Of course, everyone’s parents are essential to their origin story, and my dad is no exception. My dad is wholly responsible for me becoming a music geek, and I am so grateful for that.
He told me he thought I might enjoy watching the Ed Sullivan Show on February 9, 1964 (I would turn 6 years old that April). He would drive me to concerts before I had a drivers license and wait in the car because he knew it was uncool for a 15 year old to have her dad as a date (those concerts: Elton John, Faces, and Electric Light Orchestra). When I asked him to fund my European vacations, he arranged for me to be a courier of his office’s documents; they conveniently had a European HQ in Paris. He let me drive his sports car the day I got my drivers license, but when I got a speeding ticket a few minutes later, I never drove that car again.
Above is a (low resolution) photo of my father (in color) from 1968, and the black & white image superimposed on it includes, from L-R, his brother Pete, his father Frank, and my dad himself (in the white outfit, complete with tie), from around 1930. My dad, Ted, was born and raised on the Southside of Chicago. He was the first one in the family to be born in the USA. He was the youngest of four children, so I imagine by the time Ted was ready to arrive in the world, my grandmother (below, in her wedding picture) was probably quite well over that trans-Atlantic journey to Greece just to have her children born in the land of our ancestors.
When I was growing up, my dad would regale me with stories of The Great Depression (Black Friday fell on his 7th birthday in 1929) and how his dad, who operated a luncheonette and candy store (he made candy; I refer to him as Willie Wonka) bartered meals with craftsmen for repairs. My favorite stories, however, are of the times he had to serve as a “chaperone” for his oldest sister when she went out on dates. My aunt and/or her date would give my dad money to get lost until an agreed-upon time to meet up so he could walk home with her, as if they had been together all night. Sometimes he tagged along with them to concerts (he says he saw Louis Armstrong perform!) but he almost always went to night clubs and juke joints on his own. He liked the blues, and passed that on to me. I grew up listening to Chicago Blues, and also inherited all the 78s from the jukebox that was in my grandfather’s luncheonette.
My dad extrapolated some of his own childhood traditions to benefit his first born daughter. I didn’t have a chaperone on dates, but he did always give me $50 every time I went out and he never asked for it back at the end of the night. He told me to feel free to take a taxi home, or even pick up the tab. He wanted me to be independent at will, and empowered me to be so.
For the past year and a half, I have been writing the connective tissue (“continuity” is what we call it in television) for the photographs in my memoir, and two of the main characters and heroes from my formative years turned out to be one cool Girl Dad and the public library.
In glorious blues, jazz, and rock & roll memory of Theodore Frank Kereakes (October 29, 1922 - March 15, 1990).