Poppa

My dad has always sung to me. He sings me love songs from the 60’s and 70’s mostly but sometimes jazz standards from his youth.

I love it.

This weekend when I was with him, I mentioned a previous girlfriend who was visiting Seattle, she wanted to stop by to see us on her way back through to Portland. She and I had been texting the day before when she was on her way to Seattle, stuck in traffic around my dad’s exit. I joked that she should stop in to see them. Her response was really sweet. She said it would be a treat and then she reminded me of an installation I did about my dad. The piece revolved around a tin can phone with a chili powder line. One of the cans was sitting atop a ladder straining to take in my dad’s words and a little song his mother sung to him and in return he sung to us, and then his grand children and now his great grand children. It’s part of a ballad to help the little ones go to sleep. My dad started singing it immediately but stopped, feeling a little shy. My dad is anything but a shy man and resumed with little prodding.

It was sweet and flooded me with memories. The recordings I have of his voice and his songs, his family life and his history have been tucked away long ago. I still ask him the same questions in hopes of burning the answers into my brain. With a little luck I will remember his seven brother’s names. Ermine, Esa, Nick, Eli, Vincent (sometimes called Richard for reasons I still don’t understand) Jim, damn I’m missing one, and my dad John (not Juan) along with Guadalupe (Dolly) and Josephina. My dad is the oldest son alive and I can hear the pride and privilege he feels with this honor. I don’t really know my dad’s siblings, they live in the Midwest mainly and Colorado but we spent very little time with them when I was a kid. I have probably 47 cousins from his side of the family and would know one of them if I saw them on the street.

I’m at the point in my life that I want to see my family and I love them for all we’ve been through as blood relatives- but I’m thinking much more intently about chosen family and cultivating the relationships of those I want to grow old with. The community of people that know me and share mutual love for the people we are. It sounds sappy yes, but for example; I know my broster dfox will always have my back even if she must questions my desire, motivation or intellect at any given time.

After my folks divorced my dad bought a 1976 corvette stingray. Red and convertible. I remember him picking me up one time and taking me for a ride. He wanted to get it on the open road so we went to the back roads on the air force base and he cranked it up. Later when we were both smiling and not knowing what to say to one and other he started singing Me and Mrs. Jones. His voice is lovely and he can carry a tune. I remember I felt shy and happy and sad all at the same time and I was grateful my dad seemed to love me in that rare moment alone together.

Yesterday we picked corn from dad’s garden across the street from the house. My step mom, has the entire front and back yard and my dad has the big plot across the street. Big ears of corn ripen on the stalk amidst the blackberry bushes and cosmos and he proudly snaps corn from it stalk to send home to Portland. Damn, what a great time to spend with my dad. He sings me a song and hugs me big and tight.