When my mother was alive, there was a house rule: my father could not watch any TV show where more than half the people in the show were dead. If left to his own decisions, my father would not watch anything post 1960. And if her early had a choice, he would have spent most of his TV viewing time watching Lawrence Welk. He loved that boring show. "It's so wholesome and the music is beautiful. Not this loud stuff you hear on the radio today," he would comment.
When he would turn on the TV, my mother walked up to the screen and counted: "dead, dead, dead, dead. Sorry, you can't watch this show. Too many dead people." And the channel would be changed to something more modern.
So it was really no surprised to see him sitting in front of the TV, a week after my mother died, with TV dinner beside him and Lawrence Welk blaring from the screen. My father's foot tapped to the Big Band. "Yup, you don't hear this sound anymore, do you", he comments nostalgically.
When a commercial comes on, he turns down the volume and asks, "Hey Bridget, would you take me to Branson, Missouri for my 75th birthday? I want to see the Welk show live."
"You know he's died, right Dad?"
"Yea but I want to hear that sound of his in a live audience."
"Then let's go now. Why wait five years?'
"Oh, you would only go now because you feel sorry for me because Mom just died", he says sadly.
"Well, yea, I do feel sorry for you. And what if you don't make it to 75? Mom didn't. And what makes you think it would be any easier to travel with you as a 75 year old as compared to now when you are only 70? We should go now", I tell him emphatically.
And as it turns out, I am a bit too convincing because he turns to me and says, "Yes, let's go. When can you go. I'll clear my calendar."
The deal is done and now we are going to Branson. Shit, shit, shit. I hate that wholesome kind of music. I don't want to go to Branson. So I send an email to my siblings and tell them that I don't care which one comes with me, but one of them MUST come with me to Branson. Patricia agrees to join us.
I begin to make plans and ask my father if there are any other shows that interest him.
"Yea, yea, that Japanese guy with the fiddle. Mitsubishi or something". He is unabashed in this flagrant disregard for this man's name. So I call the ticket agent and embarrassingly ask about the Japanese man with the fiddle.
"Oh, you are going to love him. Everyone loves his shows", she tells me, completely obvious to my cultural faux pas. Patricia wants to see the Osmond Brothers and is a little disappointed to earn that Donny will not be appearing with them. But she is intrigued by the fact that the entire show is on ice. They will be ice skating while they sing which leaves me with the perplexing question, "WHY?"
We book tickets to a magic show and to someone who resembles Glen Campbell and our weekend is all set. Five shows of Americana wholesomeness. I just can't wait.
Two weeks later, we make our way to Branson and head right to our first show at the Lawrence Welk Theatre. Time stands still in this theatre which pays tribute to a man gone for so long that many of the performers never knew him. But everyone speaks of him with a reverence that is genuine and refreshing. The Lennon Sisters preform first with the aide of their children who carry the notes they can no longer sing. Grandchildren come out and perform and just when the audience cheers and claps for three generations of the Lennons, the oldest grandson pops back stage and brings out the newest addition and the fourth generation to the family The crowd goes wild with the assurance of many, many, many more years of sacren sweet family entertainment.
At the end of the show, my dad wants a photo of us standing next to the life size cardboard cutout of Lawrence Welk. We comply and try not to be too sarcastic but it doesn't matter, my dad is filled with so much excitement that he doesn't even hear us. He spots the original announcer of the show so he runs over to introduce himself. "Thank you fro 40 years of beautiful music", I hear my dad say. His voice cracks and I know the tears are coming. "Patricia, let's get out of here before we have to carry him out of here. He's crying over there with that old announcer."
We get him out of there but we spend the rest of the evening, nodding in obligatory agreement to the repeated comment, "You know, they just don't make beautiful music like that any more. That music was soft and they were all love songs. Not like today's music."
