This is a piece I wrote during Christmas 2009. It's
dedicated to my mother, Isobel, who died in the
November prior. She was 93 years old, and was much
loved by all her family and friends. Mum loved music
and dancing, and she sang and danced in many shows
years ago. She also played the piano, and loved nothing
better than to tuck herself away in the music room for
some quiet time with her beloved Chopin. Mum played on
to a ripe old age, and in fact taught young piano
students in the village in wh...(+)
This is a piece I wrote during Christmas 2009. It's
dedicated to my mother, Isobel, who died in the
November prior. She was 93 years old, and was much
loved by all her family and friends. Mum loved music
and dancing, and she sang and danced in many shows
years ago. She also played the piano, and loved nothing
better than to tuck herself away in the music room for
some quiet time with her beloved Chopin. Mum played on
to a ripe old age, and in fact taught young piano
students in the village in which she lived near Dublin
right up to her mid-eighties. She was a dedicated and
loving mother to me and my brothers and sisters, and
loving wife and companion to my late father. She was an
oasis of comfort, and no day would pass without a 'well
done', an 'I love you', or a hug, or being encouraged
to drink up that glass of apple-cider vinegar and
honey, or being told (to this elderly son) when my
eccentric humour stretched patience - 'you are not too
old to be put across my knee'. The house was filled
with her laughter. I miss her.
