Fathers' Day

My daddy, he was somewhere between God and John Wayne.  ~Hank Williams, Jr.

Legend tells of a legendary warrior...

 ...whose skills were the stuff of legend.

That legendary guy is my dad.  I've blogged about him before once or twice.

He is 6 foot 6 and 3/4 inches  tall (that's exactly 2 meters for those of you who understand metric) 

His hand can wrap around a basket ball the way a normal person's hand wraps around a grapefruit.

He wears a size 14 quadruple wide shoe (same as Abraham Lincoln).

My brothers used to beg him to flex his muscles--his biceps were like large cantalopes.

He doesn't even  excercise.

My Dad could eat a loaf of homemade bread and drink a gallon of milk in one sitting and not feel too full.
 
 My Dad was taller, bigger, stronger, and smarter than all the other kids' dads.  

He could drive 19 hours without stopping across the country to take us out to the family reunion and recite all fifty states (in alphabetical order, size order, or population order, take your pick) with their capitals.  

He could quote poetry he had memorized for over 2 hours without stopping.

He had over 200 scriptures memorized and could find you anything you wanted in the scriptures or tell you which apostle said it and what year he said it in.  

Sometimes I felt sorry for those other kids whose dads weren't actually the tallest, the smartest, and the strongest.

My dad used to say (when us kids were being crazy and wild or if we left his tools out laying around)

"Whaddo you think this is, a circus?"

Yes.  It was a circus.

 I've included this final quote because I think it's funny and I'm pretty sure my dad will think it's funny, too.

 ~Jimmy Piersal, on how to diaper a baby, 1968 

Spread the diaper in the position of the diamond with you at bat.  Then fold second base down to home and set the baby on the pitcher's mound.  Put first base and third together, bring up home plate and pin the three together.  Of course, in case of rain, you gotta call the game and start all over again. 

Music and Spring

I grew up listening to Bach, Mozart, and Beethoven. I think it was my dad's goal to make sure we kids knew what good music was. I never really paid attention to exactly what we were listening to, I just listened to it. What I mean is, at the time, I couldn't have told you whether I was listening to Mozart or Beethoven. I just knew I liked it. I do know that my favorite album he had was a collection of famous waltzes from ballets. I've searched for that collection for several years and not been able to find it. However, this post is not about that collection. This post is about a moment in my life and the power of music and how grateful I am.

So you, my faithful readers, may not know that I was in the National Guard for 8 years. Which means that I went to basic training for 10 weeks (they told me 8, but there was a week zero, plus a few extra days on the end) and then Advanced Individual Training (AIT) for 5 weeks. I was 19 and had never been away from my family for even half that amount of time. I plunged into an environment where swear words and anger were the majority of what I heard and saw. I was pushed well beyond what I had believed were the limits of my physical endurance. During the weeks of basic training, I learned to escape the anger and cussing by singing children's songs from church in my head. On my own during KP duty, I dared to whisper the words under my breath.

When I got to AIT, things were a little different. We had more freedom and we were allowed to listen to walkmans in our free time. (Yes, this was before iPods.) Three of the four other girls who slept in my room had walkmans and their favorite music to listen to was this rap star, Tupok. I guess I'm lucky they didn't let us have boomboxes, or I'd have had to actually listen to him too--as it was, I had to listen to them singing (does one sing rap?), and those girls did not edit his songs for cussing, maybe because they would have had to skip 2 out of every 3 words.

I was feeling more and more down all the time. I was missing my family and surrounded by all the anger and cussing and yuck. Also, because of training schedules and misinformation and bad luck, I hadn't been able to attend church for 4 weeks. I was really getting desperate. One Saturday, we were allowed to go to the big Post Exchange. As I wandered around, I saw a stack of CD's on sale. Right in front was one that read
Antonio Vivaldi
The Four Seasons

Across my mind flashed an image of a cassette tape with the words "The Four Seasons" printed on it. I knew this was music my dad owned. I knew I had listened to it before. The CD was on sale for $3.00. I am sure now it was there for me, at a price I would pay. (I rarely ever spent money back then. I didn't even know how to use the debit card my credit union had sent me and most vendors don't take checks from WAY out of state.) I bought that CD (they took my check), not even knowing what it would sound like. I think maybe I had a vague idea that "The Four Seasons" were like "The Mammas & The Papas." I just knew my dad owned it and I needed something from home. I went back to the barracks, borrowed someone's walkman, and snapped the CD in. It turns out I knew the music well; I just hadn't known its name.

