John Richards

Good morning Seattle, and welcome to The Mom Show edition of The Morning Show. Now entering its 16th year, the next four hours will be dedicated to ones loved and lost. You can read more about the evolution of this yearly Morning Show broadcast here: kexp.org

And, I built a home For you For me Until it disappeared From me From you And now, it's time to leave and turn to dust Note from a reader to The Atlantic on "To Build A Home": "This song is not one that is entirely depressive, because at the end it lifts you up—as if to say, 'There is always hope for the future; there will be brighter days.' One day it will all end, but we will have made our home somewhere—or even just it someone’s heart."

Let’s go wait out in the fields with the ones we love

The group noted in Bandcamp about recording 'The Earth Is Not a Cold Dead Place': "One night we decided to take a break and we drove out to the Monahans Sand Dunes, a few miles outside of Midland. This place is hard to describe. You're just surrounded by weird, untouched desert. And you can see all the stars in the sky... We brought a boom box with us and we laid down on the sand and listened to music. For some reason this made us feel better about things. The next night we were back in the basement practice space working on new songs. We can't remember if it got any easier or any less frustrating but somehow everything started to fall into place."

Gary Lightbody of Snow Patrol stated in a band video from 2013 about this song: ""Run” was written in 2000... All I really wanted from life was to be able to take care of my family: my mum and dad, my sister, my niece. So it was a song written about that, and any future family that I have of my own, of course... So it was a song about the future, written in a heightened situation, an imagined apocalyptic situation. Like, running for your life: what are the things you wanna take with you? Who are the people you wanna save? Who puts a light into your life?"

"My mother died seven weeks after being diagnosed with lung cancer. She was 62. I was 28. 24 years later, I still cry hard sometimes when I think about her. Married just two years and newly pregnant, my then husband and I moved to Seattle. He was starting law school and I was going to be a mother. We didn’t have much money but buoyed by family and friends, I trusted it would all work out. Things had always worked out. I wasn’t worried. Not long after we arrived, I miscarried. It was my first pregnancy and while it wasn’t planned, I had become attached. I’ll never forget the silence as my midwife tried valiantly to locate the heartbeat that was no longer beating. I called my mother. Like so many times before, she listened and comforted me through my tears and anguish. My mother was an amazing listener. She never tried to problem solve or take over the conversation. She was a present and reassuring force throughout my life. I always felt secure and listened to when we spoke. I believed I could do anything because I had her indisputable love and support. A month after my miscarriage my stepfather called to tell me that my mother’s previously diagnosed sciatica turned out to be lung cancer. It had spread throughout her body and was incurable. I flew back to Chicago to help take care of her. It was a quick decline. We didn’t talk much – I don’t think she fully grasped that she was dying. We mostly held hands. I wasn’t with my mom when she died. I flew back to Seattle for a few-day respite. When the phone rang at 4AM I knew what I was going to hear and yet when I answered I still had hope that maybe she was calling, to reassure me she was ok, to let me know that I was a wonderful daughter and that it was all a terrible mistake and that the doctors had saved her. But of course that was magical thinking. My mother had just died. A couple months later I was driving home, mindlessly listening to the radio. It was probably The Mountain, if I’m being honest. Helplessly Hoping came on and I was immediately transported back to high school when Crosby Stills and Nash were on heavy rotation on my record player. The last time I heard Helplessly Hoping, my mother was alive. The tears that followed were blinding and cathartic. I felt deep grief and connection. Music is amazing that way. I have been listening to the Mom Show for years and have recommended it to both friends and clients alike (I’m a therapist.) I read somewhere that grief is love with nowhere to go. These days, I smile when I think about my mom. My youngest is named after her. I carry her with me everywhere I go. Grief doesn’t go away. Hopefully it finds a safe spot to nestle and emerge when needed. These days, I welcome my tears because they connect me to her. I want to thank you, John and Amy, for being vulnerable in your own grief to make this space possible. I look forward to it each year. With much love and gratitude" - Judy

"Hi John - I went through a period where I lost my mom to cancer, my younger brother to suicide, and my father to cancer. I am now the only person left in my immediate family. “Will I See You in Heaven” by the Jayhawks has always been a song that comforts me, especially when I think about my brother who suffered from mental health and substance abuse issues. His death was violent. And my father, a deeply religious man, struggled through the rest of his life asking his god how this could happen and more importantly, what It meant. My dad and I got to talk late one night shortly before he passed and he told me that he finally understood what it meant and he had peace. To be honest, I still do not have closure or freedom from pain. But whenever I hear that song, I immediately feel better. Surrounded by peace and love. I am so glad your mom loved that song too. There is truly love, healing, and a timeless peace in music." - Chris

