Thinking back on it now, the image in my mind is fairly comical. Obviously, the later in the afternoon, the louder the music got. It was like personal karaoke in the living room without the monitors of rolling lyrics. That was never an issue, she always seemed to know the words. However, getting supper on the table sometimes became an issue. Whatever got on the stove or in the oven prior to the afternoon musical interlude was the menu for the evening.
The frustrating thing for me was here was this woman who could play this music, under extenuating circumstances (to say the least) with such talent, time and time again. And, the selections she chose from were vast, so it wasn't like she played the same songs over and over again. And, I could not learn to play one simple version of Red River Valley after hours of practice. That was when I started thinking the secret was in the bourbon and ginger ale, after all I could never remember seeing her play without it.
At fourteen, I realized this was a lost cause. All the practice in the world was not going to help me play the piano. I had learned the secret, my mother's muse. But, even at this early age, I was doomed. I hated bourbon. I always had. Now, if gin would bring on the same results, there was a chance.