THEY'RE PLAYING OUR SONG AGAIN DADDY


Last Thursday, Papa came home bearing a present... it was a CD of Rod Stewart's It Had to Be You... The Great American Songbook. That night, after dinner, we did our own things as we usually did, turned off the TV and played the CD, transporting me back in time.

I was in the grades then, probably in grade one. My dad came home one night lugging a big box of a pretty yellow color. He laid it down on the sofa and went to change out of his street clothes.

I looked at it and whatever else my little girl's mind was thinking then, one thing I remember vividly is getting so attracted to the box, I couldn't keep away from it. I read the label and it said, 'The Reader's Digest Collection of Mood Music.' Somehow, I knew there were records inside (yes records, we didn't have CDs at the time when I was a VERY young girl) so the contents didn't quite have a pull on me as the box itself did. I brushed it with my hands... hmmm, smooth and nice. I knocked on it with my knuckles... a-ha! sturdy material. Without realizing what I was doing, I ever so slowly positioned my rump on the center of the box, and like a queen taking her throne, sat on it.

I hadn't been there a full minute when my dad emerged from the bedroom and saw me, prim like a royalty, sitting on his record collection. My dad came rushing to pick me up from off my throne screaming, 'What do you think you're doing!?!' I said, 'Sitting on the box.'

My dad was already opening the box, bracing himself for some damage control. 'I know you were sitting on the box. But there are records in this box and you're not supposed to sit on records.'

'Ehehe... pretty box,' I said, pointing to it.

Luckily, I was such a lightweight at the time so no records were broken. My little girl's sensitivities told me that my dad was mad at me although he never said another word about it all night. Matter of fact, he never said another word all throughout dinner. He was silent and scowling and wasn't speaking to anybody, and when my dad was in such a mood, nobody else spoke on the dinner table. I felt so bad about myself I didn't want to finish my dinner anymore but of course, that was another no-no.

After dinner, my dad went down to his library where he had the phonograph set up behind his desk. I was in the living room doing my homework when he passed by, not glancing my way at all. I decided this was going way too far. What's the big deal? So there were records in the box. But then we had a whole stack of them, what's up with breaking one or two?

I gathered my books, notebooks and pencils and followed my dad to the library. I turned the knob and found it locked... ut-oh! I was hoping I could just barge in and he'd either have to kick me out or do a lot of screaming to make me run away. I mustered up all the courage I could and gave the door a weak tap. No answer. I knocked again, more firmly this time, and my dad's stern voice came from behind it.

'Who is it?'

'It's me, Jet.'

'What do you want?'

'I want in.'

'I'm working.'

'I will too.'

And the door opened.

To beautiful music. To old music. To my dad's music.

There was a wide range of music genre included in that collection. It had the classics... Mozart, Chopin, symphonies from Schumann and Mendelson. There were the more contemporary ones... Peggy Lee, Tony Bennett, Rosemary Clooney, Johnny Matthis.

That night, he was playing Frank Sinatra and the song I walked into was 'I'll Be Seeing You.' I slumped on the floor and laid my things on the coffee table. I tried to do my exercises on my workbook, but the music kept drawing me in that I could barely focus. I didn't realize I was sitting there staring at the phonograph, my eyes lost and blank. It startled me when my dad spoke. 'You like it?'

I gave him a little smile and nodded.

I didn't get to finish my exercises. My dad let me sit there staring at the phonograph, while he laid back against his chair and put up his feet on his desk. I guess I fell asleep after a while cause I felt my dad gather me up in his arms and lay me down on my bed. I felt him pull the sheets up... and give me a peck on my forehead.

Thereafter, for as long as we lived in that house, my dad and I would go down the library together after dinner, he working on his papers, me on my homework, and listen to his music... to our music. I would often fall asleep, and he would have to carry me to my bed each time. I'm not so sure if this is something that drew me and my dad closer... have never really given it a thought. But this was something we had between us, and boy was it something.

But then we had to give up the house and move to another one, a bungalow which didn't have a den. We lost the library. The phonograph had to settle for a less intimate location... on the buffet table in the dining room. Soon it became non-functioning as first tapes, and now CDs came into existence. I grew up and have taken to doing my assignments back in my room, and then in the houses of classmates.

It's been a while since I heard Frank Sinatra and 'I'll Be Seeing You.' Now I heard the song again, albeit by Rod Stewart this time. Still the memories of those nights came back to me because

... they're playing our song again, Daddy.