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Paradise Lost: A Tribute to Mom
Laughing at a funeral isn’t common, but you do your best, convincing yourself that it’s what the dearly departed would have wanted. My mom would have rolled her eyes at a dreary visitation filled with mournful organ music and tissues; she would have preferred a vibrant, tropical atmosphere with Jimmy Buffett tunes celebrating islands and boats—passions she adored but never fully embraced. (If you’ve never witnessed a group of adults tear up while dissecting lyrics from a guy known for a song about cheeseburgers, believe me, it’s a surreal experience.)
So that’s precisely what we aimed for during her visitation, which we opted to call a “time of sharing” to avoid the term “visitation.” On a few occasions, someone requested to turn up the music—an odd request for what was supposed to be a solemn gathering. I hope the other families in the funeral home didn’t mind; I can only imagine they were trying to keep things traditional while we cranked up “Trying to Reason With Hurricane Season” in Room C.
For nearly two decades, my family anchored our summers around Jimmy Buffett concerts (we kicked off our tradition in 1994, and yes, I kept a journal). Attending his shows felt like celebrating every holiday, birthday, and summer in one spectacular day. It was even better than the holidays, which come with stress and family drama; a Buffett concert was a glorious carnival of singing, laughter, and the most reliable gathering of family and friends. Everyone joined us—immediate family, extended relatives, college buddies, my mom, her boyfriend who was decades older but still referred to as such, and even a few confused acquaintances. Our annual Buffett outing overshadowed everything; we hadn’t planned a family Thanksgiving in twenty years, but we sure knew when to refresh Ticketmaster for lawn tickets.
With my mom at the wheel (thankfully, driving us home), we spent countless afternoons in the inflatable village that popped up in the parking lots. We formed wobbly circles, belting out “Come Monday,” “Son of a Son of a Sailor,” “Southern Cross,” and “One Particular Harbour.” I took her to see him at Wrigley Field, where I watched her spin in awe, soaking in the atmosphere for the first time in 60 years. Once, at a concert in Detroit, he tossed a towel our way—Mom had it framed. (Tip: When you walk into Michael’s with a towel, people stare.) I even snagged her an autograph at Bonnaroo in 2009, the same day as Springsteen. In 2013, I got to interview him, a moment that certainly didn’t make me nervous at all, and we chatted about my mom and the songs my sons loved most (“Ha ha!” he laughed, “I’ve got your kids!”).
At one unforgettable show in 2007, I found myself arm-in-arm with my mom, swaying to “A Pirate Looks at Forty,” which gracefully transitioned into a snippet of “Redemption Song.” She held on tightly, which wasn’t her usual style. When she passed away far too soon, my brother and I recorded a show on Radio Margaritaville, the only fitting tribute we could muster.
This year, having become someone who can get emotionally invested in a song about “Fins,” we hoped to gather everyone one last time for a final Buffett blowout before succumbing to the realities of adulting—student loans, weekend tournaments, you name it. We kept an eye out for concert announcements, eagerly awaiting the news so we could pounce on Ticketmaster. But as time passed, it became clear there would be no show in Indianapolis this year, a first in almost thirty years. After all those summers, the wind truly went out of my sails. But it made sense; we would have been missing our driver, and I would have lost my “Pirate Looks at Forty” partner.
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Summary:
In a heartfelt tribute to his mom, James Carter recounts the joyful memories of their shared experiences at Jimmy Buffett concerts, celebrating the vibrant and carefree moments they cherished together. As they navigate the grief of loss while reminiscing about their lively summers, the absence of this year’s concert becomes a poignant reminder of the void left behind.