I'd Like to Teach the World to Sing

To my mind, the obscurity of To Sir With Love makes it a curiosity when I hear it even just once. And though I love the song, and have since I was a kid, even before it had the significance that it does, I will not download it to my iPod just so it will not become ordinary. It would lose it's power. It would no longer be a beacon for me.

The Train song, is more recent and not so rare, so hearing it just once seems like just a fluke. Just a song on the radio. But when I hear it a few days in a row, it strikes me as meaningful. The first time I hear it, it is just a little wake up call. "Keep your eyes open, Nancy Drew. I am about to lay down a few clues." I usually perk up the senses and try to notice, really understand, what is happening around me. Just in case.

So the morning I went blazing through the parking lot at an infuriating 2 mph, I made a mental note of the song and went on to deal with all the little jests the world of Human Resources had to dish out for me that day. What began as a crap sandwich ended as a crap sandwich, and was accompanied by a heaping side dish of insolence courtesy of my preteen who's already decided I am really embarrassing and pitifully lacking in intelligence, and whose dietary preferences become more and more finicky with each passing day. (Never question why I drink.)

The next day, like the ignorantly optimistic Pollyanna that I am, I bounded out of bed ready to face the bizarre world of human industrial behavior again. I had a great outfit planned and was dressed and was spackling and painting my face when I was joined in the bathroom by my daughter, needing her blonde locks tamed and braided.

I saw her look at my outfit in the mirror and stick out her lower jaw to the side skeptically.

I was wearing a long linen dress (which would look great all day as long as I never had to sit or drive) that was a tea-stained color and covered in cabbage roses and leaves. It was the perfect body-skimming shape with a very flattering scoop neckline. I had a coordinating shrug (The dress is sleeveless and I am still not sure about the politics of bare arms in my office. I am already pushing the envelope by refusing to wear pantyhose until Don, my boss, wears a bra.) I also had adorable kitten heel shoes that were the perfect thing.

"Mom," she began. "Is that what you are wearing to work?"

No, it is something I threw on just to make the coffee and toast in.

"Yes, sweetie. Why? Is something wrong?" I start to look frantically at my backside in the mirror. "Is there a stain somewhere?"

"No, I just thought maybe you'd want to wear something a little less - you know - old lady-ish."

I should have made her walk to school for that. Or threatened to give her a ride in a Hoveround.
Fashion critiquing coming from a 10 year old whose outfit includes Uggs and training bra.

I decided her taste ran more toward Hannah Montana than Charlotte York from Sex and the City and convinced myself that I could get through the work day without any Boy Scouts mistaking me for someone who needed to be helped across the street.

In fact, I was going to amp up the Hamptons look with pearls. I retreated to my bedroom to get them out of their silk-lined little boxes, and there it was again.

On the radio. The familiar opening lament from Train. "I need a sign, to let me know you're here..."

They Want to Arrange a Meeting Between Me and Barzini. On Tessio's Ground. Where I'll be safe.

The day came when we'd have what the Corleones would have called a "sit down." All the homicidal parties sit in various parts of the same building, far enough apart where no one can hear each other's attacks and accusations and go sailing over the edge of reason. And concealed from each other's view so you can be alone with your own murderous thoughts, willing each other to choke on a Tic Tac and wishing you'd brought the voodoo doll and the big pins.

So when all hope was nearly lost and my second lawyer and I (I'd fired my first, totally incompetent.) were talking Worst Case Scenarios v. Litigation, we spent a full day (and a few of my paychecks) conferencing, negotiating, rejecting offers, and finally, against all odds, settling.

It was pretty close to the top tier of scenarios on my lawyers Worst Case list, but nothing unmanageable. I got to keep the things that were important. Sure I had to pay a settlement (the price for being more successful, in spite of all those additional degrees) and had to continue with the child support (even though I know the kids do not really realize the benefit of the support) but I did not have to distribute any of my investments (I am really seriously too old to start over. Hard cheese if he has not planned well.) And, best of all, I got to keep the house. The kids could continue to build a life in the place they'd called home their entire lives. In spite of the fact that Lars did his best to convince everyone that I would never be able to manage the yard work and "old house" problems. (I can fix anything - that is what a check book is for.)

So - we were settled. Bring on the papers. I have my pen poised above the desk, ready to sign.

