The Spirit of Music

The First Measure

Parents Know Best

Never say what you’re not going to do because that is your first step toward doing it.

There’s a joke that asks the question: “How do you get a musician to complain?”

The answer: “Give him a gig.”

Somehow, I’d fallen into the trap of disliking most of my gigs, and the previous one had left me feeling a bit unsettled. I didn’t know what was causing it or how to make the feeling go away. I wasn’t sure if it was Music or me who kept refusing to show up.

I knew there had to be more to my musical life, but I didn’t know what more meant or where to find it. After many months of struggling with myself, I decided to turn to the only two people who had always been there for me, who would definitely help me feel better, and who would not allow me to continue lying to myself.

Mom and Dad have always been the fixers-­of-­all-­things. Almost two years had passed since I’d seen them and I was longing for their company. A visit would be good for my soul, and a home-­cooked meal would be good for my stomach. The ten-­hour drive would be good for my mind. Yes, I was running away from something—­something I was trying to ignore—­something I knew I would eventually have to face.

I’d never paid close attention to my alarm clock. It would go off (too early), I would hit it, and keep sleeping. That was the normal routine. But on this particular morning, the harsh sound of the note G repeating in my ear caused me to sit up right away. I didn’t know why I recognized the actual pitch. It had never happened to me before. Regardless, hitting Snooze was not an option. I did not want to hear that sound again. I quickly stopped the alarm and hopped to my feet. A few minutes later, an irritating note emitting from the microwave informed me that my food was ready. The out-­of-­tune C ruined my appetite. I picked up the phone to call my parents. Even the sound of the dial tone irritated me. I placed it back down without making the call. I tried to avert my attention, but my ears acted on their own and my brain colluded by not allowing me to ignore any of the sounds. By the time I made it into the car, musical tones were speaking to me from every direction. Because the car was rented, all the sounds were unfamiliar to me. The fact that I could name every pitch was surprising and should have been a good thing, but I was not ready to listen.

I turned on the radio, hoping it would bring some order to the chaos. Even that became a challenge. The morning cacophony of sounds seemed to be ganging up on me. Every note competed for my attention. I couldn’t make them stop. I felt a headache coming on and turned off the radio, hoping the silence would bring a bit of solace to my journey. It didn’t work. Even the silence spoke loudly.

The tires played a duet with the road; the engine whined a horrible tune, and the wind kept me company by whistling through the window directly into my left ear. Every fragment of noise had a pitch, a rhythm, or both.

Just as I was reaching my peak of frustration, a truck passed by on my left side. A message written on its back grabbed my attention. Nature’s Choice. For some reason, I read it as: Not ure Choice. My brain retaliated. I screamed at the truck.

“It is my choice. You can’t tell me—­”

My eyes fixed the mistake. I felt foolish. Without signaling, the truck merged too closely in front of me. I slowed and regrouped. I took the next exit and parked on the side of the road, not waiting to find a parking lot. I turned off the engine and laid my head on the steering wheel. As soon as I closed my eyes, an unsolicited thought entered my mind: There’s an ear in every heart as it beats in every breath. Listen and be silent. Having no idea from where the thought had come, I listened and obeyed.

“It is my choice,” I whispered to myself.

I sat up straight and made a firm decision. From this point on, I will have a different attitude. I pulled back onto the highway with a smile on my face and a clear head.

This time, what I’d previously considered separate fragments of noise merged into a cohesive coalition of beautiful symmetry. The patterns were intricate and entertaining. The rhythm of the road provided a pulse that complemented all the other sounds.

Once I turned the radio back on, the songs seemed to welcome each extraneous noise, creating thought-­provoking compositions. Even my turn signal had a groove. Changing lanes became a musical adventure. And even though it wasn’t raining, I rode with my windshield wipers on for a few minutes just to experience the complex polyrhythms they added. Music was with me and I was listening. We were both smiling.

Time passed rapidly. I stopped for gas just a few exits from my parents’ home. There, Music didn’t stop speaking. A beautiful tone scolded me for opening my door before turning off the engine, and it was a pleasure to hear that I’d left my lights on. The rhythm of the gas pump added an interesting cadence to the music playing through the speakers at the gas station. Although I liked the song, the harsh tone of the speakers caused it to sound horrible. Why install bad speakers in a public place? I paid for the gas and left as quickly as I could.

My excitement grew as each mile drew me closer and closer to my destination. It had been way too long since I’d seen my parents. I’d finally allowed myself to admit that I needed this visit, but whether I would be completely honest with them was a concern. Either way, dishonesty or half-­truths would never deter my mom. She’d get to the heart of the issue no matter what. She speaks her mind and can see through any façade.

