My Ozzy.

On a Tuesday night in late August, I spent the night at my Dad’s small Jerry Seinfeld apartment in Tennessee. Like many times before, my dad shows me a rough audio recording of his band, mixed just the night before. During the listening session I found myself fighting sudden aches of hunger, so acting as any needy daughter would, I got up and looked for something to eat. As I make my way through the small, groggy, living room I found myself in a maze of music equipment. Stumbling over guitars, drums heads, and huge half stack amps, I made it to the kitchen with just a stumped toe this time. I limped the rest of the way making animal like sounds. Relief finally struck when I got to the pantry. When I swung the door open, my findings were a box of saltine crackers, a can of tomato soup, two bags of Lays Chips, some cherry Koolaid packets, and a box of Jew Jew Bee’s. I closed the pantry door. Next I stepped over to the refrigerator, and its contents were no more promising: a half a pound of hamburger meat, a can of mushrooms and a gallon of 2 percent milk. I looked through the kitchen into the living room where my dad still remained in the same position on the couch listening closely to his songs booming on the speakers. I looked closer and noticed that dad looked frail, swollen and looked as though he’d been beaten. For some reason this image made me feel like crying. This kind hearted man, never got to live his dreams, my dad, the smartest man I know, trudges through each week making enough to cover only a small percentage of what he owes to this economy. I wanted to just make everything okay for him. My dad’s only problem isn’t that he wasn’t talented, but he never properly planned for life. He tells me to take his life as a lesson. Contrary to the ever so popular belief that one should set high goals, keeps optimisms and hopes strong toward their dreams, I believe that in order for one to fulfill their dreams, that they must first work hard, and for Pete’s sake have a backup plan.
During high school you would find my dad not in school, but at home playing guitar. My grandmother tried with all her might to get him on the right track. Little did she know, my dad’s grungy rock attitude feed upon his mothers bickering as motivation to question authority further. My dad spent his high school nights partying with whoever was willing. He jumped from rock bands to garage bands, and even to metal bands. Music was his only true friend, and his only legal escape. His dependency on it had become increasingly strong, and seemingly success borne.

In October of 1986 my dad met my mom at a house party in their hometown. My mom had played bass for one of the bands playing at the party. My dad had told me she sat down beside him talking to her friends. Dad said he recalls having a lot to drink that night, but not enough to be unnervous about sitting beside beautiful, talented lass. Dad said he burped obnoxiously without meaning to, and turned hot red in the face. With shame he scooted his body the other direction and let out a faint, shaky “excuse me.” He told me that this beautiful girl, now 2 feet away turned around and looked at him with a funny facial expression and said “wow that was at least an eight”. Thus starting a conversation, and creating a Mark and Jenny world, only they could enter. How romantic.

As time went by my dad grew content with life, he had the girl of his dreams, he had a band, he was unemployed, and he had talent. He was so content that he had decided to quit school.

From this point Dad settled down with a seemingly solid dedicated band. With his girl playing bass and his brother on the drums, he had no doubt in his mind that success was just around the corner. High hopes arouse when a heavy set, British gentleman promised a record deal in Nashville at one of their bar shows. For days Dad rubbed it in parents’ face, his teachers face and even some of his friends’ face.

The big night dad Dad found himself at his closet unsure of what to wear, being that he was soon to be the biggest rockstar, what better to wear a grungy flannel t-shirt and ripped up jeans. Right?

Later that night dad drove his little 1982 Toyota truck to Nashville praying that the hunk of metal would get him there and back. He prayed that there would be no rain so his equipment wouldn’t drown. He prayed for the best, that this would be the big come through. He was beginning to see the light. He started to think about the crazy things he would demand backstage before each show. He thought about where he would live. God had a different plan for him.

When he and his band arrived at the address given to him, he got out of his truck and looked around. He saw a troubled neighborhood, one that looked as if a dark cloud always hung around it, or is that rain?
He looked for a bigger building. To his surprise he found himself looking at a rundown place that looked just like a drug dealers house, but he was sure that this was his destination because a little sign out in the yard read ”Danny’s studio”. Alright! The band started to make their way up the broken pavement, and up wobbly steps to the front door. Before they could even knock they heard a weak voice say “he’s not there”. “what?” said dad as he looked in the direction from which it came from. He saw an old lady who seemed to have almost popped out of the bushes beside them. “Yes” she said, “He’s not there”. “well, where is he?” Said dad. She paused for a second and said “he went to jail for selling crack”. “Well, that’s Promising” said dad as he high stepped it off the porch, looking around for hidden cops. He got to his truck almost crying. All the way home, it rained.

Just a couple of years later, Dad’s band became tight and each of the band members became better musicians. But news from my mom made the band come to a screeching halt with the words “I’m Pregnant”. So like any young teenage guy my dad paused for the longest time and came back with the words “it’s not mine”. My grandparents listened as my mom and dad fought in the back bedroom. Two hours later my mom ran out of the room crying and dad followed soon after.
“I can’t believe you’re still worried about our stupid band” said my mom.

Only time changed my dad. As months went by, he saw my rump in mom’s belly though hard about things as they were, he turned himself around. He got his first job at sunbeam in Portland Tennessee, and worked 12 hours shifts in order to support his soon to be family. Before you knew it he was just about excited as mom was about having a little version of him running around.

On January 23, 1991, I was born to my parents during the worse time possible for them both. We all lived with my grandparents who showed the biggest amount of support. Dad loved us, mom and I soon became his life, we were all he’d ever thought about. Yet he still had a strange desire to play music, and a positive feeling that his music career wasn’t over. He yet again quits his job.

One year later, the band reunites my parents played shows at every bar in Nashville. And years following, the band changes with replacements of drummers and singers, and 2nd guitarist. In the middle of this chaos my grandparents had pretty much adopted me since mom and dad were on the road a lot.
In, 1994 my parents had made enough money to buy them a house, and placed just a few feet away from my grandparents. Though they never stayed in it, it was still theirs and not mom and dads.
After many attempts and failure my parents never grew tired of music.

In summer of 1997 my dad’s life and crumbled under his feet when he discovers my moms disfaithfullness to the guitar player in the band. With little time my dad packs up and leaves to his parent’s house. He had lost his wife, his baby girl, and he was once again broke.

It’s disheartening how life bites the nicest people in the ass. My dad turned his life over to God, he tries to see me every weekend, he has a job at the bottom of the pyramid, and he stills lives with his parents most of the time.

Music is played on the side now, only when he gets time. He plays music with people who are old enough to be his father.

Music has always helped my daddy cope, yet it tore his life apart in the end.

Haley Jones