Father and Son

A photo I took of my father in Mexico in 1972


Twenty-four years ago this morning I answered the phone around 8:45 and was calmly instructed by a nurse to come to the hospital. My only reply was "OK" and I hung up and began to get dressed. I knew my father had died.

I scarcely recall walking down the hospital corridor to his room. But I shall never forget walking into the room and seeing my mother seated in a chair, and a corpse on the bed. It was my first real experience with death. My brain immediately counted only one person in the room. That which was my father was elsewhere. The body certainly wasn't him and I felt no emotion for it.

My dad and I generally got along fine. However, there were difficulties as I moved into adolescence. He had to suspect I was gay. I went through a phase one summer when I was addicted to All My Children. I would discuss the characters with my parents -- partly to provoke a reaction. I enjoyed hearing my mother call it "trash." Once, my father must have been particularly annoyed because he made a comment I'd never heard him say. Although I can't remember his exact words, he suggested I was a sissy. I was never ridiculed for watching other "sissy" programs like Bewitched, That Girl, I Dream of Jeannie or any of the Doris Day shows and films. He clearly thought soaps were for women and therefore no self-respecting boy would be caught dead watching them.

After that episode, the fun was gone. I didn't want to discuss soaps with my parents again.

We had far worse disagreements over music starting a few years earlier. I was always very open and communicative with both my parents. I wanted them to take an interest in things I liked, or at the very least be supportive. That changed as I began exploring rock music. And ironically, it was my dad who got me interested in radio where I discovered this new musical world.

I was occasionally able to buy records at the "five and dime" store in town but the selection was very limited and my horizons were broadening at a much faster pace. Fortunately for me, we used to travel frequently to Little Rock, Memphis, Dallas or New Orleans. Nothing was more exciting for me than to be unleashed in a shopping mall with $20. Some of the larger malls would have two, perhaps three record stores and I was in heaven.

My taste in music had evolved into hard rock and I was on the prowl for albums by Deep Purple, Led Zeppelin, Black Sabbath, etc. One time we were in the car at the mall about to leave. I was pulling albums out of my bag to examine my latest treasures. My father reached around and picked up an album by a band called Bloodrock. What happened next would define my relationship with him.

Now granted, Bloodrock probably wouldn't be listed in anyone's top 100 list of bands (having said that, I'm sure I'll get a comment from some huge fan) and frankly I'm rather annoyed that this little incident occurred as a result of a purchase I'd later regret as being bland and uninteresting. I was a little embarrassed that he had to grab that particular LP since, if I recall correctly, the album cover featured a photo of a rock wedged into broken glass -- a car windshield perhaps -- with blood splattered around it. Some of the ideas for album art back then were a few notches south of uninspiring, but I digress.

My father took a look at the back of the LP where the song lyrics were listed. I remember seconds of very uncomfortable silence before he threw the album into the back seat and began his tirade. "Burn America Burn" he said, incorrectly referring to the track American Burn. That's the part I succinctly remember. His next outburst I'll just have to paraphrase as best I can remember:

I'm not giving you hard-earned money to go out and spend it on this nigger music.

I can't say with certainty he used the term "hard-earned" but rest assured he absolutely did call it "nigger music." My heart almost stopped beating. I honestly can't remember if I replied, or simply thought to myself, "But there's not even any niggers in the band."

I was confused. I didn't understand his reference. Most of all, I was hurt because music was such a vital part of my life and I knew he'd never accept it. End of discussion.

No one ever taught me much about music or recordings. At that time I never bothered to read most of the fine print on a record album, aside from the lyrics. I had no idea what those names indicated under each song title on the record label. For instance, on the first Led Zeppelin album, the songs You Shook Me and I Can't Quit You Baby were written by Willie Dixon. I just assumed this was all original music by Led Zep.

I continued buying many (far too many, to be honest) records during my years in high school -- carefully steering clear of any bands with black people in them, or at least clearly featured on the album cover, for fear of coming home from school one day to find my records all burning in a pile outside.

I am ashamed at my own level of ignorance back then regarding music history. It would be years after that Bloodrock incident before I remotely understood my father's comment.

He was afflicted with what was diagnosed as arthritis during much of my life. It was never too severe until my teen years. He would have really bad days when he couldn't move. I remember my mother having to help him into a tub of hot water to soak and he was sobbing from the pain. This would go on for weeks. And then suddenly he'd be fine for days or weeks, only to have the pain return at a later date. Sometimes his moaning was too much for me. I remember being in bed one night praying to God to take his life and end his misery. Then I discovered headphones.

I spent the last 3 or 4 of my high school years sitting in my room at night, with headphones on, listening to my music as loudly as I wanted and as late as I wanted.

Sometimes I wish I'd spent more time with my dad, asking him real-life questions and having him teach me things that might help me. Racism aside, there were many things I could have learned from him on the days when he was feeling good and mobile. He and his father built our farm house. He was great with tools and woodworking and he could handle electrical work as well. He once bought a large van that had been a food service delivery vehicle and converted it into a motor home, complete with sleeping facilities and a tiny kitchen area.

He also built from scratch one of those metal detectors that were becoming popular at the time. You know, the ones that you hold near the ground and walk around until the tone would reach a high pitch and you knew there was some piece of metal on the ground? It worked. He could build or repair just about anything.

He could have taught me all this and more. I can't even change the oil in my car. It was always an awkward moment for me when a car salesman would pop the hood on a car for me to take a look. Oh sure, I'd go peek in, but what the hell was I supposed to do? I'd wiggle the dip stick and say, "looks nice, thanks."

I really never gave any of this much thought until I was in my late 30s and maybe into my early 40s. Home ownership can force you to think about things. I wish I could build a wine rack instead of buying one. I wish I could run wiring down a wall to put in a new electrical outlet. I wish I could fix things that are broken.

He could have taught me all of this and a lot more. I lost far more than just my dad when he died.

But I still have my music. And if my father had a problem with that "nigger music" I listened to back then, I'm sure he'd die a second death if he could hear what moves my soul these days.

These are for you, pops. I still miss you sometimes.

Part 1 in a series on Parents/Grandparents