John J. Matviya, 11/26/51--11/6/22

I’ve told this story before, but it was, although I don’t technically remember it, a deeply formidable experience. When I was a colicky baby— which is basically infant terminology for “highly sensitive and prone to overstimulation, this child is probably neurodivergent”— the only thing that could soothe me was my Dad taking me on his lap while he played the piano. I know why it worked because it still works on me, the soothing power of music, and the sound of a piano especially instantly comforts me. The part that stood out most about the earliest dream I remember (I had to have been no older than four), besides the basic concept (that there was a secret door to a literal toy land behind the wall quilt above my bed), was the soundtrack, my dad playing “The Toyland March” out of an old Disney Music book on the piano. A few years later he’d come home with a flier about music lessons and asked if I wanted to play the piano or the violin. I honestly don’t think I realized “neither” was an unspoken option, but maybe it wasn’t, because “piano” was the only true option after all.

Anyway, that’s the biggest thing about my relationship with my dad— it’s also my relationship with music.

He was always singing—I’m always singing. He made me want to sing in front of people, as I watched him in the church choir and the Westmoreland Choral Society. It normalized and made me really appreciate guys who sing, as I joined school choral groups and the girls always drastically outnumbered the boys. Stop being stupid, boys! Guys do so sing!

He was also always playing music, not just on the piano—and frankly, I only realized years later, he wasn’t even that good—but recordings. We always had music on in our house, and I’m still stunned to realize this isn’t a universal thing— my own family seems to disbelieve in it, even! (*cough cough*SAM and turning off my kitchen radio*cough cough*) My dad’s favorites were Classical and 60s rock, and so I got to know those best, too, though it took what must have been a frustratingly long time for him. I distinctly remember asking once how he even could tell the difference between the Beatles and Beach Boys, which naturally gobsmacked him. Granted, NOW I can not only tell you the difference, but I might also go into a treatise on exactly how Rubber Soul begat Pet Sounds begat Sgt. Peppers…. And yes, when I, in my own time, suddenly became a Beatlemaniac at the age of fifteen, Dad very enthusiastically dug deep into his vast vinyl collection to let me explore and introduce me to the rare and weird and wonderful of classic rock. And when I hit college, I took a bit of that vinyl collection with me to deejay on WIUP-FM, just as my dad had done 30 years before.

He truly took it upon himself to make us culturally literate about music. He made sure to take us to classical concerts and the ballet and musical theater. One summer he came to my room and asked if I wanted to go see Chicago (the band) or the Four Seasons in concert with him. It was the “piano or violin” thing repeated, I don’t think I realized “neither” was an option, but again there really was only one option, since I’d only recently decided “Saturday in the Park” was the happiest song in the world and I didn’t even like the Four Seasons, sorry, Dad. So began the first of at least five summers of an annual trek out to Star Lake for the Chicago concert, including one year my dad couldn’t go because it was the same day as the Legendary Gundy Family Reunion, so I took a bunch of cousins with me instead.

Music and my Dad are just linked. To say he encouraged the music in me is an understatement.

And that, of course, brings us to marching band. My dad was a legend of a Band Parent, with his ubiquitous camcorder and friendly banter. He made a point of learning everyone’s names and instruments and personalities. And there’s me, the nerdy introvert eventually voted shyest in my class, looking around the band room before an event and realizing, “My dad has more friends in the band than I do.” I was ignored, my dad was adored.

Which is really the most important thing about my dad, for the rest of the world: his genuine kindness. It wasn’t just particular instances of sometimes being kind, like an average person has: he exuded kindness. You could feel it immediately. When a friend of mine heard that Dad was in hospice, she immediately responded, “He is an amazing guy,” and I did a double-take—not that I didn’t agree—but when had she even met my dad? There was my wedding (which was busy enough for everyone already), and one D&D session we’d had at my house just after college— and those were both nearly twenty years ago—and reading my mind, she continued, “I know I only met him a couple times, but he always was so welcoming and full of joy and love.”

I thought of all the times random people would join us for dinner. I thought of Christmas Eve, the parties we had that were truly open house parties, where all were welcome— so many guests would bring friends that had nowhere else to go— he was chatting with an old lady at church an hour before, found out she was spending the evening alone, and look, suddenly that old lady is at our party, too. That happened at a lot of parties, actually, not just Christmas Eve. Another Christmas Eve he took us to deliver a tub of my mom’s traditional Christmas Eve minestrone to a sick neighbor.

I mean, I was a bit spoiled growing up, in a way I didn’t realize until I joined the Real World, and discovered most adults were NOT as intrinsically GOOD as my parents are. My dad, especially, is a treasure, in our culture so tainted with Toxic Masculinity. Too many men are cold, unfeeling, heartless. I was always a little annoyed by the prevalence of Dead Beat and even Downright Abusive Dads in stories growing up— it was practically an archetype—the Darth Vader of the Hero’s Journey— but it was so NOT my experience with my own father—and yeah, there are also plenty of Good-Dad father-figures in stories, but they’re still a minority. And the sad thing is that IS a reflection of our society. Too many men seem unable to show love, some to the point of hate, instead. My dad was always there as a brilliant example that this was NOT just “the way men are,” “boys will be boys” or whatnot. He was a man who showed the world just how good a man could truly be. Kind, accepting, genuinely interested in each person he interacted with— embodying namaste— the Divine in him zeroing right in on the Divine in each person he met.

I’m not as good a Catholic as I used to be, but my dad’s faith has always been my inspiration. In our society, politics and religion have gotten tangled up in confusing and dangerous ways, and if I had been raised by anyone else, I may have lost faith entirely. But I had Dad’s faith as my example, a faith based not in dogma and judgment, but in love and relationships. With his—and admittedly, also Madeleine L’Engle’s—influences, I could confidently accept that Creationism, homophobia, and to be honest the vast majority of what is professed by the political beast known as the Christian Right, were not what Christianity is to me at all. Christianity is endeavoring to be Christ-like— loving, forgiving, perceptive, welcoming, not hesitating to break the rules for the sake of mercy— you know, treating people the way my dad does. He always said the Prayer of St. Francis reminded him of his dad:

Lord, make me an instrument of Your peace;
Where there is hatred, let me sow love;
Where there is injury, pardon;
Where there is doubt, faith;
Where there is despair, hope;
Where there is darkness, light;
And where there is sadness, joy.

O Divine Master,
Grant that I may not so much seek
To be consoled as to console;
To be understood, as to understand;
To be loved, as to love;
For it is in giving that we receive,
It is in pardoning that we are pardoned,
And it is in dying that we are born to Eternal Life.
Amen.

But my Dad lived by that prayer, too, and I, in turn, have tried to adopt it myself. I wish I was as brave about it as my Dad, though— I’m not quite sure it comes off as strongly in someone as introverted and scatterbrained as myself.

There are more things I can say about my dad— the way we had to stop at every Civil War battlefield we came near on any of our road trips, the way he checked every time he visited me at the library to see if anyone had found the self-pubbed local history book he’d given them years ago (because it’s not in our catalog any more, at least), the way he always somehow instinctively knew when I was interested in a particular guy and would tease very gently, the huge hilarious belly flops he’d do in our wading pool, the year or two I spent following baseball just because he was such a big Pirates fan, the energy he’d put into MCing his kids’ birthday parties, the sound of his voice when he’d announce things. But the music and the kindness are the two things that stick out the strongest, so that’s what I’m writing about today.