Woulda kinda liked a coupon for a really big burger, but the thought was nice.
After church, the Wife went down for a nap. TechnoBoy, who had been out late to a graduation party, augered in for a snooze, too.
So now it's just me and the Chair. And Sunday afternoon TV. The best I can find is on Public Television..."Great Perfomances".
There's this really big orchestra, a really big choir, a really tall piano player, and a bald-headed guy in a Nehru jacket with a little baton.
The tall piano guy is quietly tinkling around on the keyboard. My mind tinkles around with remembrances of being a dad.
Bringing babies home. Walking for hours in the middle of the night. Teaching them stuff. Playing games. Sitting through Little League games and dance recitals.
Reading. Cuddling. Growing. Learning.
Good times.
The TV gets louder as the orchestra joins the piano player. The little baton bobs rapidly as the bald-headed guy begins to wave his arms.
Suddenly a filing cabinet in my mind slides open and the regrets of fatherhood start to plop out.
Like not catching the DAGU when she jumped of a rock into the water at the lake.
And locking the keys inside the car at the 8th grade football scrimmage. TechnoBoy had to sit on the fender with a broken collarbone for over an hour until the locksmith arrived.
I wonder if I taught 'em all the stuff they'd need "out there".
If I let them down.
If I let God down, screwing up the fantastic gift He'd given me and the Wife.
Suddenly the sound explodes on the TV. The piano guy starts poundin' the ivories. The orchestra starts wailin'. The bald guy is flailin'. The choir is sailin'. And instantly a vibrant memory picture flashes across my mind.
It's a face.
The face of Merle.
Wha...Merle?!
Why would I remember Merle on Father's Day while watching Public Television?
It doesn't make...oh, wait.
Yeah.
I suppose it does.
Kinda.
Merle was this really tall, skinny kid who was a year behind me in school. We both played the clarinet along with a bunch of other kids.
My senior year, the band director slapped together a clarinet quartet for the District competitions.
There was Cindy, who could actually play because she would actually practice, some other kid I can't remember, and then Merle and me.
Yeah.
Not exactly a woodwind "Dream Team".
The band director gave us the music a couple months before the contest.
"Okay. Practice this every day. You can do it."
A command that has the same congenital truancy rate as "Clean your room" and "Eat all your green vegetables".
I looked at the music.
Some madman with a brush of black ink went on a flicking frenzy.
Lotsa dots.
Lotsa lotsa dots.
And over the next two months, I wasn't truly diligent, losing heart after 15 minutes and retreating to something I knew how to do.
In hindsight, I should point out that there is no correlation whatsoever between playing the clarinet and shooting baskets.
(Well, maybe there's...no.
No there isn't.)
The day arrived and the four of us sat down in a small room. The judge looked at us blankly, his body language stating that he was in the third year of a ten year sentence.
With no chance of parole.
I sat next to Cindy and faced Merle. I could see Merle easily over the music stand.
And off to the left I could see the judge preparing himself for the onslaught.
Cindy softly whispered, "1...2...3"
and made a downward motion with her clarinet.
And we're off.
I mean really. We were off.
Cindy valiantly chased the herd of black notes, the other kid trying to stay with her.
I spun out on the first page as the quartet began to sound a bit thin.
Ohhhhhhhh, mama.
Where are we?
I puffed my cheeks and wiggled my fingers, my instrument silent as my eyes frantically searched for some landmark where I could get back on track.
I glanced over the top of the music stand. Merle's squinting face was hunched forward, his cheeks puffed and his fingers wriggling.
His clarinet wasn't playing either.
He was as lost as I was.
Merle caught me looking at him.
He suddenly stopped, letting the clarinet fall out of his mouth.
He sat up, screwed a goofy half-smile on his face, shrugged his shoulders, then dove back into the search for the current note.
A couple of minutes later, we finally got on the same page before staggering across the finish line together.
Huh.
Yeah.
That's what I learned from Merle.
And it just might be the most important thing about Fatherhood.
"Don't give up."
Even when I don't know what I'm doin' and the music has gotten away from me. Keep puffing those cheeks and wiggling those fingers.
Keep watchin' the music.
And prayin'. And lovin'.
And never give up.
He said He would never give up on me and He knows the tune.
He'll help me play it.
Oh, hey -
can someone turn the page for me?
I'm kinda busy wigglin' here.
Thanks.