I Remember My Dad...The Piano Man

I remember my dad. I remember that hot, summer day when I prayed at
his grave with tears streaming down my face, "Oh, my God, may he find
the peace and joy he lost on this earth."

As a reviewer said about my recent novel, my memories of my dad are
a mixed bag. I don't remember a distinguished or handsome executive
barely at home for dinner. I remember a broken man, balding, slight
build, sitting in a worn out recliner chair watching television in a
little house not much bigger than a trailer, squished between two other
similar houses on the poor side of town. When he discussed anything, it
was generally with anger and gloom, but he would "vote for a dog as
long as it was a democrat."


In contrast, I remember a top hat and sleeve garters dancing up and
down as he pounded out "Beer Barrel Polka" on a piano on the Holiday
Inn circuit. His gravely voice came of age in his late 50's, crooning
"Ace In the Hole" and old 40's hits or the newest songs that he could
pick up and play with just a few notes hummed by a patron.

I remember when I was a child of nine, how he cried on Christmas Day
as he was served divorce papers and left my house. I had never seen my
daddy cry. I had heard my parents' shouts and screams on occasion, but
not often. I didn't understand that Christmas day at all. That day and
the following years changed my life too.

I remember his old beat up jalopy with the pavement showing through
the rusted out floor. He drove with a cigarette in one hand, lighting
one off the other. The divorce broke his heart, his health and his
wallet. He had nothing but a little motel room in a cabin on a lake. I
would paddle his flat-bottomed fishing boat in circles as he fished,
seldom catching anything, on our madatory Sunday visits.

I remember being ashamed. I was ashamed of his poverty of spirit,
his depression, his angry view of life, his broken old car. The only
joy I saw in his eyes was when he played piano. Then, he was a changed
person, a man of the world, a thrill a minute to sit beside on the
piano bench as his worshippers gathered around and belted out the old
songs or spun around on the dance floor.

He was failing by the time my son was born. My little boy would sit
next to him on the piano and pound on the keys, a broad grin on my
dad's face. I often hoped my son would inherit the musical skill of my
dad. It missed me. So far, it missed my son as well.

I was in Asia when my dad needed a leg amputation to save his life.
He said he'd rather die. I flew home, my little boy in tow, and
convinced him to have the surgery. As he recovered, I listened in awe
as the four year old boy and the 59 year old man had a deep and
philosophical discussion about the missing leg and its artificial
replacement. The conversation was detailed as my son examined my
father's remaining stump and tried to get an understanding of how he
was going to use the artificial leg.

As the only gift he had, my dad wrote little stories about chipmunks
and squirrels and birds for my son. I'm sure he doesn't remember his
grampa reading those stories, but I do. I still have them in some
remote file box somewhere in the memory bins. I gave my son my dad's
ring, his flag from service in the U.S. Army during World War II, and
his bible. My son was too young at the time I gave them to him; I doubt
he still has them. It's okay; he remembers his grampa a little.

My dad was raised by his father and aunts. His mother died when he
was just a baby. He served his country; he lived a life of hard work as
a union man installing steam heat in high rise buildings, a dangerous
job. His talent with the piano was magnificent, but never fully
exploited as a weekend entertainer. He drank too much on the weekends;
he smoked too much. He gave up both of those at 39, after the divorce
and his first heart attack.

The last couple years of his life as his body was ravaged by
diabetes and arthritis, a relative drove him to the various hospitals,
assisted living and nursing homes where the occasional notes that his
arthritic hands missed went unnoticed by the singing and clapping
audiences with their wheelchairs and walkers and the memories he
brought to them.

My dad was an unassuming man; he always helped friends in need when
he had no resources for himself; he was honest. I always felt he was
proud of my accomplishments in his own quiet way. He tried to be
considerate of others. On his last night on this earth, he asked the
ambulance driver to go slowly and not use the siren; he didn't want to
upset the neighbors.

Today is Father's Day. I'm in the middle of a major spring cleaning
in preparation for hurricane season. It's been thirty years since my
father's last song. In the box of "protect from hurricane" stuff is a
picture of The Piano Man, top hat and sleeve garters, at the piano, the
one place where joy filled his face.

Nice story, DK.

