Our series of posts on how music shapes a home brings us to the following post from my co-worker, Renee Savoy, who not only works for Coldwell Banker but also knows how to work a microphone like few others I’ve met.
By the title, you might imagine that I am about to tell you about the hard laboring, weathered hands of the man I call Daddy. You’re right. My father earned a living with his hands but not as a carpenter or builder, as you may think. He was, and still is to this day, a professional musician, singer and songwriter. He provided for our family by touring the east coast playing everywhere from fancy venues to seedy nightclubs. Music is his life and, in turn, the core of our family.
This lifestyle often came at a high price. It meant he wasn’t home for long stretches of time. I can remember from as young as the age of four, running into my Daddy’s arms when he burst through the door of our house with his guitar case in hand! That case seemed enormous to me then and it had his initials, S W, in gold script lettering on it. That case meant Daddy was home. And it wouldn’t be very long before he would pull that guitar out of its magical case and play for and with us, filling our home with music and laughter.
My most vivid and heart-warming memories of my childhood home are of the music that filled it and overflowed from it. Daddy could write songs on the fly about any topic at all. But he also wrote serious songs about life and morality, as well as passionate love songs. He wrote a special song for each of his four children that bring tears to the eyes. Now this may sound like a love fest for my Dad and it may well be, but what makes him even cooler was his desire to expose me to all genres and types of music and artists. His vinyl (you kids can Google that) collection was extensive, diverse and downright eclectic.
I remember Dad sending me to the local music store to buy “needles” for the “record player”. Yeah, I’m showing my age but it’s worth it in this case. I was fortunate enough to live practically next door to my grammar school and my most favorite thing was coming home for lunch each day when Dad wasn’t on the road and having him play me a new piece of music. Monday: the Eagles. Tuesday: Stravinsky’s Firebird Suite. Wednesday: Larry Carlton. Thursday: Earth Wind & Fire. Friday: The Beatles. You get the picture? What made this exercise truly inspiring was he would have me sit with my eyes closed and really listen. Then he would ask me how the song made me “feel”. No matter what I heard, it always made me feel. And those feelings will forever mean home to me.
And then there is Christmas – the most musically …read more
Via: Coldwell Banker Blog