Seeing Clearly: My Dad

Wednesday, April 30, 2008

My Dad

Yesterday my dad, Tom Hayes, aka Dr. Tom, the Silver Fox, Der Alte Mann, turned 82 yesterday. Here he is with his adorable wife of 28 years, Geneva. For those who don't know him, he had a fifty year career as a physician and is the son of one and the brother of two more. If you ask him about his illustrious career, he will probably modestly tell you that he is a product of a trade school, albeit an exclusive one (UM), and that he is largely self-taught in all other areas out of necessity. He devours books, particularly history books, and maritime books like those of Patrick O'Brien (don't get him started!!)--but also sci fi, biographies and nonfiction. He searches for obscure documentaries on Netflix and he asks a lot of questions. He designs and builds HO train engines and wears jeweler's glasses to add the tiny little lightbulbs and wheels. When I was a kid, he developed a system for developing color photograhs and won awards at the Camera Club shows in St. Joe. He golfed like a madman.

His greatest love, though, has always been music. He plays the trumpet and is in two bands: The Bend in the River Brass Band and the Shrine Band, both in Evansville, Indiana. The BRB just narrowly missed a gold medal at the huge regional competition of brass bands. If things had been different, he would have made a great music teacher or professional musician. He practices most every day. It brings him joy to make music. He went to Interlochen summers and there are pictures of him, an elementary kid with big pink cheeks sitting next to a bunch of big kids. He played second chair.

He wrote me an email yesterday:

Claudia

Just checked your blog and thought you would be interested in learning that I danced in the chorus of the "Firebird" at Interlochen under the direction of Martha Graham in 1937 - the summer that she was on the faculty at the camp (which became a full-time boarding school after WW II.) I did real good - didn't fall down or anything. She was a totally impressive person.

This of course doesn't surprise me. He is still very much alive and has a lot to share.
Happy Birthday, Dad. I love you.
Claudia

2 comments:

Anonymous said...: Dear Claudia,

I am the photo archivist at Interlochen Center for the Arts in Interlochen, MI and read with interest your father's comments about Martha Graham. Would you be so kind to have your father or yourself email me directly I have a few questions.

Kathleen Perez
perezkk@interlochen.org; May 1, 2008 at 11:14 AM
Anonymous said...: How cool is that!!!
s; May 4, 2008 at 9:05 PM

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The Journey

The Journey

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice--
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do--
determined to save
the only life you could save.

© Mary Oliver.

a poem from TRAVELING MERCIES by Annie Lamott

Listen
with the night falling we are saying thank you
we are stopping on the bridge to bow from the railings
we are running out of the glass rooms
with our mouths full of food to look at the sky
and say thank you
we are standing by the water looking out
in different directions

back from a series of hospitals back from a mugging
after funerals we are saying thank you
after the news of the dead
whether or not we knew them we are saying thank you
in a culture up to its chin in shame
living in the stench it has chosen we are saying thank you

over telephones we are saying thank you
in doorways and in the backs of cars and in elevators
remembering wars and the police at the back door
and the beatings on stairs we are saying thank you
in the banks that use us we are saying thank you
with the crooks in office with the rich and fashionable
unchanged we go on saying thank you thank you

with the animals dying around us
our lost feeling we are saying thank you
with the forests falling faster than the minutes
of our lives we are saying thank you
with the words going out like cells of a brain
with the cities growing over us like the earth
we are saying thank you faster and faster
with nobody listening we are saying thank you
we are saying thank you and waving
dark though it is

--w.s. merwin

from Kabir, Indian mystic poet

Friend, hope for the truth while you are alive.

Jump into experience while you are alive!...

What you call "salvation" belongs to the time before death.

If you don't break your ropes while you are alive,

do you think ghosts will do it after?

The idea that the soul will join with the ecstatic

just because the body is rotten--

that is all fantasy.

What is found now is found then.

If you find nothing now, you will simply end up with

an empty apartment in the City of Death.

If you make love with the divine now, in the next life you will have the face of satisfied desire.

Night Letter to theReader by Billy Collins

Night Letter to the Reader

I get up from the tangled bed and go outside,

a bird leaving the nest,

a snail taking a holiday from its shell,

but only to stand on the lawn,

an ordinary insomniac

amid the growth systems of garden and woods.

If I were younger, I might be thinking

about something I heard at a party,

about an unusual car,

or the press of Saturday night,

but as it is, I am simply conscious,

an animal in pajamas,

sensing only the pale humidity

of the night and the slight zephyrs

that stir the tops of the trees.

The dog has followed me out

and stands a little ahead,

her nose lifted as if she were inhaling

the tall white flowers,

visible tonight in the darkened garden,

and there was something else I wanted to tell you,

something about the warm orange light

in the windows of the house,

but now I am wondering if you were even listening

and why I bother to tell you these things

that will never make a difference,

flecks of ash, tiny chips of ice.

but this is what I want to do--

tell you that up in the woods

a few night birds were calling,

the grass was cold and wet on my bare feet,

and that at one point, the moon,

looking like the top of Shakespeare's

famous forehead,

appeared, quite unexpectedly,

illuminating a band of moving clouds.

This poem does what all good art does-it makes my heart fill as I recognize myself in it, and I say, "yes! that is exactly it!" and I realize once again that I need to tell you so many things. I feel inspired. Alive.

There are not enough hours.

a note from Kevin Griffin, author and spritual leader from Shambhala