MY BACKPAGES
When I was growing up, calling Dad to dinner required a trip down carpeted stairs to the basement, an audiophile man cave in a time before the term had been invented. I’d open the door from the kitchen, and a great wall of sound would emerge—and nearly blow me back before I descended the stairs.
Next, I’d gauge how best to make contact, which depended upon his degree of musical immersion. I hated to jolt him out of the experience. Most, for instance. Once, I found him standing and conducting an orchestral piece, which left him startled and embarrassed. Sorry, Dad.
