This 'ol earthquake's gonna leave me in the poorhouse

Porter Wagoner and Gram Parsons introduced me to the Nudie suit. Gram Parsons also introduced me to country-rock, first as a member of the Byrds and later the leader of the Flying Burrito Brothers.

As I rediscover my vinyl, I can't believe I neglected this record for so long. Parsons was someone who made it cool to like country, even if his country was just a bit different than the Ernest Tubb and The Statler Brothers that my dad was listening to at the time.

When I finally saw the Burritos, it was a few years later at Penn State. They were a shadow of themselves. Parsons was dead, and Chris Hillman had moved on to The Souther Hillman Furay Band. John Sebastian opened, debuting a new song that he had just written for a sitcom called "Welcome Back Kotter."

I think I was 16 when I bought "The Gilded Palace of Sin." I stared at that album cover for hours, wondering which one of those women was the "Devil in Disguise, " or if I would ever meet a woman like the song described.

I would, several times over.

I guess it goes without saying that I didn't really understand this music then. I get it now.

Just when I think you're out of my head, I hear a record you played or see a book that you read

Los Angeles, California -
A long way from Hughesville, Pennsylvania

My vinyl has made a reappearance.

This is important in many ways, the least of which is that my relationship with many of these discs has been some of the the longest and most meaningful of any I’ve ever had.

And I hope to pass these on Jack and Ruby, although right now it would only be a physical, and not emotional, transfer. Jack loves to collect things, including old Tonka trucks and Magic cards. But so far, the record disease hasn’t infected him yet. And Ruby is just a bit too young to care, I think.

My original pressings of “Kinda Kinks” and “Meet the Beatles” or my “Darkness at the Edge of Town” picture disc mean very little to them. So far. Jack likes that I have an original Capitol copy of “Help,” which is his all-time favorite album (well, the Parlophone CD is anyway). But in the end, that slab vinyl means very little to him.

But it's precious to me.

I used to say that I could learn everything I need to know about a person by looking at his or her record collection -- long ago times for sure.

But every album on my shelf has a story – memories that can be happy, heartbreaking or those of coming of age. Or reminders of mistakes, loss and triumphs. Listening to my quadrophonic copy of Poco’s “Deliverin'” that I played for hours with the four speakers trying in vain to hear the “quad” difference. Hearing the greatness that is “Rubber Soul,” my first Beatles album. Getting Monkees albums and staring at the photos on the jackets for hours. Listening to “Dark Side of the Moon” over and over and wondering what the fuss was about. Reading “White Album” and “Born to Run” lyrics like scripture – which they were to me. The first record I got after my mom died -- "McCartney" -- and hoping that the album could fill the emptiness. Nice try, but no.

I’m writing this while listening to Jackson Browne’s “Saturate before Using,” a reminder of dipping my toes into the singer-songwriter waters and trying to discover my sensitive side to show off to all the girls. Not many girls in Lycoming County knew about Jackson Browne in 1972, though.

I learned something about myself through this music. Dealing with my mom being gone, I retreated deeply into these records, and my dad felt sorry for me; indulging me and giving me money to buy what I wanted. He may have hated 99 and a ½ percent of what I listened to, but he played a huge role in the development of my musical knowledge.

On to “Schoolboys in Disgrace.” A so-so record that still takes me back.

Thanks Dad.

Love's a gift that's surely handmade

RIP to a couple of folks with absolutely no connection to each other.

Yeah, I had this card

Except in my memories.

June 19, 1966, was the date of my first major league game. Yankee Stadium, Mickey Mantle, the green grass in the outfield that went on forever. A shrine. A cathedral.

Tiger second baseman Dick McAuliffe threw cold water on my dreams that day, hitting two home runs that accounted for both Detroit runs in a 2-1 victory. Jim Bouton was the losing pitcher for my Yankees team that had begun the long drop to despair.

But that Tigers squad was loaded: Al Kaline, Norm Cash and Bill Freehan would form the nucleus, along with Denny McLain and Mickey Lolich, for a great World Series-winning team two years later.

