He started-just out of the blue. �You know,� he said, �I never could sing a note!� This, from a member in good standing of a musical family of community repute. I did not know that, although I was very close to his family and had lived with them, off and on, for years. I could immediately sense that this was to be a genuine revelation. He started off slowly but picked it up and warmed it up as his tale wagged along.
�You know my family was very musical,� he continued. I did know that but I did not interrupt as he continued. �Most every evening, but especially Saturday evenings, we�d all gather round the piano. Usually mother would play and firmly encourage us all to sing along. She wouldn�t take no for an answer once she made up her mind about anything and she loved music so much.�
�My dad could play the piano too but he played by ear. One sister played the violin and a brother could play several instruments,� the old boy continued. �You understand all this took place a long, long time ago!� I nodded and he went on. �Well, it became clear to me early on,� he said, �that I had a real big problem-that with all the pressure to perform as a part of the family music group, and at such a young age.�
�I puzzled and fretted to find a solution and while making faces in the mirror one day, the answer was right there before my eyes.� �Immediately I started experimenting. I put the radio on a station that played vocals, listened for ones where I knew all the words and began private rehearsals.� The old boy�s eyes seemed to glaze over a bit and moistened as he reminisced with his fond family memories slowly coming into focus. To help him I prompted. �What were some of the song the family sang? Can you remember?� He sat up straight and leaned forward with a start. He apparently took this as something of an insult. �Of course I remember. I still remember them all,� he snapped. But I could tell his reflective pause was to buy some time and try very hard to recall at least one or two of their most popular numbers to save credibility. In this reflective stage he lowered his chin down to his chest, wrinkled both eyebrows, pursed his lips and looked at me scoldingly over the top of his bifocals. It was the exact stern position and facial expression that I had seen his father take a million times before; usually when I had said something dumb. He held that look and I did a double-take. Now it was my turn for moistened eyes. I did love his father so. And he had taken on all the distinct mannerisms, expressions, even the voice of his father before him. |
