Music fills our memories

Growing up in the 1980s with a dad who loved music molded me into the woman I am today.

There is picture of me when I was around 2 with a set of headphones on, belting out a song.

As I grew up, I would spend hours in my bedroom channeling my inner Madonna, Whitney Houston, Debbie Gibson and Tiffany.

Usually when my mom knocked on my bedroom door (to tell me to “Turn DOWN the radio!”), she was never sure who would answer as I would transform myself into my favorite artist (for that day).

As a child, listening to music was a way to pass the time; yet it was also a way for me to bond with my dad.

I still remember our old record player and the records he bought – Cat Stevens, Jimi Hendrix, Neil Diamond, Men at Work, Tears for Fears, Bob Segar (and the Silver Bullet Band). The albums filled the bottom part of the early 1980’s entertainment center.

As the evening hours passed, he would play the “air guitar” dancing around the living room, or the saxophone.

And he would play the records at ear-piercing volumes.

One of our favorite songs is “Old Time Rock and Roll” by Bob Segar.

Every wedding we ever attended together, that was our song.

If we were in different areas of the reception, we would meet on the dance floor. At one wedding, I remember him throwing me under his legs, as I slid on the dance floor.

In fact, when I got married in 2000, my mom picked the song for the father/daughter dance because honestly, at the time, I didn’t like anything that was being played on the radio. She ended up selecting something like “Daddy’s Little Girl.”  As we danced together on the floor, in front the guests, he whispered into my ear, “What song is this that your mom picked?” And we just laughed.

We knew what our song was … and a mere three minutes later, “Old Time Rock and Roll” came blaring through the speakers.

Even now, when we attend family weddings, I always know who my dancing partner will be when “Old Time Rock and Roll” starts to play – my dad, because I will always be his little girl.




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