Rainy Days and Monday
After three and a half weeks without rain in the Chicago area, the skies finally opened up on Monday just as my wife and I exited Costco, $250 poorer than when we entered. The rain was such a welcome site that we opted to get wet and load up the car, but after arriving home the weather got more serious with a deluge of rain, wind gusts, hail and tornado warnings – none of which, I might add, had been forecasted by our weather apps, which had merely predicted a “chance of rain.”
As we hunkered down in our basement, I marked the occasion of this wonderful, beautiful rain (granted, with a side of danger) by playing a recording of The Carpenters’ song, “Rainy Days and Mondays,” as it was both raining and a Monday! How perfect! Well, the gods were having none of that nonsense, and one minute into Karen Carpenter’s glorious delivery, the power went out, flashed back on for a second, went out again, flashed on again, and then went out for good. There would be no music for the time being.
Once the worst of the storm had passed, I headed upstairs and I took matters into my own hands, sitting at the piano to pluck out the 1971 tune penned by Roger Nichols and Paul Williams. The chords were no problem, but I botched the melody pretty badly. It brought to mind how much easier it had been to play the song when I could just hide behind my daughter Jessica’s singing voice, who performed the tune with me from time to time when she was around 12 years old. Playing chords while someone else took the melody? No problem. Melody on the fly? Not so much.
On one occasion in 2009, Jessica and I performed “Rainy Days and Mondays” for my mother and her husband. Jessica had – and still has – a very good voice and vocal technique. We picked the proper key, I played the intro, and she took it away from there. I added some silly backup vocals behind my daughter’s controlled performance, but overall it sounded good.
After we finished the tune, my mother said, “Oh Jessica, why didn’t you use your pretty voice?”
Now, it would take years of psychoanalysis to understand what prompted that remark. I had gotten used to callous comments from my mother over the years, but this one left me dumbfounded. I stood up, looked at Jessica with eyebrows raised, wiggled my finger toward her and said, “Follow me.”
When Jessica recounts the story today, she says that she thought she was in trouble, that she had possibly embarrassed me in front of my mother, but nothing could have been further from the truth.
We walked to the back room of our house, I crouched down to her eye level and said, “Do you know what tactless means?” She said she didn’t. “It’s when you say something rude, something unkind. You sang beautifully, and what Grandma said was tactless.”
Jessica and I will occasionally recount this story when reminiscing about her childhood. It was one of my prouder parenting moments and one of my mother’s weaker moments. But Jessica wasn’t deterred. She went on to sing throughout high school and college, and even made a career as a music therapist for half a decade.
“Rainy Days and Mondays.” I love that this wonderful song that accompanied me during my early childhood now has a personal history with my daughter. However, I’d be much obliged if the next time I choose to play the record, the skies let it go to its completion.
