruminated with regret that I didn't stick with my piano lessons and practice when I was young. My mind would've absorbed better, my fingers were more agile, and my parents were underwriting the expense.

Two years ago I invested a huge effort to learn French before I traveled to Morocco. I purchased a mid/high program developed by Cornell graduates - Rosetta was way too pricey. Though it was a fine series of tutorials, one of the standard rote phrases focused on the purchase of beer. I don't drink beer and I was traveling to a Muslim country. *sigh* It was my good fortune that my closest new friend in Rabat spoke fluent French and that another new friend had recently graduated from university with a minor in Arabic.

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This is all to say, "Thanks TS for the memories."