“Keep your hand upon the throttle and your eye upon the rail,” my Dad sings in his top-of–the-lungs baritone, the volume of his voice amplified by the force of his hands on the keyboard. Every Saturday night Daddy sits down at our mahogany Marshall and Wendell upright piano in the living room and reviews songs in his repertoire. Fresh air is blowing through the open windows. Probably the whole neighborhood can hear.
Now he’s moved on to other tunes: “Turn Your Radio On” and “On the Jericho Road, on the Jericho Road, there’s for just two—no more and no less, no more and no less, just Jesus and you, just Jesus and yooooo. . . .”
I’m in the dining room studying my ninth-grade Pennsylvania history. “Marian come in here and sing a little,” he begs.
“Oh maybe after a while,” I half-promise and flee to the kitchen where my mother is standing over the stove, making salmon casserole to put in the oven while we are at church tomorrow. Even washing gooey dishes looks more appealing to me than competing with my dad’s loud volume and heavy-handedness. He attacks the piano keys like he’s hammering a bent piece of metal at his shop.
Now Janice is walking in the door, and Dad pleads, “Come on, just sing the second verse.” He wants her to join him on the long piano bench that holds piles of family photos bulging from the compartment under its lid. She sits down with him for a little bit, and I hear a soprano with a lot of tremolo join in with Daddy’s lower notes on another song: “Under His wings, under His wings, Who from His love can se-ver? Under His wings my soul shall abide, Safely abide for-e-ver.”
There’s still another sister, and when Janice moves off the bench, Jean keeps the bench warm and Daddy happily singing “Softly and Tenderly Jesus is Calling.”
Now Daddy has moved away from the piano, gotten out his shiny Gibson guitar and starts yodeling. My sisters and I think he is acting goofy: “Yodel-ay-ee-oo, yodel-ay-ee-ooo,” he bellows out joyfully as he strikes the strings of his guitar.
In spite of his noisy outbursts, I like the silky red cord attached to the instrument with its sunburst design veneer and the variety of colorful picks he’s accumulated. They remind me of funny-shaped tiddly-winks. Dad sure does like music. I don’t think he’d object to a piano at our church, which deems “it improper to employ instrumental music in worship and church activities.” (Article III, Section 2, Public Worship)
Last year at the beginning of eighth grade, Daddy came home and out of a clear blue sky presented me with a violin case. Looking as pleased as punch, he put the faux-leather textured black case on the dining room table, gesturing for me to open it.
“It’s for me?” I look puzzled but start to fiddle with the metal clasps on the case.
“What do you mean, is it for you? Of course, it’s for you. Why do ya think I put it here in front of you. I paid only $ 70.00 for it. Noah Klaus, up at the music store wanted more, but I told him that was my best offer. I wasn’t gonna let him horns-waggle me.”
Slowly I open the lid and see a gorgeous violin inside, a caramel-colored wooden instrument, its curvy shape tapering to a fancy scroll. I peer inside the S-shaped openings and see a paper tag with the label: Copy of Antonius Stradivarius / Handarbeit / Garmisch bei Mittenwald – Made in Germany.
“Now I want you to take lessons, so you can be in the orchestra at school. You play the piano pretty good. I don’t imagine a violin would be a whole lot harder.”
“Well, . . I don’t know about that,” I hear my voice trailing off.
I wonder why Daddy kept these plans and dreams for me to himself. I would have liked to go with him to the music store and have seen the other choices. Why does he always leave me out of decisions like this? He makes choices for me just like he plays the piano, loud and heavy-handed. Yet he seems so pleased with his purchase; I’m sure he imagines that I’m just as thrilled. Anyway, I start taking lessons from Mrs. Santeusanio.
True to his inclination, mechanical themes ran through much of my Dad’s repertoire, songs of railroads, highways, and ships (Let the Lower Lights Be Burning). Why even the radio he sang about is a mechanism.
My musical preferences are more eclectic and include classical, pop and contemporary. Yet, I see that however clumsy his efforts, Daddy was transmitting to me his love for music. Often a melody or song floats through my head as easily as my Dad’s music did out our living room window. You might say the sound of music has masked some of my Dad’s missteps as a parent. For that I am thankful.
Statement of Christian Doctrine and Rules and Discipline of the Lancaster Conference of the Mennonite Church, 1968.
What interests or hobbies did a parent or close relative instill in your life? Was your experience a positive or negative one? Tell us about it.
12 thoughts on “Yodeling and Duets with Daddy”
So good, Marian. I know all those songs. And I remember Noah Klaus. I can see your house as you wrote these notes.
You are one of my readers who can actually conjure up images of people and places I write about. Thanks for commenting, Shirley.
Marian, this sounds so familiar. I was six when my dad went out and bought a piano and announced I was taking piano lessons. He loved music, but neither he nor my mother played an instrument or sang. Oh, Mama sang along with the Victrola and the radio, and Daddy loved to listen to music. I was the first, and I remember my young mind feeling boggled at the enormity of this task that had been set down for me. I still play, sometimes accompanying my singing and horn playing husband at church, but mostly I play for me and the good Lord above. I suppose all 67 of these years later I should offer a prayer of thanksgiving for that piano and the gift of lessons, which in retrospect my parents likely couldn’t afford. Thanks for the memories!
I have a feeling taking piano lessons was a rite of passage for many middle-class girls of our era. My Aunt Ruthie, the one with Alzheimer’s now, provided me with lessons until I graduated to Mrs. Rice’s classes. Like you, I still play hymns, often in the morning, on the piano you see in the violin photo. Your comments are so encouraging, Sherrey.
So many connections, again. My mother played both piano and violin. We all took piano lessons. Only one of us can play today. My mother plays the pump organ that came from her home. Now in her Landis Homes apartment.
My mother also yodeled. I picked it up. We had fun.
When I addressed 5,000 Mennonite Youth in Nashville in 1998, I started out by yodeling. I wasn’t as good as the singer on your clip, however.
Cliff says, jokingly of course, one of us was born in the wrong family. As you say, so many connections.
Is it too late to take yodeling lessons? (Tee hee!)
I am the 4th generation to be a church musician. I don’t know that it was expected, but since my Mom taught piano, I had lessons. Eventually my cousin took over since I’d listen better to her. I do remember sitting my Mom down when I was 12, in all seriousness, to explain I didn’t want to be a concert pianist (she pushed me harder than her students). I’m sure she had a good laugh! Music and worship are such a big part of my life, and I’m so thankful it is part of my heritage. I wish one of my boys had been inclined, but I have never pushed them. They have many other gifts that God can use.
Thank you for the inspiring comment–and the touch of humor. I guess being 12 is serious business!
Marian …. Music was also huge in our home. My Dad played the guitar even into his 80s and early 90s.
When I was a kid, I took piano lessons from my music teacher. It might have begun as my idea, but I quickly tired of the hour-long piano practice I had to do. I’m not sure how long I stuck to it. When our girls were little, my husband and I used our tax money to buy them a piano and they took piano lessons. When they tired of it and I wanted them to continue, it might have been my Dad who told me that I shouldn’t force them to do something that I have an interest but they don’t. 😉
Music can be balm or bane, as your comments would suggest. Your Dad is wise in suggesting that you not try to bend the twig the wrong way – ha!
Bravo to your Dad for keeping up with his own love of music – and into his early 90s too! Obviously, he wasn’t withering away as many do at that age.
His mental abilities were sharp up until near the very end. After a fall, he did have a couple of times when he was confused in his thinking. He was 91 when he died.