My Two Dads

Having no biological sisters, I started 'adopting' my best friends as sisters from about the 3rd grade forward. (Nowadays, I seem to adopt only 'little sisters' as I'm actually closer in age to their parents, but that's another story for another day.) As a result of these declared familial bonds, I also inherited a few extra parents here and there.

The Harkenriders, The Chamberlains, The Mellos, The Westerbergs, The Davis', The Marshaks, The Halls, and The Powells. All sets of parents that advised, educated, disciplined, fed, entertained and/or moved me in some way.

As I grew more rebellious against authority figures, most parents seemed like sticks-in-the-mud (of course) and were a second-thought to my selfish teenage desires. It wasn't until I was in a situation way over my head that I realized I needed them all more than I could ever know.

I had broken some big rules and burned bridges with my own parents when I ended up renting one room in a two-bedroom apartment with the young mother of an 11-month-old (who's 'baby daddy' was in prison) who was living on unemployment and food stamps.
I had just started working at AT&T and was in training every day from 6am-2:30pm. They had a strict attendance policy that wasn't going to be dictated by my morning sickness, so I had to be up in time to puke and shower before hitching the bus that took me to work two miles down the road.
I would often return to the apartment in disarray and my roommate gone, so I would clean up out of boredom. It wasn't always easy as I didn't have the strongest constitution to deal with dirty diapers, bathroom sink/drain Yeti-clogs, and dishes that were left sitting with milk to spoil or beans to dry, crack and adhere to their ceramic bowl. It was after cleaning such putrid elements that my roommate returned and snapped at me for "dumping her baby's lunch". Spoiled milk and day-old beans. The lunch of an 11-month-old. I was only 18, but even I knew that wasn't right. She 'made-do' with beans from a can and beer. Yes. Beer.

I had been in that apartment for two weeks when I received my first paycheck and managed to do some grocery shopping... only to arrive home days later to find that most of my groceries had been consumed by my roommate - who explained that she was still waiting for her food stamps and would replenish the supply in a few days.

I ate an entire watermelon for dinner that night.
It was all that was left.

After doing so I had a minor emotional breakdown and called my best friend, Amanda, to vent.
Incidentally, the roommate did not have good enough credit to qualify for a phone line in the apartment - and I, being fresh out of High School, would have been required to put down a deposit of a coupla hundred bucks to have one installed in my name - which I wasn't in a position to do. So, I had to walk across the parking lot to the CircleK and use the pay phone to call someone. If someone wanted to reach me... well... tough, I guess... but with very few exceptions, I couldn't think of anyone who would want to reach me.
I remember there was always something spilled or discarded that attracted a gazillion ants to those pay phones, but the next closest one was a block away and it was hot outside.

Amanda came over to be my shoulder to vent and cry on (and spent most of the time disapproving of my current living situation) and left after eliciting my promise to call her the next day.
I don't remember if it was the same night I called her or the night following, but she had gone home and appealed to her parents and then informed me that her dad would be bringing a truck to pack up my shit and move it out of the apartment and into their house.

I don't remember much... only that it happened with lightening speed. Her father carried load after load of clothes, my mattress, and the few possessions I had with me without a word. Amanda and I squeezed into the cab beside him. We drove silently for a few miles and I was almost sure that Papa Powell was crying. He later explained that he was angry and heartbroken about what had led to the conditions I was living in and didn't know how I could have destroyed my relationship with parents so irrevocably to have ended up away from my family. It was something that I didn't quite understand myself and so we speculated and commiserated together as a father and daughter would about choices and consequence.

We drove to my mom's house where she had agreed to store some of my large items temporarily. I think I ended up bringing three boxes to Amanda's house... most of them clothes that would only fit me for the next month or so.

I spent that summer living with the Powell's. Amanda, her dad, and a fellah from my training class took turns giving me rides to work (which was now considerably further away) at god-awful hours of the morning. They fed me, they encouraged me, and they loved me.

Papa Powell was a musician and had converted his garage into a recording studio. My father, also being a musician, had recorded some of my favorite musical theatre tracks with his own arrangements while I was in Junior High. Together, my two dads were responsible for the first time I ever recorded in a studio and had a chance to play creatively. I remember Amanda picking up harmonies and the two of us riffing and making up parody lyrics, playing with character voices and mimicry.
I think I was 13 or 14 when we recorded 'Music of the Night'. I remember how much time Papa Powell spent playing with levels and reverb and a ton of other elements I didn't understand - until what was left was something altogether magical and amazing.

I remember singing with his band and being denied entrance to a bar (at the age of 16) only to hear, "It's okay, she's with us." I sang my heart out that night... as a special guest of the band... to a raucous crowd of adults who were so supportive and encouraging that it only solidified how much I wanted to entertain people. At the time, I was pretty sure my folks would have a coronary if they knew I was out singing for the drunks on that Friday night... and Papa Powell didn't offer another barroom gig after that... but that one experience was enough to build the confidence that I had some marketable talent.

Those weren't the only milestones shared with my second dad.

He was there the first time I ever felt my son flutter in my belly - on a hot summer day in AZ, while laying on his couch, reading a book and drinking iced tea.

At the end of the summer of '93, I had saved up enough money for the deposit on an apartment within walking distance of my workplace. We loaded up my stuff from mom's garage and Amanda's bedroom and Papa Powell helped me move in to my first ever 'very own' apartment.

Before moving out, however, Papa Powell and I shared a moment in the living room of the house where he offered some advice and made me promise him something. He said, and I'm paraphrasing, 'No matter what happens, don't stop performing. Don't let marriage or children or your work or living situation prevent you from being the artist that you are. Let them improve it.' He told me that I had a gift and that he believed in me.

It was a time in my life when I felt that very few people believed in me and he forever impacted who I would become as a person and as an artist.

His life took a few unexpected turns that included a divorce, another failed marriage, alcoholism and ultimately homelessness.
I'm relieved and thankful that I didn't know him for those years. My big sister spared me many of the details, but kept me involved in his progress and/or deterioration...
He was attempting to rehabilitate himself, going to AA, and was living in a motel... still an unstable and unhealthy lifestyle for the fragile man I imagined him to be at this point... but a potential step in the right direction. So much potential. I had faith that I would see him again in better times.

Papa Powell passed away July 2nd.

He made some decisions that I believe drastically shortened his life. Especially in the last several years. He was a beautiful man and a brilliant musician. A fragile and vulnerable human being who was going through a lot of pain in the last several years of his life.

He broke many hearts. His wife, his daughter, the grandkids that he will never know - and who will never fully understand what an amazing man their grandpa was.

He will always be the dad who rescued me.

The one who held me while I cried about being alone and scared and confused.
The one who walked around the house humming whichever random tune or riff was in his head.
He was quick with a joke or to light up your smoke...
He was the one who graciously allowed Amanda and I to test out our rudimentary cooking skills... and smiled through it even when dinner was lousy.
The one who walked in the door scowling, but whose eyes would light up when he saw his 'daughters' dancing and singing along with RHPS or going through sheet music.
He was the one who believed in me when I had given everyone around me every reason not to.

I hate that I was not equipped to rescue him the way that he rescued me. I also acknowledge that alcoholism and pregnancy are two vastly different diseases - though perhaps the motivating choices stemmed from the same desire to escape... but I digress.

I love Papa Powell.
I will grieve for him in my own way; rediscovering memories long forgotten and determining how best to continue the legacy of music, creativity and acceptance that he left in the heart and soul of the artist and person that I long to be.

Rest in peace, Papa.
...and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.