writing

MK Clancey

An Album A Day Kept Your Parents Away

Music, sweet sweet music, there was music everywhere! Growing up in the 1960s and 70s, I feel blessed to have been a part of an amazing time in music.  Moving from a simple record player in my room, which played at three speeds, 33, 45, and 78, to the Stereo System we purchased in pieces and brought with us to college, our prized possession.  The Turntable, The Receiver, The Speakers,  a tall stack of silver rectangular prisms kept securely in a black cabinet with glass doors that shut ever so quietly.  It was the turntable and its delicate needle getting the most use, as vinyl albums were where it was at!   Albums were and still are sort of an art/writing/music genre of their own.  Those of this generation would spend many a day in the local music store flipping through stacks of albums, admiring their outrageous covers, reading the backside list of songs, taking it all in, and after careful consideration, as there were always more than one that you wanted, deciding on the purchase. Upon getting home, you would tear off the plastic wrap or, in some cases, the brown paper, and really explore the beauty of this new investment.  Like the smell of a new book upon opening it, albums had their new smell as well.  Removing the shiny black, flat, circular vinyl object from deep inside created a sense of awe in the beholder. We would hold it in a special way, on the outside along the side rims, as you didn’t want to get your fingerprints on the sleek, shiny flat surfaces.  Some of these albums had the bonus of opening up like a book, revealing an incredible additional treasure trove of pictures, words to the songs, and stories of the making of the album or the story lying within the songs. These gatefold albums also served the very helpful purpose of being a wonderful accessory for cleaning your nickel bag and rolling the joint, which you would enjoy as you listened to this newly acquired but everlasting music.  Oh yes, and for some of us now having all types of “things” taken off our bodies by a dermatologist with a melon ball scooper, we would line these booklike albums with aluminum foil and place them under our chin, which we would use as a suntanning tool for that perfect sunburn we all sought to have.  Oh, those were the days! 

After closing the door to my bedroom, we would blast the sounds of our favorite bands, sometimes opening the windows as we felt the whole neighborhood deserved the serenade of the excellent music we listened to.  After all, we were doing them a favor; this music is great!  On the other side of that door was our family, brothers, sisters, parents, and in some cases grandparents, who we gave little thought to if they wanted to hear this music or not.  It was our room, our music, our turntable, and our teen attitudes that mattered most.  Many times, as we loved the album so much, we would play it over, and over, and over, and over again.  Slowly driving mom and dad to a state of mental frenzy.  “Will you shut that God damn music off!” they would yell from behind the door.  “How many times are you going to listen to that God damn song?” they would scream.  Didn’t matter, we just cranked up the volume to block their calls out, for we could, and intended on, listening to it a hundred more times and with each replaying gathering more and more meaning behind the words, music, and album cover.  

Every once in a while, an album would contain some curse words.  I remember sitting in my room with my friend Chris, as we played the 45 single of Free’s, All Right Now.  There’s the line, “Let’s move before they raise the f…. rent.”  We couldn’t believe our ears.  Did our parents hear this?  If so, how much fun is that?  Let’s play it a hundred times until they bust in the door screaming for us to stop.  It seems quite mean, but it was actually a fun little game.  “Let’s play it one more time, they’re bound to come this time!” They never came.  And who was not overly excited and filled with anxious enthusiasm to play Country Joe McDonald’s, The Fish Cheer, from behind your bedroom door.   I didn’t even like it, but we would play it loud and wait for someone on the other side to finally bust in and say, “enough!” I had a friend who would wait for her mother to get home and then begin playing Elton John’s “The Bitch Is Back” at nauseam.  As many of us were never allowed to curse in the house, we let the music do it for us.  

We all had our favorite albums, and if lucky enough, you saved them.  Vinyl’s making a comeback, haven’t you heard? Later on today, I plan to trek down to the darkest parts of my basement and see if I can find and dig out some of my treasured albums, artwork, and all.  I plan on playing them, looking over the album covers, revisiting these treasures, maybe even finding one covered with aluminum foil or another containing a remnant from a long night hanging out, playing backgammon, and listening to a great album.  Hey, I’m retired now, I got the time to do this shit. There’s nothing like, instead of moving forward, taking a trip backward, to a time when the music and the albums were great.   

