I
CANSEEMYSELF
,
IT
’
SAGOLDENSUNRISE
.
“Daddy!”my6-year-old, Lilly, screams as Iwalk
through thedoor. Sherushes towardmeandbarrels
intomy stomachwhile throwingher arms around
mywaist.
“Hi, baby,” I reply as I dropmy luggage and lift her up,
engulfingher inagiantbearhug.
My9-year-old,Maddy, is in theotherroomengrossed in
Minecraft
onher iPad. Iwalk into theroomwhereshe’splay-
ingandannouncemypresence, givingher thebenefitof the
doubt that shedidn’thearLilly’sproclamation fromaroom
withonlyonehalf-wall separating thenoise fromMaddy’s
ears.“Hi,honey!Daddy’shome.”
“Hey,Dad,”shesayswithout lookingup.
“Imissedyou,”Isaywhilestaringather,hopingshe’ll take
hereyesoffthegameandcomegivemeagianthuglikeshedid
whenshewasLilly’sage.
“Missedyou, too.”
Andthegamegoeson.
I’vebeeninasuper-romanticmoodoverthelastsixoreight
months— leadingup to this tear-my-heart-out-of-my-chest
exchangewithMaddy—much likeayoungsinger-songwriter
namedHarryChapinwasinthesummerof1979whenhespoke
ofhisownromanticmoodinconcert.Hehadrecentlywritten
asongcalled“StoryofaLife,”andafterheexplained itsmean-
ing to theaudience, the36-year-oldsat relaxeduponastool
—acousticguitarinhand—andslowlybegantopickandsing.
AsmilepursedHarry’slipsashecroonedthelyrics.Likeall
ofhissongs, thisonewasmoreof ashort storyof theevery-
man’s life,accompaniedbyacatchytune.
And I’vebeen thinking a lot aboutHarryChapin lately
becausethis incidentwithMaddywasnot isolated,although
ithurtmore thanmost.Tobe fair, I’vebeenontheroada lot
thesedays. It’shard forme to leavehome,much like itwas
formydad;much like it’sbeen foreveryworkingparent in
thehistoryofever.It’sbecauseI’vebeenontheroadsomuch
thatLillywasoverjoyedwhenherdaddy returned. Yet it’s
thissamefrequencyoftravelthatmayhavehardenedMaddy.
And thewindwillwhipyour tousledhair; the sun, the rain,
thesweetdespair;greattalesof loveandstrife.
HarryChapinfactorsintothissituationandintomyhome
life forseveral reasons.By theendof thiscolumn,he’llhave
factored intoyoursaswell.
Hewasa folksinger in the1970sandearly1980swhocut
histeethplayingtheguitarforasmatteringoflistenersinNew
York’sGreenwichVillage.Hereceivedminimal radioplayat
firstbecausehissongsweretoolongforthethree-minutepop
formatofthetime.Buthetouredvoraciously,andheandhis
bandcrisscrossed thecountryplaying toaudiencesbigand
small.Aswithmost folkart,Harry’s successandnotoriety
camenot over theairwaves, but from small-townDJs and
word-of-mouth reviews, aswell as the reviewsof the local
papersacrossthecountry.Oneofhisbiggestsuccessescame
whenheputmusicbehindapoemhiswifewrote.
SandyChapinwroteapoemcalled “Cat’s in theCradle,”
aboutherfirsthusband’srelationshipwithhis father.Harry
camehomeonedayfroma longroadstintandaskedhiswife
—whowasanaccomplishedwriter inherown right—what
she’dbeenworkingon.She
showedhim thepoem.He
put itasideandaskedwhat
elseshe’dbeenwriting.
Eighteenmonths later,
their son, Josh, was born,
andSandyremindedHarry
aboutthepoem,showing it
tohim again. “Wow,”was
Harry’s replyafter reread-
ingthepoem.“Thisisreally
fantastic.”Hegotbackontheroad laterthatyearandtoldan
audienceduring the introduction, “Frankly, thissongscares
metodeath.”
My dadwas a hugeHarry Chapin fan, and I grew up
listeningtoHarry’smusiconourrecordplayer.AsImatured,
I listenedtohimonourcar’stapedeck.Growingolderstill, I
listenedtohimonmycar’sCDplayer.Thesedays,Maddyand
LillyknowthewordstoHarryChapinsongsbecausethey’re
inmyiTunesaccount.Andthesedays,Harry’sstories—most
ofwhichwerewrittenbeforeIwasborn in1976—havenew
meaning forme. You see, I’mafraid that I’mbecoming the
father in“Cat’s intheCradle.”And itscaresmetodeath.
Growingup, Icouldn’t listenall theway through thesong
STORYOF
ALIFE
14
JUNE2015
AMERICANWAY
EDITOR’SNOTE
ByAdamPitluk
IT’SHARDFORME
TOLEAVEHOME,
MUCHLIKE ITWAS
FORMYDAD;MUCH
LIKE IT’SBEENFOR
EVERYWORKING
PARENT INTHE
HISTORYOFEVER.
