Our Children's Most Important Teachers

Most of the time, he played the trombone in the Navy Band, a handsome dark-haired young sailor sitting behind the trumpets and saxophones. Every once in a while, he’d be asked to step to the mic, where he would transform himself into a singer of his own creation, Larry Wilder. Into his seventh decade, my father could still remember, vividly, what it felt like to sing and to swing, to be that slick crooner, making the girls swoon. Although he never said as much, I imagine he wished on many stars to become a professional musician.

Instead, he went to college and made a vocation of insurance, bending to the will of his father, the history professor from Alabama, who dictated his son do something “respectable.” I have no idea where my father’s love of music came from, but because he loved music, so do I. My mother loved music too, and contributed her Brazilian musicas, but this is my father’s story.

My earliest memories of music come from a game my father played with my brother and me whilst on babysitting duty, a rare but much-loved occurrence. It was an opportunity to listen to loud, dramatic music and eat Velveeta cheese sandwiches with mayo, thick on thick. My father would put Tchaikovsky’s “Francesca da Rimini” on the hi-fi and we would race around with towel capes as he chased us. Other times, I would come upon my father listening to Billie Holliday, eyes open but not seeing. I would nudge into him and try to hear the feelings that moved across his face while she crooned.

My brother and I had a little turquoise record player that was in daily use, as we listened to whichever 45s we could get our hands on, from Peggy Lee singing “The Folks Who Lived on The Hill” to Cab Calloway singing a duet with his young daughter. We were MAD magazine readers and delighted in the 45s that sometimes came wedged inside an issue—although my mother would often spirit these tasteless tunes out of the house while we were at school, then feign ignorance of their whereabouts. 

What might surprise people who aren’t of a certain age and didn’t grow up in South Jersey is that in the early '60s, Cherry Hill was home to one of the most glamorous, hippest nightclubs in the country, The Latin Casino. It was built in 1960 to resemble a Las Vegas showroom with plush purple décor, with 10 concentric tiers (that we were forbidden to run down) that led to a curved stage. The tables closest to the stage were reserved for those willing to “shake hands” with the maître d'.

As early as early as 1964, my father was taking us to the Latin Casino at least once or twice a year to hear his favorite artists. We were not wealthy people and in those days a $7.95 filet mignon was a rare and costly treat. But music mattered to my father, and he wanted to share it with us. So off we went—my brother Larry in a suit that made him look like a small businessman or a Pep Boy, and I in my best little velvet number, a peculiar lump of hair atop my head—to hear artists like Lionel Hampton, Pearl Bailey, Duke Ellington and my father’s all-time favorite, Ray Charles.

Our exposure to a variety of music made my brother and I prime candidates for Beatlemania. We threw ourselves into Beatle worship with wild and slavish devotion. And so, because it was a different time—a time when children were safe and parents didn’t worry as much—my brother, our friend Abby, and I went to JFK Stadium in Philadelphia to see the Beatles on Aug. 16, 1966. Without parents.  Abby and Larry would have been in eighth grade to my sixth grade, but still, whenever I tell people Abby’s mother dropped us off and my mother picked us up afterward, they are disbelieving.

I can remember what the Fab Four wore: forest green collarless suits with pale yellow shirts. I remember Paul aiming his bass guitar at the jets in the flight pattern directly overhead, pretending to shoot at them. We all swooned at his antics but could barely hear a word sung, so loud were the squeals and cries. Afterward, we bought every 45, then every album, writing down the lyrics and listening to our records so much that, to this day, when I hear a Beatles song on the radio, I know which one comes next. Many of you know what I mean.

Although my relationship with music has been mostly as an ardent fan, both my sons are musical. The oldest is an incredible jazz pianist, the younger plays piano and has a lovely singing voice. Their father was adamant they take music lessons—piano, violin and voice. He was also adamant we stay strong in the face of whining, fussing and tantrums. He knew eventually they would “get it.” And they did.

We are their first teachers. Our children learn their most important lessons from us, their parents. If we want them to be compassionate people, they must see us performing compassionate acts. If we want them to be honest people, we must first show them what honesty looks like. Whatever floats your boat will probably get them there too, be it sports, music, politics, or even guns.

I have continued, over the years, to be an aficionado of many different genres of music, but Ray Charles has been on my every playlist. I can say with reasonable certainty he resides on my sons’ playlists as well. Several years ago, while walking through the Wegmans prepared food area, an obscure Ray Charles song burst from the PA system, just the first five notes. Right away, my son and I laughed in recognition, then began swinging along with Ray. 

I thought of my father, Walt, and sent a silent thanks into the cosmos—that at least one of the lessons he attempted to teach me was learned. I hope someday, my children will do the same.

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