Melancholy memories
My father died nearly ten years ago, and I still find myself thinking at least once a month "You know, I should really call dad tonight". He and I were never especially close, and seldom saw each other after I left for college. I suppose it's hard for the fact of someone's death to sink in when he provided so little evidence of being alive.
We had a difficult relationship. He was brought up with the patented British arm's-length school of emotional intimacy, and also somehow convinced himself that he had nothing to say to children between the ages of 4 and 18. Once you were out of diapers and no longer amused by being bounced on his knee, he had no backup plan, and instead simply withdrew, awaiting your adulthood when the relationship would miraculously resume. Needless to say, this theory didn't work out well in practice. I was terrified that I would show the same tendencies as a father, despite a lot of evidence to the contrary; fortunately, despite my other strong resemblances to him, I've dodged both that and his excessive fondness for gin.
All of this is on my mind today because Rhapsody (my online music service) just added several albums by Turk Murphy and his New Orleans-style jazz band. My parents were big fans of his in early-1960s San Francisco, and I grew up listening to his music on my dad's records. That influence is part of why I chose to learn to play trombone. As I became a reasonably good trombonist, I'd jam along with Turk (being left entirely in his dust, of course) while my dad played the spoons. This was about the closest we routinely came to having a father-son relationship. So now when I hear New Orleans jazz, and especially those old Turk Murphy tunes, my enjoyment of the music is overlaid with wistful nostalgia and sadness.
Sometimes I think the best part about getting older is that emotions get richer and more complex as time goes on. Everything you experience is flavored by what went before. Even melancholy makes a good spice.
We had a difficult relationship. He was brought up with the patented British arm's-length school of emotional intimacy, and also somehow convinced himself that he had nothing to say to children between the ages of 4 and 18. Once you were out of diapers and no longer amused by being bounced on his knee, he had no backup plan, and instead simply withdrew, awaiting your adulthood when the relationship would miraculously resume. Needless to say, this theory didn't work out well in practice. I was terrified that I would show the same tendencies as a father, despite a lot of evidence to the contrary; fortunately, despite my other strong resemblances to him, I've dodged both that and his excessive fondness for gin.
All of this is on my mind today because Rhapsody (my online music service) just added several albums by Turk Murphy and his New Orleans-style jazz band. My parents were big fans of his in early-1960s San Francisco, and I grew up listening to his music on my dad's records. That influence is part of why I chose to learn to play trombone. As I became a reasonably good trombonist, I'd jam along with Turk (being left entirely in his dust, of course) while my dad played the spoons. This was about the closest we routinely came to having a father-son relationship. So now when I hear New Orleans jazz, and especially those old Turk Murphy tunes, my enjoyment of the music is overlaid with wistful nostalgia and sadness.
Sometimes I think the best part about getting older is that emotions get richer and more complex as time goes on. Everything you experience is flavored by what went before. Even melancholy makes a good spice.