The first chord was as familiar to me as my own bones and my whole soul sang along with that beautiful music. It lifted me right out of the dark pit I had sunk into and gave me the strength to keep on. The next morning, I was finally able to catch the right bus at the right time and attend Sacrament Meeting. It was a miracle --two miracles sent just for me.



For my soul delighteth in the song of the heart; yea, the song of the righteous is a prayer unto me, and it shall be answered with a blessing upon their heads. D&C 25:12


The Lord is my strength and song, and is become my salvation. Psalms 118:14

DAD

Poetry

You could say I was raised on poetry. My Dad read poetry to my sisters and I instead of bedtime stories.
The Highway Man, The Pirate Don Dirk of Dowdee, Dilliki Dolliki Dinah, and Annabel Lee were my favorites. He memorized many poems and would recite them to us as we weeded the garden or on long car trips. He would sort of just burst into poetry like a musical. (He often burst into song too...) One night, he and I were driving home from Springfield, MO and he recited poetry for the entire hour and a half without ever repeating a poem or pausing to think of a new one. They just came rolling out of him. So I grew up loving poetry.

When I was in 6th grade, the local jr. college held a writing contest. Winners would be published in their magazine and poetry was one of the categories.

You must understand, I had never studied poetry in school --writing or reading. I was so excited to write my first poem. I was sure I would win and be published! The theme was "Enchantment" so I wrote a poem describing an enchanted lake in the middle of a forrest. I even used my parent's typewriter to type up my poem. I turned it in to my reading teacher and waited with breathless anticipation for her response.

The next day, she placed my paper on my desk and walked away without a word. At the top was written,

"Punctuate this."


I was crushed. I knew she hated it. I hadn't even known that poetry needed punctuation. I knew it should rhyme and that the lines needed to have a rhythm that matched. I randomly added commas and periods and resubmitted my poem. She never said anything about it. I did not win the poetry anything. (Though my best friend won and was published.)

This experience effectively murdered my confidence with poetry. I continued to write poetry, but rarely showed it to anyone.

When I was 14 or so, I wrote a poem for my grandfather. He was undergoing bypass surgery for his heart. Seven- Bypass- Surgery. He had been writing family history stories and some creative fiction and trying to get published, but no one was interested. Except his grandkids, who loved to sit around him and listen. He was a magical storyteller. I wanted so much to tell Grandpa how much I loved him and that I liked his stories. So I wrote him this poem and snuck it on the table at his house--that was almost more than my courage could muster. I was pretty sure that it was overly sentimental and no good, and yet it was me and it was what I wanted to tell him. Grandpa loved my poem. He loved it so much, that he kept showing it to people, which embarrassed me deeply. I was certain that Grandpa only loved it because he loved me and everyone else who read it would see exactly how amateur-ish and unoriginal it was. I was almost rude to my Uncle Joe, who tried to talk to me about it. I was so afraid he was going to criticize my poetry that I ran away. Now with 20 years perspective I think he was just trying to encourage me.

I still have no confidence regarding my poetry and yet I can't help writing it every now and then.

Funny the impact a teacher can have just by saying nothing. It is a lesson I try to remember with my piano students and my own children.

Incidentally, my DH wooed me with poetry. His love of great poetry, the poetry he wrote, and especially the poems he wrote about me stole my heart away. I had always dreamed of being one of those ladies who walk in beauty

And now I was.

I reminded him of that recently and wondered aloud if he might ever write me love poems again. I guess inspiration hasn't struck recently... :P