Interlude: The Human Jukebox

I just wanted to share this Interlude because today I'm with my dad moving my stepmother to hospice. June says she wants to go home to Jesus. Dad is now whistling ‘My Blue Heaven”… read on…

Dad had his quirks. If he was watching football or hockey, he was gone — consumed, unreachable. You could say “Dad” ten times from two feet away and he wouldn’t hear you. As he got older and his hearing started to go, we were never sure if it was age or just a continuation of his selective hearing.

If we pulled up to a restaurant or a movie theater, he’d be the one speed-walking to beat the car next to us — to the hostess stand, to the better seats.

But then, out of nowhere, he’d become the human jukebox. Always whistling. Always relevant.

If it was autumn and leaves were blowing around, you’d get The Autumn Leaves.

If someone said they were cold, Baby, It’s Cold Outside.

Tequila? Margaritaville.

Baseball? Take Me Out to the Ball Game.

Christmas tree? O Christmas Tree.

When things got tense, he’d whistle I Don’t Want to Talk About It. Loudly.

It was ridiculous and kind of endearing — but also his tell.

Emotion approaching, conversation veering too close, and suddenly there’d be a tune instead of words.

It was his way of saying everything without saying anything at all.

Now, whenever I hear someone whistle mid-conversation, I listen closer.

It’s never just a song.