I just saw the most beautiful but haunting and depressing PBS special on Woody Guthrie.
There's a thousand things to discuss; the inherent darkness of creative genius, the pitfalls of art becoming commerce, the political nature of art and the audience response involved, the weaving of this music with US history--the stuff about people...but mostly I just heard the songs I listened to growing up with dad.
They're playing it back to back with a concert of Bruce Springsteen doing his Pete Seeger album, also full of dad music.
I bought the Springsteen album this spring while he was in the hospital. I listened to it in the waiting room and promised dad that I'd loan it to him someday, maybe burn him a copy. It didn't happen.
Sometime around the time of my father's death, a dear older woman told me in the middle of a comforting hug that I could "feast on my memories of him for years to come". I hope to. I really, really, hope I can do that. Tonight, I'm choking pretty hard as I try to get them down.