The following entry was originally in my “Six Degrees from Galesburg” column for The Galesburg (IL) Register-Mail. The online version of the column is no longer live on the newspaper’s re-designed web site, so here it is as a post.)
I had no idea my dad had gained a reputation in the bars – or that he even went to bars, for that matter -until one Sunday night a few years ago.
I’d called home like I always do to chat with my mom, but my customary question of “So, what’s Dad up to?” was met with a strange silence.
“Mom?” I said. “What is it? Is Dad ok?”
“He’s fine. He’s just … not here right now.”
“Oh,” I said. “Church meeting or something?”
“Not quite …” Mom said. “He’s in town. At the bar.”
“Dad’s in a bar? On a Sunday night?” I said. “Did … you guys have a fight or something?”
Mom laughed. “No,” she said. “Sunday night is karaoke night.”
“Oh Lord,” I said. “It’s worse than I thought.”
“Actually, he’s quite the singer, or so I hear.”
That night I couldn’t fall asleep. When I did drift off, I had a nightmare: my dad was standing up in the middle of church and crooning a slurred version of “Love me Tender” into a beer bottle.
The next Sunday, things seemed to be back to normal. When Mom and I had covered all our usual ground, I said, “So, how’s Dad?”
“He’s fine. He’s at a bar in Dallas City. They have karaoke there now.”
“Mother,” I said. “Do you hear yourself? Dad is not ‘fine.’ Dad is in a bar, on a Sunday night, singing KARAOKE.”
“Now, don’t be hard on him about this,” she said. “I’m not crazy about it either. But he works so hard on the farm all day, I want to be supportive of his hobby.”
“Hobby?” I said. “I had hoped this was an isolated event.”
It took six months of Dad pursuing his new hobby before I could work up the nerve to go out with my parents and listen to Dad sing.
I was nervous for him. Each time it was his turn, the patrons at the bar yelled, “Whoo-hoo, all right Rockin’ Rod!” My dad had earned a nickname – and a following – in a place called the Double Deuce. I wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or mortified.
But he was good. He sang songs by Johnny Rivers, Roy Orbison, and – after a couple of Budweisers – the Rolling Stones.
His voice was pleasant. He put emotion into it. And even at the end of the night, he could still carry a tune – which is more than I can say for the lady who nearly passed out during her rendition of “Margaritaville.”
I clapped loudly and cheered for my dad. Still, I stole looks around the bar to make sure I didn’t see anyone I knew from high school.
“Dad,” I said when it was some other guy’s turn to sing. “… tell me something. Why karaoke? I mean, why now? It just seems like … karaoke come out in, like, the ’80s, didn’t it?”
He was quiet for a minute, then said something that surprised me. “Well,” he said. “I guess I’ve always wanted to try it. I’ve always wanted to sing. But … I guess I wanted to wait until you and your sister were … out on your own.”
“What do you mean?” I said. But then I got it. “Oh, Dad,” I said. “Just because you didn’t want us to feel embarrassed? You didn’t have to worry about that.” But we both knew that was a lie. I’d have locked him in the closet before I’d have let him ruin my high school reputation by attempting to sing in public.
I was touched, and ashamed, at the same time. “Dad -”
“Come on, Rockin’ Rod,” some guy called from the bar. “Let’s hear ‘Sunday Morning Coming Down.’ ”
“I’ve got to get back up front,” Dad said, patting my hand. “Rockin’ Rod is taking requests.”
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Tags: family, HancockCounty, humor, rural_life