"I really hate that I have a request to make and story to share with you for the Mom Show this year. Nancy... was my first step-mother, and was a major feature in my life from the time I was 4 until she and my dad divorced when I was in my early twenties. The road was not always smooth with Nancy, especially in those later years; and we all-but lost touch after she and my dad split. But Nancy was the life of my dad's house. As quiet and bookish as my father is, she was wild and vivacious and fun. Every time my dad would say "no," Nancy would shake her head, bat her eyelashes and say, "Oh, Calvin..." and a "yes" would soon take its place. She taught me swear words (and then would charge me a quarter when I used them!) and let me eat chocolate chip cookies for breakfast; but she also introduced me to the power of volunteerism, the importance of social justice, and the joys of making things from scratch. When Nancy and my dad moved to Montana, our time together grew less frequent, but more concentrated, with road trips between Portland and Bozeman becoming a regular feature of our family time together. It was on those roadtrips that I was introduced to Nancy's Montana-girl-world of music; Roy Orbison, Willie Nelson, Dolly Parton, and the country-folk supergroup, The Highwaymen. She would sing along at the top of her lungs to "Pretty Woman," and wag her finger while braying the lyrics to "Mama's Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys," and mournfully wail along to "The Highwayman." About a year ago I received a long, typed-out letter from her, retelling many of the memories that she had of me as a small child and her tender reflections on my angsty and awkward teenage years. The letter ended with a simple statement: that her breast cancer had metastasized to her brain and that she was nearing the end of her life. It felt like a goodbye, and it was. I quickly rearranged our Thanksgiving plans to include a roadtrip to Bend to visit her one last time. I was gifted with three hours at her bedside. She had trouble speaking, but she listened to me, asked what questions she could, and offered me her signature love and acceptance when I told her about my failing marriage, and fears about my life that I hadn't even told my mother. Before I left, our conversation turned to music, which continued to be a source of joy for her. I told her about the newly released album "The Highwomen," and the title track; an homage and reinterpretation of her old favorite, sung from the perspective of women instead of men. She was so excited to learn about it. I don't know if she ever was able to listen to it. She died about a month after that meeting. Every time I hear that song, her smiling face comes to mind. I wonder if you would be able to find some time to play that track today, in honor of all of the mothers, step-mothers, and mother figures who lean into the wind and do all that they can for the children in their care? With gratitude & grief, Callie"

Listen dear mother, I miss you the most And as I travel from coast to coast I feel your love an' I feel your ghost Listen dear mother, I miss you the most You're listening to the 16th annual Mom Show, here on The Morning Show till 11 AM today. kexp.org

"I heard you mention the show this AM and had something kind of cool happen earlier this fall... a story related to music/grief/grieving. My stepdad "Oz" died a few years ago. He had been sick with a terminal illness for a while so it was not a surprise that he was dying, but in the end it did happen very quickly. We had a very close relationship, and a love of music is one thing we always shared. Thankfully, I was able to get from Seattle back to where I'm from-- North Carolina-- to be there for the last 12 or so hrs of his life. He was not able to say anything, he was in and out of consciousness, but he squeezed our hands and wiggled his feet to communicate. In the hospital room we listened to a lot of music. He was calm and ready. During that last night I tried to play a lot of what I remembered to be his favorite albums and songs. Just from my phone in a styrofoam hospital cup; didn't have time to grab a speaker! We definitely listened to "What's Going On" start to finish, the Stones, the Beatles, James Taylor, Bill Withers, Jimi Hendrix, Miles Davis... but, I forgot to play one of his faves-- Jackson Browne. I have really regretted that. I know he would have wanted to hear some of those songs one last time, in particular "These Days," which was a touchstone for us. One of those songs we'd listen to over and over again, Gregg Allman's version, Nico's version, Jackson Browne's versions, etc. etc. Talking about what we thought it meant... you know how it is with certain songs in your life. And now when I listen to it, the lyrics hit even harder. To me, the song perfectly captures the feeling of loss, and regret. Knowing that things will get better, but also knowing they will never be the same. And sitting with that, letting yourself really feel it. Anyway, like I said, I have really regretted forgetting to play "These Days" that last night for him. I've thought about it a lot, as you're wont to do when mourning your dad/best buddy/soulmate. I mean the lyrics of the song even say it! Well, earlier this fall I was back in North Carolina for a few weeks visiting my Mom. It was actually my first trip back there since Oz died. I haven't really wanted to go for a visit (even pre-Covid), because honestly I've been anxious about going "home" to a place that doesn't really feel like home anymore. During my trip back, my Mom and I rented a place at the beach. The route there and back took us through Oz's hometown. We didn't stop, but drove through, headed to our destination. But on the way back, just after we passed through his hometown, right on cue, "These Days" (Jackson Browne version) came on the radio. I was floored! Couldn't do anything but look out the window and listen, feeling so overcome and basically about to lose it/silently sobbing. Was it him saying "It's OK, you forgot to play it for me, but I'll remember to play it for you?" My Mom didn't say anything either, but a few days later we were chatting and I said "hey did you hear when "These Days" came on the radio when we were driving through..." and she interrupted me and said "yes of course I did, and don't let yourself forget, he's always here with us." Lots of people brush these sorts of things off, but to me they are gentle reminder: the people who leave never stop sending us messages, it's just up to us to listen and hear them. That DJ that afternoon was a sort of medium! It was a very cool experience. Grieving is so hard, but it is a gift, too. I appreciate you making space for this." - Meg

