Conversations... with Dad: This Cannot Be True

Saturday, December 22, 2007

This Cannot Be True

One of the many things that I heard said last Saturday afternoon was: "At some point in the lives of these boys, someone is going to make fun of them because they love to sing." I was at the Holiday Concert of the Keystone Boy Choir and the words were spoken by their choir director. I cannot tell you how my heart broke. And every time I think about it, I ache again. I cannot imagine any sound more beautiful or angelic as a Boy Choir. They produce a resonance that makes the entire area around my heart vibrate. As I watched these boys and young men on Saturday, as there heads flew back and there mouths flew open; and they swayed and smiled and their eyes shone with the kind of light that only comes from pure joy. I could not imagine who would want to take that from somebody. And I hoped and prayed that they knew a precious it is to find that kind of love and would not ever give anyone the power to take it away.

I came to be at this particular concert because my nephew, Malachi was making his

debut as an apprentice. I think that music in his life helps to complete him. We had our Malachi fan club there in body and spirit. And we held him up and celebrated. And then we went to dinner! As Malachi went on to do yet another performance.

If you're interested in learning more about the Keystone Boy Choir, check out there website here.

Enjoy this slide show of the performance. You will notice that I also have a fondness for pipe organs and stained glass windows. The women are from the Westminster Choir who sang an opening piece with the choir.

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About this Blog

My father died in 2003, 6 months after my mother. After his death, one of the things I missed most was our conversations. So I started this blog. We would sit at the kitchen table or on the front porch and have these long, philosophical conversations about the state of everything. Then we would solve all of the world's problems over a cigarette and a cup of coffee. One of the warmest memories I have was of him sitting on the front porch talking to me while I painted around him. It was the beginning of summer and he was commenting on how he wished he could pick up a brush and help. He often would read something from the paper and then voice his righteous indignation. It would end with a "It's a damn shame!" or "They must think we're stupid." I miss that. I miss the bond we shared around joint perspectives. And I miss the knowledge that could only come from one seasoned with so many life experiences, especially now that I have come to the point in my life that I know the real important questions to ask. I am 60 years old, and came of age during the '60s. I'm a proud boomer. I remember when poets poeted

Writers wrote... Actors acted out, Painters created art from everything and anything that remained still long enough to be painted

and there was truly civil disobedience at the very thought of someone taking away any of our freedoms.

And the world began to shift... A little. Well, I took a rest. And it must have been a long rest. I feel like Rip Van Winkle. Anyway, by the time I REALLY woke up things were shifting back. Way back. And right now, I gotta say I'm feeling like it's gonna take more thin I got to turn this around. And my dad's not here to share my anger, to talk about our outrage, and to answer my questions. So here is where I can have the conversations I would have with him if he were still here and we could share a cigarette and a cup of coffee on his front porch.