I went for a walk with my father today.  Conversation was non-existent, though I did listen to him. He was tucked into my jacket pocket, the one that holds my CD Walkman. Through my earphones I listened to his voice raised in song.

Dad passed away suddenly when I was 17, but he unwittingly left a gift behind. On an antiquated reel-to reel tape deck, he recorded himself singing dozens of old songs, from vaudeville to Sinatra.

When I was growing up, music filled our home. Cole Porter and the Gershwin brothers were like family to me. Some of the first songs my siblings and I sang were by Rodgers and Hammerstein. While other kids listened to Alvin and the Chipmunks, our turntables spun with the likes of Irving Berlin and Duke Ellington. Dad could sing with the velvety likeness of Ol’ Blue Eyes and write with a sarcastic (though often corny) wit. But his artistic endeavors were limited by his need to care for a large family. 

After spending four years of active service overseas during WWII, he returned home to Canada, craving stability. Marrying soon after his return, fertility came far too easily and within a few short years he had five extra mouths to feed.

Our family became the audience he sought. Dad would break into song at the most unexpected moments, which made it feel like we were all living in the midst of a musical! Once, the night before my mother went into hospital for surgery, Dad sang her that inspirational song, “You’ll Never Walk Alone.” He would spin my sister and me round and around, singing “Shall We Dance?” or substitute our names in songs like “Maria.”

When I was twelve, Dad borrowed a tape recorder and spent night after night in the “studio” he had built in the basement, microphone in hand, perfecting his own little repertoire. (This was well before the days of karaoke machines!) And several years ago these quarter-inch tapes were transferred to cassette but pops and crackles were plentiful, making it difficult to hear any song clearly. Recently, my husband cleaned up the tapes, and making them almost completely distortion-free, transferred them to CD.

On an April morning thirty-five years ago my father woke me in his usual fashion. He grabbed my blanket-covered feet and gave them a gentle shake. He was leaving on a business trip. “Keep things lively while I’m gone!” he called to me as I wiped the sleep from my eyes. Those were the last words I heard him utter.

He’s been one tough act to follow. But today, time was erased and we walked together through the woods, in perfect harmony.

© Virginia Foley