In 1980 I became a teenager. Of course, along with my girlfriends, I felt very grown up long before that, having already been to parties, listening to music, dancing and playing kissing games with boys. And drinking alcohol. The music was a massive part of it all and as hormones raged, I my experience reflected in almost every love song ever written.
The Danish saying, to come from a home with a piano, instantly pins social status on an individual. From an earlier era, it classed you as upper class, sophisticated and well educated. In those days, working class homes had neither money to purchase a piano nor time to learn to play the piano, never mind playing it. It was a frivolous pastime reserved for the more well-off. And make no mistake, the piano was for classical music, not the sub-standard, vulgar jazz or, heaven forbid, Jerry-Lee Lewis’s filthy rock’n’roll that turned young people into sex craving monsters.
When my father was dying I wrote memories of the childhood I had with him. I wrote in my native language, Danish, and gave him a long, long brain dump of everything that came to mind in the short period I had. He enjoyed reading my perspective of events he could recall to greater or lesser extent.
Together we wrote the story of his own life, illustrated it with photos and had it published in 100 copies. I put one copy, hot from the press, into his hands just as the ambulance officers came to collect him to take him to the hospice. Two days later he died. Continue reading Memory: A Consequence of Langauge