(Note: all quotes in this story are from the movie August Rush, which is the name of the main character in the film)
6:00 a.m. on a school morning in Wichita, Kansas. It had snowed a lot the night before (measured in feet), so I figured there is no earthly reason to even bother getting up. Then my alarm goes off, except it’s not your typical alarm. In fact, it’s not an alarm clock at all. My dad has begun his ‘vocalization exercises.’ And my dad’s voice was big and very loud – a classic bass baritone singer with commanding ‘pipes.’ I’d lay in bed, waiting for the really big sound to come out that would make sure I could not fall asleep. He’d do his scales first, to get warmed up. Then came the big one: “PEE!!” “PEE!!” “PEE!!”. For the non-singers among you, that was a vocal exercise in clearly enunciating your consonants and vowels. And he loved belting out the “Pee” at 6:00 am.
That was my dad: opera singer, voice teacher, father of four children, and a transplant from New York City to Kansas where he landed a teaching job. As a child and teenager, growing up with parents who were musicians and music teachers felt a little like falling through the looking glass. I was an introvert, and with my outgoing dad I often felt like a midget staring up at a giant. In childhood I was sure he was one of the gods or some mythical figure, feeling equal parts admiration and intimidation. He was not at all a ‘father figure’ in the traditional sense. Dad was busy almost every day performing, teaching, and rehearsing. We spent very little time together outside of his singing career. I never really knew him outside of his music, and he never really knew me. Mom already had her hands full with three older, rebellious, independent kids, and I as the youngest was on my own in many ways growing up.
But there was something always happening around dad and music that I loved being a part of, even from a distance. I loved watching him perform at recitals and concerts. I was a “back stage brat,” simply hanging out when he sang. In my room at home, I listened to all kinds of music: Wagner, Berlioz, Iron Butterfly, Simon & Garfunkel, Janis Joplin, Beverly Sills. If it was music, I was interested. I was entranced with “Ride of the Valkeries” by Wagner, with its wave after wave of sound cresting and receding like ocean currents.
“I believe in music the way some people believe in fairytales.” – August Rush
I was quite ill as a child, into my early teen years. My various illnesses meant I couldn’t play sports with other kids, so school would give me an ‘excuse slip’ to not show up for physical education class. With that pink slip, I had permission to leave school in the middle of the day and do whatever I wanted for an hour. I spent many of those hours sitting quietly in nature, just listening. I was entranced by the wind blowing through the trees, the “sound” that I believed I heard of clouds passing by, water flowing, and what I heard when there was no sound at all. Nature felt like music to me.
“Listen. Can you hear it? The music. I can hear it everywhere. In the wind, in the air, in the light. It's all around us. All you have to do is open yourself up. All you have to do is listen.”– August Rush
After mom died, dad went through a long, slow decline with incredible spunk and even laughter. But my last visit with him was different. He was in an inpatient hospice, in a room by himself. When I entered the room, he was turned away from me. I heard him saying – to no one in particular – “no good, no good” over and over. My happy, mythical, god-like father was suffering badly. And there was nothing I knew to do to help him. In witnessing his pain, I felt my own in the fact that we never connected and now it was too late.
In the years after dad died, I never wanted to be involved with music or musicians again, or so I thought. Yet without really noticing it, I was doing everything in life with music in the background – even the mundane stuff like cleaning house or changing the oil in my car.
“Maybe the notes I hear are the same ones my parents heard, the night they met. Maybe that's how they found each other. Maybe that's how they'll find me someday.” – Freddie Highmore
Recently, my sister dug up some old video interviews she had recorded with dad where he regaled in his many stories of the stage, the music, his teaching. She wrote me about one particular interview: “One of the things that struck me was a regret he mentioned. He wished he had spent more time with you Ahley when you were young. I saw by his body language that this really bothered him. Then Dan [her husband] said something that I thought was insightful. In some ways you became the closest to him, and he became the most impactful to you and your life.” I choked up. Music kept me connected with my dad all these decades, even when I was sure there was no connection at all.
When my time comes to go, my wish is to hear the wind in the trees, and the music that I loved, and the beautiful sound that is made when the entire world falls into silence. Because I picked up all of that from ‘the music man.’
“You know what music is? God's little reminder that there's something else besides us in this universe, a harmonic connection between all living beings, everywhere, even the stars.” – The Wizard