Going out to Morgan. Tom Petty's therapist and what he thought the meaning of this song was about when even Petty didn't know: “That song is about you. That’s you singing to yourself what you needed to hear.”

"The new Brittany Howard version of "You'll Never Walk Alone" would hit the spot. My friend Carlo (a huge Liverpool fan) died of lymphoma three years ago (second friend I've had die in his or her 40s of cancer; I'm 52 next week) and I've wanted to reach and talk to him on so many occasions since he left us ... Thanks for all y'all do." - Phil

This one is for Chris: "Thank you as always for what you do throughout the year, but especially for the Mom show and similar days of remembrance and reflection. Becoming part of the KEXP community helped me work through the grief that came with my father's passing in 2016... on the day that Trump was elected. I was in the airport in Denver on my way to see him in Michigan when I got the news. I broke down in the middle of the terminal knowing that I missed my chance to say goodbye. My mom has been in assisted living for the past several years - she and my dad lived there together for a few years (It was kind of cute how they relied on each other through that period). She had been in a slow decline when we got word in April that she had tested positive for COVID-19 although she only had mild symptoms. This was still somewhat early in the pandemic, so we didn't quite know what it meant. But after a couple days of discussions with the medical staff and my brothers, I knew I had to be there. I couldn't not be there for my mom like what happened with my dad. So I packed up my 2007 Jeep Liberty and started driving east. At 1 am I couldn't keep driving so I stopped and slept in the back of my Jeep at a rest stop in the middle of Iowa. I was up before the sun, and after about 30 minutes on the road I got a call from the nurse that mom had taken a turn and it was time to say goodbye. I pulled to the side of the highway to talk with my mom and tell her I was coming to see her, so stay strong. I remember looking out at the windmills and fields as I felt my stomach drop. I still had 7 hours left in my drive, which were some of the strangest and most emotionally-fuelled moments of my life so far. Well, I made it and had two days with my mom before she passed away on April 28th. I still couldn't be "with" her due to COVID, so me & my brothers sat outside her window and talked to her through the phone that the nurse was holding on the other side. The church let us do a funeral for the three brothers - no one else - and we couldn't even be there when they buried her. But I made it to say goodbye. Screw COVID. During those hours on the road (and the drive back) - music got me through. It helped encourage some serious ugly crying fits at times, while at other times let me roll down the windows and shout along with songs that brought me back to days when things were brighter. A couple songs stick out to me: Fire by Waxahatchee and Selfless by the Strokes were both from new albums that I listened to on the drive, now inextricably linked to that period. And No Woman No Cry - the version from Natty Dread - which is the song that my mom & I danced to at my wedding. Thanks again John and the whole KEXP family. Hope you and your loved ones all stay safe."

And it's never too late to start the day over It's never too late to pick up the phone It's never too late to lay your head down on my shoulders It's never too late to come on home

Amen omen Can I find the place within To live my life without you You're listening to the 16th edition of The Mom Show. Read the evolution behind it here: kexp.org

For Andrea, in memory of her brother, Greg.

Request for Andrew: "Over the past 10 years, The Mom Show was just another themed John In The Morning Show for me. I understood the power behind the show but never related to the pain and sorrow. Now, I am having to write you this request. My loving mother fought ovarian cancer for 5 years, she was strong from beginning to end, never complaining and never giving up. She was an amazing mother, wife, grandmother, daughter, sister and friend. We drove out to a small West Texas where she was raised to spread her ashes at a childhood park. She was always a person who cherished memories, especially of her childhood. For me, that drive to spread her ashes was full of memories of my childhood. Our summer family road trips to West Texas to see her aunts and uncles that I had no interest in visiting. I hated those drives, looking out the window bored, just counting mileage markers. But not that day, I cherished every last mile, each mile brought a new memory of her for me. That beautiful Texas Sun hugging those Texas plains has a new meaning for me, a meaning of joy, comfort and belief that a mother's love is like none other. Thank you and God bless."

