The Whistler

My dad was an amazing vocalist. He had a beautiful tenor voice and loved music. His radio station of choice was out of Los Angeles, and with as close as we were, you'd think the reception would be pretty good. Not so. Classical music, for me, will never be complete without that overtone of static. Perhaps that's why I don't really care for it. He also whistled. I've heard a lot of people whistle, but no one ever whistled as good as my dad. I sat at an old sewing machine once with my mouth full of pins while working on a project, mindlessly "whistling", though my attempt was pathetic at best. He watched for awhile and then told me his mother used to do the exact same thing.  I'm sure she made much better noises than I did. I'm also fairly confident that growing up listening to my grandmother make mouth music was where my dad picked it up. 

Dad was a multifaceted person. He wasn't afraid to try anything, and had an extremely mechanical mind. He would claim to be a "Jack of all trades, master of none" but his attempts were always pretty impressive. He fixed cars, built stuff, did the various and sundry home decor things that mom insisted we have but didn't want to do herself, he drew, and painted when he got a little older. His occupation was as a dental lab tech, and so he was good with his hands. He even made me a skirt one time. I had to have it for some kind of school play in grammar school, and we both knew that the only way it would come about is if he sat at the sewing machine. And it was made from taffeta. Ugh. But he managed and I really liked it. It was long, lavender, and had 3 black ribbon stripes around the bottom. When I wore it, I carried a yellow shepherds crook. That's the extent of my memory of the use for this garment. 

Dad was a night owl. And he was a morning person. I'm not sure how he managed to do both as a younger man, but as he got older, an afternoon snore-fest made it possible. He could sleep through anything. He considered early morning the very best part of the day. It was quiet, and smelled like coffee and cigarettes and newspapers. It's how he started each day, but he didn't do so quietly.

For as long as I can remember, mornings started entirely too early, and included a LOT of sound along with the smells. Throat clearing, slamming cabinet doors, stomping on wood floors, and whistling. Always whistling. He never did it to be ornery. He was just a happy guy in the morning. Wide awake and wanted everyone else to be awake too. 

When he got tired of waiting for us to emerge from the bedrooms, his favorite thing was to reach under the covers and grab our toes. So annoying. And our response always garnered a chuckle. I have to give it to him; his methods of getting us out of bed were much more gentle than mine were with my own children. He tugged toes, but I jumped on beds. It was way more fun. 

I was talking to little brother Bunns recently, and he's also a morning person. And the older I get, the more I'm appreciating early morning. Bunns drinks coffee, but usually gets his news online. My morning drink of choice is something brown and carbonated, but neither one of us smoke. Ming did for a long time, but finally quit. I admire him for that. It couldn't have been easy. Bunns and I got the quiet gene from somewhere. Ming inherited the noisy one. But as much as Dad's "morning music" used to annoy me, I do miss it. Especially the whistling.

Make a joyful noise unto the Lord, all ye lands.

Serve the Lord with gladness:

Come before His presence with singing.

Know ye that the Lord, He is God;

It is He that hath made us and not we ourselves.

We are His people and the sheep of His pasture.

Enter into His gates with thanksgiving

and into His courts with praise:

Be thankful unto Him and bless His name.

For the Lord is good;

His mercy is everlasting;

And His truth endureth to all generations.

Psalm 100

The Whistler and Ming sporting the hillbilly style, complete with oreo teeth.

I miss them both.