Tonight I made a memory. It was a "father" type memory that I will treasure always.
In our unfinished basement, with only a small reading lamp casting a glow in the corner, I held my six-year old daughter in my arms, while listening to old John Denver songs on the computer. She would ask me questions about different things, and then make comments about others.
The choice of music was hers, but surprisingly it got me thinking. It brought back memories from when I was her age, thirty years ago. I remembered road trips to Julian (California), or just lazily laying on the living room floor, with my feet propped up on a pillow, listening to the music while the golden glow of the setting sun filled the room.
One simple little event, that probably took less than thirty minutes, bridged a gap of thirty years. It also got me thinking about my dad.
I remember him as a younger man. When I was six, he was only twenty-five. A full head of dark hair, a mustache and a very youthful appearance. I think of who he was then, and who he has become today. Now, at fifty-five, his hairline has receded, his hair and mustache have become grey, and have been joined by a beard. He had a serious stroke about a year and a half ago, from which has has recovered amazingly, but not totally. There is still a slight paralysis in his left arm and left leg. Sometimes his words don't come out as easily as they form in his mind. But, for the condition he's in now, he's actually very happy with the way life is going. It slowed him down, and his near brush with death made him realize just what life is all about: It is to be lived and savored. He expresses his emotions so much more easily than he used to; I have received more hugs, and heard the words "I love you" more times from him in the past year and a half than I did in the previous fifteen years combined. He is also doing what he's always wanted to do: Teaching college students and writing books. It took him many, many years to figure out what he wanted out of life, and I think it must be genetic.
He wasn't the sharpest tool in the "fatherhood" shed at the age of 19, but as I get older and experience more in life, I'm convinced that none of us dads are. We're terrifyingly underqualified when it comes to raising children, but we do the best we can, and many of us improve a little with age.
One thing that I will always be grateful for: Music in my life. And this comes from my parents and grandparents. My parents loved listening to the current music of their time while I was growing up. Subsequently, about three fourths of the songs contained in my massive collection of CD's and tapes evokes some sort of memory connected with my childhood or teenage years. My grandpa was a music composer, and would always take his children and their families to the Nutcracker Ballet for their Christmas present. That started my love of classical music.
My wife and I haven't played much music in our home during our 10 years of marriage. Occasionally, I'll throw in a dance music CD for the girls, and watch them go hog wild for the next 70 minutes. And if I want to listen to Rachmaninov as I drift off to sleep, I have to do it when she's out of town or when I take a nap down in the basement. Music just doesn't lull her off to dreamland like it does me. But we're gonna play more. We're gonna fill our home - and our children's memories - with music, so that one day my six year old daughter (maybe as a thirty-six year old woman by then) will hear "Sunshine on my Shoulders", and think back of a time when she laid in her daddy's arms and got to know him a little better.
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