Mom is a wise woman who cares about everyone as if all people were her children. Demanding a hug instead of a handshake, she has a way of making everyone feel welcome. Friends from all around make their way to her home, hoping to gain warmth and wisdom from her words and delicious Southern cuisine. “I’m not telling you this because you’re gonna like it,” she’d say. “I’m telling you because you need to hear it.”

Dad is the hardworking, quiet type. He was in the army and the air force and fought on the ground in the Korean War. Dad is capable of dealing with just about anything. He once told me that growing up in the thirties and forties made fighting in the army seem easy. On a typical day, he would come home from a long day of work, grab a plate of food, and watch television while reading the newspaper. He would quietly sit, seemingly oblivious to all the commotion going on around him produced by a house full of kids and friends. Over the years, I’d never heard him complain about any of the noise. Whenever he had something to say, everything stopped so that we could pay rapt attention.

I’d been thinking about my parents a lot. Many of the life lessons I’d learned from them only became apparent as I grew into adulthood. Gradually, I’d learned to recognize and appreciate the abundant knowledge found in all their sayings. I never enjoyed writing as a child, but increasingly, I’d begun to see the value of taking good notes. Parents know best, I thought. One day, I will write their words of wis­dom down.

They were sitting on the front porch when I pulled up in front of my childhood home in Newport News, Virginia. Their smiling faces, illuminated by the setting sun, were like a dose of good medicine. Dad had parked his car on the street, leaving the driveway clear for me. That’s my Dad. Quiet and thoughtful.

I pulled up close to the garage door, just as I’d done many times before. A surge of energy ran through my veins as I shifted into Park. I exited the car so quickly that my parents barely had a chance to step off the porch. I’d known that I needed to see them, but until that moment, I was unaware of how much. I was their baby boy, and it had been too long since I’d acted like it.

After rounds of hugs and kisses, I was ushered into the kitchen while Dad emptied the car. Three place settings were already on the table. A tall glass of orange juice sat next to one of them. I smiled and took my seat.

As soon as I sat down, music playing on the television caught my ear. At the same time, the cuckoo clock began announcing the time with a succession of seven repetitive chimes.

“Dinnertime! My favorite time!” Dad sang as he walked in the house, the screen door making a high-­pitched squeal.

“Wash your hands first,” Mom’s caring voice rang out.

Their voices, blending beautifully with the sounds from the television, screen door, and clock, produced a short musical cadence that grabbed my attention. I sat there replaying it in my mind.

“Wash your hands, I said!” Mom repeated, breaking my musical muse.

“Right,” I answered.

The floor squeaked as I stood up. The pitch grabbed my attention as if it were deliberately speaking to me. The sound continued, matching my steps as I continued down the hallway. I entered the bathroom and was surprised by the fact that even running water produces a pitch. Something was following me around, trying to get my attention, and although I knew what, or more precisely, who it was, I stood at the sink in a daze, not ready to give in. What do you want from me? I thought, shaking my head.

“I want you to wash your hands and stop wastin’ water!” My mom’s voice echoed down the hall.

My mouth fell open. I was sure I hadn’t spoken out loud, and even if I had, I didn’t think she could hear me from the kitchen. I walked back and scrutinized my mom with an inquisitive stare. She faced the stove but didn’t look back. A sly grin adorned her face. She was stirring a large open pot of water that had a tree limb sticking out of it. I smiled. I’d seen it many times before.

“I’m making Pinetop Tea,” Mom said, obviously reading my thoughts again. “You seem to be snifflin’ a bit.”

The pot had been simmering on the stove since I walked in. Inside was a branch from a pine tree, complete with bark and needles. It was a remedy she’d learned as a child. The oldest girl of thirteen children, she cooked and cared for the younger siblings from an early age. I was reminiscing and preparing myself for the bitter taste when it hit me.

“Wait a minute! Mom, how did you know I had a cold? I mean, even before I got here?”

The expression on her face was enough to let me know I’d asked a stupid question. She had always known what her kids were up to, even if we were hours away. I was probably a teenager before I realized that her uncanny ability was not commonplace. Again, I shook my head.

Dinner conversation was normal, but as soon as I finished my second piece of cake, Mom began her inquiry.

“So, what’s on your mind, Baby Boy?”

As if on cue, Dad stood up, took his dishes to the sink, and retreated to the living room.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Who you talking to?” she rhetorically replied. I knew exactly what she meant.

“Okay, Ma,” I responded, knowing she would not allow me to get away that easily.

I took another sip of tea. I added more honey, paused, and looked at her. Her gaze was persistent. She was calm and patient.

“Well,” I began, trying to find the safest words. “I just . . . I don’t know . . . it’s like . . .”

I looked up at her. She gave a reassuring smile, the kind only a loving mother can give. I relaxed.

“If we could find a way to bottle your smile, we could heal the world,” I told her.

She responded with a gentle nod. I was still avoiding something and she knew it.

