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 76th 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 76th 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
