In the language dessert of boyhood was an oasis occupied by singers whose records my father played loudly on Saturday afternoons.
Sir Harry Lauder, Tennessee Ernie Ford, and John McCormack describe a continuum as broad as Saturday itself, stretching from a Wee Deoch an Doris, to Sixteen Tons, and The Wearing of the Green.
And my father himself, mercifully terse, yet stinging, when the topic was another misdemeanor of mine, but whose voice had a timbre and warmth that was both persuasive and kind.
Otherwise those endless days of childhood, although there were people all around, and other things making sounds, amount to a silent reel in the vault of memory.
by Dave Conlin Read