I'd forgotten about McAuliffe over the years, but not the way he made me feel that overcast day in the Bronx. That feeling was multiplied by the trip home, when my Dad got lost (which he always did when we drove to the City). I think it took us about 8 hours to get home. I still remember my Mother shaking her head in front seat.

But I wouldn't trade that memory for anything.

I bought Guy Clark's "Old No. 1" album in a long-gone record store in Wilkes-Barre when it came out. It was featured on a rack and it caught my eye. I was just getting knee-deep in Texas singer-songwriter fascination: Jerry Jeff Walker was an early favorite and his covers of "Desperadoes Waiting for a Train," and "L.A. Freeway" were both immense, and I knew Clark had written them.

I still love "Old No. 1" (just listened to it the other day), with this being a song that still sticks with me -- the imagery here puts me smack-dab in that West Texas town on that hot day. Like "Desperadoes," it paints a vivid landscape of beauty and wonder:

I saw Clark several times, and his songs broke my heart time and time again. But, unlike Dick McAuliffe, it was a heart that was broken in a sweet and satisfying way.

The shadow on the wall tells me the sun is going down

Standing around thinkin' about it

In thinking about the fact that Ruby dislikes some of the music that I play for her (she is fond of Disney Pop, "Happy" (unfortunately not the Stones tune – and other popular hip-hoppy stuff), I have come to this realization:

Some of the same music my parents hated, my kids (well, Ruby, at least) now hate. The circle remains unbroken. 

The irony is that my parents, at least my Dad for sure, really loved music. And they never really got my affection or understood everything that I was listening to so loudly in my room. My Dad thought it was nonsense, and my Mom thought it was all just noise and silliness.

These days, my life has too much nonsense, noise and silliness in it, none of which has anything do with how my kids perceive my music.

Not that there ever is, but no great lessons or wisdom with all of this – just a reminder that all problems, past, present and future, are relative.

I come from down in the Valley

Speaking of the Wyoming Valley and Back Mountain, this was where we picked up our regular go-to Friday night dinner:

That sign, which sits along Route 309 in Dallas, is one of the most iconic images of my childhood. I loved everything about it, especially at night in all its neon glory.

We weren't Catholic, but once a week we ate like it. The prevalence of Catholics in our area meant that the Friday night Fried Haddock, Fries and Slaw special (PA fish and chips as it were) was often brought home in a cardboard box by my Dad. I think that meat-free Friday meant cheap fish at King Neptune. It was the first fish I ever liked, and I could go for it right now -- which is OK because the Interwebs tells me they are still in business.

Where I come from, that's what passed for multiculturalism.

And it was damn great.

Now I slipped out the door and I'm runnin' free

It's hard to believe, but a couple of weeks ago my Dad would have celebrated his 94th birthday. So much of his later years were filled with health issues that sometimes it's easy to forget how vibrant he was during my childhood.

Of course, a lot of that vitality disappeared when my Mom died. After that, things were never the same for him, or us. 

This Dave Alvin song tears me up, every damn time. Unfortunately, some of my strongest memories are of my Dad, lying in that bed. I wonder what was going through his mind then -- I like to think it went something along the words in this song.

I walk through these rooms but none of them are mine

My mom's old high school yearbook has got me to thinking of how much things have changed since then.

I couldn't find an equivalent for 1939 prices, so the chart at right will have to do. And I don't think I need to post 2015 prices as a comparison; we all know what they are.

Of course, this is all ancient history, just as the yearbook is. Those days are gone, those prices are gone, and I've posted it only to give an indication of the world she (and my dad) lived in.

I don't know how much my grandparents made, but it wasn't a lot. Relatively speaking though, the cost of living vs. salaries then and today was most likely fairly equivalent; my point being that today the prices we pay are not really more onerous in comparison to salaries than they were in 1938.

Although I can dream of that price for gasoline.

