September 25 Day 1296: Remembering Dad

Today is my father’s birthday. He would have turned 90.

I was reviewing the book friends and family created to celebrate his 81st (both a perfect square and a fourth power! An age worth celebrating. ) I had completely forgotten what I had written to him nine years ago. It made me laugh. It made me cry. And it made me want to sing. I just wanted share:

For a man who was relegated to be the page-turner in his school choir, you have created a life filled with music.

I clearly remember the stereo cabinet with a turntable, first in the basement of Abbotsford Court and then in the sunroom of Rumstick Road. We’d sing and dance to Allan Sherman, the Beatles, Simon and Garfunkel, the Clancy brothers, and of course, that fabulous 45 by Manfred Mann, The Mighty Quinn.

Doing dinner dishes or on long drives, there were the family sing-a-longs. You did not tolerate 99 Bottles of a Beer well but always joined in rousing versions of Gypsy Rover, Mick Magilligan’s Daughter, Take Me Home Country Road, Leaving on a Jet Plane, or seasonal Christmas favorites. I can still see the pride on your face when Heather and I sang Roddy McCorley while drying pots and pans one night unprompted and we knew all the words.

When you took everyone to hear John Denver at the Providence Civic Center, it was my first real concert ever. The size of the venue and the number of people was overwhelming. I feel so fortunate to have shared the experience as a family.

For my 14th birthday in Irvine, you and I had a special date to see Richard Kiley as The Man of La Mancha. You drove us to Los Angeles, we had a pre-theater meal, and quietly cried together in the audience. We sang Dulcinea and the title song with gusto, all the way back to Turtle Rock.

My opportunities to participate in sing-a-longs with you are now far and few between. I sing the family classics to my own boys. Everyone joins in for the chorus of Gypsy Rover but no one has as grand an Irish accent.

It does not matter that we were not—and will not ever be—in tune. The music is love and laughter and lives well lived.

I love you Daddy.

I’ve written about him before (May 8 Day 61: Leadership). He was a remarkable man. I miss him.