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Ep 6: A Song for My Father · The Starter

• A Song for My Father It’s been a helluva week, and I’m tired. We’re all tired. I’m lying on the couch, pulling up old videos of Henry on my laptop. There’s one I’m looking for in particular. “Dada, are you?” I hear Phillip call out from the kitchen. He has lost interest in the movie that Lizzie and Teddy are watching in the other room. “I’m in here buddy,” I yell back. Phillip trots over and pulls himself up on the couch. At two years old, he is strong and solid, and happy. “Wanna see Henry?” I ask. He lights up. Phillip loves his people. I pull up a black and white frame on the screen, and press play. The video begins. A few years ago, Henry auditioned for the summer jazz program at Wayne State. Before his audition, he found a quiet place to practice in the stairwell on the bottom floor of the music building. In the video, Henry appears in black and white, pacing slowly near a window at the bottom of the stairs. He runs through some scales, and practices the piece he had chosen. “Henry!” Phillip shouts when he sees him. Henry is dressed in all black, with long hair pulled down over his eyes. The notes from his saxophone are careful and elegant. They bounce off the concrete walls and fill the tiny space. Three years ago, Henry was already becoming a master. The video runs for about twenty seconds, then Henry sees me, stops playing, and smiles, pulling the reed away from his face. I remember the day he told us about the audition. We were standing in the kitchen, around the butcher block island; me and Henry and Lizzie. At 15, Henry was not much of a talker, you really had to extract the information. “What’s the program all about?” I asked him. “It’s the Summer Jazz Program.” Henry said. “Where is it?” “At Wayne State.” “So you go to Detroit every day?” “Yeah.” “How will you get there?” “Uhhh…” Then Lizzie posed the all-important question: “What song are you going to play for your audition?” she asked. “A Song for My Father,” said Henry. “By Horace Silver.” Lizzie looked at me. A song for me, even if he didn’t realize it. I didn’t know the song, so I looked it up. A jazz standard from the 60s. I gave it a listen. It was familiar. But not because I had heard it before - it was the bass line. The same exact bass line from “Rikki Don’t Lose that Number,” by Steely Dan. A song, for my father. Long before it was a thing, my dad was a connoisseur of yacht rock. Fleetwood Mac, the Doobie Brothers, Steely Dan. We grew up on these songs. They played over the stereo in my dad’s Town Car as we drove around Dearborn. And he would play cassettes on the little tape deck in the boat, out on the Detroit River - back when you could still cross over into Canada like it was nothing. Over the past year, my dad has been making an effort to be a part of our lives - even if it’s only a small part. He has already lost one son. He wants to be around for the two he has left, and get to know his grandsons. I text him photos and videos of the boys every now and then, and try to keep him in the loop. Regular contact with my dad is not something that comes naturally. One year for Father’s Day, Brian sent me a box of Maldon Sea Salt flakes, the “gold standard in finishing salt,” according to chefs worldwide. “I always get a little salty around this holiday,” Brian said. As the oldest brother, Brian stepped up. He would pack our lunches in the mornings before school. When I was five, he taught me how to ride my bike, out in the front yard on the grass, so I wouldn’t get hurt too bad when I fell. He showed me how to oil a baseball glove, and leave a ball in it overnight, wrapped tight so it would hold its form. Always good in a time of crisis, my dad was the one who drove up to the UP to pick Brian up from Michigan Tech after his first manic episode. And he was the one who got him out of the mental hospital in Warm Springs, Montana, years later. But Brian didn’t want an emergency dad, he just wanted him to be there. “I am on my way,” my Dad texted me. We weren’t expecting him for another week. He had gotten an early start. He was driving through the vast expanse of the Dakotas, and making good time. It’s a long drive from Montana. We had made the trip before. I hadn’t seen him since we were in Bozeman, last July. “Your dad looks like a caricature of himself,” my mom commented when she saw him, limping up to the outdoor venue where we had Brian’s Celebration of Life. Maybe it was his yellow-tinted aviators, or the full white head of hair and matching beard. When we were kids, my dad bore a striking resemblance to Mike Ditka, head coach of the Chicago Bears. Hefty, with heavily moussed hair and a thick mustache. My dad had trimmed down quite a bit since the 90s, and his full head of hair had gone white years ago. He had some health issues and had been through a rough couple years. Lots of surgeries. The drive must have been taxing, but he made it in safely, across seven states and 1,600 miles in his white Subaru with no AC. We had talked about Henry’s