The Hughesville of 1939 was probably not a whole lot different that I remember it in the 70s, although there was more commerce back then, including three furniture factories and an operating railroad. But there was no Lycoming Mall five miles away, and shopping was mostly self-contained within the borough. There were four churches, almost that many bars, and the county fair was the biggest event of the year. A proverbial small town, more than a bit gossipy, no diversity, and neighbors who cared about each other. People then were still talking about the time when Amelia Earhart mistook Hughesville for Bellefonte and stopped at the landing strip next to the fair grounds to refuel, eventually walking up town for lunch.

I assume the effects of the depression were still being felt in late '30s Hughesville. And, of course, Hitler and The Big One were on the horizon. But I still imagine that the 1939 graduates felt a fairly bright future was ahead of them

I have no way of knowing my mom's dreams at graduation -- I do know she went to work at the local 5&10, where she met my dad. And she seemed happy being a mom and housewife, but I can never be sure.

I wish I knew more.

So this is not a love note to the "The Good Old Days." At least not in the traditional notion of that phrase -- you know, less crime, easier pace, fewer worldly problems, you could let your kids out of the house by themselves, etc

However, in another sense, maybe it is sort of my peripheral love note and wispy remembrance: imagining a time when my parents were still alive, with an infinite future, and the promise of possibilities.

Wipe the windows, check the oil, dollar gas

Speaking of cars......

We interrupt this look back at the 70s to bring you a little story about the historical price of gasoline. Or petrol, as my dad used to call it.

I once asked him (this conversation probably did take place during the 70s when I was buying gas for the first time), "what is the cheapest price you can remember for a gallon of gas."

He said, not hesitating, "six gallons for a dollar."

This morning, I saw the photo at right on my Twitter feed. The year is 1939, which was the year my dad got his first car. 

I think he also remembers the price because his parents had a general store with a Texaco gas pump in front. I am sure he pumped his share of Texaco petrol into area automobiles when growing up -- no self-serve in those days for sure.

That would have been too much monkey business back in the day when full service at the gas station was standard operating procedure.

The 70s: In the end it was something more I guess

My dad was a Buick man, at least he was when I was old enough to really know him.

The decade consisted of a new LeSabre every two years, bought from a local dealer who was a friend who never ever gave my old man a deal, or at least none that I am aware of. My dad was loyal to a fault.

I fairly sure he wasn't all that interested in new car technology. But he sure liked that new car smell and the status of having a new shiny car on a regular basis.

One of my dad's sweet rides during the 70s

Perhaps this was his way of dealing with losing my mom at the beginning in early 1970. Perhaps that new car was a balm for not only a midlife crisis, but a sort of whole life crisis from the bad hand he was dealt.

I remember several times when he drive home from the local Pontiac-Buick dealer with a new model, looking somewhat self satisfied with his purchase. But it always seemed a bit forced, a sort of a “here’s my shot at a bit of happiness.” It felt similar to when he stumbled into a disastrous rebound second marriage, which was thankfully short lived.

But the cars remained a constant. A couple of them were red, and there was at least one sort of a two tone green model. There were never leather seats, just cloth, and he would cruise slowly (no person on the planet drove more deliberately than C. Rolland Lockard) up Route 220 listening to The Statler Brothers on the 8-track, with about 35 cars behind him and all unable to pass on the winding two-lane blacktop.

My cars during that time including the infamous ‘63 Tempest, a Torino that I wrecked, another two-tone Pontiac, a brown Pinto and a ‘78 Sunbird.

Hey, I just realized that I had three different Pontiacs.

I guess that made me a Pontiac man.

The Lockards were never big on fine automobiles.

Apology and forgiveness have no place here

Thanksgivings for my family often meant trips to grandparents, not much extended family, mostly smallish gatherings. No drama, not a big deal, lots of food and plenty of football, both inside and outside. And since we visited grandparents regularly, it wasn’t really different than many other days.

