Recently, a song I hadn’t heard in decades played on my Echo Dot that stirred some memories I couldn't place at first.
Late 1975 in our tiny one-bedroom apartment in Maywood, California, and Mom had come home with a thin, brown paper bag under one arm. She was smiling with that mysterious smile she had when the day was just THAT good. Her excitement was exceptionally intense, so I dropped what I was doing to see if I could sneak a glimpse of what she had brought home.
Mom. My extraordinary, beautiful mother. I will not ever get over her loss. She was a force. Quietly vulnerable but her strength knew no bounds. She was kindhearted but fiercely independent which didn't always translate well to others. A passionate yet efficient and conventional woman, Mom was everything to me. A lot of things were changing in 1975 as she had gotten married to Miguel Sr. and I started kindergarten at Heliotrope Elementary School. For a long time it was just she and I, but now our family was expanding and I was giving independence a try.
Mom had a second hand record player tucked away in the far, dark corner opposite the front door. It was precious to her only recently obtained at a swap meet. Before the record player, we would often listen to the portable black leather covered AM/FM radio that was perched on her headboard shelf. She always loved music, so the radio and, later, the record player, were important to her. On the opposite side of the room was her dresser where the bulk of her meager belongings were tucked away.
The record player stood upright on four spindle legs where she had fit a basket of yarn in between on the floor and featured a hinged top that would lift to reveal the old turntable recessed inside. A single hinged door below is where Mom stored her few records.
I remember helping her to place a stamp on an envelope that contained a check and order form for a new turntable needle. It was a major event when the needle arrived weeks later and her own music filled the apartment.
Sometimes I would snoop through her records when she wasn’t looking and read the album sleeves and inserts that contained lyrics and photos. I still remember the sound of the metal pull ring against the wood and the way the door with the v-shaped wood grain would squeak slightly upon opening. She often played her records and would sing while I danced in the cramped space.
Mom had carefully set the brown bag on the edge of the purple and white granny square crocheted blanket she had on her bed, and I haunted the narrow space at the foot of the bed like an impatient shadow pacing back and forth. I know she saw me, but I thought I was being sneaky as hovered hoping to get a glimpse of what was inside. Finally, she came and took an album out of the paper bag and sat down on the bed.
The album was white and had the words, "Fleetwood Mac" written at the top and a tall, thin man dressed in black holding a cane and drinking wine above a shorter man playing with a crystal ball in the air in front of an arched doorway. We studied the album for a moment, and I remember becoming excited hoping Mom would play the record.
And boy, did she ever play the record. From 1975 to 1979, she played that record so often the order of it was burned into my memory. It was one of her favorites among John Denver, Olivia Newton-John, The Beatles and Gordon Lightfoot. She brought that album with her when we moved to Minnesota in 1979 and again to New Mexico in 1985. How I wish she had kept it. A year before she passed away, she went into full heave-ho mode and got rid of so much of her history. I may still come across it. I hope so.
As I recently sat on the floor of my office looking for a document for my youngest daughter, I told Alexa to play music from Fleetwood Mac as I often do. They, too, are one of my favorites. Several songs in, a song came on that made me pause. I hadn’t heard it in decades, but I knew it. It didn’t sound quite right though. Something was off, but I knew it was something profound for me. In the days since, I couldn’t get it out of my head; the spirit of an earworm that I knew.
Last night, I dreamed of the song and of Mom and decided to listen to it again this morning. I had to wrestle with Alexa to play the song directly from the album, Fleetwood Mac, but when it started the memories flooded me as the tears fell. Lindsay Buckingham at the lead vocals is what I remembered. The version I’d heard a few days ago from the soundtrack of the movie, Practical Magic head Stevie Nicks in the lead vocals.
Mom. My extraordinary, beautiful mother. I was small again and snuggled into her as she sang this song to me. She always smelled of vanilla, patchouli, lavender and cedar with a touch of cigarette smoke, and her hugs would surround me with comfort and love. As she sang, I would doze safe in the knowledge that my mother was close. Afterwards, she would talk to me about how life was changing and we were changing. She was married now, I was going to school and getting so big, and, later, my little brother would make our little family complete. “Things are changing”, she said to me, “Change is hard, but it can be good. Be strong, little one.” I try. It’s hard
I knew she loved me. Without condition. Without judgment. She loved my brother and me with such ferocity that I still feel it. That’s why it’s so hard. The only person on the entire planet who has loved me with all her heart and soul is gone. She supported and celebrated my brother and me. Her love, though, isn’t gone. It has just changed and is now stored away in my memories, and that’s why I shed tears because it’s hard. It’s so hard. As Winnie the Pooh once said, “How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.”
Here's to you, Mama. “Crystal” by Fleetwood Mac from the album, Fleetwood Mac.
