by Jude Coyle

Created on: November 25, 2011

As many different forms of music as there are, is as many as we listen to. We each have our own idea of what we like best. Ed loves the head banger crap. If this house isn't pulsating with Nirvana, Undercover of Darkness, then Ed is not home. 

As soon as Becki  arrives home, she closes off her bedroom and turns up country music. It reminds me of a line from "The Blues Brothers" movie when Jake asks the bartender, "What kind of music do you like?" She says, "We like both kinds. Country and Western." It isn't that I dislike their music is, I dislike the competition. If Becki's is too loud, then Ed turns his up. Then she turns her's up again. 

At that point, I find it convenient to make an excuse and leave. If Jon drove last, when I turn the car on. Rammstien or Weird Al Yankovich assaults me full force. One of these days it will occur to me to turn the radio down before starting the car. Then I will be able to switch to a quiet classic rock station before my hearing is blown completely. 

Now my husband, Bill, is a different story all together. The competition ends when he threatens to break electronic equipment. His music, very simply, is anything with Stevie Nicks, or any piece played by retired organist Nancy Faust at Cellular Field. To say that he is more of a sports fan than a music fan is an understatement.

As much as we are committed to our own type of music, the kids are as eager as I am to experiment. When Ed had to attend two concerts as part of his midterm in his college music class, his siblings and I volunteered to accompany him. As it worked out, neither Jon and I were able to attend the only matinee Ed could find of Madame Butterfly. So he and Becki went. They couldn't wait to fill us in. "It was wonderful," Becki explained. "The sound was right there, and so clear."

"Mom couldn't handle it," Ed explained. "We were way up in the fifth balcony."

Forget that. I hate heights. Although when the next event came along, a symphony, I jumped at the chance even though we were again in the fifth balcony. "Hey," I told the kids, "If I can sit in the upper deck at the Cell to watch the Sox take on Boston, I can do this. It can't be any higher that that."

Oh, yes, it was. I managed to make it to my seat in the top row of the balcony. I glanced down only once. As soon as my head quit spinning I excused myself. I begged the usher to allow me to sit in the lobby and listen. She did better than that. She sent me to the

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