This is at Mom’s burial. Sister #1 is on your left. Mama is on your right. I’m the one with the burp diaper on my shoulder. The cute one with the “Daddy is a Rock Star” shirt is 3B. (Hard to tell on that last one, I know.)
Before the burial, all of us gave our cameras to our cousin, who shot lots of photos with them and with his own camera, from which this shot came. Brother #2 said it right about this day when he said that he was glad that he had all the photos, but that he never wanted to look at them.
It was hard enough being there once.
I am glad that Cousin #6 (is that the right number?) sent this shot along, however, ensuring that I saw it. It would be nice to have all of Sister #1’s face in it, but we can’t always have everything we want. There’s enough to see that she’s enjoying herself, as is Mama. Can’t say the same for 3B, however. I was trying to teach him how to yell with a faux Brit accent “Thank you [insert name of city here]!” and wave, but he was having none of it. My lessons on throwing a drumstick or guitar pick went over about as well before I stopped them, realizing that I don’t want my son growing up to be a rock and roll drummer.
Daddy may be a rock star–if only in his mind–but 3B’s going to be a protest singer, singing a protest song. Or so he says . . . in the imaginary conversation I had with him in my mind in which he quoted Dire Straits. Unless, like most teens, he rebels against our music–a steady diet of blues, jazz, Ani, and Dylan–and listens to nothing but cotton candy pop. If he does, maybe I’ll try a trick that worked on me in my youth–a guilt trip: “You know, your grandmother would roll over in her grave if she knew that you were listening to that crap.”
Except she wouldn’t. Hell, Mom let me listen to Hall and Oates at full volume.
The best, however, was when I spun around in the middle of singing–I use the term loosely–an AC/DC song off of Back in Black at what I can only presume was full volume (I’ll never know, since I had headphones on–the full 70’s earmuff style, with a volume dial for each ear–bitchin’) to find Mom and Sister #2 in the doorway to my bedroom, laughing. Laughing hard. I can’t imagine what was so funny about a 12-year old boy, who was as scared of girls as he was attracted to them, screeching, in his best pre-pubescent Brian Johnson impersonation
She was a fast machine, she kept her motor clean
She was the best damn woman that I’d ever seen
She had the sightless eyes, telling me no lies
Knocking me out with those American thighs
For the record, even though I had the music turned up so loud that I couldn’t hear my own voice, I know that I had nailed that song until I saw them. But judging from their laughter, even back then, daddy was only a rock star in his own mind.