When I was 5, my dad decided to teach himself to play the guitar. At that time, my parents had a piece-of-furniture stereo. It was stocked with lots of Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass, Johnny Cash and the soundtrack to Fantasia.

My dad was the one that contributed the Johnny.

As he learned to play, he practiced on Patsy Cline, Hank Williams (Senior!!!!!), Johnny and some Little Jimmy Dickens. Every night, he would practice and sing and my sisters and I would sing with him.

Over time, he got good enough to be comfortable playing for other people and whenever our extended family got together there would be at least one evening of Daddy playing and everyone singing along with him. He was in a couple of bands made up of friends who just liked playing together, never trying to make any money at it.

As he got closer to retirement age, though, the guitar came out less and less often. His hands were getting stiffer and it just didn’t happen as often.

One day when we were talking he mentioned having a dictaphone tape of my sister, Amanda, singing “Jesus Loves Me.” She had been about five and found a little gadget my dad had for making notes to himself on the seat of the car and had amused herself with it for awhile. Even though he doesn’t have a way to play it, he still keeps the tape knowing her childish voice is held in there.

I asked him if he had ever thought to make a tape of his songs for his grandchildren. He asked me what I meant.

I said, “Well, you don’t pick very much any more. You learned ‘I am my own Grandpa’ for Christopher, but Sawyer hasn’t had as much opportunity to sing with you. And, frankly, there’s going to be a day when you aren’t around to ask to sing with us. Not that I think it will be soon, but it is going to happen, eventually. All your little people have always loved singing with you. It would be nice to have a tape or something to let Christopher’s children hear you play.”

He said, “Let me think about that a little bit.”

Several months later, he handed me a CD. It had his picture on the cover, liner notes and everything, like a professional piece of work. He was grinning like he’d just pulled a rabbit out of his hat.

Turns out, he had a parishioner who had a music studio. He’d asked this guy for help putting something together “for his girls” and the guy thought that was a great idea. He said he couldn’t print less than 500 and my dad didn’t know what he’d do with the other 497, but they got to work any way.

Mr. Craig knew some musicians who would help with some background instruments. Maybe they already knew my father, too. I’m not sure. Anyway, Ingram ended up with some guys in the studio with him playing and harmonizing a little.

They called it “Remembering Country” and the liner notes dedicate it to his wife and daughters.

One paragraph say “We started to put a notice on the cover that advance sales had already broken pewter and we expect it to go aluminum within days of its release. But it is not for sale and it won’t be released. If you are one of those lucky enough (or unlucky enough, as you choose) to hear this, just remember it’s the private property of my girls. Keep your snide comments to yourself.”

So, there was one for me and one for each of my sisters and my cousins all got one. His siblings did, too. And the people who went to his church got word of it and started asking if they could have one. A couple of my friends asked for copies and I burned them for them because that was the easiest way to provide them.

I told Daddy that I’d done that, thinking he’d enjoy knowing that people he’d known when they were kids still remembered those nights with fondness.

He said “I may need you to burn a couple more of those for me if it isn’t too much trouble. I’ve almost run out of the 500 I had and a couple of friends have asked me if I had any more. If I do run out and need another one, how hard would it be for you to do that? I’d pay you for the disks.”

I told him that it would be a piece of cake and that I keep disks around so it wouldn’t be a problem.

It has songs that are favorites of each of us, songs we sang to death. “I’m My Own Grandpa” is on it for Christopher. And there are two that he wrote himself. One is a love song to my mother. The other is a damn fine country song.

So, if you ever hear me singing “Crazy Arms” or “Send Me the Pillow That You Dream On” and think that doesn’t sound like my kind of music, keep your snide comments to yourself. 😉