Elated, I drove home - calling J. on the way to say the two year ordeal had finally heaved its last breath. Buy the champagne and meet me at my house. My house.

I arrived. J. arrived. The bubbly was uncorked and poured.

I decided to flick on the telly to put on some festive music courtesy of one of my 47 music channels. When the screen came to life, the movie channel I'd been watching the night before popped on.

And remarkably, To Sir With Love was playing.

I gasped and looked at J.

The movie, to my everlasting amazement, had just reached the precise moment when the title song is first heard.

The violins were playing. Dad was at hand. And, so it seems, had been all day.

Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?

So no, there are no wailing disembodied voices in the night, or any poltergeist messages to my children from the TV's white noise, or any blankets strung up on clotheslines to resemble flying apparitions a la the Brady Bunch.

There are just these subtle signs.

There was another such sign when I settled my (acrimonious) divorce. Have I mentioned that divorce, in all its shapes and forms, is about the least fun thing you can ever undertake?

I don't know how my divorce stacks up against anyone else's on the Charlie Sheen Acrimony Scale, but it was one of the most unenjoyable, no-when-we-look-back-on-this-in-ten-years-it-will-not-be-remotely-funny periods in my otherwise enjoyable if not peculiar life.

So when my divorce proceedings reached fever pitch, and we had a last ditch run at settlement (Read that: "Settlement in lieu of painful lengthy expensive litigation that will suck the will to live right out of you and cost your children years of anything resembling happiness) I was cautiously hopeful. And apprehensive. And, well, guilty. Guilty that that SOB with the streety survival instinct , an iffy relationship with honesty, and a serious pain-pills-washed-down-with-beer self medicating problem that left him dark and disturbed and mean, would be taking my money and my time with my children to play Disneyland Dad and subtle little "you can't love us both, if you love Mommy, Daddy will leave" games.

Note - to any of you contemplating jumping onto the Divorce-A-Go-Round: Choose your lawyer wisely. They will all take your money and some of them really are only working out their own bitterness with your situation. Even the most peaceable partings have the potential for bringing out someone's inner OJ, their inner Heather Mills, or morphing you both into a copycat Minnelli/Gest storyline, or worse, the Baldwin/Bassinger fable. (http://today.msnbc.msn.com/id/24712537/ns/today-entertainment/)

Your lawyer should keep you focused on two important terms (and not losing all of your muscle mass in the inevitable Marital Discord Diet): "Equitable Distribution" and "Dissolution of Marriage."

Not "Pillage and Plunder" because you are humiliated by her multiple affairs, this last one being with the parish priest who was giving you marriage counseling.

Not "Evisceration of Your Marital Partner" because after you dealt with his multiple lay-offs and paid for him to go back to school - twice- the second time for some frivolous degree he just had to earn, and decided to pursue moments after the episiotomy was sutured following the delivery of your second child, he became a maniacal whack job and decided he should have 60% of everything, the house, the better car, the kids, alimony and child support, so he can take frequent exotic vacations to convince your kids how much he loves them.

Equitable. (Look it up!)

Distribution (Yes, someone is going to have to part with something.)

Dissolution. (It is just over. Let it be.)

Of Marriage. (Try to remember that you loved each other once, and your kids still do.)

Get out. Pay if you have to. You will get back your happiness. But not until it's over. Let it end.

The Paper Chase

Make no mistake. I was well prepared for court. And prepared for battle with Ne'er-do-well #1. I had a fine attorney. We had crafted a kick-a** position statement. All of my actions and decisions - in all cases, not just this one - were thoughtful, lawful, professional and best of all, defensible.

But as I was headed to the courthouse for the fact finding hearing, I got a call from my attorney who had already arrived. Malcontent 1 had brought Malcontent 2 as a plaintiff's witness.

They were going to lie for each other.

I was suddenly in a flop sweat.

My attorney asked me to pull and copy Malcontent 2's (outrageously thick!) file so we could be prepared to talk about it and discredit her. I had time to copy, sure, but there was no time to prepare. My confidence went sailing out the window. And worse, all the extra copying had left me short on travel time. I skipped the cab and began to sprint the 4 blocks to court. Somewhere I am a YouTube sensation for this.

Huffing and overheated - I was running in heels and hose and a very tailored suit, hello - I stopped for a few seconds to try to quell the hyperventilating. I took the moment to have a little chat with Dad.

