Bluegrass, Advertising and Dimes

On October 29, 2012, my Dad passed away due to complications from congestive heart failure.

It sucked.

I was always a shy child. I would hide for an hour when my Grandparents came to visit. And when my Mom would say, “I don’t know. Go ask your Dad.” I would inevitably and conveniently forget whatever it was I asking for. My Dad wasn’t mean or crotchety, but he scared me to pieces.

As I grew up, I found I had many more things in common with my Dad than I thought. We both loved to read, scouring thrift stores and yard sales for the best mysteries. We both started collecting advertising memorabilia (I think I started, then my Dad started getting cooler stuff!) We both collected old board games, and we both loved to write.

He worked for the government, but his passion was always old books, comics, pulp magazines and Bluegrass music. He published a couple of articles in Bluegrass Unlimited and an article in “Studies in Intelligence” which was an internal CIA publication.

Because he was so involved in the Bluegrass movement, I took guitar lessons from the legendary Johnnie Whisnant (https://www.allmusic.com/artist/johnnie-whisnant-mn0001405597/biography). I would sit for hours in Johnnie’s living room until he “got in the mood” to teach me. It was worth the wait. His wife’s name was June, and they really did remind me of Johnny and June Cash, on a different level, but an incredible talent.

My Dad majored in English and History in college. He was famous for using a red pen, correcting letters my Mom had sent when she was in nursing school and sending them back to her. He did that to me on a few occasions as well. In retrospect, I wish I had kept them.

In later years, he became a volunteer DJ at a local radio station in Grand Junction, CO. He specialized in a big band program and also a bluegrass program. His knowledge about so many subjects amazed me.

During the latter part of his life, he and I became close. We’d laugh at the same TV programs, discuss various authors that were of interest (we both mourned the passing of Robert B. Parker) and I continued to make fun of the “high-lonesome sound” of his Bluegrass favorites.

My Dad saved dimes. Every time he’d get them in change, he’d put them in a Garfield, a Mickey Mouse or an obscure advertising bank to be saved for a rainy day. When he died, my Mom passed along those banks and dimes to me. I have become obsessed with dime collection.

The funny part about living in Las Vegas — there aren’t a lot of dimes to be found because most people that gamble deal in pennies, nickels and quarters. To find a dime on the ground is a miracle indeed and it never ceases to make me smile. Because I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that my Dad made sure I walked on that particular piece of sidewalk or hallway to find that dime.

Leaving the airport one day, I was extremely depressed. I missed my Dad. BOOM! Right there on the carpet was a dime. Walking into work one morning, I was having a bad day and was ready just to quit and run to a mysterious island in the South Sea. BOOM! There was a dime on the sidewalk. Right in front of me.

I know my Dad is watching over me. And I always smile and say “Thanks!” whenever I find a random dime on the ground.

When my Mom moved in with me, she found a dime in one of her dresser drawers. Neither of us claims ownership. Unless it was the dog, I think my Dad stopped by for a visit to let her know he was near.

Thanks, Dad, for teaching me the subtlety of a good joke, the importance of a great book and the value of a dime.