Of course, after my mom died, these holidays became stilted and more than somewhat empty. My dad sort of going through the motions. Everything a slightly out-of-focus color snapshot of something akin  to watching someone else’s family on a cable-access TV show. Detached and unflinching.

One particularly memorable holiday occasion had me sitting at the counter with my dad at the Kingston Diner. Turkey dinner with all the works. The waitress had to leave her crossword puzzle book to wait on us. The diner was as empty as we felt; I think it was the first Thanksgiving that we were alone for the day. There were faintly twinkling Christmas lights hung up around the place, which I don't think had ever seen better days. This was it. "Rocking Around the Christmas Tree" was softly playing on WILK on the old transistor next to the cash register.

My dad smiled weakly at the waitress, who, in turn, weakly returned the favor as she came back several times to refill his coffee. No much was said; I think I commented how good everything was, even though it was surely out of a can. My dad paid the bill and we got into his Buick and drove off to someplace I can't remember, as we searched for the thing that could never be found.

Now the Kingston Diner is gone, my dad is gone, but the memories of that particular Thanksgiving remain, and there is no nostalgia involved. But it is good to remember these things, as they have a way of putting the good times into more perspective. And it is important to note that not all subsequent Thanksgiving celebrations felt as desolate as this particular one.

Ray Davies, the quintessential British songwriter, took on the quintessential American holiday, and captured the love, longing, isolation and uniqueness of the annual occasion. Putting things into perspective, as it were.

The choruses of “it’s all over” followed by “come on over” are heartfelt and poignant, and then the last verse brings home, literally and figuratively, the joy and importance of family.

For me, there are many, many things to be thankful for: friends, my job, my health, and in particular, Jack and Ruby.

Happy Thanksgiving.



A destination that can never be reached

I don't have any photos of my dad's gospel quartet; in fact, I don't even remember them having a name.

Their existence lives only in memories: sporadic rehearsals at the pianist's home (a widow who lived a couple of blocks away), several performances at church suppers, and one evening at a retirement home where several residents would not let the group leave.

The de-facto leader of the group, one of my dad's best friends, had to announce several times,"now this really will have to be our last number." I was about 14 or 15 at the time, and that proclamation was music to my ears; I was only tagging along to these performances and my Santana, Jethro Tull and Alice Cooper inclinations did not mesh well with "How Great Thou Art."

Sort of ironic that I can now listen to "Abraxas" or "Aqualung" anytime I want, and have absolutely no inclination to do so.

But I would give anything to hear those old ladies on that summer night in Sonestown, Pa (I think), asking for one more song. And then hearing it.

In honor of that on this Sunday morning, I post the clip below. My dad's group would never do anything this uptempo, this rocking, this.....interesting. But the look is right, the time period is right, and it reminds me of the happiness my dad seemed to have when singing. If fact, the lead singer (Happy Edwards) bears a slight remembrance to him.

Bonus on this clip: at 2:06, piano player Joe Moscheo, who went on to play with Elvis, lets out a great and spontaneous "Ahhhhhhhh" when the moment grabs him.

And alone at the altar I stand

My dad was a rudimentary guitar player. The story goes that he used to play for square dances at the local Grange Hall. One time, a fight broke out and someone grabbed his guitar and broke it in the melee.

It could be a rural legend, but it is a fact that he never played much in my memory. But we always had a guitar in the house, and on a rare occasion he would pick it up and play his version of this song with a flatpick, warts and all.

Of course, my dad's rendition sounded nothing like this.

But I prefer to try to remember it this way, note for note.

Happy Father's Day, Dad.

Well it's a funny old world, ma

I am tempted to simply rerun my Mother's Day post from 2011....partially due to laziness along with the simple fact that I like it.

But I can let today's "holiday" pass without some commentary.

Today is my 43rd Mother's Day without my mom.

I have mentioned several things that my dad was fond of, but not many similar things from my mom. Mostly because she wasn't around long enough for those sorts of things to register with me.

