LIFE GOES ON, AND OTHER CLICHES. A train is wailing in the distance. It’s a sound that comes with the territory if you live anywhere near downtown Denton. It especially cuts through the night air. And to no one’s surprise it’s a lonely sound; one that represents something moving on, not staying in one place; rolling down the track, literally, into the darkness; into the unknown. My mother died a week ago and was laid to rest today next to my father, in a cemetery crypt, right outside their beloved Texarkana, Texas. Her name was Emma Finch. She was 84. About a year after my father died, which was in 2004, she moved to swinging Denton and lived just blocks from Jane and me in a groovy duplex for seniors until the need for 24-hour care took over. She and her cat, Moushie, then dutifully moved to a nifty assisted-living apartment and everything was sorta cool (but also getting progressively sadder and scarier) for about seven months. Then one morning she had a massive stroke and everything changed dramatically and quickly. That was in early February of this year. In a matter of minutes, or rather, seconds, she lost use of her right side, and could no longer speak or swallow. Although Mother had left a clear directive that a feeding tube was a no-no, there was a chance that using one temporarily might help her build up the strength to re-learn how to swallow, at least. My father even did it once. But Mother was just too damaged by the stroke and after four and a half months of hanging on to almost nothing, she finally had to let go. Being one of her only two children (myself and my brother, Jim), this kind of thing makes me think a lot about a lot of things. I already think too much, even on normal days when nothing particularly life-altering is happening. But it doesn’t matter what I think right now. Today was about her and I believe she would have enjoyed it. A surprising number of folks showed up, including several of her still-quite feisty friends, some older than she was. All in all it was a pretty “up” event and everyone hung around so long at the cemetery that bouncers finally had to be brought in to clear the area so Mother could be sealed away. And I think she would have been on the side of the cemetery here. When the party is over, it’s over and time to move on. She always preferred a casual, hassle-free approach to everything; a no-nonsense “get it done and move on” kind of person. She loved Brave Combo, but if success and prosperity hadn’t been part of the BC picture I’m not sure our music would have been enough to sustain that love. Both parents tolerated my creative ambitions way back to my first rock band in the seventh grade. I wouldn’t say they were always encouraging beyond the weekly piano lessons early in my life, but they never, ever got in the way. They trusted me, almost never questioned what or why, and just let me do my thing. They rarely complained when I would record late at night in my room at home and would buy or help me buy guitars and amps and stuff. A similar thing happened with my brother. When he was in high school he started hanging out at the local TV station. It could be anytime, day or night, didn’t matter to Mother and Daddy. In fact, we were both pretty good kids and actually could be trusted to use the best judgment teenagers could muster. So, I guess it all worked out, except that the two people who brought me into this world are both gone; riding that train into the unknown. Now what?