“I don’t know, Ma. It’s just that I moved to Nashville to play music. Yeah, I’m doing it, but I’m not enjoying myself. I’m gigging some weekends and I’m paying my bills. The gigs are fun and I love the people I’m working with, but . . . I found a used car I want to buy. I almost have enough saved to get it. So, it’s not about money. It’s . . . I really don’t know what it is.”

“You sure you don’t know?” she asked.

I looked up at her but didn’t answer. Mom continued.

“You’ve been playing most of your life. You know you can stop anytime you want. The choice is always yours.”

She put the responsibility back on me. It was a bold thing to say.

“I don’t think I want to do that,” I responded.

“Then what good is complaining ’bout it gonna do?”

Of course, she was right. I didn’t offer an answer.

She backed away from the table and walked toward the stove. Her hair was braided close to the scalp, making it appear as if she were wearing a crown. I was sure she’d braided it herself. She had that gift. She did whatever needed to be done whether she knew how to do it or not. If she didn’t have the skill, she would acquire it from somewhere, sometimes seemingly out of thin air. The fact that she never tried to hide or dye her graying hair reminded me of how content she was.

Using the same ladle she’d used since I was a child, she refilled my cup and placed it in front of me. I took a sip.

“How’s the tea?” she asked while taking her seat.

“It’s bitter but good,” I answered.

“What?”

“It’s bitter but good,” I repeated.

“Exactly!” she replied. “Bitter but good. Oftentimes, the best things Life has to offer are just that . . . bitter but good. Think about that!”

I closed my eyes and nodded. She was always right.

Mom had spoken the word “Life” very deliberately, as if it were a person’s name. My unusual teacher, Michael, and his acquaintances were the only other people I’d ever heard speak that way. It was refreshing. My eyes opened on their own. I looked up at Mom.

“Pete and I gave birth to five children,” she continued. “Now, the pain of pushing you boys out wasn’t the most pleasant experience in the world. I ain’t never been one of them women who could just pop ’em out. But . . .” She closed her eyes and shook her head slowly back and forth, obviously reliving the experience. She grabbed my hand and held it tightly in both of hers. “I wouldn’t trade it for nuthin’ in the world.” She opened her eyes and leaned in close, her gaze caring but penetrating. “Now, tell me what’s really going on.”

I chuckled at her directness. I took a deep breath, lowered my head, and began.

“Well, something’s been tugging at my insides for a while now—­for a couple years actually. I don’t know what it is, but . . . I don’t quite know how to put it.”

I looked up at her. She sat back and folded her arms. With a wrinkle in her forehead, she pursed her lips, which let me know I was pushing her limits.

“Okay. I think it’s Music. She’s been, I mean, it’s been talking to me, well, trying to talk to me, I think. It’s like, it wants to tell me something.” I paused to see how she was accepting my words.

Mom kept silent, waiting for me to continue. So, for the first time, I told the complete truth. I knew, as well as she: I needed to talk.

“A few years ago, I had a conversation, an important conversation with Music.” I looked up. Her face was calm. “I know, I know,” I continued. “You can’t really have a conversation, but, I mean, it was like she was actually there. I know it sounds crazy. That’s why I haven’t told anyone about it. It may have been a dream, but . . . she was real! Actually, she reminded me of you. I mean, her voice, it was gentle and even musical, but also sad. She told me she was sick . . .” My eyes welled up with tears as I recalled the feelings.

I related the whole experience, talking longer than planned. I may have been talking to Mom, but I was talking for me. And although she mostly remained silent, it helped having her there as a sounding board.

The more I talked, the more I let go of the need for her to believe me. I spoke from my heart, which was what I knew we both wanted. “Speaking from the heart is a cleanser of the soul,” Mom once told me. “It doesn’t matter who or what you talk to. You can talk to a tree if you want. Trees are better listeners than most people anyway.”

Mom listened intently, barely moving a muscle as I spoke. She had a special gift of making one feel as if they were being heard without being judged. When I finished, she corroborated my story.

“Yeah! You’re right. Music is sick. I can tell you that for sure.”

Her response shocked me.

“Really? You believe that?”

“It’s more than a belief,” she answered. “I noticed it long ago when they started letting them bands play in church. My mother dreamed about it and told ’em not to do it. She said bad things would happen if they let them folks play. Ain’t but singing ’spose to be in Living Hope Church.”

“Why didn’t Grandma want instruments in the church?” I asked. “Is there something wrong with instruments?”

“Ain’t nuthin’ wrong with instruments. The problem is the people. When people sing, they sing from the inside. When they play instruments, they play from the outside. That don’t belong in Living Hope. Mother always say, ‘If you wanna play outside, then stay outside.’ I agree with Mother.”

“Well, I can’t argue with that,” I replied.

