My father is a musician. He’s played the trumpet since he was a boy and has written some songs. But he’s never made dime, as far as I know, as a musician. I think he probably felt, as the son of a musician himself, that he wanted something different for his family.
Nonetheless, we enjoy Dad’s musical bent. He’s taught me a lot about 20th century popular music.
One way my father expresses himself musically is to serenade my mother with silly songs. She, for her part, rolls her eyes at lyrics like, “Open the door, Richard! I know you’re in there cuz I’m wearing the clothes.” By the way, for all of his talent as a trumpet player, Dad’s no singer.
Last night as they were getting ready for bed after our family Thanksgiving feast, I heard Dad’s voice warbling from down the hall. I couldn’t quite make out the song, but I was certain my mother’s eyes were rolling. I was also certain that I had one more thing to be thankful for . . . .
“Open the Door, Richard,” Words by Dusty Fletcher and John Mason, music by Dusty Fletcher and Don Howell, copyright 1947, Duchess Music Corp.
November 24, 2007 Saturday at 12:50 am