"Dad," I said, addressing him directly. " I know I never asked for your help with anything growing up, and that it always bugged you. But Pop,I really need your help today. My professional credibility is on the line, Dad. I need to go into court today and be brilliant. I have to be calm. I have to be articulate. I have to make sense. And I need the investigator to see that I've been honest."

I had sent up the prayer and put it in someone else's hands. I walked the rest of the way to court hoping to calm down and catch my breath. Because nothing says "I have nothing to fear" more convincingly than a disheveled woman in a full sweat wheezing uncontrollably.

The proceedings went beautifully. It was rather like holding my breath for 4 hours but there were no surprises, speed bumps, detours, mystery guests, or Watergate tapes. Sitting across a narrow table from the prickly plaintiff was nerve wracking but it was a relief that there was no "across the table testimony" allowed. I could not address her, and she could not yell at me, hurl insults my way, name call, or make extraneous commentary. I made all all the points I'd come to make and presented testimony credible enough to prove myself to have acted judiciously and fairly and in good faith. Even better, the "witness" never got to cross the threshold. A slam dunk.

I returned from court jubilant. I paused for a moment in front of a nearby church to thank Dad for a whopping dose of divine intervention. I retold the story to my overjoyed boss who then let me head for home early. I'd clearly earned my keep.

And when I got into my car and turned the key, the radio came on. I recognized the violins at once. It was the opening bars to "To Sir With Love."

The Ghost and Mrs. Muir

Again, before you go logging off having decided I am some kind of kook - let me explain. I am not visited by ghosts. There are no wailing Jacob Marley apparitions appearing in my bed chamber on Christmas Eve. There are no ancient sea captains making madcap intrusions into my serene cottage life. Scooby and Shaggy do not pull up in the Mystery Machine to find out who is making all the Fudgesicles disappear from my freezer. It's not like that at all.

I recall the first time I even noticed anything.

When Dad died, I was in a particularly challenging situation at work. (Did I mention that I am in Human Resources? People do the most fascinating things at work!) I had a whole cast of characters reporting to me at the time, but two of them had been uncommonly malcontented troublemakers - who in addition to having a bizarre preoccupation with other peoples' business, were also Mean People. Mean people with no boundaries and fantastical delusions about their own power and importance in the company.

And while I had no respect or admiration for either of them, and was constantly coaching them (Imploring them? Demanding? Insisting under penalty of tar-and-feathering?) to redirect their energies to more productive endeavors, I could never definitively assign blame to either one of them for any of the heinous crimes against their co-workers they were reported to have done - or instigated. It was infuriating. They were very good ass-coverers, and it didn't help that they were in collusion and each would gladly cover the other's (considerable) derriere.

But as the saying goes, I gave them enough rope and each eventually hanged herself with it - just a few weeks apart, and in such a way that neither could even begin to cover her own hiney, much less the other's.

Don't get excited. This is not where I think Dad interceded. This was all a-swirl while Dad was slowly letting go of this world.

But the first one to walk the plank had some grandiose ideas about revenge (she must know Sandy) and used her inside connection with the later terminatee to try to make my life miserable by digging up "data" and providing it for her to use against the company in a half-baked law suit.

Not my happiest moment in the office.

And as if I didn't have enough to deal with, I was suddenly preparing the company's defense. And in the middle of all the data collection, and statistical analysis, and depositions and preparation - my dear old Dad passed away. And while the turmoil at the office was exactly the thing I needed to distract me from my grief, it was enough to shake my confidence. Big time.

A few weeks later I was off to court.

And along came Dad.

Sign Sign Everywhere A Sign

Now, I am not so naive to think that hearing the Train song could not purely be a matter of some mandated play list, dictated by some station executive, and merely a coincidence.

But my sister and I feel differently. Before you roll your eyes and decide we are both kooks, let me tell you, we both have seen plenty of signs that Dad started doing things he'd wanted to accomplish on Earth, but had had to wait until he'd gotten his wings before he could tackle them.

Dad had been a lively, social man for much of his life. A funny, entertaining prankster who prided himself on endearing the little people in the family with good natured teasing. ( I can remember him asking a nephew, who was 5 at the time, "Why did your mother buy you girl's shoes?") He also had a personal mission to prevent any kid in the neighborhood, girl or boy, from going through life throwing a baseball like Mamie Eisenhower. He was a good dancer. He could mimic how our firends walked or talked to perfection. He had the cleanest car and the greenest, most manicured lawn in the neighborhood. He read every word of the newspaper every night and got his hair cut every two weeks. Quite a character Dad was.