“Well, you best not argue with anything I say,” she countered with a chuckle.

My mom grew up in the eastern part of North Carolina, and her speech reverted to that vernacular every time her mind went back there.

“If Mother dreamt it, you best listen! All us kids knew that and never questioned it. Young folks today, y’all don’t like to listen,” she concluded. I hoped she wasn’t referring to me.

When my mom was little, their family was governed by her mother’s dreams. And when her mother’s warnings weren’t heeded, the consequences were never good.

“But what about Music talking to me? Isn’t that kinda strange?” I asked.

“That ain’t nuthin’ but the Good Lord talking to you. He comes in all shapes and sizes. You just know how to listen to Music better than you listen to anything else. That’s why you hear Him that way.”

“Really? You think so? I never thought about it like that.”

“You questioning me?” said asked with a smile.

“No, Ma. Definitely not.” I laughed. “What should I do, then?”

“Listen, child! Listen to Him, or Her, or whatever title you want to use. That don’t matter. Just listen to what Music is telling you!” she answered emphatically. “That’s why your stomach is churnin’ all to pieces. You ain’t been listenin’! And you know as well as I do that you need to start.”

Just then, my dad walked back into the kitchen. Apparently, he’d been listening the whole time.

“And since you made a promise to do something ’bout it, you best get to it,” he said as he placed his empty dish in the sink. He pulled up a chair and joined us at the table.

“But why me?” I asked. “Why is Music talking to me?”

“Because you’s a musician, son,” my father answered, grabbing Mom’s hand. “Don’t seem to be many of them left.” I looked up at him. His expression was serious.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean musicians,” he answered. “Real musicians! Yeah, we gots lotsa people playing instruments these days, but ain’t many of ’em playing Music.”

That sounded familiar.

“How do I know if I’m a real musician?” I asked.

“Be what you are,” Mom answered. “To be a real musician, you can’t just play; you also have to listen. Listen to everything, but most of all, listen to your heart. That’s the best way for Music to reach you, through your heart, not just your senses.”

“He ain’t got to worry about that, ’cause he ain’t got no sense!” Dad joked.

This time he was smiling. My dad was a jokester, and his timing couldn’t have been better. I needed that release. I’m sure he could sense it.

“Listen, Baby Boy.” Mom leaned forward and spoke quietly as if she was sharing a secret. “Music has given you everything. She’s always been there for you. Now, it sounds like you want something from Music, but have you given her anything? In this life, you can’t get without giving. That’s just the way it works. You want more opportunity? Give someone else some opportunity. Maybe that’s it. Have you done any teaching since you’ve been in Nashville?”

“I haven’t had time,” I answered, knowing it was a weak excuse.

Mom knew it, too. She didn’t offer an answer, just an unsatisfied look. She rose from the table, taking my cup with her. I heard the clicking of the stove as she turned it back on. Time for more tea, I presumed.

“What I’m hearin’ is foolishness,” Dad chimed in. “Maybe that’s why Music ain’t got no time fo’ you. You ain’t got no time for her.”

He wasn’t pulling any punches. I offered a weak counter.

“Times have been tough, Dad. I mean, I have a few gigs and everything, but I’ve been struggling just to—­”

“Times ain’t tough!” he interrupted. “Not fo’ you, anyway. You ain’t had to pick no cotton. You ain’t never even mowed a lawn. You definitely ain’t been drafted. You ain’t married. You ain’t got no kids, and you sho’ ’nuf ain’t had to walk to school in the snow, uphill both ways with one worn-­out shoe and—­”

“Okay, Pete. You made your point,” Mom interrupted with a chuckle. Dad nodded but wasn’t finished.

“Listen, son. Here’s the way I live my life. I give it my all. I make up my mind what I really want to do, and when it is made up, I cannot fail at it. The basic rule to success, I think, is when the going gets tough, that is a positive signal to keep chargin’!” He slammed his fist on the table and stood up.

“Thank you, Dad.”

With a smile, he patted my head and walked back into the living room. I’m sure he was imagining me as the little boy who used to ride on his shoulders.

“Listen,” Mom continued, placing another cup of warm tea on the table. “I think you should start teaching when you get home.” She closed her eyes for a second and opened them again. “Yes, that feels right. Find yourself a student. There’s one out there probably waiting just for you.” She laughed. “He might find you before you find him.” She chuckled. “Don’t worry; you’ll know when the time is right.”

“I’m so glad I came home. I really needed this.” I stood up and gave Mom a squeeze. “I love you!” I said in earnest.

“I love you more!” she responded.

My parents are the best. They always know what to say as well as how to say it. Their words brought clarity and made me feel much better. But there was one thing Mom was absolutely wrong about. I would never be a teacher.



