After years away, Dad was having the time of his life in the early 1970s. Fresh out of jail on a burglary conviction (one of many in his formative years), he was free for the first time in a long time.
A strong, handsome man in his late 20s, Dad had a little money in his pocket, a slick ride and gorgeous blonde woman by his side. Nearly 50 years later, we don’t know much about the latter.
The family’s knowledge of Deb, known mostly because Dad had her name tattooed on his right arm, is limited. We have a few photos of her, including one at the Grand Canyon. Several months ago, as I interviewed Dad to learn more about him, a few more details emerged.
Deb, ironically, was/is from Topeka. I say ironically because Dad had no ties to Topeka when they met and lived closed to the city for most of the last 30 years of his life. She was a few years younger than him. She had a young son named Sean. Her father, who died about 10 years ago, offered Dad a job working in his auto shop.
At least for a time, Dad and Deb were engaged. That is until Deb realized that Dad still had a wild hair and wasn’t ready to change.
As Dad told the story, he talked about his love for music. It was mostly rock n’ roll in those days, namely Creedence and Steppenwolf. He loved Jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin. Rarely did a friend visit Dad’s house and not walk into a living room with a record spinning in those days.
“If you knew me, you knew that music was my thing,” he said. “That started in the joint, when I was the prison DJ (one of many jobs he worked while serving time). I had a record player, and there was always something on it.”
Shortly after Deb realized Dad wasn’t going to change anytime soon, she used that cherished record player to paint a picture of lost love that you might expect to see in a cheesy 1980s movie.
“I’ll never forget this, because it just broke my heart,” Dad said. “I came home one day, and a record was playing. I don’t remember which one. As I walked over to the player, I realized that there was a ring on the middle of it, spinning.”
Talk about your messages. Deb had left her engagement ring on the record player. That was her way of saying she wasn’t going to be with somebody who couldn’t stay out of trouble.
That broke the old man’s heart, but it didn’t break his love for music. Years later, as my brother and I were growing up, Dad often listened to old-school country.
When we weren’t listening to Royals games on our road trips to craft shows, we were jamming to Hank Williams, Hank Williams Jr. and many more classic crooners. When he was in the mood, Dad would crank the Creedence or George Thorogood.
Every once in a while, Dad would surprise us. Like the time in the mid-1990s when he asked me to turn it up when Hootie and the Blowfish’s “Let Her Cry” came on the radio.
“I love that song,” he said. “It sounds like country, even if it’s not. He has a great voice.”
Even more surprising, you’d walk into his house and he was blasting Dre or Snoop. Sometimes, it’d be Wiz Khalifa, Lukas Graham or John Legend, among others.
Ultimately, though, Creedence was his heart and soul. Dad lost the ability to speak four or five days before he died. But the day before he stopping talking, I sat next to him in the Lazy Boy I came to know very well, turned on my laptop and played CCR’s greatest hits.
My hope was that this would bring him a little enjoyment during an otherwise miserable time. As hit after hit blared from the computer, I heard Dad mumbling. When I looked over, he was bobbing his head, albeit slowly, and trying to sing, “Du du du, looking out my back door.”
I like to think as he was listening, Dad thought about his time as a strong, vibrant young man who had the world by the tail. At least for a moment, he was back in 1973, jamming on his old record player.
Note: The final song, per his request, at Dad’s service was Creedence’s “As long as I can see the light.” It was the perfect ending to the perfect ceremony honoring his life.