Dad loves the King Family.
A 1960's television icon, the King Family is a multi-generational very blonde, very musical group who sings their way into the hearts of sentimental slobs like our father. Every Christmas, "The First Family of Song" dons white cardigans and assembles around a grand staircase to sing, "I've Got My Love to Keep Me Warm". That sterling combination of blonde good looks and four part harmony chokes Dad up every time.
"Kids, right there," he snorts back emotion and points to the tv, "is what family is all about."
Dad believes we are the next King Family. We fail to understand his logic since we are neither all blonde nor beautiful. Mostly we are not talented. Dad thinks we are.
Once a month, Dad drops Mom off at Dr. Strain's office for the infant checkup of whomever is the newest Mary or Joseph at the time. The rest of us are forced to wait in the parking lot with Dad.
"We can practice our song!" he grins at us in the rear view mirror.
We groan. Dad adores the lyrics of "I Had a Dream, Dear", a famous old tune from the 20's, and is teaching us to sing it in four part harmony. It will be the song, he promises, that will propel us to television stardom and plant us on the stage of "The Ed Sullivan Show" - exactly the way the King Family started out.
"I'm allergic," Deb, my five-year-old sister, defiantly folds her arms across her chest and excuses herself from practice.
Dad ignores her. "Get ready for your notes," he instructs. Like a virtuoso conductor, he holds a single finger aloft and hums a note to Joe who is presumably the low bass section. The fact that Joe's only ten and at least three years from puberty makes no difference to Dad. Joe rolls his eyes but hums obediently.
Mick and Rick, the tenor section, hold onto their note as well. Not only does it sound nothing like Dad's note, but the two of them sing completely different notes from each other. I, at least, as the alto in the group, have taken piano for a year from my dad's cousin Peggy Tighe, who, as it turns out, IS musical. I know just enough to understand that the notes we're humming into the stale air of our old station wagon would not be recognizable on the Chromatic Scale. When Deb and Mary chime in as sopranos, we make a sound similar to that of a very sick goat in heat. Dad, however, beams and hears only his beloved King Family.
We have sung "I Had a Dream, Dear" for so long that we've memorized the words. "I had a dream, Dear! You had one, too. Mine was the best dream because it was of you..."
Dad coaxes us along. "A little stronger at the end," he waves his finger in the air.
We blare out the last lyric. "YOU TELL ME YOUUUUUUR DREAM! AND I WILL TELL YOU MINE!"
An elderly couple parked beside us glares and rapidly rolls up their windows. Dad takes no notice.
We sing it again and again until Mick loses interest and entertains the irritated elderly couple next to us with his Herman Munster impression.
"All right, all right," Dad at last relents. When Mom returns with the baby, however, he makes us sing one last time. He can hardly contain his excitement. Mom barely suppresses a sigh but patiently listens. We give it all we've got.
"Mmmm!" she smiles noncommitally.
"What d'ya think?" Dad can barely contain his excitement.
Mom nods hopefully. "Isn't it something," she says brightly, "that they know ALL the words?"
We never do make it to the Ed Sullivan Show. Dad is disappointed but eventually accepts the fact that none of us are musical. It's a hard pill to swallow, but perhaps there's still hope for three or four professional athletes or even an Olympian in the family.
In another twenty years or so, I will finally have the opportunity to listen to an old record album of the famous Mills Brothers singing "I Had a Dream, Dear". I am amazed. It sounds nothing the way Dad first taught it to us all those years ago in the parking lot of Dr. Strain's office. I can actually detect a melody and a sultry harmony. It is beautiful, calming and smooth as warm honey.
And I like Dad's version a lot better.
A 1960's television icon, the King Family is a multi-generational very blonde, very musical group who sings their way into the hearts of sentimental slobs like our father. Every Christmas, "The First Family of Song" dons white cardigans and assembles around a grand staircase to sing, "I've Got My Love to Keep Me Warm". That sterling combination of blonde good looks and four part harmony chokes Dad up every time.
 |
| The next King Family. Back from left: Joe, Mick, Rick. Front from left: Deb, Mary, Terri and Carry. (Christmas 1969) |
"Kids, right there," he snorts back emotion and points to the tv, "is what family is all about."
Dad believes we are the next King Family. We fail to understand his logic since we are neither all blonde nor beautiful. Mostly we are not talented. Dad thinks we are.
Once a month, Dad drops Mom off at Dr. Strain's office for the infant checkup of whomever is the newest Mary or Joseph at the time. The rest of us are forced to wait in the parking lot with Dad.
"We can practice our song!" he grins at us in the rear view mirror.
We groan. Dad adores the lyrics of "I Had a Dream, Dear", a famous old tune from the 20's, and is teaching us to sing it in four part harmony. It will be the song, he promises, that will propel us to television stardom and plant us on the stage of "The Ed Sullivan Show" - exactly the way the King Family started out.
 |
| Dad's favorite group - The First Family of Song |
Dad ignores her. "Get ready for your notes," he instructs. Like a virtuoso conductor, he holds a single finger aloft and hums a note to Joe who is presumably the low bass section. The fact that Joe's only ten and at least three years from puberty makes no difference to Dad. Joe rolls his eyes but hums obediently.
Mick and Rick, the tenor section, hold onto their note as well. Not only does it sound nothing like Dad's note, but the two of them sing completely different notes from each other. I, at least, as the alto in the group, have taken piano for a year from my dad's cousin Peggy Tighe, who, as it turns out, IS musical. I know just enough to understand that the notes we're humming into the stale air of our old station wagon would not be recognizable on the Chromatic Scale. When Deb and Mary chime in as sopranos, we make a sound similar to that of a very sick goat in heat. Dad, however, beams and hears only his beloved King Family.
We have sung "I Had a Dream, Dear" for so long that we've memorized the words. "I had a dream, Dear! You had one, too. Mine was the best dream because it was of you..."
Dad coaxes us along. "A little stronger at the end," he waves his finger in the air.
We blare out the last lyric. "YOU TELL ME YOUUUUUUR DREAM! AND I WILL TELL YOU MINE!"
An elderly couple parked beside us glares and rapidly rolls up their windows. Dad takes no notice.
We sing it again and again until Mick loses interest and entertains the irritated elderly couple next to us with his Herman Munster impression.
"All right, all right," Dad at last relents. When Mom returns with the baby, however, he makes us sing one last time. He can hardly contain his excitement. Mom barely suppresses a sigh but patiently listens. We give it all we've got.
"Mmmm!" she smiles noncommitally.
"What d'ya think?" Dad can barely contain his excitement.
Mom nods hopefully. "Isn't it something," she says brightly, "that they know ALL the words?"
We never do make it to the Ed Sullivan Show. Dad is disappointed but eventually accepts the fact that none of us are musical. It's a hard pill to swallow, but perhaps there's still hope for three or four professional athletes or even an Olympian in the family.
In another twenty years or so, I will finally have the opportunity to listen to an old record album of the famous Mills Brothers singing "I Had a Dream, Dear". I am amazed. It sounds nothing the way Dad first taught it to us all those years ago in the parking lot of Dr. Strain's office. I can actually detect a melody and a sultry harmony. It is beautiful, calming and smooth as warm honey.
And I like Dad's version a lot better.
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