"I keep thinking in the midst of this crazy week that I would like to write a letter about my sweet mom. She died when I was 21 and now that I am 42 and the years are going by, I realize that I have been without her for longer than I had her with me. She died in just a few short months, diagnosed with kidney cancer in February and she passed in May of that same year. She was a single mom and we were extremely close. As I child, I thought that every kid had a parent that loved them no matter what. Now that I am grown, I realize how special it was to have had a mom that loved me unconditionally. I felt like I could do anything or say anything, and at the end of the day have a place where I could go and be safely loved. My grief now comes out in many different ways. I am filled with regret when I think of certain decisions that I made when I had her with me. The last day that we spoke, she was in hospice, and I was so uncomfortable seeing her in that state. I think she knew that she was about to fade away, and she was trying to keep me by her bedside, yet (as I have always done) I dealt with my sadness by staying busy and told her I had to rush off to work. I was in denial and work felt normal, it was one of the things I used to try to keep myself from completely breaking down. Now I battle the same genetic cancer syndrome that took her life (VHL). My kids have it as well. On one hand, I am so thankful because we can keep an eye on things and have hope for long lives. On the other hand, I saw one of my worst nightmares come to fruition when she died too young. I have PTSD from having cancer myself (as of now, I am a survivor and doing well), but dealing with surgeries, etc, when I have kids of my own has been traumatizing. Some days just making it by, by showing up as I have heard on your show. When I was a teenager, we would drive 4 hours from Georgia to North Carolina to see my grandma. She would have Simon and Garfunkel's Greatest Hits in the tape deck and we would listen to it on repeat. I remember at the time I had a terrible attitude as I am sure I would have rather listened to Bikini Kill or X-Ray Spex, but now that I am older, I love that album more than anything, it reminds me of her. Could you play any song from that album in memory of my mom, Kathy? A mother who wasn't perfect, but wonderful in all of the ways a kid needs their mom to be wonderful. I hope I can be that mom to my kids, one who knows that they are loved no matter what. Thank you for having this show and reminding us every day that we are not alone." - Amy

"I have listened to this show every year live or archived since our 3 year old son died in February 2013 of metastatic retinoblastoma, a cancer that started in his left eye and grew into his brain. We spent a year and a half of surgery, chemotherapy rounds, radiation, and then it grew back and more chemotherapy. Our Quinn, our Mighty Quinn, was gone, close to 5 years after my mother died of a brain tumor, glioblastoma. Every year I request the Pearl Jam song, Just Breathe, which we played at our son’s memorial. Music is a big part of our grief process. Our sweet Quinn (“Quinner”) is survived by his now 16-year-old sister, who was 8 years old at the time of his death, and us his parents, Dan and Kathleen Thank you for this show. Those of us who have lost a child are a small and often isolated group. It is so hard to navigate the world and life following this loss and I am always so appreciative that your show provides a space for all grief." - Kathleen

"First I have to say Thank You very much for this show and providing such wonderful and thoughtful programming and content. This is such a treasure and service. I listened last year and was brought to my knees. My wife passed away from metastatic breast cancer on May 1st 2019. I will always remember her smile and laughter, her off key singing and unique dance skills, her love of animals. I cherish all the art she made that surrounds me to remember her by. Grief on its own can be such a difficult thing to process. My wife passed away at home surrounded by friends and family. On her final day I was able to kiss her face and tell her I loved her. Something I am so thankful for. I truly feel for the type of grief that is happening now in the times of covid. The necessary separation and distancing. Shout out to all the frontline workers and medical professionals that are doing their best to make sure people are not passing on totally alone. And the social workers helping to pick up the pieces. If I may please request a song it would be “Wherever is your heart”- Brandi Carlisle. For Jackie." - Bret in Albuquerque