graduation, but my dad decided it was best for him to come out a few weeks before. “I know your mom doesn’t want me there,” he said. The day he got in, he came over to the house. He brought Teddy and Phillip little black cowboy hats and bags full of colorful rocks; “gemstones,” from the world-famous Wall Drug in the middle of Nowhere, South Dakota. The boys fought over the gemstones. In a few days, the rocks would be forgotten, relegated to the bottom of a toy bin. But for now, they were treasures. Teddy and Phillip warmed up to my dad. “Grampa Mark!” they yelled. Before bath time, he read Teddy a book. There is a threshold with toddlers, during what Lizzie likes to call “the witching hour.” Phillip might get a little unsteady on his feet, Teddy might whine just a little more than usual. The bickering amplifies. When you see the signs, it’s time to go up. I ran the bath, and Lizzie followed with the boys. My dad wanted to say goodnight. He climbed the stairs, pulling himself up with the handrail. After a few steps, he stopped to catch his breath. “Is your dad okay?” Lizzie asked, “Maybe you should see if he needs help on the stairs.” I called down to him, “Dad, are you okay? Do you need help?” He paused. “Yeah, I got it,” he said, and continued his climb. After he went back to Montana, the boys would stand at the front window and look out for his white Subaru. A few weeks before my dad’s visit, I had sat down at my desk to write out my final child support check. It was, in one word; bittersweet. Before Henry got his license, I drove him back and forth to his mom’s house in Wyandotte; a 40 minute drive. There was talk, and music. Always music. Whenever I played him something new or different, Henry would ask me about the song, and the artist. One day I put on some Hendrix. “I don’t think I know this one,” Henry said as the first few notes from “Burning of the Midnight Lamp,” played over the car stereo. “It’s one of my favorites, “ I said. “You hear that overlay on the guitar?” Henry listened closely. “It’s a harpsichord,” I told him. “Jimi Hendrix didn’t even play harpsichord. He just thought the song needed it, so he learned.“ “Cool song,“ said Henry. Henry was in his final days of senior year. Pretty soon he would take off for the whole summer, to tour and compete in the Drum Corps International marching band circuit. I planned a camping trip - just the two of us. A couple days to take a break from it all, and for Henry to catch his breath before he was off and running. As always, Lizzie helped me with the planning. “All the state campgrounds are booked,” she said, looking on her phone. “It’s Memorial Day weekend. It’s gonna be busy.” I had not thought of this. Lizzie dug further and found a private campground near South Haven that had plenty of open sites. Dune Lake Campground. I booked us a campsite. On our first night out, I planned a steak dinner. A throwback to our Out West trip ten years ago. I cooked the steaks in a pan on the Coleman camp stove. They sizzled in the pan. “Hey, you remember when we were camping at Glacier?” I asked Henry. “And Uncle Brian and Jacob came and met us there?” “That was a long time ago,” said Henry. “Yeah - it was ten years. ago ” I said. “I don’t know if you remember, but that first night, Brian brought steaks with him, and cooked us all a gourmet meal. That was Lizzie’s first impression of him - she had never met him before. We had been surviving on noodles and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and Brian rolled up with steaks. It was pretty baller.” “Oh yeah,” said Henry. “That was pretty baller.” I topped the steaks with bleu cheese and threw the lid on the pan. The bleu cheese softened and melted over the new york strips. They were delicious. Henry and I spent the next couple days riding bikes, hiking around the dunes, and walking along the beach. The stones that washed up onshore were flat and polished - perfect for skipping across the water. Lake Michigan was still icy cold in late May. As we waded in the water, my toes turned bright red, and went numb. I slowly eased myself into the freezing cold water up to my waist, and then dove under. The cold shock sent a spasm through my back, and I tensed up. It felt like I had pulled a muscle. As I waded out of the water, back onto shore, I turned to Henry, “Dude - getting older kind of sucks sometimes,” I said, rubbing my back. Back at the campground there was a much smaller lake - a pond, really. Dune Lake. The water was cold but not icy. The bottom was cloudy. Henry kicked at the mucky sand with his bare feet. “Hey what are those things called that stick on you and suck your blood?” he asked. “Leeches.” I told him. The scene from Stand by Me flashed through my mind. “There probably aren’t any here though.” Henry looked down at the water. “Yeah, I’m good,” he said, and stepped back onto the shore. I dove under, and swam out to the middle of the murky pond. Later that night at the campground, Henry walked around and gathered wood for the fire. He threw a log down by the firepit, and looked up. “Dang,” he said. “We forgot the