MK Clancey

Journal Writings from April 29, 2016

It is over.  I sit alone in a room that I had shopped around for her to live. It is beige, two big windows, the hospital bed she lays in, a wicker coffee table, a large bookcase with photos of our family all watching, a night table covered in a green tablecloth, a phone, lamp and a statue of Mary.  Across the room is her desk, covered in medication filled  boxes. Her dresser is blocked by the mattresses we have been sleeping on for the past few days.  In the corner is The Chair.  A big blue monstrosity which would slowly rise to lift her to a standing position so she could transfer to the wheelchair which I sit in now, my pen and journal on my lap. My mom, she lays there in front of me.  I swear I see her chest rising as if still breathing, she is not, I tell myself. Her hands, that were blue at the start of this day, are now pure creamy white.  They look beautiful, she always had such long delicate fingers.  I have taken the oxygen away, hearing aids gone, teeth out, glasses off, just her – at peace.

The room is quiet and I am sort of in a good place.  A place of peace.  I am glad we have this time together.  I am not afraid nor anxious to leave, for once I do, I know it will be a race, a big To Do List.  It is peaceful alone here with her.  I touch her hands and kiss her forehead.  “Mom,” I call out.  I still can’t believe that she is gone.  Oh my goodness I think, I’m an orphan!

I hear the phone ring and rise to answer it.  It is Richard from the funeral home returning my call.  I’m new at this,” I tell him, “What can I expect to happen?”

“They will see the nurse upon arrival and sign some papers. Someone from the staff will lead them to her.  They will put her on a stretcher.  You may want to leave the room,” he tells me.  

“Okay, sure,” I respond, my voice cracking. I hang up the phone and go back to sit and be with her.  I will miss her very much.  “Mom,” I tell her, speaking in the voice that she used so often with me when giving specific directions.  “You make sure you let me know that you are okay.  Don’t let me down.”

My husband Tom returns with a glass of wine from the dining room downstairs.  We sit, in quiet, in reflection, in sadness and peace. I wonder if it is only us three in this room, or is my dad there, my brother, people from her past.  

I am startled out of my thoughts by a  knock on the door.  Upon opening,  I see a young woman in a black skirt, black shoes,  white shirt and black sweater.  She has short brown hair parted on the side and looks more like a hostess at a restaurant than the undertaker I was expecting.  She is alone.  I look around the hallway expecting more, and ask her if she is going to do this all by herself.  “Yes,” she replies as if I had asked a stupid question.  I show her to my mom, who lays there, eyes closed, mouth open, resting.  She looks around, surveys the room, the situation.  She asks us to leave as I was told she would.  We step outside and the door closes behind us.  I stand there in that hall,  “What’s happening,” I ask Tom, letting my head fall on his chest.  He puts his hand on my neck and says nothing, he too is new at this. 

Several minutes later, the door opens and the stretcher is wheeled out with a long maroon faux-velvet bag on top of it.  I know my mother is inside.  “Which side is her head?” I ask.  She points to the side away from her.  I touch it, still not believing that this is the end.  A nurse from the assisted living home walks over and tells the young undertaker the plan.  “I will get the elevator, then I will signal to you when it is here and okay for you to bring her down.” They don’t want the other residents to see this.  I chuckle in my head, like they don’t know death happens here, just dining, bingo, and good times!  The signal is given and my mother is wheeled to the elevator that she and I have ridden in so many times, for the last time.  Funny, I think, everytime she has gone to this elevator she has been wheeled, a wheelchair and now a stretcher.  Tom and I follow, we take the stairs.  I should have ridden with her. 

I see the pretty young women who I first met when I began to look for places to move my mom.  She expresses her sympathy.  “She had a nice room,” I say with a pretend smile.  “It was so sunny and she could look out and see all the flowers and the Christmas Tree during the holidays.  How do we work the rent moving forward?”

“Up to the family,” she replies, “take as many days as needed.  We will just charge you day by day, not for the entire month.”

What a sport, I think to myself.  I am annoyed that I am talking business already.

In the background, I see the stretcher with the faux-velvet bag and my mom being wheeled out the front door.  Good, I think. I’m grateful they didn’t take her out the service exit.  

I watch as she is lifted  into the back of a minivan.  She closes the door, they drive away.  I wasn’t sure what type of transport vehicle they would use, but this was not what I expected.  Like she uses it for her family, when she is not The Undertaker.

