M Is for the Many Things She Gave Me

Flowers for Mom

The original lyrics were written in 1915 by Howard Johnson and the song is titled Mother: It turns out that Howard Johnson also wrote, “I Scream, You Scream, We All Scream for Ice Cream”.

M Is for the Many things she gave me,
O Means only that she’s growing Old.
T Is for the Tears she shed to save me,
H Is for her Heart of purest gold.
E Is for her Eyes with love light shining,
R Means Right and Right she’ll always be.

Put them all together, They spell MOTHER

A word that means the world to me.

The picture with this post is of some flowers for Mother.

This is a repost of a post that was written several years ago. It was written for my mother, but also for my mother-in-law. My mother had passed away, and now recently, so has my mother-in-law. Actually, Gene, my mother-in-law really owns this post. Her three lovely daughters grew up singing this song to her, much to her chagrin. Maybe this parody of the Mother song that I found on the internet, is closer to what she hears when the original lyrics are sung:

M is for the many things she gave me
O is for the other things she gave me
T is for the things she gave me
H is for her things, which she gave me
E is for everything she gave me
R is for the rest of the things she gave me

Anne asked me not to originally post this post for fear of the pain that it might cause her mother. I only heard her childhood guilt speaking. In truth it is I who should feel guilty, because it is my naked ambition that drives this post. My informed readers might ask, how is this different? Since, ’09 this post has been a gold mine of blog hits. Every April it begins. In May, it begins to crest and come Sunday, interest will peak and then crash. That is why now is when I should act. I just did a google search looking for the author of this song. I typed in, “M is for the many things she gave me lyrics” and RegenAxe is the number one website returned. I feel lucky. Thank you, Mother.

To all of the forlorn sons and daughters that have found the previous post, the poem MOTHER is in the public domain. It is an old troupe, much copied, but it is free to use. If you are emailing your mom, I cannot compete with the simple cut and paste. If you are willing to go the extra mile, I offer this advice. Say, “I love you Mom.” Praise her. Say she looks nice, say she said something interesting. Tell her something you did that would make her proud. This last is the toughest, but is the one that will make her the happiest on Mother’s Day.

The Queen of Disco

Disco Ball Closeup – Photo by Paul Zoetemeijer on Unsplash

Last dance
Last chance, for love
Yes, it’s my last chance
For romance, tonight

Disco lives again! Anne and I attended Summer, the Donna Summer musical. This show was on regular rotation with our Fox Theater Broadway Musical Series. Donna Summer was the proported and eventually the self proclaimed Queen of Disco. This bio-musical tells her story, set to her musical sound track.

Bad girls
Talking about the sad girls
Sad girls
Talking about bad girls, yeah

Disco has earned a lot of derision, but it was also our courting music. Regularly on weekends, we would find ourselves dancing together to disco tunes in Grand Avenue nightclubs, adjacent to Michigan State University. Sweaty nights, full of glitz, glam and love. Most of the bars had no cover. The beer was cheap and the house’s only profit was derived from thirst quenching gulps, after sets of songs.

She works hard for the money
So hard for it, honey
She works hard for the money
So you better treat her right

Disco eventually died and unfortunately, so did Donna Summer, in 2012. We’re both now too old to go clubbing anymore, but we still like to dance together. Not that we are all that good at dancing. You never know when your last dance will be. That’s why you should always dance every dance as if it was your last.

Lookin’ for some hot stuff, baby this evenin’
I need some hot stuff, baby tonight
I want some hot stuff, baby this evenin’
Gotta have some hot stuff
Gotta have some love tonight

Rock Band

Duck Room

Sunday night, we braved the elements and journeyed over to Blueberry Hill for an evening of Rock Band. Not to be confused with School of Rock, which is what it really is. The actor Jack Black first burst upon the movie scene with his captivating performance in the John Cusack vehicle, High Fidelity, but he really stole the show when he starred as a ne’er-do-well faux substitute teacher, who channels his passion for rock-and-roll and finds salvation, all the while dispensing a truly novel education. It is this educational experience that STL Rock Band attempts to duplicate. Our next-door neighbors Ethan and Gracie are both participants in this program. Hence our attendance.

The venue at the rock-and-roll bar Blueberry Hill was its downstairs black-box concert space called the Duck Room. Like the rest of this iconic U-City bar, the Duck Room is outfitted with lots of owner Joe Edwards’ eclectic memorabilia. In this place though there is only one theme, ducks, but I suspect that its name is really more derived from the “look out” connotation for that word, then with waterfowl. This was my first time in the Duck Room, although while dinning above it, I have felt its rumbling pulse before. Earplugs would have been a welcomed addition to this visit.

I have described Blueberry Hill as a rock-and-roll bar, but years ago, on a similar wintery night, our then 5-year-old son Dan cast aspersions upon the place and called it a cowboy bar. This occasion involved his visiting grandparents, my in-laws. I had just pulled up to the door with the intent of dropping off my carload of passengers, when Dan asked/announce in his little, yet booming voice, “You’re not taking me to another cowboy bar are you?” Both Anne and I were mortified. We later deciphered that his misinterpretation of our intentions was due to another one of Joe Edwards’s collections. Just inside the door was a display case full of Howdy Doody memorabilia.

For many of the bands it was a good thing that Simon Cowell and his buzzer were not present. Think elementary school recital, but with amplified electronic instrumentation. Some soloists turned to more volume, as a substitute for more talent, like up to eleven. Still, as the night wore on, the succession of rock bands increased in both age and musicality.

Of special note to us, Gracie was up first, with her all girl group, Girl Chat. Their set concluded with the seasonal Chuck Berry tune, Run, Run Rudolph, which was a nice touch, seeing that they were playing on the same stage that Berry had graced on many occasions and up to the last year of his life. Like him, Gracie played guitar. We took a break upstairs for dinner and then it was Ethan’s turn on stage. Fat Doug was the name of his group and Ethan acquitted himself well on both keys and bass. Then it was back out into the snow. It had been both an enjoyable and educational evening. Rock-on!

Country Music

Country Music Cajun Style

Anne and I have been watching the PBS documentary series, Country Music, which is produced by Ken Burns, the most distinguished of our high school alumnus. He graduated the year before us. We’ve watched the first four episodes and plan on tuning in again, when the series starts back up tomorrow. I’ve never been as big a fan of country music as with other musical genres. I guess that I’m just too much the city boy, but I do like the stories that they tell. From the country classics to the silly one off songs, there is something quintessentially American about their stories. In typical Burns fashion, he has segmented the bigger story into episodes that encapsulate the musical genre’s successive periods. Beginning with old sepia tone photos that are brought to life again with a panning camera, and which by episode four film has supplanted. I found the series playlist on Spotify and am listening to it while I write this post, except when Patsy Cline’s Crazy comes on and Anne demands a dance. One criticism of the series is that it is too personality driven, especially in the later yet unseen episodes. Even with sixteen hours of storytelling, not everyone’s favorite singer will get their due. Next time that we’re in Nashville, it would be nice to visit one of Broadway’s honkytonks again.