But as I think back today, I will try anyway:

• Her favorite singer was Andy Williams.
• She never missed one of my games. And I still remember cutting up newspaper with her on Friday night for confetti that she loved throwing it at my brother's Saturday afternoon football games.
• I never saw an argument between her and my dad.
• I still think her favorite thing to do was visit with her family, and she used to like to sit on the porch with my dad and her mom in the summertime.
• She was a great cook and baker. Her cookies and brownies were legendary, and her letting me lick the spoon and mixer blade after the cookies or cake went into the oven is one of my fondest memories.
• She despised having her picture taken, which is why I don't have many of her.
• She struggled with her weight her entire life.
• Her given first name was Fanny, which she hated more than having her picture taken.
• She volunteered at the veteran's hospital and sold Avon.
• She worked at the local 5&10 after high school, which is where she met my dad.
• They eloped in Winchester, VA, the birthplace of Patsy Cline.
• She loved listening to the radio while she worked at home during the day.
• One night when she wouldn't let me do something I wanted to do, I called her an "old bag." I remember that moment so clearly, and it bothers me to this day. She died only a few months later.
• Even though she never said it that I remember, I knew how much she loved me.

Happy Mother's Day mom.

Let's try believing again

My dad loved country music -- Roy Acuff, Ernest Tubb and the like -- as well as Barbershop Quartets. But if there was any music that was the soundtrack throughout our house (other than the exotic sounds emanating from my brother's hi-fi and the Top 40 of WARM), it was this:

As white-bread as they come, this was my dad's go-to tune. I heard him sing it in church numerous times and with his gospel quartet, and he often spoke fondly of singer George Beverly Shea, who died yesterday at 104.

To me, Shea was the one with the girl's middle name who sang gospel music that had nothing in common with my ideas of the greats -- the Blind Boys and Soul Stirrers. Now they were gospel.

It took a while, but I finally came to realize that Shea was my dad's biggest inspiration.

And I guess that really counts for something.

Murder Incorporated

With another mass murder in the news, it's time to address my relationship with guns.

I have used guns many times: 22s, a 30-06, a 30-30, a 45-70 (an “elephant gun” in the words of my dad). I have owned several shotguns, the last being a 20 gauge. With these guns, I have killed: crows, squirrels, rabbits, pheasants and a deer.

All of my gun experiences were related to hunting, and I actually enjoyed hunting for a period of time. From the time I was 12 up until I was around 15, my dad and I went deer hunting in season and hunted small game on Saturdays in the Fall. We had a beagle-basset mix, Fred, who dearly loved to go hunting, even if he didn’t know what he was doing. Untrained, he kept his nose to the ground, and if he came across an animal, he was just as likely to chase it away from you as toward you. Still, we knew when a small creature was close by the way when Fred's wobbly gait picked up speed and his WGM (wags per minute) hit 100 rather than the usual 50 or so.

Hunting with my dad was a bonding experience, and those Saturdays, all decked out in Woolrich, hunting boots, orange vests holding shotgun shells, and a goofy fluorescent hat, still brings back warm memories. We would leave early on a crisp Fall day, accompanied by the redolent outdoor “manly” smell of the hunting gear and a crazed Fred pacing in the backseat of our Buick, all in the name of shooting small animals with high-powered weapons.

I loved it, or maybe I should say, I loved the overall “non death-related experiences” of these outings.

But actually killing things, not so much. And what we killed, we cleaned. Also, not so much. And what we cleaned, we ate. I enjoyed that only slightly more, finding only pheasants and venison somewhat edible. That is, until I stopped and actually thought about how they ended up on the plate. And yes, I am carnivorous, but I choose to compartmentalize the deaths of living things I killed as opposed to those who died when another human slit its throat.

My hunting escapades ended one bitterly cold Monday in doe season. While on a watch (other members of my dad’s hunting cabin at this moment were drivers, meaning they walked through forested areas hooting and hollering in an attempt to spook the deer into the sights of the watchers), several scared antlerless deer scurried in front of me. I nervously pulled up my 45-70, sighted in, closed my eyes and pulled the trigger. I thought I missed, but a short time later another hunter from our cabin found a deer a few hundred feet away, writing in pain on the ground. He called me over and asked if this was the one I shot at.

