Clearly I love music. Sometimes I feel like a freak because of how much I love music. My first job was in a record store. I can’t stand it when there is silence in the house; I have music on all the time.
Growing up, my mom didn’t care one way or the other about music. But there were three things that played in our house: German polka music, Elvis Presley, and Billy Joel.
As I grew up, I made mix tape upon mix tape – then CDs – to try and expand my mom’s horizons. She just did not care.
My aunt always appreciates new music. In fact, when we were there last month, she had me created a Spotify playlist of the songs she heard Dex playing, Walk The Moon in particular.
“I want to listen to that dance with me song!”
But mom? Nope.
It used to frustrate me so much that she didn’t appreciate music as much as I did.
But as I became an adult, I realized we all had our things. Music was one of my things, but not mom’s. At least she liked Elvis and Billy Joel.
When I was in the airport, heading home the first time in February, after Heidi called me and said GET ON THE PLANE NOW… I was sitting in the airport bar and Billy Joel started playing.
Only The Good Die Young.
The poor guy I was sitting next to, who I was sharing an outlet with, never knew what hit him.
Mom may have not liked music but I love it.
I’m sitting here at a music festival, thousands of miles from home, thinking of her and thankful for all the opportunities she gave me.
She didn’t like music, but she appreciated that I did.