This is the story of how Martha met Metal.
Years ago, before four teenagers lived in my house all at one time, I worked at home as a mother and full-time volunteer at school, church and Girl Scouts. It was as suburban a life as you can imagine. Keeping the six of us alive, fed, clean and free of tears for as long as possible occupied my hours. Organization was key. There were coupons, menus, homework, and schedules.
In this past life I was somewhat of a crafter, musician, teacher, short-order cook, enthusiast of everything homemaking. I was Martha, minus the fans, magazine, and insider trading.
When my third child discovered Ozzy Osborne in the middle of a Shania Twain household, everything changed. I accepted the invitation to his room where he turned up the volume and anticipated my reaction. If I remember correctly, I cocked my head to one side and nodded. It wasn’t long before I was trying out some different presets on my car radio.
The van was full of car-pooled kids picked up from three different schools when one of my new favorite songs came on.
NEIGHBOR BOY: What are you listening to, Ms. J.?
ME: This is metal.
NEIGHBOR GIRL: Do you like that music, Ms. J.?
ME: Well, yeah, but it doesn’t sound nearly as good as when it’s loud. (Turning up the volume)
NEIGHBOR KIDS: Whoa! Ms. J., turn it down!
It took me a few years to decide Disturbed was my favorite band. Since then I have added enough preferences to blur the line between first, second and third place, but these guys were my first favorite. That must account for something.
Peace . . .