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"No one tells their friends
that they want to be a step parent when they grow up."
~ Unknown
He moved into our suburban tract house and hung Japanese scrolls on the living room walls and antique swords above the fireplace. Leo Kottke and Taj Mahal records started spinning on our turntable. Soon curry dishes and stir fries began showing up on our dinner table. He rolled cigarettes or lit a pipe after dinner, and he often reached for his guitar. With a mischievous smile and a twinkle in his eye, it always seemed like he was about to let you in on a private joke.
I wasn't too sure about Michael at first. He was sitting in my father's chair at the table, after all. And his 1961 gun metal grey Peugeot replaced my dad's VW bug in the garage. Fiercely loyal to my father, I held back from this guitar playing, pipe smoking man my mother had brought into our lives.
For awhile.
It was hard to resist Michael's easy warmth and love of life. I had to let him in. He had no intention of trying to replace my dad. He knew that role had been filled by a leading man that would never need an understudy. Besides, Michael had three daughters of his own. My sister and I were just part of the package when he fell for my mom. But Michael enthusiastically accepted the whole package. And so we began to craft another kind of family. We figured out what it meant to be a step father, a step daughter. Over time, we created something special and lasting.
When he was a young man Michael traded his first car for a Martin guitar. His friends all thought he was crazy, but I think he ended up with the better end of the deal. That Martin became an extension of him for the rest of his life. And it became an important part of my life too. From that guitar I learned to love old folk songs, sea chanteys, and bluegrass music. Accompanied by that Martin, we sang around countless campfires. Michael's playing always drew other campers to our fire. Like I said, it was hard to resist his love of life. And that love was never more evident than when he was playing music.
I still find comfort in songs I first heard played on that Martin. When I sing or hear "Goodnight Irene" or "Louise" they are always accompanied by the smell of a campfire, the sound of Michael's raspy singing voice inside my head. When it was time for me to get a new guitar a few years back, there was no question that it would be a Martin. Though I play nowhere near as well as Michael did, his influence is all over the music I love, the music I write, the musical lifestyle I aspire to live.
Michael would have turned 77 this month. I am sad that he's not around to play music with now. I would love to join him in a duet of "Louise." Sometimes I get angry at him for drinking and smoking too much, knowing full well that heart disease was in his genes. Michael never really faced the demons of his addictions. Sadly those demons got the upper hand in the end.
It was hard to resist Michael's easy warmth and love of life. I had to let him in. He had no intention of trying to replace my dad. He knew that role had been filled by a leading man that would never need an understudy. Besides, Michael had three daughters of his own. My sister and I were just part of the package when he fell for my mom. But Michael enthusiastically accepted the whole package. And so we began to craft another kind of family. We figured out what it meant to be a step father, a step daughter. Over time, we created something special and lasting.
When he was a young man Michael traded his first car for a Martin guitar. His friends all thought he was crazy, but I think he ended up with the better end of the deal. That Martin became an extension of him for the rest of his life. And it became an important part of my life too. From that guitar I learned to love old folk songs, sea chanteys, and bluegrass music. Accompanied by that Martin, we sang around countless campfires. Michael's playing always drew other campers to our fire. Like I said, it was hard to resist his love of life. And that love was never more evident than when he was playing music.
I still find comfort in songs I first heard played on that Martin. When I sing or hear "Goodnight Irene" or "Louise" they are always accompanied by the smell of a campfire, the sound of Michael's raspy singing voice inside my head. When it was time for me to get a new guitar a few years back, there was no question that it would be a Martin. Though I play nowhere near as well as Michael did, his influence is all over the music I love, the music I write, the musical lifestyle I aspire to live.
Michael would have turned 77 this month. I am sad that he's not around to play music with now. I would love to join him in a duet of "Louise." Sometimes I get angry at him for drinking and smoking too much, knowing full well that heart disease was in his genes. Michael never really faced the demons of his addictions. Sadly those demons got the upper hand in the end.
We didn't really need each other at first. I had a father. He had daughters. But in spite of that (or maybe because of it) we crafted a special relationship. He was not my dad, but he was family in the deepest sense. And he was a mentor to me, opening my eyes to a broader world, taking me under his wing and instilling in me his love of music, especially music that is meant to be sung in the gathering of friends and family, under the stars, the smell of wood smoke in the air.
