My family tree vibrates from top to bottom with talented musicians. My father is not one of them.  He sings off-key and his piano skills consist of thumping out chords from "The Fake Book" while humming enthusiastically.

Sorry, Dad, but you know it’s true

Where he lacks talent, my father compensates with his love of music. While talent is determined by the genetic dice roll, appreciation can be cultivated. Although my father’s interest in music is broad, the opening notes of a Broadway show transform his expression into mesmerized joy.  

Attending The Mountain Play was a tradition in our family as solid as the Marin County Fair. I was six years old when I watched, “Annie Get Your Gun.” As the orchestra played the first notes from behind the stage, everything fell away. I no longer noticed the sticky Popsicle residue on my fingers or the guy with the baseball hat blocking my view. I only heard the notes fluttering up to the tops of the trees and exploding like fireworks. As the show continued, colors swirled inside me. I wanted to throw down my egg salad sandwich and dance.

Even after the performers took their bows and the orchestra had packed up, the music pumped through my body like blood.  My father and I skipped down the Bootjack trail to the car singing, “There’s no business like show business!”  My mother pretended not to know us. After all, we were out of tune and practically yelling, and the trail was full of sunburned, tired playgoers who were happy to leave it to the professionals, thank you very much.  

But, if we didn’t sing, we might have burst.

This year, my husband and I continued the tradition and took our own children to see "The Wizard of Oz.”  When the music started, I snuck a glance at my four-year-old, Kai’s face. His eager expression was replaced with a look of pure concentration and awe. “I can’t wait for the next song,” he whispered after the first number. Time will tell if musical talent has shaken down to him, but there’s no doubt that Grandpa’s appreciation of music has deep roots.

On the way back to the car, the music still pumping through us, I grabbed Kai’s hand. We skipped down the hill, singing, “It’s off the see the Wizard. The Wonderful Wizard of Oz.”

Loud. Possibly off-key.

My husband pretended not to know us.  

But, if we didn’t sing, we might have burst.

By Maya Creedman

Labels: Maya Creedman

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# posted by Writing Mamas Salon @ 12:31 AM