Mother's Day

Wilson Marks: “Mother’s Day”

When it comes to songs about holidays (at least here in the U.S.), the most popular is of course Christmas, followed by Halloween, and perhaps…St. Patrick’s Day coming in at third? Either way, it’s a rarity to hear a “holiday” song that doesn’t lean into the Hallmark hokeyness.

But if there’s one thing that Wilson Marks does on any day of the calendar, it’s subvert expectations. On top of his life as an enthusiastic music educator and prolific sideman, this Austin singer-pianist-guitarist brought us two dozen genre-bending tunes through his first full-lengths, 2015’s What Was Made for Weathering and 2018’s Peregrine. By the time Wilson’s third dozen arrived in October 2020 with True Beauty Is in the Random, he’d established his own set of hallmarks: slick witticisms and lighthearted reflections on the flaws that unite us, instrumentation that’s carefully modified to capture a unique timbre, and an accessible style of pop that’s informed by folk and Crescent City jazz.

Marks and his backing band plan on releasing yet another full-length closer to the turn of Winter, padding out the inter-seasons with a more stripped-down EP. So with what may be your final reminder for Mother’s Day before the weekend, Wilson Marks shares one of his slinkiest singles to date. Rooted as always in true storytelling that doesn’t skimp on emotion, the simplicity and sincerity of “Mother’s Day” is shoe-in to mom’s heart, especially if she’s a fan of Graceland. And if you really want to wow her with a belated Mother’s Day date, consider taking her out to see Wilson Marks Trio live next Wednesday at the Elephant Room.

Title 42 expires as border braces for migrants’ mass arrival

The end of an era, and the start of what could be a dramatic new chapter in the history of border and immigration policy. Title 42 ends at the stroke of midnight, and predictions of a period of chaos at the border are coming from President Biden on down. We’ll talk to someone on the front lines of providing shelter and food to migrants crossing into the U.S.

What rights does a fetus have in a post-Dobbs America? How the end of Roe v. Wade has states testing the limits of fetal personhood.

Nueces County charges ahead with plans for a new Tesla lithium refinery despite concerns about some of Elon Musk’s other big Texas projects.

Texas Standard: May 10, 2021

Politics as unusual? Republicans not exactly in lockstep as the legislative session races to a conclusion, we’ll hear why and the potential implications. Plus a foster care system so dangerous is was once ruled unconstitutional. A new report finds young Texans still dying from abuse and neglect. Also why quinoa could become Texas’ next big cash crop. And turning hemp into another kind of green…the Texas Rangers asking questions. Those stories and more today on the Texas Standard:

Texas Standard: May 7, 2021

Changes to the states election laws approved by the house in the wee small hours of this morning. So what happens next? Richard Pineda of the University of Texas El Paso on the battle in the Texas legislature over more restrictions for what some voting rights groups claim are already some of the toughest voting rights rules in the nation. Also in a state with one of the biggest muslim populations in the U.S., not a single state lawmakers is a Muslim. How some in the Texas Muslim community are trying to offset a lack of direct representation. Plus a Grammy winner’s tribute to coastal Texas and more today on the Texas Standard:

Texas Standard: May 8, 2020

New data in one of the most closely watched political contests in an ongoing Texas election season, we’ll have the latest. Also, honoring Moms in the biggest border city in Texas. Why this year is doubly special. And dealing with a deadly and highly contagious virus, not the one you’re thinking of, that’s affecting other mammalian populations in Texas. Plus the week in Texas politics with the Texas Tribune and a whole lot more today on the Texas Standard:

On Mother’s Day: Remembering Nonnie

On Mother’s Day, I couldn’t help but think of my grandmother, too, because she was also my mother. She was, and this remains true for many kids today, my second mother. She lived with us and was my back-up mom – my safety net of sanity when life got crazy. She was a grand-mother.

Her name was Nonnie, which my mom told me was short of Eunice. Nonnie was my nanny until I reached first grade. To the extent that I have any talent as a writer I attribute to her. She taught me to read and write early. She was a role model as a disciplined writer. When she was 70 she bought a Smith Corona electric typewriter – a beautiful shiny blue work of art with chrome trim. To me, it seemed like a sports car for writing. In six years she wrote four novels at the kitchen table during my nap time. The tap, tap, tap sound of the keys was my lullaby most afternoons.

