All my writing to date has depicted my father as a tyrant. Always angry, always punishing us, always mean. He thought kids just got in the way and made too much noise or too much mess. Now I’m beginning to remember a gentler side of him — an almost loving, caring man who enjoyed his children.
Hold your applause. He was rarely this person. The always‑in‑charge Army sergeant turned State Trooper, married to a wife who was a master narcissist and evil to her core… there honestly was no other way for him to survive his life except to be hard and stern.
But buried deep, it was there.
Occasionally, on an extremely good night, he would actually play with my brother and me. We always started with the sock game. He’d lay on the floor and our job was to steal his socks. It turned into an all‑out wrestling match — my brother and I flying across the room and then launching ourselves at him to try again. My mother screaming from the other room didn’t slow us down at all.
We only stopped when my grandmother, who lived below us, would call. The phone would ring and we’d all look at each other and laugh, “Memere’s mad,” as we scrambled off the floor and into his recliner. She’d yell through the phone to my mother, “They’re going to come through the ceiling!” or “My chandelier is swinging so hard it’s going to crash!” My mother would sigh, “Yes, Mom, I’ll take care of it,” and then came the lecture — telling us to behave like ladies and gentlemen, and telling my father to act like an adult.
That’s when our “quiet time” began. Almost as fun as the wrestling.
My parents had a stereo — the old‑fashioned kind that looked like a piece of furniture. But when he opened the lid, inside was a stack of vinyl records and a record player. He’d draw out the decision of which record to play, saying things like, “This one is talking to me,” or “Look what jumped out of the stack.”
He’d put on the record, sit in his chair with us on his lap, and the music would start. Beautiful symphony melodies by the Boston Pops, his favorite. We’d listen and imagine stories about the music — horses running in the rain, a storm rolling in. It was almost magical. The music was so loud it drowned out my mother’s demands to turn it down.
We’d get through two or three symphonies before being told to go to bed. Once, I even remember my mother bringing us popcorn. Or maybe that part is my imagination. Who knows.
Still, standing here now, hearing the Boston Pops makes me warm and happy in a way nothing else does. For a moment, I’m back in that recliner — safe, loved, and held by the version of my father who almost existed.
Still standing, hearing the Boston Pops still makes me warm and happy,
K.
I'm Still Here. Somehow... 