Lullabye

"Don't mind the rain or the rolling sea
the weary night never worries me
but the hardest time in a sailor's day
is to watch the sun as it fades away"

This is the first verse of the song I must sing for my son every night before he goes to sleep, even if it is over the phone.


My father also insisted on this song, on all occasions, and even over the phone. I remember a night en route to my sister's wedding; my then boyfriend, my divorced parents (both of them) and me, all in a tiny, dirty hotel room in the worst part of South Boston. We were warned not to walk from the hotel at night. So my dad called a taxi. As was always the case with dad, it turned out that the driver (transplanted from post volcano Montserrat) had a cousin in the village in Tobago where we lived as children. After laughing and exclaiming like long lost kin, my dad asked the man to take us to a pub. He told us he would take us to the best pub in South Boston, Molly O'Darby's. The driver dropped us off, didn't charge for the ride and told us to call him on his cell when we were ready to head back to the hotel. The pub had two sections, an eatery and a barroom.... my mum, boyfriend and I headed to the food, and my dad - to the drink. About three minutes later the waiter comes out and asks us what we'll have to drink...its on the house.

In the three minutes that we were perusing the menu my dad walked up to the bar and asked for a double dark rum and coke in a single glass...the bartender said "What part of Newfoundland are ya from?" It turns out that the bar is a favorite Boston watering hole for a particular Newfoundland band. This band had recorded several songs that my dad had written, so he knew them well. The bartender (who was also the owner) was so thrilled that we drank and ate for free until the wee hours of the morning.

Anyone will tell you that my dad's love of music was matched only by his adoration of his daughters. He was also tone deaf. Blind love of one's children combined with atonality is a dangerous combination. Throw in that he was also an artist of influence and you have me singing in places where lovely audiences had to grin through painful performances that they paid good money to see.

At least no one paid to hear me at Molly O'Darby's. My Dad kept me in an affectionate headlock all night and requested song after song. I obliged, embarrassed at first, unworthy...but song after drink after song after drink...at some point I was Pamela Morgan, Joni Mitchell, Maddy Prior...

I love to sing, I miss that part of my life that changed when dad died. With him I could embrace the song, appreciate being a participant in music, only slightly inhibited by my lack of talent. I loved to sing. For him. For others.

My son is on the stairs saying "Mom, will you sing me Grey Funnel Line?" It was his Poppy's most favorite. I sang it from Ireland to Arkansas, and all points in between. Sometimes in that loving headlock...and always of my own free will.

I sing it now, only in the darkened bedroom of my seven year old boy.

In hospital, just hours before he died (while I sang), Dad asked for Remy. He hadn't been lucid for days, but when I brought my infant boy in past protesting Intensive Care nurses, Dad sat up and held him. His thin arms clinging, his knobby fingers smoothing Remy's red hair. His only words after..."Ahhh, Remy." Itself a song.


So tonight, as I do everynight, I will go upstairs to Remy's room and sing "Poppy's song". On nights when his dad and I go out and are not home to tuck him in, Remy insists that upon returning I go straight to his room and sing The Grey Funnel Line. Like his grandfather he knows that songs, and goodnight kisses, transcend the deepest of sleep.


"The finest ship that sails the sea
is still a prison for the likes of me
but give me wings like Noah's Dove
I'd fly above her to the one I love..."

Goodnight Remy, Goodnight Dad.