Copacabana

It's better than drinking alone

When I was a kid, between the ages of 9 and 13 (I can't remember the exact year), I was traveling with my family in our van to Maryland, a trip we made every summer. This particular year I was in the last seat of the van, staring at the trees and the blacktop shooting past the window, when the song "Piano Man" by Billy Joel came on the radio. My siblings (all 6 of them) must have been sleeping because I remember the few blissful moments without distraction it took for the song to play through. I had recently become quite the fan of Mr. Joel so I knew every word of that song by heart (still do in fact) and, as I stared out the window, occasionally adjusting my eyes to look at my own reflection, I mouthed those words and, what's more, I understood them. I got the poignancy and sadness of those people and I recognized then that sometimes life leaves you empty and all you have going for you is the miracle that there are people willing to sing about it. Right about the last stanza I happened to look toward the front of the van and I saw my father's eyes in the rearview mirror, watching me feel this song. As he looked me in the eye he told me he was both pleased and impressed. But mostly proud. He was proud of his daughter for recognizing the bittersweet even if she hadn't yet had to really negotiate it. And I felt like a good person, a good soul, for getting it because he said it in that look, something he's not always able to do verbally (I inherited this trait from him). I've never forgotten that moment. I thought of it today driving to work. I always cry.

I associate a lot of music with my father -- anything by George Jones or Johnny Cash, The entire Brothers in Arms album by Dire Straits and, more recently, the soundtrack to O Brother Where Art Thou. But, for me, "Piano Man" is our song. Happy Birthday Pop. I love you so much. You told me recently that I was clearly smart because I didn't have to just be a work horse like you had been. Here's the thing Pop: if I manage to make something of myself in this life it has little to do with being smart. Trust me there. People could care less. But you being a workhorse, that gave me the opportunity to not have to be. So thank you. I doubt anyone will ever do as much for me again in life. I'm one of the lucky ones to have had you.

Greatest Hits Vols. 1 & 2 by Billy Joel

posted by Lola @ 12:38 PM