In Honor of My Dad

When I was small, I adored my father. He was the handsomest man in the world and no doubt, the smartest. He had an infectious laugh that would make you double over and clutch your aching stomach and cry real tears because you couldn’t stop laughing at his mirth. He absolutely cracked up while reading Horton Hatches the Egg. Every time.

He’d play my sister’s and my favorite songs on the record player so we could hear them after we went to bed, often speeding up the 45s, making everybody sound like chipmunks. If you’ve never experienced Witch Doctor played at 78 rpm, well.... your loss. He lobbied our mother to let us stay up until 9 p.m. on Wednesdays so we could watch Top Cat at 8:30, which came on after The Alvin Show. He didn’t always win but we knew he was on our side in the matter.  

My father hardly ever said, “No.” Not to go-cart rides or midnight swims, with campfire and marshmallows, down in our pond with our friends, or sleeping out in our tree-house under the stars. Not to cotton candy and popcorn at the circus or carnival, one more ride on the Ferris wheel, one more game of Skee-ball, or one more trip to Lane Drugs for a few more plastic rat finks. More summer nights than not, he’d pack us all in the car, along with a couple of friends, and head off to Flavorite Farms for a “cms” (parent-code before we got wise for ‘chocolate milk shake’) or a hot fudge sundae. 

My father loved to roam and our vacations usually involved a road trip. My family would pile in our 1956 blue Buick sedan and later our 1962 maroon Oldsmobile in the wee hours of the morning and head out. Settled in the back seat with my sister with our pillows, our activity books and crayons, and our first day’s lunch in the picnic basket by my mother’s feet, we always knew we were off on a grand adventure.  One time on a Sunday afternoon drive, he and my mother reminisced about an old amusement park in Cleveland, Ohio they visited as young adults. They remembered the name of it, Euclid Beach Amusement Park, and told us about all the neat rides it had. By the end of the afternoon, my little brother had been safely deposited with my grandmother, and my parents, my sister, and I were en route to Cleveland, Ohio, in search of Euclid Beach. Magically, it was still in business and my sister and I were introduced to the same three very cool wooden roller coasters our parents had loved. 

My father loved music. Our home vibrated with his piano playing. He especially loved ragtime and the lively sound of the Maple Leaf Rag dancing under his fingers is written in my DNA. Sometimes when I was small and he was in a patient mood, I would sit on the piano bench next to him and sing while he played. I knew all the lyrics to There is a Tavern in the Town, Boo Hoo and By the Sea by the time I was eight and had a grand time belting them out with him, not always in tune – but no matter, the piano was loud enough to drown us both out. If he wasn’t making music himself, he was playing it on our record player…. Guy Lombardo, Teresa Brewer, Mitch Miller, Jo Ann Castle. My father was often obsessive about songs he especially loved. He’d set the record player arm strategically so once the record finished, it would recycle by itself. Although my friends might not “get” why Winchester Cathedral was playing for the 15^th time in a row, it seemed perfectly normal to me.   

My father used to dance with me to music on the big old-fashioned radio in our living room when I was a very little girl and small enough to be held in his arms. I watch old regular “8” movie films of me in my father’s arms, bouncing gently to the rhythm of the music, the sound of which I can only imagine, and experience a sense memory that moves me to tears.

If I were to write a want-ad today seeking a man in my life, it would read something like this: "Wanted -- Smart and handsome man who can make me laugh – often. Must be willing to learn to dance – not partner-not-needed kind of dancing – but REAL dancing. Must love music with every cell in his body. Ability to make music is a plus.  Must embrace road trips and concomitant adventures with fervor." 

There would be more, but those are the important parts. My father would have been 87 years old on October 20. This post is in honor of his memory.