s’mores.” “We did, didn’t we?” I said. You always forget something. “Guess we’ll have to go back to the Dollar G.” We pulled up to the Dollar General and walked through the automatic doors, into the cold blowing AC and fluorescent lights. Henry and I searched the aisles for the proper elements, and came up short. Henry had located a chocolate bar, but beyond that we didn’t have much luck. “Let’s go ask whoever works here,” I said. We found the girl working the cash register and explained our situation. “Yeah they just remodeled,” she said. “I don’t know where anything is anymore.” We followed her through the store, and she pointed out the marshmallows, and then the graham crackers. They were tucked away at the back of a bottom shelf. I reached down and pulled out a couple boxes, and we were presented with two different options: the store brand, cinnamon flavor, and the name brand, Honey-Maid, with individually wrapped packs for freshness. Fresh Stacks, they called it. “You know that’s my rapper name?” I said to Henry. “What - Fresh Stacks?” He said. “Yeah,” I grinned. We stood there in the aisle of the Dollar General, holding two different boxes of graham crackers, and laughed. I could still elicit a genuine chuckle from my 18-year-old son with a corny dad joke. We were doing alright. On Sunday morning, the rain poured down, and we packed up camp. We threw all the wet gear into the back of the van, and headed home. I would deal with the soaked tents later. Monday was Memorial Day, and we had a barbecue at the house. Greg and Fiona had driven up from Asheville for Henry’s graduation, and they were staying with my mom. They brought food. Henry brought his new girlfriend. Greg texted me the day before; What’s your propane situation like? He had a whole Mediterranean feast planned - shish kabobs on the grill, tzatziki, hummus, veggies. He did not want my lack of planning to be the downfall of our feast. I texted him back. Yeah I got a couple tanks out there by the grill. Greg: Okay - but are they full? Have you even checked? Me: Yeah they should be alright, I think. I used them last summer or whatever. Greg: Seriously?? (with two question marks) As the youngest brother, it is my duty to be somewhat of a pain in the ass. I fired up the grill. Our propane situation seemed fine. We stood on the back patio, and my mom walked out and leaned against a chair, taking in the scene in the backyard. Teddy and Phillip ran around in the grass, Henry played along. The sun was shining. “Brian should be here,” she said. Her voice broke. “Yeah,” I sighed. “He should.” My mom and I stood by the table full of food, and we were silent for a moment. She asked about our camping trip. “Did you and Henry talk?” she said. “No,” I told her, “We pretty much just sat around the campfire and looked at our phones the whole time.” She rolled her eyes. “I mean about going to college next year. Big life changes.” “Oh - yeah,” I said. “We talked.” Henry and I had gone on a long bike ride that weekend; 25 miles, most of it down a rutted-out trail with long wavy grass and patches of fresh mud. At one point we stopped for water, and snacks. I had brought some trail mix. “Hey did you know that peanuts are not actually nuts?” I said to Henry, and passed him the bag of trail mix. “What?” he said. “Yeah - they’re legumes,” I said. “Like beans or peas. From the legume family. I never knew that until recently. It totally blew my mind. We’ve basically just been eating beans this whole time.” “Huh,” said Henry. “Legumes.” My mom pulled out a chair and sat down. “Greg has been cooking all day,” she said. “And eating ham. It’s the funniest thing,” she went on. “He’ll be in a cranky mood, but then he’ll get the ham out of the fridge and start whistling and singing. Happy as a clam.” That was a phrase my mom used to describe Greg often, when he was in his element and thoroughly enjoying himself. Happy as a clam, and singing about the ham. F’IN GOOD HAM, MOM. That line had been a running joke among the Ho Bros for as long as I could remember. Growing up, we watched sketch comedy shows like Saturday Night Live and In Living Color, and the lesser known Canadian program, the Kids in the Hall. There’s a skit from that show where a family is sitting around the dinner table, and a surly teenager commends his mom on a well-cooked meal - a delicious ham steak. “It’s really fucking good,” he says. The parents are taken aback at the teenager’s salty language, but he defends his stance. “That’s F’in good ham, dad!” Of course we turned that line into, “F’in good ham, mom,” and we’d been saying it ever since. Usually we would use the censored version, but sometimes, if the moment called for it, we’d let loose with the full colorful phrase in all its splendor, “Fuckin’ good ham, mom.” Whenever ham is around, that line resurfaces. Greg and I kick it back and forth a few times during the course of his visit. Brian would approve. Greg got to work on the grill, and the propane held out. He had brought some bread dough with him, and he did something I didn’t know was possible with sourdough; he