Make It Sing

So, I didn't make the long list for the Creative Non-Fiction Literary Prize this time around. And, that's ok. The fact that I was able to write this little piece about my Dad so soon after his passing felt like a win in and of itself. I think I'll try again for the next round. I have plenty of time to pick a moment and expound on it in a creative non-fictiony way.

I kept this piece close to my chest, allowing few people to read in the event it was chosen. But, now that I know I've not been short-listed, I can share it here. It makes me smile when I read it and perhaps the reason for my non-success is because I can tell I wrote it with a broken heart. It really isn't CBC worthy and I can see that clearly now.

That evening is one I will cherish all my days.

I hope you enjoy this little glimpse of my Dad:

**

Make It Sing

Dalhousie Arts Centre, Halifax, NS

June 2007

It is no small matter to see my father perform his comedy act for the first time. He is in his 76^th year, and I am just now being afforded the opportunity to experience his hilarious hijinks and his dry, side-splitting jokes in the presence of strangers. Throughout my life, I have been a victim to his pranks, gags and quips; it is officially time to see him onstage, performing his screwball routine for an audience who has loved him longer than I have known him.

The crowd convening inside the Rebecca Cohen is an old-fashioned sea of bright, summery coat sweaters resting on rounded female shoulders, crowned with perfectly-coiffed white curls to complement their male counterparts, sporting haphazard comb-overs and dusty suit jackets. A devout crowd has collected for the Nova Scotia Classic Country Concert, a benefit for the Special Olympics, to reminisce, to return for a few hours to their formative years, to raucous kitchen parties and pool hall dances by way of a familiar roster of singers from the era, the fiddlers and performers who provided the soundtrack to their youthful shenanigans. The air is heavy with anticipation and a hint of impatience, married with a faint bouquet of floral talc and stale cigars. I bypass them all and slip backstage in search of Dad.

I find him in his dressing area, fussing in front of a mirror. His zany get-up includes a pair of old tattered overalls, a black felt Hillbilly hat with an arrow shot through the crown, bare feet, and his Ovation guitar strapped in place, with his joke prompts taped carefully to its curve. He is examining his face closely, adjusting his glasses under the brim of the humorous hat, muttering jokes beneath his breath. He catches my reflection in the mirror and spins on his heel, his arms open wide in exaggerated presentation.

“Ta da!”

“You look amazing and ridiculous.”

We both laugh.

“Are you nervous?” I ask in awe, sizing him up in his wacky ensemble.

“Piece of cake,” he says, confidently.

“I am so excited to finally see you on stage.”

His face tints and he fidgets. “What?”

“I said, I am excited to finally see you perform on stage.”

“That’s twice you said that,” he smirks.

I shake my head. He is always on, and I fall for it every single time.

Dad is given his curtain call: “Five minutes!” I snap a few pictures of his comedic form, give him a brisk hug, and rush to take my seat near the front of the auditorium. When I stop and look back at him, he’s adjusting his guitar and straightening his posture.

“Hey, Dad!” I give him a proud two-thumbs’ up. “Make it sing!”

He chuckles charmingly and nods. “You got it, Pontiac.”

The five minute curtain call turns out to be a lark. An hour later I am anxious, shifting in my seat as I wait for him to appear. I scan the auditorium to see scores of almost-snoring seniors, seconds away from nodding off. In the span of ninety minutes, the mood in the room has gone from jubilant to borderline comatose. The band launches into their next song, slow and deliberate: “Send me the pillow that you dream on …”

We are doomed. For the next two and a half minutes, at least.

My own eyes are getting heavy when the MC returns to the microphone. “This man doesn’t need any introduction. You know him, you love him, and he is here to entertain you. Put your hands together for the funny man himself, the Ben Colder of the Maritimes … Lawrence Myers!”

The seemingly pedestrian introduction upends itself to the swell of sleepy seniors rising to offer thunderous applause. Dad slides onto the stage, in character, ready to deliver. There he is, my Dad, rocking on his bare heels, cradling his guitar, grinning like a Cheshire cat. Farce is about to become force. My heart is in my throat and I’m on the edge of my seat. Dad launches in effortlessly.

“You know what they call a funeral where you can smell your own flowers? A wedding.”

The room is alive again. He immediately has them in the palm of his hand. The guys and dolls are alert, hanging on every zinger that rolls off the Joker’s quick tongue.

“A friend of mine opened up a dry-cleaners next to a convent. He knocked on the door and asked the Mother Superior if she had any dirty habits.”

He is a real pro: at home in the spotlight, inviting the adoration, feeding off it, reveling in it.

“A blind man walks into a bar … and a chair … and a table.”

Dulcet giggles morph into boisterous merriment. Witticisms, anecdotes and yarns pour out of him with ease; gags cringe-worthy and ridiculously silly induce rib-tickling laughter. He tells whole stories in a single sentence, striking creaky old funny bones so hard they are howling in the aisles. My cheeks twinge from smiling, a direct result of the pride I am experiencing from seeing him engage a room. So this is what all the fuss is about. He is a luminary, so revered. I was so unaware of just how much.

He rounds out five superb minutes of rip-snorting comedy with an impassioned rendition of “Green Green Grass of Home”. The grateful crowd sings along with him; some are even on their feet, swaying. “The old town looks the same, as I step down from the train, and there to meet me is my Mama and my Papa …”

        As he exits the stage, the applause and whistles are almost deafening. I spring from my seat and sneak backstage. This time I find him surrounded by his peers, shaking his hand, slapping his back, bantering and congratulating him on another job well done. It is a marvel to see the man, whom I know as a regular old Dad and affluent car salesman, turned into a beloved comedic superman.

I wait patiently for the crowd around him to subside and move toward him, a bashful fan.

“You were incredible up there,” I blurt.

“Thank you,” he says. “I’m happy you are here.”

“They were drowsy and then the energy was frenetic when you came out,” I muse. “It was amazing.”

“Did I make it sing?” he asks.

“Did you ever!”

He laughs. “Give me a few minutes to change and I’ll come find you, okay?”

Dad is not an affectionate man; not one to show a lot of emotion or bask in adulation, but this night I watch the next few songs at stage left with him. Without a word, he reaches, puts his arm around my shoulders, and squeezes. In his 76^th year, he embraces me, his youngest of six children, backstage at a benefit where he volunteered his time to help raise money for special athletes to fulfill their dreams in Beijing. The poignancy of this moment is that he made another young woman’s dream come true: mine.

I glance up at him, my heart brimming with pride. He is out of costume, back into his usual “Dad uniform” of slacks and a short-sleeved shirt, his glasses resting on the bridge of his nose, singing softly along with the folks now occupying the stage. I want to turn to him and tell him that I, too, have benefitted from his performance and from our close proximity right at this moment. I want to tell him how proud I am of him, proud and in awe of how he filled the room with joy.

I keep quiet and appreciate the moment. I think he knows. I hope he does.

He made it sing.

**

Hmmmm ... what to write about for the next literary prize?

Suggestions welcome!

In propinquity,

Nic