The End of the Line

I carry a hazy childhood memory of waving goodbye to my father at an airport. As a salesman, he often left home – and returned a week or so later. I got used to daddy leaving and always coming back. At the time, I had no idea that some kids had fathers who left and never came back, for reasons both sad and bad. Although he went away on business trips, sometimes to places around the world, he was often there for me when I played in a band or orchestra concert, or a solo recital, through high school, college, and even when I performed as a young professor. I have memories of having him carry a trumpet case and follow me into a venue to get in free. “If anybody asks, you’re with the band.” No one ever asked. I have a feeling they knew and agreed that fathers ought to get a free pass to see their kids play.

Much later, when Dad was in his nineties, Michele and I played a few mini concerts for him and the other residents of his assisted living place. I think it did him some good to know that all the money he spent on lessons, instruments, and musical scores was a gift that was at least partially returned and shared with others. I’ve played more free concerts than I can count, and in some way, I believe these have been ways to give back some of what my parents gave me when I was learning to play. Yet, there is no way I can repay all the faith my parents, especially my dad, had in me. I chose to pursue music rather than engineering. Dad told me he would support whatever decision I made, as long as I gave it my best effort. (He wasn’t about to let me be a slacker.)

When I was a senior in high school, Dad told me that I played better than he did when he was a senior and had his own big band. “The difference is, I got paid for it.” In retrospect, perhaps I should have taken the hint. It’s hard to make a living playing a horn these days, even if you’re very good at it. Nevertheless, Dad supported my dream of becoming a music teacher. His faith resulted in 38 years of college teaching. I didn’t make a fortune, but I had the opportunity to encourage many students. Maybe Dad’s faith in me was reflected in my faith in them.

Not that Dad was perfect. He was sometimes tough and logical. And it was true that if I gave my mom a hard time, the phrase, “wait ‘til your father gets home,” would mean that hard consequences were on the way. But Dad was generous too. Mom was his kryptonite. She overspent, and became a high caliber hoarder, but Dad seldom called her out on it. He wanted Mom to be happy. And he always provided for his kids, even when it wasn’t logical.

Dad was never mushy or gushy. I believe this was part of the legacy of his father, who everyone called “silent Sam.” As I grew up, Dad was not a hugger, but he did shake my hand when we parted, as if we were business colleagues and he would be back for the meeting next week. There is a part of me that will always miss those handshakes.

Dad passed away peacefully, in his sleep, on July 13, at age 96. During the last few years as his health declined, I was preparing for the inevitable. I never knew which visit with him would be my last. It was hard to see a man who lived a long and eventful life losing his strength and vigor, yet he retained a certain sweetness of personality even through his days of hospice care. Mom died suddenly six years ago. Dad passed little by little over those same six years. It’s impossible to tell which is harder, because in the end, they’re both gone. It’s the end of the line. There will be no more waving goodbye to the plane or handshakes by the car. But with a little faith and a little luck, Mom and Dad will return one day.