grilled it. My mom had started making bread a few months ago. I gave her some of my sourdough starter - the one that Greg gave me, the same starter that traces back to Brian. Greg took some fresh dough my mom had made, flattened it, and carefully placed it on the grill, turning it over as soon as it threatened to char. It turned out perfect, like a grilled flatbread. For me, it was the highlight of the meal. The next day was Henry’s graduation dinner at the Gandy Dancer, a classy old Ann Arbor restaurant housed in the original train station, an old stone building right along the train tracks. As we all sat down to dinner, Phillip started getting squirrely, and I took him outside for a walk. We wandered over to the Amtrak station next door, and watched a passenger train pull in. Phillip looked on in awe as I held him in my arms, just a few feet from the tracks. Passengers got off, new ones got on, and the train started up again. As it picked up speed on the tracks, a breeze rolled through, and blew through our hair. Phillip was silent. When Henry was three, he loved trains. I would take him down to this same Amtrak station so he could watch the trains go by, with the same sense of awe and wonder, as we stood and felt the wind from the passing cars. The next day, we brought a solid crew to cheer on Henry at his graduation. When they announced his name into the mic, they even got it right this time. “Hollowell,” not Holloway, thank you very much. Henry walked onstage, and the band roared. I shouted out my go-to “Yeah Henry!” After the ceremony, we stood outside and took pictures as the sun went down. Henry’s mom was there with her oldest son Cole, Henry’s older brother. I hadn’t seen him in a few years. Cole had become a father, and his baby boy had just turned one. They named him Jack. Half a lifetime ago, I was Cole’s stepdad, back when we lived out past the orange groves north of Orlando. He looked good, and happy. We made plans to have dinner soon, and I invited him and his little family out to our house. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” said Cole. When he had graduated six years ago, Lizzie and I went to the grad party. I gave him a card with some money in it, and we played cornhole in the backyard at his mom’s house. A few weeks later, Cole sent me a thank you card, with a note: “Out of all my mom’s boyfriends,” Cole wrote. “You were my favorite. Including my dad.” Cole was six years old when I walked into his life, the same age as Henry when Lizzie and I started dating. It’s an odd thing to be a stepparent. You often don’t know your place, and how far to step sometimes. But you do your best. During the ceremony, as Henry played with his high school symphony band for the final time, Lizzie wiped away tears. She is a good stepmom. Later, I texted my dad photos from the ceremony, and I sent him a video of Henry walking onstage to get his diploma. “He got away with it!” My dad texted back. “Love and miss you all.” As graduation week came to a close, Greg and Fiona drove back down to Asheville, and Henry started packing. We slowly eased back into our normal routines. This morning I’m up early, and it’s dark outside. Lizzie and the boys are sleeping upstairs, and I’m back on the couch, trying to find another video - from when Henry was two. It’s one of the few living artifacts I have from that time. “Henry’s Techno Breakfast.” I search in YouTube. Nothing comes up. I punch it into old email accounts and still come up short. I know it’s out there somewhere. After a deep dive into ancient Facebook posts, I recover an old YouTube account, and bring it back to life. Then I push play. Our old dog Honey walks out in front of the camera. I forgot we had her. A spotted mini greyhound mix, and a sweet dog. And then there’s little two-year-old Henry; head full of curls, and a big smile. He is sitting in his high chair at our old house in Florida, the one with the hardwood floors that he used to ride his Little Tikes police car around on. On the tray in front of him is a cookie. Techno music is blaring in the background, and I’m goofing off. I have props: a stormtrooper helmet and big white Mickey Mouse hands that I had borrowed from Cole; a Disney World souvenir. Henry is center frame, and I move in and out around his high chair, with my white Mickey Mouse gloves swirling over his head, and stormtrooper helmet bobbing up and down. Henry smiles and laughs, and smacks me across the face of the helmet. Days at home with Henry. We had fun, and I made him laugh. The video ends, and I fold the laptop shut. Later that morning, Henry’s mom texts me a photo. Henry is standing outside in front of the airport. He looks tired. His head is freshly shaven, and he has a patch of facial hair. Maybe it’s the haircut, or maybe it’s because he’s eighteen, and about to leave on an adventure. But he looks like a man. He will be gone all summer, traveling cross country and playing baritone with the two-hundred piece Blue Stars marching band. I text her back: The buzzcut! Thank you for sending. That Henry - he is a great kid.