My Music Man

Loud plaid pants partially covered Air Force issued low quarter shoes. A pale blue patterned shirt didn't really match but no matter. Totally precious, he spoke and I knew. This was the man. My man. Maybe not yet, but soon. Our introduction was easy, our life has been bliss. Behind that nearly outrageous outfit was, and still is, someone who has added music to my life for three decades, plus four. He hears harmony where I do not. He knows notes that puzzle and confound me. Lately he has been perfecting a new theory which revolves around the concept that everyone is born with perfect pitch. "Everyone?" I muse. "Surely not me." I am, as most people can attest, totally tone deaf. This condition is part of my genetic make-up, like being completely left-handed.

I've really tried to understand his theory and to accept the possibility that infants lose this magnificent gift as a result of inattention by the adults who surround their young lives. Perhaps he's right. He has a child, now a forty year old adult, who possesses perfect pitch. Very rare indeed and only found in one in 10,000 people. Could it be that Michael is so enriched because of constant exposure to music from his very earliest days? Certainly the idea merits exploration and further thought.

In the meantime, I am serenaded daily with impromptu musical interludes, often accompanied by song. I recognize many of the pieces as they were part of my own youth and young adulthood. The best songs from the 60's are on his play list. Some are mournful in sound and sorrowful in lyrics. I prefer the peppy ones and find that they provide just the right background as I attend to tasks through the hours.

With a dad whose talent allowed him to be a professional musician for a time, genetics may have been a causal factor in his consummate love of music. I look into his dear sweet little boy face and wonder if I can detect any nascent notes.



In his office, music books spill from shelves and await their turn beneath his facile fingers. A loose-leaf notebook lies open with plastic pages stuffed with favorite songs. Nearby, a microphone is silent, ready for the next guest songster.





Sometimes the house is filled with faces from our past. Visages that we've watched emerge from chubby cheeks and vacant teeth. Now confident young adults, their liveliness has a music of its own. He knows how to corral their endless energy and soon the room is rocking with voices we've loved so long. Too quickly, they're gone. Back to the lives they've created and which we watch in wonder. He's the director of their fates in so many ways, having spent uncounted hours advising, cajoling, complimenting and watching with pride as their futures unfold. These special people are a gift to us, friends of our daughter, and family members created by association.

He's playing now. The music is comfortingly melodic. I'm trying to recall the title or artist. I know it. I really do. Why are the words tucked back in my mind at the moment? Ah, sounds like Beatles. Other than George Gershwin, there is no more revered music. He's definitely a devotee. I am a listener, a no talent one.

Over the piano is a magnificent photo of the peerless Gershwin. His flourishing signature speaks of greatness, of a life too short. Perhaps he is smiling because of the sounds emanating from the room. He'd be comfortable in this setting with notes aplenty.

Broadway tunes compete with depression-era songs. When we drive, he often asks me to name the song and/or singer of a record that's playing on the radio. Rarely am I able to respond correctly. I give some ridiculous answers. I can sing along very often, but if it isn't Elvis, I am usually stumped. He tolerates my ignorance and continues to try and tutor me. I believe I am in the remedial stage. Permanetly.

On occasion, we discuss the difference between song lyrics and other types of writing. He reasons that lyrics require the greatest ability to use language. I counter that marvelous writing appears in other formats. He is unshakable. I guess I just don't hear.

Our daughter has inherited this affinity for music. She cannot exist without it. Her knowledge is astounding and is being utilized as she flourishes as a music journalist. Combining a lifetime love of writing with the primal need for music is creating great joy in her life.

I am the observer and the beneficiary of all this tunefulness. His music defines our lives, cushions the unexpected, heralds the triumphs and sets our tomorrows.

He is my music man. My very own. I share him with others. On the 16th, we'll celebrate a special day. Happy early birthday, dearest Henry.