Piano Man

My daddy was a musician of sorts. He played in a band in the Canadian Armed Services, and later formed a quartet that sang a little of everything. He taught me to play the piano and though I never had his gift and can only remember a handful of songs, I can still remember how I loved for him to show me things and how he laughed when I "jazzed things up".

He played piano mainly and his record collection included a lot of Dixieland, Nova Scotia folksongs, British satirists like Flanders and Swann, Pete Fountain, musicals, and gospel. He had grown up poor and had a finely tuned sense of appreciation for everything. For years he would tape a music program from the local public radio station and send me the tapes. We were both huge fans of Prarie Home Companion and he made tapes of all those shows as well. Simply put, he loved music and taught me to love it as well. And he was tolerant - always willing to listen to anything even when it just hurt his ears. Rock and roll was pretty much of a mystery to him but he never condemned it and I think now that he heard in music what I hear in blues - something that stirred his soul, comforted him, coaxed out his feelings and articulated what he couldn't put into words.

We were estranged when he died and I only learned of his death from my cousin, Linda. He remarried not long after my mother's death and I never got to meet his second wife. I would've liked to apologize to her for the way my brothers treated
her. I would've liked to tell her that I was glad they had found each other. I would've liked the chance to explain what had caused the rift in my family and why I felt I couldn't be the one to repair it. But some wounds don't heal, and some amends can't be made. So I choose to remember my daddy and I side by side on a piano bench, laughing and improvising "Sweet
Georgia Brown".

Music is every bit as essential to me now as it was then - a world without it would be silent, colorless, and nearly pointless.
I depend on it to heal, to lift my spirits, to make bad days evaporate, to help me appreciate the sound and feel of it and those who make it. Music calls to me and thanks to my daddy, I hear it.