She wrote under the name Sylvester Wimberley. Sylvester because she guessed a man was more likely to get published than a woman. Wimberley because she so loved that Hill Country town.

I wish I could tell you that Simon & Schuster discovered her and she had a couple of best-sellers, but that was not the case. When she died at age 82, in 1969, we found the four novels – and journals and diaries – in her chest of drawers, neatly stacked in manila envelopes beneath the many tablecloths she had crocheted over the years.

They were all moved up to the attic with many of her memories where they were out of sight, but not fully out of mind. When I was in graduate school ten years later, I went up there and found her manuscripts in an old suitcase behind Christmas decorations. The pages were yellowed and brittle, but still quite readable. Over the next few days I read them all. I had hoped to find an Atwood in the attic, but, truth is, Nonnie was more of a diarist than a novelist; more Aurelius than Atwood. She was, perhaps, like her grandson: good in short bursts, but not as skilled sustaining the long narrative.

One journal entry especially moved me; it focuses entirely on her lifelong relationship with her hair:

From my earliest memories my hair has been a subject of conversation. My father was the first to make me conscious of it. He thought it was beautiful. It was long and straight and heavy with a gold cast to it. My father would not let it be cut. Even as the younger girls were getting theirs cut, my father would not let me cut mine because he liked the length of the braid.

My grandmother was on her deathbed and mother had to take time about with her sisters caring for her. So my father took care of us and he had his say about how I should wear my hair. When I went to school the boys would make fun of it saying it was the color of molasses candy that had been pulled. I am not sure the golden tint was still in it then. The boys delighted in sticking the ends of the braids into their ink wells which earned them my angry retaliation.

When I was twelve I went outside with my grandfather McGee one summer’s day. I went out on the front porch with him just after sunup. He turned to talk to me and he stopped and said, “Eunice, I didn’t know that your hair was such a pretty red.” I laughed and said that it was just the sun shining through it and lighting it up like that. I never forgot that moment. I had had so few compliments in my life and I was to remember that one always. My grandfather would sometimes pass behind me at the supper table and run his rough hand over my hair. He didn’t say anything, but I found it as comforting as a compliment.

Many years later, after I had married, I still kept my hair long and braided. It had become strawberry blonde. I wore it as a braid wrapped around my head. I took the pins [out] of my hair and wrapped the braid around my neck. It was as wide as a collar. Once I was wearing it that way when I went to call on Betty Graham and she asked me where I got a collar that so closely matched my hair. I told her it WAS my hair. She had to take it down to see the length of it and was surprised by its weight, too. I suppose that was the longest, and heaviest, it ever was.

Once when my niece Guy Ann was five years old and she and I were standing out in front of the Gunter Hotel in San Antonio waiting for my husband Fred, a strange woman came up to me and said, “Lady, did you know that your hair and that child’s hair are exactly the same color?” I had not thought about it but when we got home Guy Ann wanted to see for herself. So she pulled my hair down and laid hers over it. Sure enough, you could not tell where mine ended and hers began. As the years went by Guy Ann’s hair got a little darker and mine got ever lighter until it was both blonde and white.

In 1963, when I was in my late 70s, I ran into Sam Black, a man I had not seen for fifty years. He greeted me with these words, “Well, Eunice, you have lost some of the gold in your hair!”  Indeed I had.

Now that I am 80 years old, my hair is all white. White like new cotton. And I think it is just lovely.

My grandmother wanted all her life to be published. I am happy to know that, now, by quoting her here, she finally is. Happy Mother’s Day, Grandma.