“Never say what you’re not going to do because that is your first step toward doing it.” The First Measure

Parents Know Best

Never say what you’re not going to do because that is your first step toward doing it.

There’s a joke that asks the question: “How do you get a musician to complain?”

The answer: “Give him a gig.”

Somehow, I’d fallen into the trap of disliking most of my gigs, and the previous one had left me feeling a bit unsettled. I didn’t know what was causing it or how to make the feeling go away. I wasn’t sure if it was Music or me who kept refusing to show up.

I knew there had to be more to my musical life, but I didn’t know what more meant or where to find it. After many months of struggling with myself, I decided to turn to the only two people who had always been there for me, who would definitely help me feel better, and who would not allow me to continue lying to myself.

Mom and Dad have always been the fixers-­of-­all-­things. Almost two years had passed since I’d seen them and I was longing for their company. A visit would be good for my soul, and a home-­cooked meal would be good for my stomach. The ten-­hour drive would be good for my mind. Yes, I was running away from something—­something I was trying to ignore—­something I knew I would eventually have to face.

I’d never paid close attention to my alarm clock. It would go off (too early), I would hit it, and keep sleeping. That was the normal routine. But on this particular morning, the harsh sound of the note G repeating in my ear caused me to sit up right away. I didn’t know why I recognized the actual pitch. It had never happened to me before. Regardless, hitting Snooze was not an option. I did not want to hear that sound again. I quickly stopped the alarm and hopped to my feet. A few minutes later, an irritating note emitting from the microwave informed me that my food was ready. The out-­of-­tune C ruined my appetite. I picked up the phone to call my parents. Even the sound of the dial tone irritated me. I placed it back down without making the call. I tried to avert my attention, but my ears acted on their own and my brain colluded by not allowing me to ignore any of the sounds. By the time I made it into the car, musical tones were speaking to me from every direction. Because the car was rented, all the sounds were unfamiliar to me. The fact that I could name every pitch was surprising and should have been a good thing, but I was not ready to listen.

I turned on the radio, hoping it would bring some order to the chaos. Even that became a challenge. The morning cacophony of sounds seemed to be ganging up on me. Every note competed for my attention. I couldn’t make them stop. I felt a headache coming on and turned off the radio, hoping the silence would bring a bit of solace to my journey. It didn’t work. Even the silence spoke loudly.

The tires played a duet with the road; the engine whined a horrible tune, and the wind kept me company by whistling through the window directly into my left ear. Every fragment of noise had a pitch, a rhythm, or both.

Just as I was reaching my peak of frustration, a truck passed by on my left side. A message written on its back grabbed my attention. Nature’s Choice. For some reason, I read it as: Not ure Choice. My brain retaliated. I screamed at the truck.

“It is my choice. You can’t tell me—­”

My eyes fixed the mistake. I felt foolish. Without signaling, the truck merged too closely in front of me. I slowed and regrouped. I took the next exit and parked on the side of the road, not waiting to find a parking lot. I turned off the engine and laid my head on the steering wheel. As soon as I closed my eyes, an unsolicited thought entered my mind: There’s an ear in every heart as it beats in every breath. Listen and be silent. Having no idea from where the thought had come, I listened and obeyed.

“It is my choice,” I whispered to myself.

I sat up straight and made a firm decision. From this point on, I will have a different attitude. I pulled back onto the highway with a smile on my face and a clear head.

This time, what I’d previously considered separate fragments of noise merged into a cohesive coalition of beautiful symmetry. The patterns were intricate and entertaining. The rhythm of the road provided a pulse that complemented all the other sounds.

Once I turned the radio back on, the songs seemed to welcome each extraneous noise, creating thought-­provoking compositions. Even my turn signal had a groove. Changing lanes became a musical adventure. And even though it wasn’t raining, I rode with my windshield wipers on for a few minutes just to experience the complex polyrhythms they added. Music was with me and I was listening. We were both smiling.

Time passed rapidly. I stopped for gas just a few exits from my parents’ home. There, Music didn’t stop speaking. A beautiful tone scolded me for opening my door before turning off the engine, and it was a pleasure to hear that I’d left my lights on. The rhythm of the gas pump added an interesting cadence to the music playing through the speakers at the gas station. Although I liked the song, the harsh tone of the speakers caused it to sound horrible. Why install bad speakers in a public place? I paid for the gas and left as quickly as I could.

My excitement grew as each mile drew me closer and closer to my destination. It had been way too long since I’d seen my parents. I’d finally allowed myself to admit that I needed this visit, but whether I would be completely honest with them was a concern. Either way, dishonesty or half-­truths would never deter my mom. She’d get to the heart of the issue no matter what. She speaks her mind and can see through any façade.

