Piano Man

My dad was a piano man. His soul thrived in the world he created. A world chock-full of notes, words, treble and bass, majors and minors, flats and sharps. People tell me, people who knew him back then, people who knew him longer than I did - they tell me he was gifted.

During the war, wherever he was stationed, whenever the battle was done, he’d sniff out a set of Ivories. Upright or baby grand, it didn’t matter, he’d always find a piano to play, alone or surrounded by his buddies … always looking for a welcome distraction.

When he came home from the war my dad formed his own jazz trio, piano, bass, and drums. In their crisp white dinner jackets, creased slacks and skinny black bow ties, my dad’s combo played the circuit from Olympia to Seattle and beyond. They played standards of the 1950s along with songs my dad had composed himself.

At home, when we were kids, we’d have jam sessions. Pop on the piano, my brothers strumming their Spanish guitars. And me, I’d shake, shimmy, twist and shout my little body as fast and as hard as I could, as my dad and the boys played the Beatles.

When I felt left out of the music-making Dad would give me a tambourine to slap-rattle or set me up in front of his xylophone. He’d stick a mallet in my hand, tell me to go at it, and I’d plink and plunk away on the bench of metal bars. Sometimes Mom would join in singing. When she didn’t she’d man the 8mm movie camera as we jammed it up good - with Pop enjoying it just as much, if not more, than his three cub musicians.

Every night, before I drifted off to sleep, my dad would quietly enter my room, sit on my bed and sing me a lullaby in his silky southern drawl. With each hushed, loving inflection I felt cradled and harbored by the deep resonance of his voice.

At the end of the lullaby he’d smile, lean down and we’d finish our bedtime ritual. Butterfly kisses on my cheeks, an Eskimo kiss on my nose. And lastly, one extra kiss on my forehead to sleep on and a quiet … “G’night sweet pea.”

The day my father died, the day he took his own life, truly was the day the music died.

All I have left of my father’s gift is stored away in a box, I cannot find. The voice that comforted and soothed me still lives on in the form of a shellac 78 rpm record, made in 1942.

Though it’s become brittle, a bit like me and scratched, a bit like me, I can still hear my dad’s voice - his words and his music etched into each worn groove. It’s a duet, my mother and father - their rich voices playing off each other. One voice reminds me of my southern roots and the other my Irish heritage. Together, the voices reveal how much the two loved each other, at one point in their lives.

The world we live in right now seems to be breaking apart, and with it, breaking parts of me. How I wish my dad was here to tell me it will all be okay. Here to brush eyebrows, flutter eyelashes and sing to me.

I’ve searched for the missing record many times. I know I’ll find it someday, probably when I’m not looking. Until then, I’ll remember the kind, gentle man sitting at his piano smiling - whose soul lived to play his music, write his words, and make his little girl feel safe and loved - every single night of his life … with one extra kiss to sleep on.