My dad whistled. For the life of me, I can’t remember the tunes he whistled, only that sometimes when he was in a good mood he would whistle while working around the house. Having him around the house at the same time we kids were home and awake was not a common occurrence. He worked shifts and would sometimes sleep all day. The times he worked nights and slept during the day the house was very quiet, and we would walk around on pins and needles afraid to wake him, afraid to hear him yell, “quiet”. Sometimes he would come home at 4 in the afternoon, others at 8 in the morning. Sometimes he would be home for three days straight in the middle of the week. As a small kid, it was hard to keep track of his odd working schedule, kind of confusing. So, when he was around the house and whistling, it was good.
You see my dad had been a
professional musician when he was younger.
Played the trombone in a dance band.
The Merrymen traveled the borsch circuit through the Adirondack
Mountains in New York and Pennsylvania. One
summer he spent in a house band at one of the resort hotels. Sometimes they drove into Ohio where my dad told me late at night, he asked the driver of the car to stop so he
could get out and walk around as the rest of the band was smoking
reefers. That was his story. The evils of Maryjane.
A couple of things came along
that put an end to his “merrymaking”. He
met my mom. They met in a music store,
Gregory’s, where my mother worked, and my dad would buy his sheet music. Shortly after they were married, their firstborn came along, and then the war. But
the thing that really stopped his music career made it impossible for him to
continue was he had gum disease and lost all his teeth. Rendered it impossible for him to pucker up
and play the horn. He never talked much
about that, but it must have hurt.
He loved music. He loved marching bands. One time, he and Mom came out to California
around the Fourth of July. We went to a
parade in downtown Watsonville. At that
time, Watsonville had a marching band that traveled all over, quite a
reputation. Had funny green outfits, but
they were a very good marching band. My
dad loved them, got a smile on his face, and talked about them afterward. What set him over the top that day was the
mariachi band that was also in the parade.
He was really excited to see them, so that was a special day for
him.
I guess he took to whistling as
he didn’t play another instrument, at least that I know of. So, on those rare times when he was working
around the house, dressed in his work clothes with an old blue denim jacket
that I would give my eye teeth to have now, when he started to whistle, you knew
he was happy. Like I said before, I
really don’t remember the tunes he whistled out, but they weren’t sad; it
wasn’t the blues or anything like that, just upbeat. He even taught me to whistle. I used to mimic him, walking around the house
trying to whistle as only a little tyke can.
Nowadays, it seems we put so
much meaning into the smallest of things, analyze down to the core, parse words
every which way, and dig deep into things to somehow better understand the unknown.
I think he was just happy when he
whistled. The same kind of happiness he
had when eating an ice cream cone or trying to get us to look at something off
in the distance when driving somewhere, or when that Watsonville Band came
marching down Main Street on the Fourth of July.
I woke up this morning thinking
about my dad. He passed in ‘92, but you
think of your lost loved ones all the time. Still get a lump in my throat,
still have conversations with him, and can still hear his voice and his laugh. I miss him,
but I know he was happy when he whistled.
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