The only indication I had that Father’s Day was approaching was an advertisement my friend, Tony, posted on Facebook. He owned a small outdoor restaurant attached to a marina that possessed the unassuming name, “yacht club.” (It might surprise you to know that even though the word “yacht” has come to be defined as an enormous luxury craft complete with a gym, a dance floor and a sauna, the actual definition is “boat.” Those liners we associate with the word are really called “super yachts.”)
Now, as a musician with an addiction to playing publicly for money, I texted Tony and asked him if that occasion might be an appropriate one for live music, and he enthusiastically said I should come at 12:30 when he was serving his lunch buffet.
When Sunday approached, I drove to the supermarket in the town of Stone Ridge, where my ex likes to exchange the children for several hours of quiet and freedom. Sometimes being completely self-involved and preoccupied has its advantages and this was no exception. I wasn’t even considering that I’d be the recipient of handmade cards and store bought candy, but there I was, in the parking lot, being showered with affection and gifts. I experienced a moment of true sentimental emotion as I shoved all the shit on the passenger seat and started the car.
As I waited for my 7 and 9 year old daughters, River and Gloria, to buckle themselves into their car seats, I asked them how they’d feel about spending the day at a marina. Almost as soon as I posed the question, I realized my mistake. They never heard of a marina and besides, at that age, everything is a novel adventure.
The couple of times I didn’t bother to arrange an activity for Saturday and Sunday, they’d generally sit in front of the laptop computer and watch the most god awful crap on YouTube. It’d be difficult for me to describe it, but suffice it to say, we’ve come a long way from The Great Space Coaster and Barney. Now what the children are into is this perverse genre of “reality” shows where the adults speak in the most hideously obnoxious cadences. I’m not sure what attracts children to this shit, but they love it. So much that the more popular shows even have lucrative lines of merch peddled everywhere crap is sold.
There’d be none of that today, thank Christ. You know, I never even realized this in the dozens of times I played at Tony’s, but there was a playground at the marina. The girls spotted it instantly and once they realized it even had a zipline ride, they were psyched. In fact, they never even left the zipline the whole time I was experimenting with my small PA to get the perfect sound.
The gig was like a lot of gigs I play. You finish a song and even the crickets are staring at their phones. At least they're polite enough to not be watching music videos while you’re playing. The people don’t have the same manners. Not all of them, but definitely one or two. Much of the time I’d go home thinking I was a total loser if it wasn’t for the copious amount of money being placed into my tip bucket, the procession of compliments as I packed up my gear and the one or two ladies who ask me if I have a “card.”
I do have business cards and over the past six or seven years, I have given them to nearly 100 people who have requested them. For five years, this did not result in one date. That all changed during COVID and I can say with pride that those cards have netted me two paying gigs, so every effort pays off at some point.
Trying to get through a 90 minute set with two small, unattended children is about as stressful as it sounds. I screwed up this Bruce Springsteen song I have performed close to a thousand times in the last ten years as I watched the two of them smacking each other at the lunch table. I was able to provide retribution as I reprimanded them through the microphone with thundering amplification and gated reverb. If the volume didn’t get to them, the sixty people who all turned away from the marshmallow ambrosia to look at who I was scolding probably had some effect.
Later, when I was finished putting the last of my equipment in the trunk of the car, I went to the playground to collect the girls. I got there just in time to see River, my lunatic 7 year old, lose her grip on the zipline and fall practically face first into a pile of woodchips. Before she could take a big enough breath to let out the scream that I knew was coming, I scooped her up and held her in my arms. I could feel her little monkey hands clutching my shoulders tightly. There was no crying and I just swayed her back and forth in an embrace that went on longer than usual. It was in that moment that I felt one of the truest exchanges of father/daughter connection that I have ever experienced.
Finally, I pulled her out to see her face and I asked if she was okay. She silently shook her head “yes,” and I brought her into me and swayed a little longer.
And as Father’s Day came to a close, I realized that I have never been happier in my whole life.
I love this! Everything about it.
This is beautiful Billy.