When I was about fourteen years old, the piano preludes of Claude Debussy (1862-1918) changed my life. Before then, the piano music my teacher gave me was mostly from the Classical Period with some from the Romantic Period. Czerny and Hanon were the backbone of the technique she taught.
The lady across the street would play “Beer Barrel Polka” on the hammond organ. The organ was in her living room and when my family walked over to visit, she always played the organ for us. I remember watching her...
Birthdays roll around every year—yes, that is obvious. When I was young, the future lay ahead and I would imagine what being an adult would be like. I made plans for my future self. Now several decades (more than several!) later, I tend to look back as much as I look forward.
My mother probably had the most influence on how I became to be who I am. The person who shaped her was her mother, Belle Coker. When I was growing up everyone called her “Mama Coker” or simply “Mama.” And, indeed she was a mother to everyone in various ways.
. . . the professor said, “you should keep composing.” His words kept echoing in my mind. Just who was this person? What did he know? Why should his words change my life?
I just had a birthday . . . the one that officially signifies that I am old! At the ripe age of sixty-five, I don’t feel old mentally as I still have much I want to accomplish. However, it does make one stop and ponder the past and what influences made you who you are. I am a child of the sixties―the decade of peace and love.
I have many nostalgic Thanksgiving memories. When I was a child, I always watched the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade on TV. Daddy would go out and mow over all the leaves in our yard and then come back in and fall asleep in his chair. Mother stayed busy in the kitchen cooking our Thanksgiving dinner . . . which was always eaten in the middle of the day.
My memories of Good Friday are of my parents getting up as soon as it was light to plant the garden. It wasn’t just a small garden in the yard. They had purchased acreage around our house where they had a garden plot. Daddy would plow it earlier in the week and have it ready for them to plant on Good Friday. I am not sure where that tradition originated — whether it was from the Farmer’s Almanac or simply Southern Folklore, but my parents religiously planted on Good Friday.
Faded photographs, a favorite teddy bear, toys, and dolls evoke memories of childhood. Along with these, you have recollections of vacations, holidays, and family gatherings.
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