Texas Standard: May 9, 2019

A showdown between congress and the executive branch over the Mueller report. Many calling it a constitutional crisis. But is it, really? In the fight over control of the Mueller report, it may come down to the courts to decide whether the executive branch can justifiably assert executive privilege and stop congress from getting an unredacted copy. We’ll explore what’s at stake for the separation of powers. Also, a new report spots a growing trend: the upwardly mobile mexican migrant, we’ll take a look. And the budget premium smartphone: an oxymoron? Those stories and a whole lot more today on the Texas Standard:

Texas Standard: May 12, 2017

D-day at the Texas lege: as lawmakers hit deadlines, hundreds of bills fall by the wayside. We’ll explore what made it and what didn’t. Also Washington’s asking federal immigration judges to leave detention centers in South Texas. The reason might surprise you. Plus, no sanctuary cities in Texas? Try telling that to the mayor of El Cenizo, the first Texas city to challenge the new sanctuary city ban. And we’re number one! In wage theft? Efforts to crack down on crooked employers yield uneven results. Plus a unique ephemeral film archive gets ready for its closeup. All of that and so much more today on the Texas Standard:

Quanah Parker: A Mother’s Day Story

Quanah Parker was the most feared of the Comanche chiefs on the Texas frontier. He was half white and half Comanche. He was taller and stronger and faster and more clever than any other chief of his time.

The fact that he never lost a battle to soldiers who relentlessly pursued him …

The fact that he was a ghost on the high plains and disappeared into thin air, even as he was chased in the bright Panhandle sun …

The fact that he was devastatingly handsome and could have graced the cover of one of those steamy Western romance novels …

The fact that he was the last Comanche chief to decide on his own, without being defeated militarily, to move to the reservation…

… is not the point of this commentary.

This is a love story, but not a love story for Valentine’s Day. This is a love story more appropriate for Mother’s Day.

Quanah’s mother, Cynthia Ann Parker, was abducted by Comanche raiders on the Texas frontier when she was 9. She was raised as a Comanche and married Chief Nocona. She had three children, the oldest of whom was Quanah. Cynthia Ann was eventually “discovered” by white men who traded with the Comanches. Her family, having searched for her for years, quickly organized a ransom offer. The Comanches would not sell her. No matter how much they WERE offered, tribal elders would not sell her. This was because Cynthia Ann did not want to go. Though born white, she was now culturally Comanche, the wife of a chief, with three children she loved.

Many years later, her camp along a tributary of the Pease River was attacked by Texas Rangers. Her husband was killed but her boys escaped. Cynthia Ann was finally freed from captivity, but she saw it as being abducted again. She was now 34. While being escorted to Tarrant County after the battle, she was photographed in Fort Worth with her daughter, Prairie Flower, at her chest and her hair cut short – a Comanche sign of mourning.

She never readjusted to white culture and tried many times to escape and return to her tribe. She begged to go back to her people. As S.C. Gwynne reported in his masterpiece, “Empire of the Summer Moon,” Cynthia Ann knew Spanish better than English. She told a translator: “Mi corazón llorando todo el tiempo por mi dos hijos.” “My heart cries all the time for my two boys” – Quanah and Pecos. But they wouldn’t give her her wish. Her relatives believed she would readjust in time. In truth, she was being held captive a second time.

She never gave up her Comanche ways. She often sat outside with a small fire and worshiped the Great Spirit according to the customs she knew. Sadly, Prairie Flower died of the flu a few years after they were returned to white society. And Cynthia herself died SEVEN years after that, relatively young, essentially of a broken heart.

Gwynne eulogized her this way: “She was a white woman by birth, yes, but also a relic of the Comancheria, the fading empire of high grass and fat summer moons and buffalo herds that blackened the horizon. She had seen all of that death and glory. She had been a chief’s wife. She had lived free on the high infinite plains as her adopted race had in the very last place in the North American Continent where anyone would ever live or run free. She had died in the deep pine woods where there was no horizon…”

Quanah lost his mother when he was just 12 and longed for her all his life. When he surrendered to life on the reservation he searched for her and was sad to learn that she had died and was buried far away in Texas. All he had of her was a photograph someone gave him, which he kept over his bed always.

He jumped through elaborate legal hoops for many years to get her body moved and buried on Comanche soil. When he was successful, he felt his mother was finally home. When Quanah died, he was buried next to her. He believed that though separated for so long in life, they would certainly be together forever with the Great Spirit in the Sky.

