Like so many baby boomers I know, I grew up in a home with an absent father. He was brilliant and handsome and had served in the U.S. Air Force. My father had seen too much, lost too much. After World War II, he wanted to forget the horrors that made him grow up so fast. He wanted to forget anything and everything that touched his emotions.
The first day my prospective new voice teacher opened the door of his West Los Angeles home to me, we fleetingly eyed each other with suspicion. I knew nothing about the skills I was about to acquire, and here was an expert, a maestro. I had heard of his incredible reputation as a musician, and I was in awe. He quickly beckoned me to open my music book and start.
In the beginning, I rarely spoke to him about my life. But music, specifically in voice lessons, is personal. Singing reveals one’s soul. Years later, his daughter died. When it came time to bury her, he asked me to sit with him during the funeral service. Then one day he phoned to give me a lesson. After about five minutes, I could hear the fatigue in his voice and knew he did not have the strength to continue. I told him we should reschedule for another day. I think he knew this might be the final goodbye. Before we hung up, he told me that he loved me and added, “Even when I am gone, remember that you are strong and you must carry on.”