A DYING BREEZE
The time had come; it was 8:15 on the morning of August 14th, 1998 - thirteen days after my father’s 63rd birthday. We all took note of the fact that he was about to die at the same time, and on the same day as the Manheim Auto Auction he had attended without fail for as long as we could remember; it felt fitting.
*an excerpt from my cancer memoir entitled CAR DEALER'S DAUGHTER
The old Hi-Fi had found its way to a corner of this room and was now living out its days in dusty silence. Dad had purchased it sometime in the early 70’s; in its heyday, it used to tenant the den. For a brief period of time, my mother listened to it while preparing dinner, but mostly it was only ever played on holidays - accompanied by hors douvres, stiff cocktails, and laughter. Other than a few Christmas records, the only five albums I ever remember being in my parent’s “collection” was one Barbra Streisand, one Judy Collins, one Henry Mancini, one Nina Simone, and one Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass: “Whipped Cream and Other Delights.”
These albums were still inside its oversized, blond, wooden frame; Herb Alpert was well worth another listen.
This album was mysterious to me as a child; its lime-green cover depicted a naked woman lathered in whipped cream. After close inspection, I discovered that a majority of the whipped cream had been faked in by using a draped cloth. There were no lyrics to this album - just instruments playing songs like “Butter Ball,” “Lollipops and Roses,” “Love Potion #9,” and “A Taste of Honey” - all the titles were edible. The biggest mystery to me was how this album was ever allowed in our house; we didn’t seem like that hip a family. I recall my father bringing home “Tropic of Cancer” and all hell breaking loose; this album seemed to fit into that same category - warranting underground viewing and listening from behind closed doors. But there it sat - in the den - audaciously and bodaciously for all to see.
As a kid, I was a worrier with irritable bowels and gassy stomach. At night I was a tooth grinder and sleepwalker. During the day I was painfully shy, and often mistaken for a boy. I turned inward, and upward to my bedroom where I would listen to my own collection of music, and draw. I didn’t understand half of what I listened to, but was intrigued and felt somehow these bottomless lyrics were written with me in mind. Joni Mitchell told me that “laughing and crying were the same release,” Neil Young “needed a maid,” James Taylor was “a walking man,” Cat Stevens “listened to the wind of his soul,” Rod Stewart felt “no mandolin wind couldn’t change a thing,” and Nina Simone just “wanted a little sugar in her bowl.” I eventually grew to understand these profound lyrics, discovered that drawing and music were one and the same, and that both calmed my nervous heart.
*an excerpt from my cancer memoir entitled CAR DEALER'S DAUGHTER
The puzzles ended up being more of a hit with my mother and I, than my father. Occasionally Dad would pad into the living room, hover next to the card table - now referred to as the “puzzle table” - place a piece or two, feel satisfied with that, then shuffle back to the den.
