The scenes replayed from my childhood all begin the same way – my Dad with a whistle on his lips. He whistled constantly, always happy tunes, like Anna in Siam “whenever she felt afraid” – except with Dad, it was just … whenever.
I can’t remember a time when my father didn’t whistle. We always knew he had arrived home from work long before he entered the house. His music preceded him, the whistle slipping from his lips as easily as the slide of Glenn Miller’s trombone.
When we were young, we used to love taking walks with Dad in the small Illinois town where he grew up. He’d whistle Big Band tunes as we bounced along beside him and, as we passed the various landmarks, he would share stories of his youthful mischief-making. Rushville’s resident delinquent. “That’s where we hoisted the Model T into the tree. Was my teacher ever surprised, coming out the next morning to find his pride and joy missing … until he looked up.” Then he would whistle contentedly as we followed him like a gaggle of geese to the next landmark.
When we passed his old high school, he stopped whistling long enough to describe the tornado that had ripped through town while all its residents were packed inside the gymnasium watching a basketball game. Dad had rushed in to warn everyone of the funnel cloud that had touched down, but, of course, nobody believed him, convinced it was just another one of his pranks. He was vindicated, however, when they filed out of the gymnasium after the game to find debris everywhere–roofless houses, uprooted trees, chimneys shaved off like unwanted whiskers. “There was nothing they could have done anyway; they were probably better off sitting in the safety of that gym enjoying a good game.” Again with the whistling. Over the Rainbow.
I could never get lost as a child. One time at the carnival I got separated from my parents amid the throng of humanity on the Midway. But I wasn’t scared. All I had to do, I told myself, was listen for the whistle. And sure enough, there it was. The theme from Carousel. (His choices were always appropriate to the setting.)
My father enjoyed the dubious distinction of being the only person ever rebuked for whistling in Abraham Lincoln’s tomb. You guessed it. The Battle Hymn of the Republic. As the docent clicked her tongue in contempt, he teased. “I think old Abe would have liked my whistling. It was his favorite song, after all.” You would think the self-conscious, pre-adolescent young girl that was me at the time would have found it mortifying to have all 20+ eyes in the tour group focused on my father, but, as it turned out, group sentiment appeared to run about 20:1 in his favor.
If you asked me what trait I loved most about my father, his whistling would be at the top of my list. Once, at the mall, we passed a group of teenagers who made fun of him as we walked by, snickering and pointing at him and blowing through their lips in mock whistles, then falling all over each other in peals of rude laughter. I remember wondering at the time what their dads were doing right then.
Like his personality, Dad’s songs were always upbeat – Big Band tunes, of course, and college fight songs … or nothing can beat the Army Air Corp. He was the eternal optimist, even at the end when he knew he was dying. They gave him six months; he aimed for a year or, better yet, to prove them wrong all together. In the end he had to settle for 4½ months beyond their prediction, but they were good months. He tied up loose ends, said his goodbyes, made his amends. “I’ve had a long, happy life,” he’d said over and over. “I’m thankful for all I’ve had–my friends, my family, my memories. I’m ready.”
I’m not sure what tune he picked for the grand finale; his words were trapped inside him by then. But of one thing I have no doubt – my father went out whistling.
In Memoriam
Charles A. Dill
April 11, 1922 – February 18, 2009
PBY5A by Chuck Dill
That is beautiful Carol…..I wish I had known him better. I wish I knew all of the family better. I do know that the couple of times I was with your Dad were very enjoyable. I also know my mom and dad liked him very much. How neat to have such great memories of such a great man.
Take care and I will try my best to keep in touch.
Jeanette
Wow…I thought I was over it. That actually brought tears to my eyes and I relived some fond memories for another moment.
Thanks for sharing this, Carol. I lost my Dad right before your loss, on January 29. I’m right there with you. Like you, I have the warm things to remember, to cherish.
Thanks again. Bless you and your family.
I am impressed with your sketch and your writing skill. The picture you create makes me very sorry not to have known your dad. I agree with the crowd in the Lincoln setting, except for the fact that “Dixie” was more to Lincoln’s liking. But I doubt the touring group would have gone along with that, so your dad indeed picked the appropriate. He did so in mates as well. I can’t tell you how happy it makes me to be related to a person with some writing skill, and who can express herself with words as well as you. Your dad and I are from the “same vintage rolling time hath pressed.” Thank you for having such a loving memory. You made me fill that it wasn’t such a bad “year” after all.
Hi Carol,
That must have been hard to write. Thank you for sharing your thoughts about a wonderful father.
As I don’t know you, I won’t be able to say anything to help you with your grief but what I can do is suggest that whilst whistling may have been your father’s creative expression of the joy of being alive, writing may be yours – so here are some comments on your writing.
This is a beautiful piece, full of description and action. The pace is good and I love the way that the whistling carries the whole story. It is personal without being self-indulgent. You have a very pleasing writing style.
Feel free to pop across to my writing blog. It’s about my own writing journey but I also post helpful ideas for writers and the followers are really supportive and focused on their own writing. We all help each other out. I’m confident that if you comment on the posts and join in the writing discussions, a number of my followers will follow you here too – they usually do! Also, I have links on my blog to other useful blogs and sites for writers. Some of these could be really helpful to you, so have a nose around and see what you think.
Keep writing.
Rebecca
That was a sweet memorial to your father. I bet every time you hear someone whistling, you think of him.
This is a sweet tribute to your father Carol. I wish I can say the same for my relationship with mine–another day to tell the story. Thanks for sharing.
Carol, I loved the piece on your dad, and it evoked memories for me too. A beautiful tribute. I also wrote about him, I wonder if you saw it–it is in fact posted on my Facebook page, I put up a little photo album of him and a text. The photo album you can find by scrolling down my albums on the left-hand side, perhaps the text is there too, I think they are together. If not, it is in the “notes.”
I will copy your tribute onto my computer and share it with some of my family. Your father would have loved it, I know. And as I write you, I have this sensation I’m back in Rushville, hearing again that cheerful whistling uncle.