My late father’s loafers sit in my front hall, alongside my late mother’s brogues. Above the shoes, on a peg, hangs his plaid-wool cap.
His Timex, stopped at 1 sharp, tops the tangle of necklaces in my jewelry box, a disorder that would have vexed him, a man so neat and organized.
His ashes occupy a cardboard box in the closet to my left—a temporary situation, I tell myself, though it’s been a year and counting.
The shoes, the cap, the wristwatch—he wore them for so many years that they became part of him, as much as possessions can. For that reason, I keep them. For that reason, they remind me of his absence, these tangible, physical belongings of a man who will never again be a tangible, physical presence—presence, to me, suggesting alertness and life.
If my father is present anywhere, other than in my memories, it’s in the audio recordings he made at my request from the mid-nineties until Christmas 2010. In them, in ever frailer tones, he tells stories of growing up as an Italian-American during the Depression, and he answers questions that I posed in person or left behind on visits.
At the time the tapes were made, I didn’t know that the sound that they preserved, the sound of my father’s voice, would become as precious to me as the stories they recorded—maybe more precious in that his voice suggests that living, physical presence I now miss so much. It delivers him back to me in a way no photograph can.
My mother’s voice, which I also recorded, is every bit as much of a treasure. One day, in some way, I hope to give it its due. But for now, in honor of Father’s Day, I want to express thanks for just a few of the many gifts that my dad’s recordings have left for my brothers and me:
They paint vivid pictures of his childhood. I can imagine the coal-mining town he grew up in, where work was as uncertain as it was dangerous. I can see my father setting out to pick berries with his beloved mother, a woman I knew only through his stories.
They remind me of his love for my mother, and for my brothers and me. (An aside, from a mini-biography my mom wrote of my dad: “He believed in women’s lib long before it was conceived. More likely, it was because he was a caring person. He changed diapers, gave the children their bottles when they were babies, and helped out whenever he could. He believed that marriage should be a cooperative endeavor.”)
They remind me of his love of music, and of his humor and warmth.
They yield new discoveries upon every re-listen. On my latest pass through the recordings, I heard my dad praise the cymbal brushing and other subtle drum work on André Previn & company’s version of “Bewitched.” Was this an insight I’d somehow missed, or did I just forget it? In any case, it felt like fresh news from my father, and I’m so thankful that the recording preserved it.
After hearing Dad’s praise, I revisited the version of “Bewitched” that he referred to, and the experience brought me back to all those times we sat together in the living room, companionably mum as we listened to whatever jazz CD or record we’d decided to share. (Incidentally, in the recording I linked to previously, the drum work starts at 3:06.)
Now, the sound of my father’s voice endures in that same timeless realm as all that music we listened to together. Thanks to the effort he dedicated to the recordings, I’ve been delivered from the prospect of never hearing it again.
Oh Beth. The tribute to your beloved dad is so heartfelt and moving. I never got to know him well, but your mother’s telling us of his treatment of you all told me he was a prince of a man.
May his recordings and your precious memories bring you solace.
My brother and Zi wrote a book about our dear daddy. Hope you can do the same sometime.
Love, Butch
Butch, thanks so much for your kind words. I love it that your brother wrote a book about your dad. He must have been a wonderful man. Hugs to you and your family.
Love,
Beth
Beth, this is such a beautiful and moving remembrance!
Thanks so much, Bethie. I always remember how you were another daughter to my folks.
Beth, that is lovely. Thank you for sharing this.
Thanks so much, Catherine!
Thank you Beth! It’s wonderful that you have your father’s stories–on audio no less. I find the story of immigrants working in the coal industry to be fascinating. My maternal grandmother’s family lived in Coalport, PA. And I have always loved that music from “Bewitched.” Nice to hear others enjoy it as well.
Thanks for your kind words, Sarah! I didn’t realize that you had a PA connection, to coal-mining country no less. Stories of immigrants and the mining industry fascinate me as well.
Beth, thanks for including the recordings so we could enjoy your father’s warmth and humor. How wonderful that you had him record his memories and experiences.
Thanks, Karen!
Hi Beth! Lovely all around.
xoxo
Val
What a beautiful tribute, Beth, and what a powerful way to commemorate him.
Thanks so much, Steve!
Aw Beth I’m sitting here bawling (in a good way!) hearing your dad’s voice for the first time in a long time. Isn’t it interesting how voices stay with us so long after we’ve heard them in person — even after the person is no longer here. And your tribute to him is so heartfelt and moving — thanks for sharing it. I’m so glad I got to know your parents, however briefly the time was that we spent together. I have such warm memories of them — they were always so warm and welcoming to me. Thanks for sharing his voice, and yours.
Terri, both of my folks thought the world of you. I’m so glad they got to meet you. Thanks for your kind words about this essay. xoxo
This is so lovely, Beth. Thank you! And what a great idea to record your father. And guess what? I also have Pennsylvania coal mining roots — near Uniontown, Serbians, though there were Italians at the mines, too. Love, love, love.
Thanks so much, Cathy. That’s cool that you have coal mining roots, too! So many immigrants worked in the mines. I remember my dad mentioning Serbians, Czechs, Poles, French folks, etc. Love, B
Beth, thank you for sharing such a lovely tribute to your wonderful Dad. I enjoyed hearing his voice again. I remember how ‘Uncle Nelson’ could always make my mother laugh. I have one recording if my father. When I was in High School, he sat at the kitchen table reading from a novel, I was assigned at school. My best friend Linda was there too. My dad read a couple of paragraphs, and as always, started using a funny voice, portraying all the different characters. Linda is laughing in the background. She had a very high and distinctive laugh. He kept going. She kept laughing. It was a great moment for me. Your cousin Tina
Tina, I love that story about your wonderful dad, and I’m so glad you have that recording of him. Thanks for sharing that great memory. Love you, Beth.