If I were to compile a list of things that my mother would never be heard to say, I'm sure that at the top of the list would be this one:
"You're playing Sweet Child O' Mine far too loud for my liking."
That Guns N' Roses tune is Mater's favourite song ever, in quite the whole wide world, and it could never be too loud for her ears.
She likes to rock.
I like to muse.
It happens sometimes that we two overlap but she prefers her music to be brimful of sound.
Well, Spouse and I went off to Las Vegas in the car last weekend, our cooler full of food and our heads full of the possibilities that such a journey and such a destination could bring.
The last time we'd been to Las Vegas, some few years back, we brought Mater along for the thrill. She bopped along through the desert to Elvis belting 'Viva Las Vegas,' and when we arrived she managed to spend an hour at a slot machine with only a quarter, one magic quarter that kept coming back to her.
This time Mater had to wait in Ireland, wondering and waiting for the odd bit of news from us to tell her where we were, what sort of weather we were having, what we were eating, who we saw, and all the rest of it. I wasn't to miss a moment of it, she said, and I was to report back to her what struck me the most.
Per my instructions, I simply had to tell Mater that, in her absence, the first song we heard in the first casino we strolled into was Sweet Child O' Mine.
And yes, I'm entirely certain it was played just for her.