My father’s name was Andy.  He had been a serious musician and, in younger years had earned his living that way.  As such, there was always music in the house.  His favorite song was Stardust; his favorite singer was Sarah Vaughn, or Sassy, as he called her; and his favorite bandleader was Glenn Miller.  As a trumpet player, he did have a soft spot for Harry James, often quizzing me about bandleaders’ themes, beginning or ending with his.  While I never had the opportunity to hear my father play the trumpet before his emphysema negated that option, I was occasionally regaled by his mastery of the piano, watching his fingers fly over the keys in a confident fury producing both sound and satisfaction.  I would do housework, as well as my homework, to the beat of swing music, and over time, I have learned to appreciate many different types of music, but swing is my first love.

 To this day, there is always music playing in whatever environment I inhabit and my children have their grandfather to thank or blame for my eclectic taste in music and my inability to do without it.

Our piano was just an old upright Andy had bought on which to teach me to play, but he always made it sound like more than it appeared to be able to muster.  The bench had its share of graffiti carved in it over the years, one four letter word in particular drawing my father’s attention, causing him to take out his pocket knife, changing it somewhat beyond my naive understanding at the time.  While I didn’t know what Bucky had done to achieve piano bench graffiti status, let alone inspire my father to alter his name, I understood it years later and was yet again impressed with Andy’s abilities.   

 My father used to sharpen his pencils with a knife and when I couldn’t find anything else with which to put up my hair, I would use a pencil, always finding a neatly sharpened one near him wherever he was.

 I would take the pencil for my use just as easily as he would retrieve it from my hair when he needed it back, always knowing where to come to look for his missing pencil.  My father had put one of those neatly sharpened pencils in my hand as soon as I was old enough to hold one, it seems.  He encouraged me to read the newspaper and do the crossword puzzles inside them.  Of course, I had no idea how to fill in all those little boxes at first, but I learned, and I learned from him.  He would sit for long periods of time working on his puzzle, until it was neatly completed in ink, as I scribbled on mine in pencil.  Every once in a while, I would hear him muttering to himself or chuckling at something he found amusing in the paper, but no discussion, making it one of the rare times we sat at the kitchen table, he and I, without talking.  As I got older, my scribbling became legible, the puzzles got easier, and my vocabulary expanded accordingly.  As with most experiences involving my father’s lessons, I learned without being aware I was learning something useful, neither did I suspect that it had been planned just that way.  I credit Andy with not only my vocabulary, but also my respect for the power of words.