Make Room for Music in Your Life

When my daughter was little I used to sing to her. The day she was born I sang James Taylor and Gordon Lightfoot songs to her and rocked her to sleep. Then she got a little older and became a surly teenager. Once we were in the parking lot of Clackamas Town Center, heading into the mall to buy mall food or new shoes and I was absent-mindedly singing one thing or another.

"Dad, don't sing."
"Steff, Steff, Steff. I'm a good singer. I sing as good as Huey Lewis." Jauntily comparing myself to one of her favorites at the time.
"Dad, don't make me barf. Don't sing until we get back to the car."

When kids get to be teenagers fathers become the dumbest men in the world, a status we don't lose until the teens reach the mid-twenties. The blunt sword of sarcasm frequently punctures our fragile psyches. As much as I like to sing I only sing for babies and small children. I don't like performing; I can't even muster the courage to do karaoke. The songs are in too high a key and the blue highlight color that races through the lyrics throws me off. I admire people who can get up and take on a roomful of indifferent strangers for the mere payment of lukewarm applause. I'd have to be drunk enough to barf.