“ I guess so,” I muttered, as all doe basically looked the same to my 15-year-old eyes. Seeing the deer in agony, he placed a 30-06 shell between its ears. The pain for this particular doe ended.

And so did any desire for me to hunt again. Furthering my sudden distaste for the whole scene was the moment that, during the cleaning, a handful of entrails were rubbed into my face by another hunter. Sort of an initiation moment, I guess.

Today, I don’t have a problem with hunting, as long as you use the meat. Sport hunting is another story. As is hunting with a gang who have been up half the night drinking and wake to go out early the next morning with beer and whiskey still on their breath – as was the case with the hunter who fired the death shot into the doe I had wounded.

Still, if hunting is one thing (and in theory it is), gun ownership for other reasons is something else. There is no real need for assault weapons, and to a slightly lesser degree, handguns either. This protecting the 2nd amendment nonsense and the actions of the NRA are disastrous for a civilized society. I will leave it at that.

And as for me, I like to think I have evolved past killing animals, and I am betting that God approves of such evolution.

Gettin' tired of living in a world that's got no soul

My dad spent many years as a traveling auditor for a Pennsylvania insurance firm.

"On the road for the company," was how he often described it.

During summer vacations, I got to tag along once or twice with him when was going somewhere he thought might be interesting for me.

One trip took us to the far Northeast part of the state, where I remember having lunch in a tavern, which was scandalous as those were places we simply did not go. Either my dad knew this place, or it was the one a the few limited choices, I'm not sure. Anyway, this was in the exotic-sounding (to me) river town of Calicoon, NY.

I had a hamburger patty on Wonder Bread, and the ketchup soaked all the way through to my fingers. My dad had the same, with the addition of some raw onion, his go-to topping to every hamburger I ever saw him eat.

Father's Day 2012.

Maybe not that much different than any Father's Day since I became a father, except for the fact that today I am not with my kids today.

But my kids are with me.

Nothing has changed me more than being a dad. Everything I do in this life is for them, at least it seems that way since Jack was born in 2003.

I don't think my own dad every felt that way about my brother and me. Oh, he was a good dad, he was there, he was caring, he was present. And that was so important after my mom died.

But my own experience seems so much more focused that his did, at least in my memory.

Yesterday I drove by a township carnival near where I am staying and all I could think was "Jack would love that. Hey, there's a carousel, Ruby would be all over that."

It seems as though everything I experience is now filtered through what it might mean to them. Everything.

My dad has been gone for 18 years. He taught me a lot about consistency and the sacrifices that one must make when trying to fill in the gaps that seemed unfillable. Sort of like the gaps that I've noticed lately in my current life.

Next week, after 16 months away, I am heading back permanently to be near them again.

To be a present dad again.

I can't wait.
 

Factory takes his hearing, factory gives him life

"Early in the morning factory whistle blows,
Man rises from bed and puts on his clothes,
Man takes his lunch, walks out in the morning light,
It's the working, the working, just the working life."
My dad hated rock and roll, and everything it stood for.

And he hated Bruce Springsteen.

Which is too bad, because Bruce taught me something about my dad's life.

Although "The Promise," a staggering, brilliant compendium of all things "Darkness on the Edge of Town" (much of it previously unreleased), comes out today, I’m moved by something in the set that isn’t new.

For some reason, I’ve been thinking a lot lately about my dad’s life and subsequently, I’m having a new appreciation for “Factory” (a song I’ve been listening to for 32 years). Deceptively simple, it is Springsteen’s elegiac and dignified hymn to honor the working life of his own father.

Its lyrics resonate for millions of Americans who grew up in the waning industrial age of America. My dad, my friend's dads. And if you are around my age, maybe your dad too.

