Single Dadhood: Rain On My Parade

Ever have a dream? A dream of youth? Dragons to slay; hearts to win; things to do; someone you wanted to be? So have I.

At age 15, I decided that I was meant to be a songwriter. I wrote poems that read like song lyrics and I sold my drum set and bought a guitar. Turned out I had no skills with any musical instrument at all, but I could write a decent lyric.

So I became a lyricist, writing the words that made the whole world sing… (that’s not mine, by the way). Anyway, I tried for years as a young man to make a success of my talent with minimal success.

One day I turned 35. I had a wife and my first child on the way. I also had the opportunity to get a job with the Las Vegas Municipal Court, with a regular income, benefits and a chance to properly provide for my impending family. So I grabbed it, putting aside my natural talent and inclination for security and a regular income.

So I dwelled for 13 years, retiring as a pretrial services officer. Then, one day I came across a file of old lyrics. I read them and rewrote most of them to reflect the lessons learned after 20 years of living. They were good. So I decided to present them again to the composers of the world (through MySpace) as “A. D. Varrone – Lyricist” in the hope that I still had “It”.

I made a great mistake here. I told my closest friends about my effort.

The feedback I got was supportive, in a back-handed way.

No, actually, patronizing.

“Oh, it is so nice that you a working on your little hobby...”
And “It must be nice to have a pension that allows you to indulge yourself…”
My friends rained on my parade. Not a many, but enough to hurt.

Except for my family.

Samantha and Marina can recite my lyrics from memory. (Try to find teenagers that can recite even their locker combo from memory), yet my girls admire my writing. They are my biggest fans and are the first to call down my detractors. They admit that I not only write well but paint pictures that are not seen in this world where “lyricist” is synonymous with “rap”, but in landscapes painted in the colors of language.

Insanity does not run in my family. It gallops then stops and jumps up and down a few times, and then it does a pirouette and a moonwalk, transitioning into a skipping thing. Then it simply strolls away as if nothing happened.

Such is the world of the Varrone family.

Yet, my children love and respect my work much more than my so-called friends.

Why?

Perhaps I worked too hard for appreciation and my kids are an easy sell? No.

Maybe I am the dreamer of fame that others see as false? No.

Maybe my daughters are the children of their father, who support whatever dreams he may concoct without question? No.

Maybe I am just that damn good. Yessssss.