Mom is a wise woman who cares about everyone as if all people were her children. Demanding a hug instead of a handshake, she has a way of making everyone feel welcome. Friends from all around make their way to her home, hoping to gain warmth and wisdom from her words and delicious Southern cuisine. “I’m not telling you this because you’re gonna like it,” she’d say. “I’m telling you because you need to hear it.”

Dad is the hardworking, quiet type. He was in the army and the air force and fought on the ground in the Korean War. Dad is capable of dealing with just about anything. He once told me that growing up in the thirties and forties made fighting in the army seem easy. On a typical day, he would come home from a long day of work, grab a plate of food, and watch television while reading the newspaper. He would quietly sit, seemingly oblivious to all the commotion going on around him produced by a house full of kids and friends. Over the years, I’d never heard him complain about any of the noise. Whenever he had something to say, everything stopped so that we could pay rapt attention.

I’d been thinking about my parents a lot. Many of the life lessons I’d learned from them only became apparent as I grew into adulthood. Gradually, I’d learned to recognize and appreciate the abundant knowledge found in all their sayings. I never enjoyed writing as a child, but increasingly, I’d begun to see the value of taking good notes. Parents know best, I thought. One day, I will write their words of wis­dom down.

They were sitting on the front porch when I pulled up in front of my childhood home in Newport News, Virginia. Their smiling faces, illuminated by the setting sun, were like a dose of good medicine. Dad had parked his car on the street, leaving the driveway clear for me. That’s my Dad. Quiet and thoughtful.

I pulled up close to the garage door, just as I’d done many times before. A surge of energy ran through my veins as I shifted into Park. I exited the car so quickly that my parents barely had a chance to step off the porch. I’d known that I needed to see them, but until that moment, I was unaware of how much. I was their baby boy, and it had been too long since I’d acted like it.

After rounds of hugs and kisses, I was ushered into the kitchen while Dad emptied the car. Three place settings were already on the table. A tall glass of orange juice sat next to one of them. I smiled and took my seat.

As soon as I sat down, music playing on the television caught my ear. At the same time, the cuckoo clock began announcing the time with a succession of seven repetitive chimes.

“Dinnertime! My favorite time!” Dad sang as he walked in the house, the screen door making a high-­pitched squeal.

“Wash your hands first,” Mom’s caring voice rang out.

Their voices, blending beautifully with the sounds from the television, screen door, and clock, produced a short musical cadence that grabbed my attention. I sat there replaying it in my mind.

“Wash your hands, I said!” Mom repeated, breaking my musical muse.

“Right,” I answered.

The floor squeaked as I stood up. The pitch grabbed my attention as if it were deliberately speaking to me. The sound continued, matching my steps as I continued down the hallway. I entered the bathroom and was surprised by the fact that even running water produces a pitch. Something was following me around, trying to get my attention, and although I knew what, or more precisely, who it was, I stood at the sink in a daze, not ready to give in. What do you want from me? I thought, shaking my head.

“I want you to wash your hands and stop wastin’ water!” My mom’s voice echoed down the hall.

My mouth fell open. I was sure I hadn’t spoken out loud, and even if I had, I didn’t think she could hear me from the kitchen. I walked back and scrutinized my mom with an inquisitive stare. She faced the stove but didn’t look back. A sly grin adorned her face. She was stirring a large open pot of water that had a tree limb sticking out of it. I smiled. I’d seen it many times before.

“I’m making Pinetop Tea,” Mom said, obviously reading my thoughts again. “You seem to be snifflin’ a bit.”

The pot had been simmering on the stove since I walked in. Inside was a branch from a pine tree, complete with bark and needles. It was a remedy she’d learned as a child. The oldest girl of thirteen children, she cooked and cared for the younger siblings from an early age. I was reminiscing and preparing myself for the bitter taste when it hit me.

“Wait a minute! Mom, how did you know I had a cold? I mean, even before I got here?”

The expression on her face was enough to let me know I’d asked a stupid question. She had always known what her kids were up to, even if we were hours away. I was probably a teenager before I realized that her uncanny ability was not commonplace. Again, I shook my head.

Dinner conversation was normal, but as soon as I finished my second piece of cake, Mom began her inquiry.

“So, what’s on your mind, Baby Boy?”

As if on cue, Dad stood up, took his dishes to the sink, and retreated to the living room.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Who you talking to?” she rhetorically replied. I knew exactly what she meant.

“Okay, Ma,” I responded, knowing she would not allow me to get away that easily.

I took another sip of tea. I added more honey, paused, and looked at her. Her gaze was persistent. She was calm and patient.

“Well,” I began, trying to find the safest words. “I just . . . I don’t know . . . it’s like . . .”

I looked up at her. She gave a reassuring smile, the kind only a loving mother can give. I relaxed.

“If we could find a way to bottle your smile, we could heal the world,” I told her.

She responded with a gentle nod. I was still avoiding something and she knew it.