"I have been listening to your show since I was a teenager when I accidently turned my radio dial and picked up a fuzzy station (KCMU) and heard music that changed my life. I would love for you to play a song for my dad. He passed away when I was 21 in 1994 from a horrible car accident in Seattle while he was at work, and just like that he was gone. He taught my sister and I about music, we would walk into the house when we were young and he would be playing Jimi Hendrix, Beatles, Crosby, Stills & Nash on our record player as loud as he can. We played one of his favorite songs from the The Byrds at his memorial. I sometimes find myself changing the channel if I hear the song on the radio since it makes me so sad. (Not healthy, I know). When listening to Joe Biden's acceptance speech, he referenced this hymn that was the inspiration for this song, as if I wasn’t emotional while watching this speech already ...tears of joy and sadness. If you play this song I promise to listen to every second of this song. Love you Dad and miss you and congrats Joe!" - Danielle

"Thank you so much for today. Not sure how you hold it together during the show. I'm sure this is on your list, but Someone Great by LCD Soundsystem would be nice. Thanks again." - Paul

"Ali gave me unconditional friendship, we were warriors in the trenches together, fighting the same battle an ocean apart. She's not the first online Crohn's TPN friend I have lost and when these friends pass, I am very much reminded of the fragile world I occupy. But because of their love and care, I will continue to fight through my hard days, knowing they are loving me from wherever they are. Before Ali got sick, she was an all out concert goer. She LOVED David Bowie and got to see him in his heyday, Ali would go dress in his fashion which got her back stage --TWICE! If you could play Under Pressure and dedicate to my dear friend Ali, rocking Cronn's Warrior extraordinaire, I would be most grateful. It's funny, but I've not cried for this loss... until today... Thank you for giving me an outlet for this grief." - Michelle from Toronto

"I have always found listening to the Mom show to be a pressure release valve for my heart. In the years past, it’s been an encouragement to be present with loved ones while learning about music that brought them smiles—a chance to hear about memories forever tied to songs. This time last year I was returning from Texas. I was visiting my aunt as she battled ovarian cancer. This was her 3rd rodeo with chemo. In June of this year, I masked up and boarded a plane bound for Texas. This time to be a companion on a medical transport to get her home to the family before lockdown got worse or cancer took her. We drove straight for 14 hours, holding her hand as the miles flew past us. We were forced to stop in Kentucky. I got to hold her hand as she passed. As Dr. Amy shared the importance of holding hands this morning, I was transported back to our laughter over the years and our farewell. Once I had her remains and a gassed up rental car, we hit the road. For the last few hours of the trip, we drove with the top down, music blasting. I got to finish the playlist with her by my side. It had songs she shared with me as well as songs I shared with her. One of the final songs on the list was Peter Gabriel’s cover of Heroes. It’s special for several reasons, but it was a song that you introduced me to, so thank you for standing with us and reminding us we are not alone. Thanks for everything you do, especially today." - Doc Reed

"My Mom passed away September three years ago from leukemia, with Dad and my siblings at her side. It was a rough way to go. Now with Thanksgiving around the corner with all the uncertainty from COVID, I find myself thinking back to that first Thanksgiving without her. She put on such a holiday for friends and family with wonderful food and the house decorated to the 9s and it was incredibly hard to accept she was gone and that day would never be the same. Still my family and me found things to be thankful for at that trying time, like Dad recovering from quadruple bypass surgery. Yeah, we nearly lost him too right after Mom – the grief of losing her after 62 years of marriage nearly killed him. Maybe you could play Let It Be – Paul wrote it about his Mom, the “Mother Mary” in the lyrics. Thanks and be well – I know I’m not alone." - Craig in Orlando

In our lives we hunger for those we cannot touch All the thoughts unuttered and all the feelings unexpressed Play upon our hearts like the mist upon our breath But awoke by grief, our spirits speak Written by The The frontman, Matt Johnson, following the death of his younger brother Eugene.

"Requesting My Mom by Chocolate Genius - I don't think I heard it yet today, but it's usually on today's list. Like so many, Covid has kept me from my mom/loved one. My mom is in a memory care unit at a facility, and I haven't been able to see her since the end of Feb due to Covid and state regulations/facility lock down. She has dementia, trying to talk to her on a phone does work any more, neither would screentime, and thinking of seeing her through a window just feels like a cage at a zoo. My fear is that she will forget who I am after not seeing her for 9+ months. I used to be able to see her daily and was her "constant", now... I don't know and that unknowing is heartbreaking. Could you play this song to help the tears, and hopefully she will remember my name/face. All the love to you and the team for today, and every day." - Love, Amy

So will you please say hello To the folks that I know Tell them I won't be long They'll be happy to know That as you saw me go I was singin' this song

This has been the annual Mom Show edition of The Morning Show. Thank you all for sharing your stories and songs with us about the people you've loved and lost. Take care of yourselves out there. You are not alone!