Ducks @ Oregon - University of Oregon

Dad

Katie D.

June 26, 2009 - 10:07 AM

My earliest memories are of you. You up on stage, singing the old classic rock songs. You dancing with your guitar. I think it was probably the Cherry Creek Sneak I am thinking of, one of those many gigs you played as a side entertainment to some community event. But what I remember then and from the dozens of times in my life is this thought: "my dad, the rock star." You playing and singing, always the front man in my mind. Me dancing with Mom and later with Little Sister, too. You were the rock god to this little girl. The unquestioned hero.

Now that I am older, I understand what an amazing thing it is that you have done with your life. You have balanced a serious job and support of your family with a maintenance of your passions in life. That guitar has been a constant since you were younger than I am now. And I have already experienced over and over that it is so easy to leave our passions behind when life gets busy, as yours certainly has been.

It's not just the music. It's the art as well. The stained glass when I was younger: the ballerina slippers you made to hang in my window. The stained glass lamp on Mom's desk.

You have made everything possible in my life, and for all our family. But you have never let your responsibilities and your incredible work ethic stop you from following your passions. At least that's how it looks to me: that you followed stained glass until you found a new interest, and then you transformed your art studio into a recording studio. You love playing in bands so you've joined new ones: not just classic rock cover bands now, but also horn bands, original solo work, and Celtic music. You love guitar, but you've expanded into other instruments now, including that dual harmonica and guitar trick we all find so amusing.

All this has taught me so much. To follow my passions no matter what else I have to do to maintain them. That work ethic and fun go hand in hand. Now that I've begun to work at nearly full time jobs, I am recognizing what you've been teaching me all along: to be strategic, to be committed, and to make yourself a valuable employee and thereby gain a degree of flexibility that is not offered to all.

I know you have sometimes thought some of my plans were somewhat of crazy. You've worried that I was taking myself, your beloved daughter, into dangerous or outlandish circumstances with my traveling and volunteering. We don't always see eye to eye on politics or other matters. But increasingly we're talking about these things and finding again and again how important it is that we will always have things we share.

One of the things we will always share is music. From the early days of Dad's gigs and listening to you play in the family room or in your basement practice area (including that favorite song of mine, which I thought for years included the lyrics "and the bear chases my blues away") we have always shared music together. Now we get together and transfer over hundreds of songs from our itunes.

And we get together and write music now. What a wonderful dovetailing of the skills and passions I have developed during my whole life with you: that we can sit in the basement with scratch tracks of your recordings and my scribbled lyrics and make something magical happen.

So I guess this is all a thank-you, Dad. A thank you for a lifetime of music and examples of how to live. For the fun times ahead, for our future musical collaborations and the long talks on the way to Grandma's house. Maybe someday we can still get together on stained glass lessons. Maybe you'll come join me for more of my traveling adventures (and I promise to be a better tour guide than I was in Chile!) Maybe someday I'll finally get the hang of the guitar so I can play with you, which has always been one of my fondest dreams.

But regardless of this, here's some love from your oldest daughter. Thank you, thank you, thank you for everything you are and have always been to me.

With love.