“I don’t know, Ma. It’s just that I moved to Nashville to play music. Yeah, I’m doing it, but I’m not enjoying myself. I’m gigging some weekends and I’m paying my bills. The gigs are fun and I love the people I’m working with, but . . . I found a used car I want to buy. I almost have enough saved to get it. So, it’s not about money. It’s . . . I really don’t know what it is.”

“You sure you don’t know?” she asked.

I looked up at her but didn’t answer. Mom continued.

“You’ve been playing most of your life. You know you can stop anytime you want. The choice is always yours.”

She put the responsibility back on me. It was a bold thing to say.

“I don’t think I want to do that,” I responded.

“Then what good is complaining ’bout it gonna do?”

Of course, she was right. I didn’t offer an answer.

She backed away from the table and walked toward the stove. Her hair was braided close to the scalp, making it appear as if she were wearing a crown. I was sure she’d braided it herself. She had that gift. She did whatever needed to be done whether she knew how to do it or not. If she didn’t have the skill, she would acquire it from somewhere, sometimes seemingly out of thin air. The fact that she never tried to hide or dye her graying hair reminded me of how content she was.

Using the same ladle she’d used since I was a child, she refilled my cup and placed it in front of me. I took a sip.

“How’s the tea?” she asked while taking her seat.

“It’s bitter but good,” I answered.

“What?”

“It’s bitter but good,” I repeated.

“Exactly!” she replied. “Bitter but good. Oftentimes, the best things Life has to offer are just that . . . bitter but good. Think about that!”

I closed my eyes and nodded. She was always right.

Mom had spoken the word “Life” very deliberately, as if it were a person’s name. My unusual teacher, Michael, and his acquaintances were the only other people I’d ever heard speak that way. It was refreshing. My eyes opened on their own. I looked up at Mom.

“Pete and I gave birth to five children,” she continued. “Now, the pain of pushing you boys out wasn’t the most pleasant experience in the world. I ain’t never been one of them women who could just pop ’em out. But . . .” She closed her eyes and shook her head slowly back and forth, obviously reliving the experience. She grabbed my hand and held it tightly in both of hers. “I wouldn’t trade it for nuthin’ in the world.” She opened her eyes and leaned in close, her gaze caring but penetrating. “Now, tell me what’s really going on.”

I chuckled at her directness. I took a deep breath, lowered my head, and began.

“Well, something’s been tugging at my insides for a while now—­for a couple years actually. I don’t know what it is, but . . . I don’t quite know how to put it.”

I looked up at her. She sat back and folded her arms. With a wrinkle in her forehead, she pursed her lips, which let me know I was pushing her limits.

“Okay. I think it’s Music. She’s been, I mean, it’s been talking to me, well, trying to talk to me, I think. It’s like, it wants to tell me something.” I paused to see how she was accepting my words.

Mom kept silent, waiting for me to continue. So, for the first time, I told the complete truth. I knew, as well as she: I needed to talk.

“A few years ago, I had a conversation, an important conversation with Music.” I looked up. Her face was calm. “I know, I know,” I continued. “You can’t really have a conversation, but, I mean, it was like she was actually there. I know it sounds crazy. That’s why I haven’t told anyone about it. It may have been a dream, but . . . she was real! Actually, she reminded me of you. I mean, her voice, it was gentle and even musical, but also sad. She told me she was sick . . .” My eyes welled up with tears as I recalled the feelings.

I related the whole experience, talking longer than planned. I may have been talking to Mom, but I was talking for me. And although she mostly remained silent, it helped having her there as a sounding board.

The more I talked, the more I let go of the need for her to believe me. I spoke from my heart, which was what I knew we both wanted. “Speaking from the heart is a cleanser of the soul,” Mom once told me. “It doesn’t matter who or what you talk to. You can talk to a tree if you want. Trees are better listeners than most people anyway.”

Mom listened intently, barely moving a muscle as I spoke. She had a special gift of making one feel as if they were being heard without being judged. When I finished, she corroborated my story.

“Yeah! You’re right. Music is sick. I can tell you that for sure.”

Her response shocked me.

“Really? You believe that?”

“It’s more than a belief,” she answered. “I noticed it long ago when they started letting them bands play in church. My mother dreamed about it and told ’em not to do it. She said bad things would happen if they let them folks play. Ain’t but singing ’spose to be in Living Hope Church.”

“Why didn’t Grandma want instruments in the church?” I asked. “Is there something wrong with instruments?”

“Ain’t nuthin’ wrong with instruments. The problem is the people. When people sing, they sing from the inside. When they play instruments, they play from the outside. That don’t belong in Living Hope. Mother always say, ‘If you wanna play outside, then stay outside.’ I agree with Mother.”

“Well, I can’t argue with that,” I replied.