My dad is a very difficult, negative, pessimistic person. Always has been. His alcoholism (which he'll never admit to) doesn't help. I haven't spoken to him for the past 7 months and feel better for it. Not planning to call today, either.

Not that he's a totally bad person, and living with my mom would make anyone nuts. They both exacerbate each other's negativity and pessimism.

How come you turned out such a sunny person?

Many people have alcohol trauma in their lives from many directions. Just a few examples: family, friends, co-workers, lovers, neighbors and more. I'm one of those touched by alcohol's insanity.

I am a fortunate person, however. I was introduced to Al Anon over 30 years ago. Though I am not a regular and I still cry out against the ravages of alcohol, not willing to call it a disease and believing the abuser has a choice, I did learn not to hate the person but rather to hate the alcohol. That was such a freeing revelation.

I have also learned that alcohol use is often self-medication for emotional issues that need therapy and prescription drug assistance. By the time mental health treatment is received, the problem is doubled by the alcohol addiction.

I used to teach a seminar on change. When facing an intolerable situation there are three choices: change yourself, change the situation or get away. Al Anon helps people change themselves, not the person using alcohol. Even when getting away is the rational choice, people associated with alcohol users may still need to change themselves.

My dad had deep seeded depression, perhaps leading back to his early childhood in a home full of women but no mother and then a life of "working for a living" in dangerous manual labor when his heart was in music and lyrics. He spent weekends playing piano in a pub environment where happy listeners sent drinks from the bar. He suffered diabetes, a disease often genetically linked to sugar addiction. All these things I now can see that in my younger years were not in my knowledge bank. Though he stopped using alcohol, he never had the money to treat the depression.

In this forum people are afraid to reveal who they are for fear of harming their career. My career includes years spent helping people who need to know they are not alone in their worries and concerns; sometimes, revealing a piece of one's personal experience makes all the difference. As a writer of fiction, I incorporate the true fact of life: it "ain't" perfect. Yet, from all the knots comes a carpet that is truly a work of art; and for those who believe in a higher power, God's beautiful handiwork.

If telling my story about my dad helps anyone (and I've had comments at www.redroom.com from people identifying with the same generation of dads), I am glad it's told. Writing it helped me put a few more pieces together. I know that his life pulses in me and in my son and maybe in another generation someday. He passed on some good qualities for all his hard times, and I'm grateful.

Shelagh -I have a fraction of the "sunniness" of my parents. lol.

DK -I wonder if all alcoholics are depressed. Every alcoholic that I know is.

I know that AA has people with addiction to alcohol say at each meeting, "I am an alcoholic." I do not believe in labels. I do not believe from my reading, research and experience that any two persons with alcohol issues have the same source for their affliction. Most people walk around with some grief baggage. We all function as best we can by finding an outlet for those things that hold us back. When those outlets interfere with normal lives, which means they become addictive, then we have presenting symtoms of an underlying disturbance. It may be depression, it may be mania, it may be multiple mental differences that make life less stable, less satisfying. I have friends for a whom a glass of wine in the evening takes all their cares away; and one small glass is enough. It does not control their lives.

When alcohol makes the user's life unmanageable and destroys the lives of those with whom he/she makes contact, then it is a poisonous addiction with only one end, death. Alcohol is poison to the body in too many ways to enumerate, the destruction of the liver most familiar. Like all addictions, it only becomes worse with time as the body adjusts and craves more to end the pain.

I do not believe people choose addiction; they choose the elimination of pain. If they give up alcohol and don't resolve the pain, they'll just find another way to eliminate pain. The cure rate is not a positive statistic. Emotional pain is deep rooted and very difficult to resolve. That's why it is said that the addiction is never cured, just in remission.

I only know a little from Al Anon, the people who share their experience, strength and hope at Al Anon and from what I have read and researched. It is, from the literature, a "baffling" disease for which it takes a multiple approach of healthful living, a support group, therapy, possible medication and more just to gain a measure of progress. Those steps are common to most people with addictions, regardless of the origination. The 12 steps originating with AA seem to be adopted by most support groups and therapy organizations that attempt to provide a measure of recovery to those suffering.

