Sunset Serenades: Family, Music, and Courage

Sometimes we become so fixed on the scary things in life, we risk missing the beautiful moments. This happened recently when my mom and I went to see my husband Randy play bass in one of his bands (he’s in four) at an outdoor waterfront restaurant in Norwalk, Connecticut. I knew this evening would be touching but hadn’t realized how much.

Randy had a tough winter and spring. He found himself in the hospital for weeks and then in rehab for months (which he called “the joint”). It was a long journey of half a year. Our grown sons and I worried, but somehow over time he pulled through—going from bedridden, to using a wheelchair, to pushing a walker, to navigating with a cane, and finally walking tentatively on his own.

Many things sustained him during those difficult days. But besides family and friends, nothing kept him going more than visits from his bandmates and the thought of getting back on stage. Ten years ago, he’d shown up at open mics, hoping someone would pick him to play. Now—through countless jams, gigs, rehearsals and shows—he’s become an “in demand” fixture on the Fairfield County music scene.

I hadn’t seen him play since his illness, and this was his first appearance with this band, so Mom and I were happy to grab a close table. It was a perfect September night—soft and balmy. The crab cakes were delicious. Other tables were full of friends, families, and couples.

I sighed with happiness as I watched Randy walk tentatively to his stool and begin to thump those strings, swaying to the music. After so much struggle and worry, he had made it.

But leave it to him, to make the evening even more special, and think of others.

My mom has a big birthday coming up and Randy asked his singer Holly to dedicate a song to her. “This is for a special lady celebrating a special birthday,” Holly said in her charming, Alabama twang. “We know she likes Glen Campbell, so Marilyn, this is for you.”

My mom looked around, wondering who Marilyn was. “It’s you,” I said, laughing. “You’re the Marilyn.”

She gasped and smiled as the plaintive lyrics of Wichita Lineman began…

 “I am a lineman for the county, and I drive the main road.

         Searching in the sun for another overload…”

At that moment, the sun started to set, and the sky became dappled with pinks and soft reds. The breeze smelled fragrant from Long Island Sound. Candles twinkled on the tables.

I couldn’t help feeling grateful. My Mom, widowed ten years ago, had lived to a ripe, healthy, ninety years old. She has a good life, living in our home. Not to mention, sometimes she gets taken to the local honkytonk to watch her son-in-law play.

The song ended and the audience clapped. Mom waved thank you to the band and they waved back. Randy looked especially proud, sitting there, his hand over the frets, ready to go into the next number. I thought of the strength he’d shown in the last half year.

“I’m proud of you,” I said as we were leaving during the break. “Thanks for doing that for Mom.”

He looked touched, and then broke into a smile. “I’m just happy to be here.”

 

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