Country is not my first choice in music, as a matter of fact, I wouldn’t be able to name a new country song if asked. However, when I need to fill my soul, I’ll be listening or playing some Waylon and Willie and the boys.
Twang music is how some describe Old-time country, and I love it. Play me some “Luckenbach Texas”; add some wine to the mix, and I’ve got euphoria. Sure enough, my guitar will be dusted off and I’ll be singing “Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain.”
Music is magical, and music from your childhood comforts you in a way no other music can. When I was a little girl, my dad used to play and sing old-time country; it filled our house with warmth. When he left us, he started up a band and honky-tonked in dive bars across the province.
This is the only good memory I have of my biological father. I’m astranged from him now, but I will always love the man he was to me as a young child. He wasn’t a good father, but I forgive him for that. Nobodies perfect, and I can’t blame him for his weak parenting skills. When I think of him, I hurt for so many reasons. I hurt for him, as I know he wants a relationship with me. I hurt for me because I can’t have one with him. I hurt for all the pain he caused me growing up. I hurt for his depression and bipolar disorder. On this father’s day, I have mixed feelings of love and pain. I wasn’t blessed with a life-time of fatherly love, but I was blessed with a few brief moments of happiness with my dad.
My dad will never see this post, but that’s ok. This morning, I’m playing my memories of you dad. I don’t like the father you were to me, but I love you anyway. This is the only way I can say “Happy Father’s Day.”