My mother’s time of death was recorded as 5:00 pm.  It is 8:45 by the time we get into our car.  I am still wearing the clothes that I had packed three days ago when it had been warm and sunny.  Now it is cold and wet.  We ride to get some food.  As I walk in, I care little what others may think of my appearance, flip flops in the pouring rain.  My eyes are swollen and my hair appears greyer now than it had last weekend.  As Tom orders, I peer out the window, seeing my reflection looking back at me.  I try to smile, to mock the smile others have told me looks just like my mom.  I want to see her face looking back at me. I don’t.  She was much prettier than I am. 

MK Clancey

Day 3: The Beginning of the End? The End of the Beginning? The Beginning of the Beginning? The End of the End?

Where am I at? Sitting at my desk on a comfortable and mood-appropriate rainy Sunday morning, I ask myself this question.  Thunderstorms rumble in the distance, creating a sound that almost seems like voices having this conversation with me.  For it is Day 3.  The first day that I have written. What is day 3?  It is the so-called question above: Is it the beginning of the end, the end of the beginning, the beginning of the beginning, or the end of the end?  Day 3 is my third day of what has been a wonderfully and thoughtfully overly celebrated so-called retirement. I call it so-called, as it is just that, it is what we call it – retirement.  According to the Oxford Dictionary, retirement means:  The leaving of one’s job and ceasing to work. To me, that sounds more like the definition of death, not retirement.  Does the leaving of one’s job have to go hand in hand with the ceasing to work?  I’ll go along with the leaving of one’s job part, but it should further be added, after a long career of routines including waking early, commuting to and fro the place of business, paperwork and projects outside of working hours, dreaded Monday mornings, childcare arrangements, family vacations at the most expensive times of the year, emails that just keep coming, text messages related to work, meetings, new computer programs, data, deadlines, and the never ending sleepless nights of hoping that you make enough money to pay your current bills as well as building that nest egg for retirement.  The second part of the definition, ceasing to work, causes me both humor and fear. I chuckle as I consider how one ever ceases to work. I return to the dictionary to see how work is defined.  It states, work:  an activity involving mental or physical effort done in order to achieve a purpose or result.   If that’s the case, I’ve been employed since I was born!  Think of the mental and physical effort of a newborn, toddler, and child, figuring out who and what is in this new world around them. They must learn to sleep, eat, crawl, potty train, walk, talk, read, write, work with numbers, communicate their needs, and socialize with others. These are probably the most important mental and physical efforts done in order to achieve a purpose or result – yeah, survival.  It frightens me that retirement is defined as a ceasing of work, for I define it more as a revision of the type of work one does.  The connection between childhood and this “ripe old age of 65” (bullshit), is what that thunder outside my window is softly trying to tell me.  “Remember before you had to work to get a paycheck, remember when you were a kid and you loved to paint, loved to ride your bike, loved to work in the garden, loved to cook and bake, loved to sit and watch the ocean,  loved to play?” it asks.  Taking the paycheck aspect out of it, it is all still work – an activity involving mental or physical effort done in order to achieve a purpose or result. 

Back to my original question:

The beginning of the end: A true oxymoron. Perhaps in a book, or in this essay, I am writing the beginning of the end, but this leads me to think what is truly an end. Is there ever an end or only beginnings?  Let’s take this further, if I end my career by walking out the door, isn’t the sheer act of walking out that door a beginning? The end is rather just a part in the middle, if one so chooses to have that mindset to never consider it the end. The end of the beginning, I buy into this one.  There is an end to a beginning, for example, the end to a beginning of a vacation, a season, a school year, or a job.  The beginning of the beginning: Ah, the bright and sunny one! This is the one, as we get older, we must force ourselves to see.  For example, when I started college at what I thought was a very mature age of seventeen, this time in my life was definitely viewed, no additional thought necessary, as the beginning of the beginning. It was the beginning of a whole new chapter, with new characters, new settings, and new learning.  At my current, what I think is a very mature age of sixty-five, I need to put additional effort into this philosophy and make it part of a daily affirmation: “This is the beginning of the beginning, the beginning of the beginning, the beginning of the beginning, … ”

Then we come to the end of the end.  When I walked out those doors on the last day of work, it was the end of the end, or rather the end of the ending. And when something ends, doesn’t something else begin? It has to, for there is no true ending; there are only beginnings. To quote the metaphor, when a door closes, a window opens, I find it both optimistic and coincidental that I sit looking out an open window. Although there are thunderstorms brewing outside, they are gentle, and remind me that they will end and a new sky will begin.