My dad worked at Avco, a factory that made airplane engines, and also at Rishel's furniture factory. He did this for about 10 years or so; long enough, I guess, to realize there must be more.

And also long enough to lose most of his hearing in one ear.

And even though he eventually got a job as a traveling auditor and later owned his own insurance agency, I knew he still felt a certain pride and self respect about working with his hands.

About actually creating something.

We lived near Rishel’s and could hear the whistles that announced that the work day had begun, when it was lunch time and when it was time to go home. Every day.

"Through the mansions of fear, through the mansions of pain,
I see my daddy walking through them factory gates in the rain"
I’m not sure what drove him to other jobs, other than the usual better career and more money stuff. I can’t speak of his dreams or what he wanted out of life. I know a lot left him when my mom died; he lived for 24 more years but his spirit was never quite the same. He didn't talk much about his own factory days, and after my mom died it seemed for a long time there wasn’t much to say.

Now that I look back there never seemed to be enough words.

When I first heard “Factory” I liked it, but it was never elevated to much more than filler for me. Not anymore. I can’t listen to the combination of the lyrics, almost-mournful vocals and Danny Federici’s elegant organ without thinking of the sacrifices my dad made for us.

He certainly wouldn’t have thought there was anything special it.

It was just what he did. Every day.

I'm a young man, I talk it real loud

Fighting a cold, and one of my co-workers says to me, “you’re a mess.”

Which takes me back to the days when I constantly wore a jean jacket with a button with those words, modeled here by the greatly underappreciated Wreckless Eric.

My father was none too thrilled that I ventured out into public with the button, although I’m sure he thought it was quite apropos at the time.

I guess, once a mess, always a mess.

As for Eric Goulden, he sure was a glorious mess.

Wreckless Eric – Veronica
Wreckless Eric – The Whole Wide World

Those days they've come and gone

My parents used to watch Mitch Miller regularly. Maybe not as often as Lawrence Welk, but Miller was enough of a presence in our house that my brother tried to get me to go downstairs when I was 5 or 6 and say "Bitch" Miller in hopes of getting a rise out of our parents.

A rise because of 1) the obvious, and 2) it might be an affront to the man and his music.

Miller died yesterday, and his brand of corn made Welk's almost look progressive. I guess it wasn't surprising one of his show's sponsors was Libby's.

I think we had the "Yellow Rose of Texas" record, and I can still see rows of singers and the bouncing ball helping us all to sing along.

I'm not sure if my parents were deeply enamored of Miller's art, or if they saw "Sing Along with Mitch" as sort of an anchor against the tidal wave of the Beatles and their ilk.

I didn't pay much attention to Miller's professed hatred of rock and roll. Otherwise, I might have felt some disdain when I literally bumped into him on a New York City street a dozen or so years ago. He gave me a pleasant smile and hello, which I returned.

Instead, I remembered a time of sitting in the living room with my mom and dad, watching a show with a premise that today is almost unthinkable.

My Father's House

I used to mostly think of Father’s Day as another in a line of Hallmark holidays. I dutifully got my dad a card or maybe took him out to dinner if I was in the area.

Until he died and I later became a father myself.

Not that I think of it as such a special day, but now it holds a different meaning.

These days, Father’s Day reminds me just how fleeting time can be. My dad lived for 38 years after I was born, but it seems like that time went by in the blink of an eye.

My dad was a loyal and uncomplicated guy with a good sense of humor. He played catch with me endlessly. He took me fishing, which he didn’t especially enjoy, and hunting, which he did. Equipped with only an 8th-grade-education, he was able to own several businesses and do all right for himself.

He did the best he could as a single parent after my mom died.

And, he sang in church and at weddings; he loved music, especially traditional country and barber shop quartets. When I was young I thought nearly all of it was incredibly corny, and I didn’t appreciate his taste in music until long after I had left home.

But it was there – with his passion for Ernest Tubb, Roy Acuff and the Statler Brothers – that the seeds were sown for my own love of music.

No matter how long I am here with them, I hope I can do the same for my kids.