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Margaritaville Without Mom
Funerals aren’t exactly known for their humor, but somehow, you try to find a chuckle here and there. It’s a little something you tell yourself the departed would have appreciated. My mom would have scoffed at a dull visitation accompanied by dreary organ music and a sea of tissues; she would have preferred a lively tropical vibe, complete with Jimmy Buffett tunes about sun-soaked islands and boats—things she adored but never quite chased after herself. (If you’ve never witnessed a room full of adults breaking down in tears while digging into lyrics from a guy best known for a song about a cheeseburger, let me tell you, it’s an unusual afternoon.)
So that’s how we approached things. A few times during her visitation (which we jokingly called a “time of sharing” to avoid the word “visitation”), someone would request to crank up the music—a peculiar demand for a somber setting. I hope the other families in the funeral home were okay with it; I can only imagine they were trying to keep things traditional while we, the quirky bunch in Room C, were jamming to “Trying To Reason With Hurricane Season.”
For nearly two decades, Jimmy Buffett concerts were the highlight of our summers (we started attending in 1994, and yes, I kept a journal). Those shows were like a fusion of holidays, birthdays, and the carefree spirit of summer all packed into one amazing 12-hour day. Honestly, it was even better than any holiday, which often brings stress and travel headaches; a Buffett concert was a joyous carnival of sing-alongs, friendly faces, and the best kind of chaos. Everyone showed up—immediate family, distant relatives, college pals, Mom, her older boyfriend who we still called “boyfriend,” and even the occasional confused acquaintance. It became an annual ritual, overshadowing everything else; we hadn’t organized a family Thanksgiving in years, but we sure knew who was refreshing Ticketmaster for those lawn tickets.
With Mom driving the van (thank goodness), we spent our days amid the inflatable wonderland in the parking lots, forming wobbly circles and belting out songs like “Come Monday,” “Son of a Son of a Sailor,” and “Southern Cross” every summer for 20 years. I took her to see him at Wrigley Field, where she twirled around in awe after 60 years, soaking in the atmosphere for the first time. He tossed a towel our way while leaving the stage in Detroit—Mom had it framed, which was quite the sight to see at Michael’s. I even snagged her an autograph at Bonnaroo in 2009, a day when Buffett shared the stage with Springsteen. I interviewed him in 2013, and I won’t pretend I wasn’t nervous, especially when we talked about my mom and the songs my kids loved. He chuckled, “Ha ha! I have your children!” At one show in 2007 in Chicago (I checked my notes), I found myself swaying arm-in-arm with her to “A Pirate Looks at Forty,” which blended into a bit of “Redemption Song.” She held on a little tighter than usual.
When she passed away unexpectedly, my brother and I decided to record a show on Radio Margaritaville, since it felt like the only fitting tribute. This year, having now become someone who can get genuinely emotional over a song called “Fins,” we thought we’d gather everyone for one last hurrah, one final Buffett concert before we fully embrace adulthood and all that comes with it. We eagerly awaited the announcement so we could get our hands on tickets. But the announcement never came. I sent a few emails to his team, and the news hit hard: no Indianapolis show this year. His first miss in nearly thirty years. Of all the summers, of all the years. I’d be lying if I said, in a painfully punny way, that the wind didn’t deflate from my sails. But it makes sense; we’d be missing our captain. And I’d be without my “Pirate Looks at Forty” dance partner.
This piece originally appeared on Midlife Mixtape.