Texas Standard: May 3, 2017

Southwest says no more overbooking. But what about everyone else? Public outrage becomes political baggage for the airlines, we’ll have the story. Also some legal experts call it one for the ages: a federal court in Texas issues a ruling that could tilt the scales for the poor accused of low-level crimes. So why haven’t you heard about it? You will today. Plus, something dangerous in the water? Concerns mount in a Texas city known round the world for its fixer uppers. And a bill to crackdown on cyberbullying: why suicide prevention groups are raising red flags. And can you live stream an open public hearing in Texas? You sure about that? Those stories and so much more today on the Texas Standard:

Three Secrets of Life From My 101-Year-Old Mother

My mom lived to be 101 and five months. She said once you reached 99, you started counting your age like a newborn – in months: 99 and six months, 99 and nine months. She used to advise that if you wanted to live to be a hundred, you should live to be 99 and then be very, very careful.

Mary B. Strong, whose name doubled as her motto, was a tough, no-nonsense woman. A Daughter of the American Revolution, survivor of the Great Depression; an honest as the day is long woman of the Texas soil. She had what John Wayne called True Grit. I think anyone who lives so long, one in about 40,000, must have True Grit.

So what was the secret to her longevity?

She was always willing to try new things – never one to say, “I’m too old for that.” She bought her first computer when she was 88, was on the Internet writing emails at 92 and had 115 Facebook friends when she died. She refused to let technology leave her behind. Even when her hands were gnarled by arthritis and she could no longer type, she would dictate her emails to those who would type for her. Just a few days before she passed, she was admiring my iPhone, saying, “Oh, I’m gonna buy one of those for myself.”

She didn’t care about the phone, really. She saw the potential for a thousand pictures of grandkids conveniently carried in her purse.

A second secret was that she never stopped moving. She mowed her own lawn ’til she was 85 and never stopped gardening. When she was 99, I asked her what she would do if she could be 18 for a day, and she said, “Oh, I would RUN. I would get out on that Galveston beach and just run until I ran out of island.”

She continued to do her own dishes and laundry right up to her last days. She went to church three times a week, never allowing most illness to keep her away. She’d say, “ I won’t feel any worse at church, and I might feel better.”

She was courageous. For her 101st birthday, she was asking me to take her for a ride on my motorcycle. I told her I‘d have to strap her down with bungee cords and she said that would be fine. Always ready for the next adventure.

Third was her diet. She ate pretty much what she pleased. Eggs and bacon, BBQ, cheeseburgers, Mexican food, a Coca-Cola every mid-morning – and a bowl of ice cream before bed. Her only compromise was in portions – always small. And no alcohol at all.

She had great pride. Her measure of people was in whether or not they took pride in what they did and how they lived. Sometimes her standards were unfair, like the time she visited Arizona and complained about the shabby lawns out there. I reminded her that it was a desert and she said, “But if they had pride, they’d have nice yards.”

That was her central value, I suppose: Pride. She always said to me, “I don’t care much what you do in life, just make sure you live a life you can be proud of.” And if she didn’t personally like something, like the new truck I’d bought, she’d say, “Well, it’s not my kinda truck, but I’m proud of it for ya.”

And that pride she looked for her in others was evident in her. For her 101st birthday, I took her to the hair salon, a place she called the beauty parlor. On the way home I told her how lovely she looked. She leaned over my way as if she was sharing a secret. She said, “You know, a lot of people think I look only about 90.”

Give your Mom a big bear hug for Mother’s Day. And say the four words she cherishes most: “I love you, Mom.”

W.F. Strong is a Fulbright Scholar and professor of Culture and Communication at the University of Texas Rio Grande Valley. At Public Radio 88 FM in Harlingen, Texas, he’s the resident expert on Texas literature, Texas legends, Blue Bell ice cream, Whataburger (with cheese) and mesquite smoked brisket.

Mary Lou Williams (5.11.14)

Mary Lou Williams was a a giant in the jazz world in the beginning of the 20th century. As an arranger, composer and pianist she worked with Duke Ellington and Benny Goodman and went on to mentor jazz legends like Thelonious Monk, Charlie Parker and Miles Davis.

In this installment of Liner Notes Rabbi, jazz historian and musician Neil Blumofe explores how the idea of a “Mother” can be extended beyond our biological lines to include those who love and nurture us, and help to bring us up in this world so we can in turn help and love others.

Happy Mother’s Day!