“Well, you best not argue with anything I say,” she countered with a chuckle.

My mom grew up in the eastern part of North Carolina, and her speech reverted to that vernacular every time her mind went back there.

“If Mother dreamt it, you best listen! All us kids knew that and never questioned it. Young folks today, y’all don’t like to listen,” she concluded. I hoped she wasn’t referring to me.

When my mom was little, their family was governed by her mother’s dreams. And when her mother’s warnings weren’t heeded, the consequences were never good.

“But what about Music talking to me? Isn’t that kinda strange?” I asked.

“That ain’t nuthin’ but the Good Lord talking to you. He comes in all shapes and sizes. You just know how to listen to Music better than you listen to anything else. That’s why you hear Him that way.”

“Really? You think so? I never thought about it like that.”

“You questioning me?” said asked with a smile.

“No, Ma. Definitely not.” I laughed. “What should I do, then?”

“Listen, child! Listen to Him, or Her, or whatever title you want to use. That don’t matter. Just listen to what Music is telling you!” she answered emphatically. “That’s why your stomach is churnin’ all to pieces. You ain’t been listenin’! And you know as well as I do that you need to start.”

Just then, my dad walked back into the kitchen. Apparently, he’d been listening the whole time.

“And since you made a promise to do something ’bout it, you best get to it,” he said as he placed his empty dish in the sink. He pulled up a chair and joined us at the table.

“But why me?” I asked. “Why is Music talking to me?”

“Because you’s a musician, son,” my father answered, grabbing Mom’s hand. “Don’t seem to be many of them left.” I looked up at him. His expression was serious.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean musicians,” he answered. “Real musicians! Yeah, we gots lotsa people playing instruments these days, but ain’t many of ’em playing Music.”

That sounded familiar.

“How do I know if I’m a real musician?” I asked.

“Be what you are,” Mom answered. “To be a real musician, you can’t just play; you also have to listen. Listen to everything, but most of all, listen to your heart. That’s the best way for Music to reach you, through your heart, not just your senses.”

“He ain’t got to worry about that, ’cause he ain’t got no sense!” Dad joked.

This time he was smiling. My dad was a jokester, and his timing couldn’t have been better. I needed that release. I’m sure he could sense it.

“Listen, Baby Boy.” Mom leaned forward and spoke quietly as if she was sharing a secret. “Music has given you everything. She’s always been there for you. Now, it sounds like you want something from Music, but have you given her anything? In this life, you can’t get without giving. That’s just the way it works. You want more opportunity? Give someone else some opportunity. Maybe that’s it. Have you done any teaching since you’ve been in Nashville?”

“I haven’t had time,” I answered, knowing it was a weak excuse.

Mom knew it, too. She didn’t offer an answer, just an unsatisfied look. She rose from the table, taking my cup with her. I heard the clicking of the stove as she turned it back on. Time for more tea, I presumed.

“What I’m hearin’ is foolishness,” Dad chimed in. “Maybe that’s why Music ain’t got no time fo’ you. You ain’t got no time for her.”

He wasn’t pulling any punches. I offered a weak counter.

“Times have been tough, Dad. I mean, I have a few gigs and everything, but I’ve been struggling just to—­”

“Times ain’t tough!” he interrupted. “Not fo’ you, anyway. You ain’t had to pick no cotton. You ain’t never even mowed a lawn. You definitely ain’t been drafted. You ain’t married. You ain’t got no kids, and you sho’ ’nuf ain’t had to walk to school in the snow, uphill both ways with one worn-­out shoe and—­”

“Okay, Pete. You made your point,” Mom interrupted with a chuckle. Dad nodded but wasn’t finished.

“Listen, son. Here’s the way I live my life. I give it my all. I make up my mind what I really want to do, and when it is made up, I cannot fail at it. The basic rule to success, I think, is when the going gets tough, that is a positive signal to keep chargin’!” He slammed his fist on the table and stood up.

“Thank you, Dad.”

With a smile, he patted my head and walked back into the living room. I’m sure he was imagining me as the little boy who used to ride on his shoulders.

“Listen,” Mom continued, placing another cup of warm tea on the table. “I think you should start teaching when you get home.” She closed her eyes for a second and opened them again. “Yes, that feels right. Find yourself a student. There’s one out there probably waiting just for you.” She laughed. “He might find you before you find him.” She chuckled. “Don’t worry; you’ll know when the time is right.”

“I’m so glad I came home. I really needed this.” I stood up and gave Mom a squeeze. “I love you!” I said in earnest.

“I love you more!” she responded.

My parents are the best. They always know what to say as well as how to say it. Their words brought clarity and made me feel much better. But there was one thing Mom was absolutely wrong about. I would never be a teacher.



“Never say what you’re not going to do because that is your first step toward doing it.”