In an ambitious and risky move last christmas, we kids bought our dearest mother of 59 (though she looks not a day over 40) a 3-disc CD bookshelf system. Risk, you ask? Yes, risk. The VCR from 3 years ago has gone essentially unused except as a tranquilizer. (She has yet to finish a movie on it, though she did get almost halfway through "Ghost.") Mom and I had a moment of bonding when we went to our local discount music chain and bought a few discs together, you know, Sinatra, Streisand, Nat King Cole, and a few of my recommendations, including Enya's Watermark.

The transformation has been remarkable. Nowadays, when I walk in to begin my weekend mooches, I'm greeted by the emminently new-age melodies of the peaceful princess tinkling from the speakers and the odor of scented candles. Perhaps Mom's finally expressing those long-dormant hippie urges that never penetrated her beehive back in the '60s. In any case, who better to ask for an opinion about Enya's new "best of" but Mom?

We sat down and listened to it, and I asked her to comment on it, jotting down the pearls of wisdom as they dropped from her mouth. She says:

"The good thing is how soothing it is, and it all sounds the same."
"It settles my stomach after a meal, I can even skip my Zantac!"
"It's basically for people who are old and stressed, it's like a soothing balm, like Ben-Gay."
"It's like going to a day-spa, soothing, relaxing, it gets you back into kilter with the world."
"All my old girlfriends love it."
"It hypers me down."

Did I mention she thought it was soothing?

-James P. Wisdom