[A while ago I posted one of the poems my aunt Helen wrote for her son, David. Today, I post a song-poem I wrote for my dad. Where we are staying in Illinois is close to where I was born in Hobart Indiana. When we have been there, I'll post something I wrote for my mother.]
Robin Cliff was a "jack-of-all-trades", at least that is what he would remark when once in a while he'd reveal some skill or other. I guess that makes me a poor robin's son.
One of the fondest things I remember him for was his whistle. He could whistle popular melodies in perfect key and warble like a bird. Sometimes when he was sitting, thinking of something he would drum with his fingertips on the tabletop.
It was real drumming, he was a champion drummer. The high school band he played in won many, even national awards. I have a picture of him in his high school band uniform with all his medals on his chest, standing with his snare drum. The picture is behind a piece of glass in a frame on my desk.
When he died in 1984, I was living across the sea in Denmark. On my way back home to Florida, I composed this for him.
I'm going back to Florida to say goodbye to my Pa.
Just what it is that I'm feeling, I don't think I could ever say it all.
My dad was a military snare drummer, I see him with medals on his chest.
When you remember your heroes, I wish you could remember him
My dad grew up in the Depression, when times were very hard.
He didn't trust those bankers who play with such expensive cards.
My dad, he was a worker, he worked so hard all his life,
To support his family, three children and a wife
Robin Cliff was a "jack-of-all-trades", at least that is what he would remark when once in a while he'd reveal some skill or other. I guess that makes me a poor robin's son.
One of the fondest things I remember him for was his whistle. He could whistle popular melodies in perfect key and warble like a bird. Sometimes when he was sitting, thinking of something he would drum with his fingertips on the tabletop.
It was real drumming, he was a champion drummer. The high school band he played in won many, even national awards. I have a picture of him in his high school band uniform with all his medals on his chest, standing with his snare drum. The picture is behind a piece of glass in a frame on my desk.
When he died in 1984, I was living across the sea in Denmark. On my way back home to Florida, I composed this for him.
I'm going back to Florida to say goodbye to my Pa.
Just what it is that I'm feeling, I don't think I could ever say it all.
My dad was a military snare drummer, I see him with medals on his chest.
When you remember your heroes, I wish you could remember him
Hey! Hey! Drummer Boy!
Where are you now?
The skins have cracked!
The snares have snapped!
Your image fades behind the glass!
My dad grew up in the Depression, when times were very hard.
He didn't trust those bankers who play with such expensive cards.
My dad, he was a worker, he worked so hard all his life,
To support his family, three children and a wife
Hey! Hey! Drummer Boy!
Where are you now?
The skins have cracked!
The snares have snapped!
Your image fades behind the glass!
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