The last song

I’ve never known much about music.

I am the oldest child, so I had no older siblings playing what was popular when I was young. My mother listened to public radio in the morning. My dad played Bach on the piano every Sunday after we got home from church. My parents sang at both services in the church choir, so Mom would make something quick when we got home, often a Swanson pot pie. I somehow got “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring” mixed up in my head with pot pies, and I think of Bach’s masterpiece as “The Pot Pie Song” to this day.

By the time I was a teenager, I was already behind the curve. I wasn’t popular enough to be invited places where I’d hear new music. I still have not caught up.

But, in my defense, I enjoy listening to new musicians and new music. My husband, Peter, and I go to concerts in the park all summer and hear all sorts of music. Some of it we love. Some of it we’re not so sure about. Sometimes Peter says, “You’re looking tired. You want to go home?” And I’ll say, “Yeah, maybe so.”

We pack up our folding chairs and head home, still listening to the music in the distance. But most of it I like.

Last winter, I went to a concert performed by an old high school friend. I attended with two other old friends and found myself surrounded by people I’d known in high school and hadn’t seen since. They were all a lot older than I remembered them — or imagined them — to be. But it was fun to be with people who knew all the words to all the songs. I thought about what a powerful thing that was, to have such a strong shared memory with a room full of people.

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