But his health had failed him early and just when the grandchildren were ripening into little beings he could have some fun with, he began to lose ground in some of his lifetime battles. Gone was the possibility that any Norman Rockwellian grandfather and grandchild moments could actually come to pass.

There would be no camping trips with instructions on how to start a camp fire or how to hook a worm so you could fish for dinner. No Bring Your Grandparent to School Days. No come-let-me-show-you-how-not-to-throw-like-a-girl backyard adventures. No long afternoons at the ball park sharing hot dogs and pretzels and icecream.

And a few years later, when he finally passed, along came the signs that he had not left us altogether, but had taken up the reigns where he'd had to let them go before.

My nephew suddenly became a prize baseball player, throwing strikes from the hill with alarming consistency and Poppop seeming to help the ball over the fence regularly in clutch at-bats. My daughter telling me in the most despairing time in my divorce that it would all be alright. That Poppop had told her it would be. At night. And no she was not scared. He was all around her all the time.

I've had signs of my own. Just to me.

They aren't always obvious. Sometimes it is a stroke of luck or a really good thing that happened and just when I am thinking, "Wow, that was unexpected!'' I get a sign from Dad. Tapping me on the shoulder. The old man letting me know he'd been there. Working his magic.

The Train song gives me a warning. "Pay attention. I am here." But "To Sir With Love" has made its rare appearances after Dad has evidently hovered over some situation I managed to get myself into. It stops me in my tracks every time.

Memories! Light the Corners of My Mind

Like everyone, I have songs that send me back. Sometimes way back.

"Cecelia" by Simon and Garfunkel will always make me smile thinking of my parents as a happily married couple. Whether they were actually happy or not at the time is anyone's guess but that was a song my mother told me she and my father would dance to on regular Saturday nights out with other couples. I'll assume happiness.

And "Rock the Boat" by the Hues Corporation and Paper Lace's "The Night Chicago Died" send me back to the summer between 4th and 5th grade, to the swim club where my sister and I wiled away hours upon hours, day and night after day and night with our little swim team clique. Either song coming on the radio inspires one of us to call the other and hold the phone up to the speaker.

And though I am not likely to ever hear it again, there was a song with lyrics that spoke of Porcupine Pie and Vanilla Soup that brings back an image of my brother with his wildly bushy blond curls that stuck out in every direction in the 70s when it was all the rage to have hair like that. My Dad, with the crew cut that he combed flat so that it was trained to lay down across the top of his head would sing the song and change the words to "Porcupine Hair."

And I have two specific Dad songs.

"To Sir With Love" by Lulu is almost never on the radio. It's an old song from an old movie that I chose to dance to with my Dad at my wedding. He'd requested that I not play "Daddy's Little Girl" as he could not go through it another time, blubbering and emotional in front of 100s of guests like he had at my sister's wedding.

And although it is supposed to be a father's tribute to his daughter, I turned the tables and chose the song as a tribute to him. He'd shouldered the labor oar when it came to raising us (Did I mention that my parents divorced when I was 14-ish?) I liked what it had to say. (http://www.weddingvendors.com/music/lyrics/l/lulu/to-sir-with-love/)

We had lived with Dad, all of us, all the time. And although it was far from Utopia, he did give it his all, with all the tools he had in his toolbox at the time. Just a guess, but I don't think the three of us were any day at the beach either. And at the time, a single father with three kids was as rare as an honest politician, and there was a serious shortage of How-To manuals on the topic, or even friends who could relate. We fumbled through the highs and lows together.

The other song is Calling All Angels, by Train. I vividly remember hearing it for the first time as I was driving to the beach for a weekend with my gal pals at the end of the very week my Dad had moved out of his beloved house and into a nursing home. I felt terribly guilty and wondered if we'd ever truly know if it had been a mistake or the right thing to do. The song begins with the words "I need a sign" and just hearing them had me sobbing to the point of becoming a traffic hazard.

And that is the song I'd heard while inching along the garage ramps. And hearing it a few days in a row always precedes what I'd call a sign. My eyes were open. I would not miss it.