The Voice of My Father

How Many Bags Does She Have?
For years my siblings and I have lovingly referred to our mother as the bag lady. She still lives in the same house in which she raised my five brothers and four sisters. The second floor has become her four room storage unit. She has a lot of stuff. In all fairness to her, as we began to fly the coop we left a lot of our junk behind. She is amazingly organized, as she works tirelessly at it. There are many things that she hangs onto "just in case" someone needs it. In a family of our size, that proves to be a rule, rather than the exception. One of the first things my kids would ask, when they saw their grandmother pull up to our house was, "how many bags does she have? My four kids just wanted to know how many of them should run out and help Me mere. All too often her bags contained goodies for them. Sometimes the kids would be surprised to recieve old comic books or coloring books. Going through my mother's bags was always a treat. I am thrilled to say, I am still blessed to rummage through her offerings.

It's Just Junk
Whenever my mom hands off a bag or two she always says the same thing, "It's just junk, if you don't want it, just get rid of it". There hasn't been much, that I would actually consider junk. A few years ago, amidst some odds and ends, I spied leather luggage tags and some cassette tapes. Each bore the distinct, neat printing that unmistakeably belonged to my dad. Seeing it again, sent a shiver up my spine. My father has been gone for many years. At that time, I think he had passed away, twenty years previously. When I got the cassette tapes home, I could hardly believe my ears.

The Jesus People
I popped a tape in the cassette player and waited for music. I was curious about the twelve tapes that were entitled, "The Jesus People". My father had always struck me as a person on a spiritual journey. He watched Billy Graham on television, everytime. He attended many Catholic Retreats and church regularly. His bookshelves were filled with religious material. I expected the tapes to contain some recorded material from a retreat or perhaps holy music. For all I knew, "The Jesus People" were a choir. I was unprepared for the sound that reached my ears. It was the voice of my father. I remember when I was little, his voice could catapult us out of a chair, if we were in trouble. Hearing it again, it had the same effect on me. I had been sitting at my sewing machine, ready to start a project when I had started the tape. I bolted out of the chair, ran across the room and slammed down the pause button on the player. "That was Dad", I thought, disbelievingly. Then out loud, "that was you, right"? Tears streamed down my face. I could almost hear him answer me inside my head, "yes, it's me you knucklehead, turn the thing back on, this book is important".

Dad Is Reading a Book On Tape
In my nervous excitement, I ran downstairs to get my husband. I'm sure my expression matched my mixed emotions. I blurted out, "Dad is reading a book on tape, you have to come upstairs". The poor guy just blinked a few times and then asked, "what'? I'm sure he thought I had finally lost my mind. My husband has seen me through some of the worst times in my life. Each time, he is relieved to find, that I have not been leveled, like a slender reed in a windstorm. It is lucky for me that I bend as easily. I dragged him up the stairs, while explaining what I meant. By the time we reached the cassette player and I pressed play again, I had a hand to hold. "Listen", I commanded. Together we heard, "This is Normand Robert and it is June 3rd, 1973 at 6:35 A.M, it is a beautiful day, this is Chapter One of, The Jesus People", and then I felt it. My husbands hand had locked mine in a death grip. I started laughing and crying at the same time. "See, I told you, it's my father's voice, I'm hearing his voice again, can you believe it"? I asked. He clearly couldn't for a few moments. Then he asked, "Wow, those tapes were in that bag your mother gave you"? "Yeah", I answered, "I don't think she knew what was on them". He gave me hug and then left me alone, with my father's voice. I wanted to be alone with his voice again. I wanted to listen to every word he read but I could not retain their meaning. All I heard was the sound of his voice. I closed my eyes and listened as I had never listened to him before. I imagined him to be in the room with me. It would have been perfect if I could have just reached out and touched him. His voice misted over me like a soft ocean breeze. It glistened on my cheeks and then, evaporated when it trailed off at the end of the first tape. I turned it over and played the second side. "My father is reading me a story, once again" I smiled at the thought. It was beautiful and bittersweet. A voice that had been silenced, so many years ago, was preserved and pulled out of a bag. Unknowingly, my mother had given me the gift of my father again.

Pass It On
I called to tell her about the tapes and she was surprised. "I didn't know that was on them" she said. "Oh, you knew your father, he was always making tapes and collecting material" she explained. Then she said, " Pass them on, when you are finished with them". It took me about a week to get through them. I packaged them up carefully and put them in order. I gave them to my eldest brother, with full disclosure. I didn't want to give him a heart attack, afterall, he is older than me. I made sure to repeat my mother's wishes and told him to "pass them on" when he was finished with them. Dad's voice may have been on the tapes but Mom's always have the last word. I am sure she wanted each of her ten children to hear their father's voice one more time. The luggage tag remains with me and is on my knitting tote. It is a reminder of how blessed I am to have known the love of a father. Fortunate still, that my mother's love remains and is showered on us. Regularly delivered, in a bag of some sort. My mother, our own Mary Poppins, purveyor of memories and giver of mystical things.