Carol’s Playlist
Fifteen years ago, as my mother Carol’s journey with Alzheimer’s was drawing to a close, I created an iPod playlist for her. It was a compilation of songs that transported her—and me—to a time when music filled her life with joy, defiance, and humor.
Carol, a young mom in the 1950s and 1960s, had a creative spirit pushing to flourish within the boundaries and constraints of her time. She was a gourmet cook and artist experimenting with pastels and sculpture. Carol loved to work on a wheel, gleefully covering her hands in the wet clay, creating ceramic bowls, vases, and the quintessential gift of the time, ashtrays. Carol patiently kneaded the clay for hours to ensure all the air bubbles were out before she started her creations. Music accompanied all of Carol’s creative activities.
The playlist features music that surrounded her from Pete Seeger, Tommy Makem, Woody Guthrie, Port Said, and the Newport Folk Festival circa 1964. It’s a time capsule of her vibrant spirit, a nod to her collection of LPs of her favorite records, including Broadway musicals such as The Music Man and Camelot. Carol wasn’t just a listener—she lived through her music. Her bold, humorous collection vividly portrays her high-spirited, defiant, and colorful personality.
Occasionally, I stumble upon that iPod in the back of a drawer. Each rediscovery becomes a ritual: I charge it in my car’s lighter port, hunt for old-style earphones, and press play. A vivid picture of the worn Newport Folk Festival album cover from 1964 enters my mind. Next to it is one of Tommy Machem at Carnegie Hall. All the album covers in her 50-plus LP collection were worn.
The songs take me back. I can touch memories of our front door open in the blazing summer of summer days, with a large fan circulating warm air. Few of the cookie-cutter houses in my neighborhood had central air. Port Said was blasting through the speakers next to the homemade stereo cabinet that was gifted to us by a neighbor. I remember being embarrassed and begging her to shut the door, at the same time mesmerized by the steady beat of the music transporting us to a different time and culture. It was her way of declaring, “I am here,” even when life boxed her in. Music was her escape, her rebellion, and her joy. When I was ill, Carol would carefully play her preserved Peter and the Wolf album by Sergei Prokofiev for quiet moments.
Carol lived through her music. Her love of music found its way into my life and, in turn, my children’s lives. Today, music is a cornerstone of our family. My children have embraced their robust LP collections, resurrecting the vinyl tradition my mother cherished. I donated my collection of Joan Baez, Crosby Stills, Nash, Young, Grateful Dead, Joni Mitchell, Judy Collins, and more. My children have their own stories of their journey with the joys of music in their lives. Impromptu music jamborees are a popular family activity.
When I press play on Carol’s playlist, I feel all the emotions: nostalgia, joy, grief, and gratitude. Her love of music wasn’t just a personal passion but a legacy. It bound us then, and it binds us now. It reminds me that while Alzheimer’s may have stolen her words, it could not steal her music. Carol’s music plays on.