Under Daddy's Chair . . .

Growing up in a parsonage, we always had visitors. Some visitors just came for an hour or two; others came for the day, and sometimes longer. My favorite visitors were traveling musicians. We would get to have special services to listen to their singing and their personal testimonies of how God had saved and helped them in all kinds of ways.

After service, we all ate together in the church fellowship hall. There were tables of meats and casseroles, breads and vegetables and of course, the desert tables. The leftovers were packed up and sent home with us to the parsonage, to help feed the visitors again in the evening. At night, after service and after eating again, the adults gathered ‘round in the living room. All of the seats were taken up, and Daddy brought in extra chairs from the dining room.

Daddy always sat in one of the dining room chairs with its high cane back and gold velour padded seat. He set up his guitar amplifier to the right of his chair, and began to tune his guitars. Momma brought in glasses of ice tea and cups of coffee, and little china plates with pieces of pie and cake centered in them and a fork nestled in on the side. She then sat down to her accordion or melodica and everyone else gathered their instruments. There were guitars and horns, piano and accordions and sometimes even a violin or two. As everyone was getting set, Daddy took me around to say goodnight to everyone, and then tucked me in bed. When Daddy went back into the living room, the music started to fill the house with its wonderful sound.

My favorite was always Daddy’s guitar. He played the piano and organ, and all sorts of guitars, some electric and some not. Others would play guitars too, but they never sounded quite like Daddy's playing. I never stayed in bed. I quietly grabbed my pillow and blanket, and snuck down the hall to the living room. Then getting on my hands and knees I crawled behind the furniture and the legs of visitors, till I reached Daddy’s chair. Crawling under, placed my pillow near the amplifier, laid down and covered up with my blanket.

I loved to watch Daddy’s foot tap up and down to the beat of the music, and his chair swayed and creaked along with the songs. Some songs they just played and others they sang along with. There were church songs, and country songs, and old campfire choruses and funny songs from when Daddy was a little boy. The playing went on for hours, as each person would jump in and say “how about . . . “. The visitors always wanted to hear Daddy sing, and he would when they asked. My pillow vibrated with the amplifier till my cheek almost felt numb, but I didn’t care.

After a while, when some were taking a break to eat more pie and get other cups of coffee, Daddy entertained with “I’m going higher and higher someday” . . . and everyone laughed when he got to the funny verse that mentioned “angel food cake on the table, and heavenly alamode pie” Then he sang, “Hello Operator Give Me Memphis Tennessee . . . “ and I giggled, ‘cause Daddy knew that was one of my most favorite songs for him to play and sing. Daddy paused a moment as if he was listening for something and then with his unplugged guitar, he began to play a soft melody. The room quieted down and I held my breath as Daddy began to sing my favorite song in the world . . .

“A tiny turned up nose, two cheeks just like a rose, so sweet from head to toe, that little Debbie of mine. Two eyes that shine so bright, two lips that kiss goodnight, two arms that hold me tight, that little Debbie of mine. No one will ever know, just what her coming has meant, because I love her so, she’s something heaven has sent. She’s all the world to me, when she climbs upon my knee, to me, she’ll always be, that little Debbie, of . . . mine.”

As I hugged his ankle tight, the music started again, and I fell asleep, smiling in my heart, under Daddy’s chair.

I miss you Daddy!