11-012
Thanks for nothing, Harry Chapin!
I come from a musical family.
Mother mixed cake batter
to the beat of “Mony Mony” and Father
blew a mean coach’s whistle. Me, I played air guitar -- classical air guitar. Segovia, Mertz,
stuff only serious air guitarists will touch.
In that tradition, I
introduced Jeremy to his melodic heritage. At four, we sang Bob Marley songs
while shaping dreadlocks out of Play-Doh; at nine, we were “Kung Fu Fighting” in
Taekwondo class.
With music in the house,
we had joy, we had fun.
Then Harry Chapin had to
go and ruin it!
You see, up until then it
was common for us to communicate in lyrics. For instance, if I asked Jeremy could
he top last week’s Little League performance, he might reply, “B-b-b-baby you ain’t
seen n-n-nothing yet.” It never got old, even when his teacher phoned to
explain the boy’s autobiographical essay was unacceptable because it began, “I
was born in the wagon of a travelin' show…” (Nuns. They have no sense of
humor.)
Jeremy’s clever use of
lyrics and impeccable timing almost always made me laugh, except the night he
invoked Chapin.
Chapin’s “Cat’s in the
Cradle” recounts the times a young boy asks his father to spend time with him
but is rebuffed. It ends with dad lamenting the irony that when he phones, it is
the son, consumed with work and children of his own, who has no time.
As a teen, I had regarded
it as a sappy song that never really resonated. But a few months ago I “got
it.”
It had been one of those
frantic days at the office -- rushing between meetings, taking the car to the
shop over lunch, errands on the way home, a quick dinner, then, finally, the
one thing I really enjoyed, a
rare night out with my buddies.
It almost happened, too,
but halfway out the door Jeremy caught me.
“Wanna do something?”
Yeesh! I thought to
myself … long day … I had planned this for weeks …
“I have to go
out,” I told him, “can we do something another time?”
It sounded wrong and I
felt bad. I had never been too busy to do something with my son.
“That’s OK,” Jeremy said
as he turned and walked down the hall, purposefully slow, clearly demoralized
and exquisitely underplaying a murmur, “… and the cat’s in the cradle and the
silver spoon … ”
Well, what could I do? I
set down the Godfather boxed-set and the Sam Adams, hung my head and closed the
door.
I knew what he was
doing. He knew what he was doing. It was a classic guilt trip,
magnificently executed, and it flashed me back. I saw my own dad in the doorway
set down his bowling ball and forsake a night with the guys, just to take me to
the mall to meet my friends.
I smiled at my Jeremy’s
manipulation.
He’d grown up just like
me. My boy was just like me.