My parents passed along a variety of cool and quirky personality traits and interests to me, not the least of which is a love of folk music. Maybe it’s the writer in me, but I’m a sucker for a good story-telling song and an acoustic guitar. I grew up listening to James Taylor, Jim Croche, Simon & Garfunkel, John Denver, and others. I remember that my dad, in particular, was very fond of John Denver.
My earliest memories of hearing his music involve riding in the back seat of my dad’s old red Datsun as “Country Roads” played through the little speakers. Growing up on a dirt road in the hills of West Virginia, I felt an instant connection and kinship with the man behind the melodious voice.
A child of the 80’s, my second memory of John Denver includes him singing alongside Kermit the Frog on my very favorite television program. Which, in my eyes, made him the coolest guy in the world.
Whenever I hear a Denver song I’m transported back to those early days in West Virginia — when my two best friends were my little sister, and my dog; I was still full of innocence, and life felt perfect. And, reflexively, I also think about my dad.
As you can imagine, I have quite a soft-spot for Denver’s music.
This past summer my family and I rented a lovely little beach cottage in our favorite town. The owners of our rental are either of a different generation, or old souls, like me, because the tiny CD collection on their bookcase included Barbara Streisand, a two-CD set of greatest hits from the 60’s, and John Denver.
I was delighted to find the John Denver CD and played it at full volume every day as we packed lunches to take to the beach, played cards at the dining room table, or hung out on the back deck (or until my family begged me to put on something else). The first song on the CD was “Rocky Mountain High” and a couple of times as I sang along at the top of my lungs, I grabbed my son by the hand and made him dance with me.
With an eye roll and some minor protest he usually gave in and we swayed arm-in-arm in the cottage’s little living room as I talked to him about the importance of being a confident dance partner, how to lead a lady with firm placement of the hand on her back, and demonstrated a very crude, but basic two-step dance.
He was not yet 14, still very much a boy. The top of his head only came to my chin, and his slight frame was dwarfed by my plus-sized curves. But we danced and laughed, and he even gave me a spin now and again. It’s one of my favorite memories from that trip — a new memory for which Denver’s silvery tenor voice became the soundtrack.
It’s an extraordinary gift to have three generations and life’s sweetest moments threaded together by a simple song.
Five weeks ago I got a call from the hospital where my dad works in the maintenance department. He’d been in a serious accident. They gave me little details but said it was severe enough they were medi-vaccing him to the large university hospital over the mountain.
When you work for a big regional hospital, they don’t medivac you someplace else for just a minor injury. I knew it must be bad.
I sent a hasty text to my boss, grabbed my purse and keys, and began the 2.5 hour drive. On the way, all kinds of thoughts and scenarios flashed through my head.
Over the years my dad and I have had a complicated relationship. He was my childhood hero, and also the man who left — twice. He was the savior who rescued me from the scariest night of my life, but also the one who broke up our family a few years later. I struggled for a long time to come to terms with those things and their juxtaposition. There was even a period where we didn’t speak for nearly two years.
But he’s still my dad.
These days we talk on the phone weekly and see each other pretty often. Our shared responsibilities in caring for my Grandma have brought us together in many ways. We fall into easy conversation, and although most definitely do not see eye-to-eye on many things, we never shy away from the difficult topics like religion, interpretation of scripture, politics, and even our past. We challenge each other, sometimes soften positions, and often agree to disagree. But our conversations always end with the biggest of bear hugs and an “I love you”.
And these are all of the things that were swirling in my head. I wasn’t thinking about those two years we didn’t talk.
I wasn’t thinking about how I felt abandoned when he left our family.
I wasn’t thinking about any of the things we’ve disagreed on over the years.
All I could think was, I don’t want to lose my dad.
And then my iPod moved on to the next song. And I heard it…
…John Denver’s sweet, dulcet voice singing, “He left yesterday behind him, you might say he was born again. You might say he found a key for every door.”
And the tears flowed freely.
I don’t recall if my dad and I ever danced to a John Denver song in a tiny living room. But I think that’s something I’d like to try.