Thursday, January 7, 2016 

I work out of my home. My office is next to my mother’s room, the erstwhile dining room. The only remaining vestige of a dining room is the chandelier, now hoisted as high up as possible, and some oil paintings. Mom sits in there most of the day on her rocking chair, watching television. Sometimes she sings—the same songs over and over and over again, even while watching the game shows. She knows only the first lines and usually hums the rest. I have tried printing out the correct lyrics in large print, but she ignores them and merely laughs and offers her usual response, “Oh yeah.”

Someone once cheerily suggested that I enjoy this time together with mom and sing along to experience the joy of it all and deepen our relationship. As mom’s musically active times vary through the day and night and often coincide with my work time, singing along is rarely an option. And I, for one, am loathe to sing along in the middle of the night when what I seek instead is a decent night’s sleep. I sometimes play the piano for mom, who talks through it. And I play CDs, but mom neither listens nor enjoys them, but sings her own songs. She is truly a woman who sings and dances to her own tune.

For the nonce, I have my CD player turned up so that I can better hear Wolfgang Holzmair sing Beethoven folk songs and nothing else. Sanity dictates s