The Gift of Music

The Gift she shared. 

My mother-in-law, Alleen Watt, believed music could start a conversation. Music did more than start a conversation in her life. People in her audiences were given a chance to dance, share stories of times passed, laugh and clap to the beat, and rejoice in the moment. She was blessed with an ear for music called 'perfect pitch.' Playing the guitar and piano came easily for her, a talent she inherited from her Papa, Charlie Morris. So many times as Alleen and I sat together in those last few years of her life, her sentences began with "Papa used to...."

Growing up in Little Axe on a farm during the depression, she and her sisters picked cotton and helped in any way possible. I felt the struggles she endured as she shared her memories, but more than anything else I felt the lasting love that her Papa had given her with the gift of music.  

Her Papa was born in 1878 in South Texas. During his eighty one years he rarely missed making music at a Saturday night dance. In her papers I found these words to a song she wrote to honor her Papa.

The lyrics are written from his point of view growing up dirt poor in Oklahoma.  

There were many times we were so hungry.

There were many times we were so cold,

When we lived there in that old half dugout

Back in those hills so long long ago.

       We came here from way down in Texas.

       Thought life would be better for sure.

       The farm we got kept us from starving,

       The bad times we learned to endure.

Papa had left us for heaven.

As the oldest child I took his place.

I was young but grew up in a hurry,

When I found out what we had to face.

       We hadn’t been long on our homestead

       When measles came to call at our home.

       Mama and sister joined Papa,

       Leaving me and two other brothers alone.

We had an old guitar and banjo,

And a two dollar fiddle and bow.

Soon we were playing for dances,

Then the time didn’t go by so slow.

       We’d ride those old horses bareback.

       Didn’t care how far we had to go.

       Those dances might last until morning,

       And oh, how that moonshine did flow.

Yes, times were hard and we did struggle.

Didn’t dwell on what might have been.

Just thanked God for all of our blessings,

And started all over again. 

*words by Alleen Watt, 1980

In Love's Embrace

She died peacefully and drifted toward heaven in a chorus of Hallelujah.

She blessed the world with her music, her smile, and her humble graciousness, and we all felt blessed.

How do we remember her—by personal memories.

Mom was a mother hen, and she liked nothing better than to have all of her little chickens close by her side. She always wanted to know where we were, who we were with, and when we’d be home. When we were teenagers and came home late she would usually be in bed. As we passed her room we had to say our numerical order. Being the second born, I simply answered, ‘Two.’ Then went on to bed.  Mom couldn’t sleep until she knew we all home.

Summer break before my junior year of college I came to stay with Grandma for a week in June. As is customary in Oklahoma a huge storm came through. Sitting with Grandma on the sofa in her living room we were watching the news as the sky turn a greenish hue. Hail started to pound down from the sky and a tornado warnings went into effect. Pretty soon we could hear the storm sirens ringing outside of the house. On the TV they listed the neighborhoods that should take shelter and sure enough, we were in one of the area directly in the storm’s path. Being from the north I was ready to grab a mattresses and go for cover in the bathtub.  As the newscaster again listed the areas that should seek shelter immediately, I turned to Grandma and asked what she normal did at this point. She just smiled at me, and said in her lovely melodic voice “Oh, well I normally change the channel at this point”. 

My Grandma Watt was very wise.   

That chocolate is best served at breakfast with coffee.  

That green beans taste better with bacon grease.

That music can start a conversation.  

And defects, no matter how big or small they may be, can become a part of HOW you do something not WHY you do not.

My favorite Grandma memory comes from when I was living with them. If you got up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom, and took too much time, by the time you returned to your room, it would not be unusual to find your clothes folded and your bed made! 

 My memories are from the little corner shelving wedged above the kitchen bar where she kept little trinkets and CANDY! She would reach up on the shelves and magically find CANDY for any child by her side.    

    

Mostly, I loved to hear her sing Amazing Grace and Rugged Cross when she and Papa Watt played in the Golden Okies Band.

Alleen always insisted on paying her way, whether to Braums, Red Lobster, or Sonic. None of her children would take her money, but we learned to say, "Thank you for offering." 

In the end, I will hear her voice say, “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

I feel sure that those were her last words, too.  She told me time and time again that if she ever quit talking she would die. She made doctors and nurses chuckle when they tried to take her vitals, because she chatted continually. I’m sure that on that Sunday when a stroke stole her ability to speak, she had reached her frail hand up to touch the young aide who had pushed her to the dining room, and said, “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

Through her Eyes

Furniture shopping last summer.

I often wonder if I could smile with such sincerity if I were in constant pain from the shingles, but she does.  For over 91 years her smile has remained strong, much like her family of four sons and one daughter, all blessed with her love and patience.  Her joy for life, for everyday living, for being with family is slowly being drained from her body.  Age is the demon chasing her every night.

Now her legs have said, way too many times, "This pain is just too much.  Sit down and please don't move."  The walker is companion but not the companion who makes her feel needed.  It's only a metal frame that helps her to walk from her "perch" on the couch, to the kitchen, to her bedroom, and back.  Her companion for the last few years died in September.  He was younger than she and was suppose to outlive her.  She misses him everyday. I can't imagine her grief nor her pain. 

Alleen  loves to eat at Red Lobster

Those birthdays have taken their toll, and all we hurt as we watch her age. Her daily routine of coffee and donuts with friends at  Donut King and Braum's have come to an end.  She doesn't enjoy getting out and the cold hurts her bones.  She thrives on the breakfast platter now that Jack brings daily, and for an hour or two each morning she shares her life with Jack, her son, or any of us who are family.  She loves to talk and share her memories.  We are all happy that she does; then she chokes or her breathing becomes labored and she's frightened and our hearts race.  We have caretakers who help her daily with household chores and meals, but they have struggled with her independent nature.  We've spoiled her, rightfully so, and she most pleased with restaurant foods, not home cooked.  

Now other aliments follow her.  A woman who merely takes Anacin for relief and a pill for her racing heart, now suffers from dizzy spells, that scare her so much  that she doesn't like to walk.  And so she sits, her muscles atrophy more and more everyday, but fear of falling has taken hold of her thoughts.

Most of the time she's articulate, reads the newspaper word for word cover to cover, watches football, Lawrence Welk, Andy Griffith, Everybody Loves Raymond, the Golden Girls, and good old movies, but she's lonely.  Her fingers aren't strong enough to sew and make the quilts or doll clothes they once made.  Her guitar sits more now than ever before, with her fingers no longer callused and strong enough to press the chords.  Her will is stronger than

Alleen and great grandson, Isaac

muscles, and so she makes herself get up and sing for others.  It keeps her going and makes her happy.  But pain is now her constant companion.

How does a family make a decision for an aging parent?  We try to see through her eyes.  We try to do what's best for her, but her mind thinks she's young, strong, independent and can live alone. Her dream is to die at home in her bed.  Do we honor her dream?  We toss and turn and question what's best, what helps, where do we go from here? 

I listen as God guides me. I open my heart and pray, and so do we all.  We pray that her life stays "golden", but in the end we pray for "God's will be done."