Dear DK,
You have written a nice tribute to your dad. You have an understanding of people. As children we do not know that adults have other cares and sometimes it is not focused on the children. The kids are often just a bother....where did they come from anyway? Your story tells much about your own heart.

Love,
Betty

I have friends whose families seem "perfect." And yet, in the quiet moments when friends share their hearts, I learn that the perfection is a picture, not a truth.

Again, I live by the knotted carpet. I saw them weaving in Istanbul, sitting in the back of the loom, tying knots. The carpets with the tightest weave and the most knots were the most expensive. The weavers never looked at the other side until the carpet was done; it took time away from the weaving. We need only look back to check our progress, not to dwell. I always say that God said, "I Am," not "I was" or "I will be." Therefore, we find the most serenity and hope when we dwell in the present, where God said, "I Am," not in the past or projecting into the future where His presence might not be as strong on our behalf.

There's also a science fiction movie showing again recently, The Langoliers. Round things with teeth eat up the past, right up to the present. The plane has to take off in a hurry to keep from getting caught in the past and disappearing into the blackness. Sometimes, we get caught in that blackness. We need to picture those Langoliers coming after us and hang onto the present for all its worth, and in the words of the Zen masters, make this day a Masterpiece so the past will have no regrets.

Thank you all for sharing this very deep topic and expressing your very thoughtful selves.

Good story DK and well written.

Thanks, Abe. Hope you are feeling better each day.

I wonder whether I ever met your Dad. I'm a Florida piano player, too, and have played a lot of the kinds of venues you describe and often the same kind of music. Although there aren't usually two piano players in the house, we usually know about one another. Also, I play other instruments and have played with many piano players.

My dad would be in his 90's if still living; he played the Holiday Inn circuit in Michigan during the 1970's and in a lot of other Michigan night club venues in the 1950's - 1970's. His specialty was honky tonk though he was a trained clasical pianist as a young man. I'll post a picture in the album here, The Piano Man. His stage introduction was just "Louie, at the piano."

He had offers for Chicago action, but had a wife and child to support and a full time job as a union pipe and steamfitter, a guaranteed income in the 40's and 50's. His wife wouldn't support the risk. She left him anyway, a broken man by then.

His repertoire of songs, music and lyrics, was unlimited. If he didn't already know it, humming a few bars was enough for him to play it. When he played a long stint, the pounding of his foot on the floor would actually wear the floorboards. Patrons used to try and stump him with obscure old songs or outrageous new ones, and he almost always came through.

After he passed, I would sometimes be drawn to
piano bars seeking his old songs and the entertainer who threw himself, heart and soul into the instrument and its output - of course, I never came close. For me, my dad was an original. When he was on that piano bench, it was like he stepped off this world and into one of his very own, untouched by anything but the music and those who enjoyed it. When he sat down, the piano lived; they were one.

Today's entertainers with all their fancy equipment just don't hold a candle. You are right, though, some of the greats still find their way onto the 3 star cruise ships where people still appreciate entertainment up close and personal.

I don't believe I knew him, but I know a lot of guys just like him. No one ever hears of them because they maintain a comfortable, consistent following, and rarely record or make concert and jazz festival appearances.

But they're a dying breed, because their following is dying off.

I love guys like that. Sleeve holders, derbies and all. When I was a lad listening to Crazy Otto, Joe Fingers Carr and Knuckles O'Toole, I wanted to be just like that.

Years later I worked the pizza parlors in the DC area knocking out those old tunes and playing for singalongs. And wearing sleeve holders and a straw skimmer hat. I often had a banjo player sitting next to me.

Here's a cut from back then. I bet your Dad knew this tune.

http://www.alstevens.com/alstevens/tunes/mp3s/mapleleaf.mp3

The picture you've offered of your Dad in words is so accurate. I can see him. I never met him. But I know him.

Me, too. What a memory lane! I have one old tape recording of my dad playing that I need to have cleaned up. Unfortunately, it was recorded during a party, and only some of it is really good. Thanks for the cut - I could close my eyes and be transported....especially at Father's Day and in that frame of mind. Other musicians often accompanied my dad. Some times they would drop in; some times they were part of the show. He would always warn me not to date a musician. "Not good husband material," he'd say. I did date a few - and he was generally right; full of dreams but nothing in their pockets.