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Stereotypes and playful teasing aside, karaoke is good for the soul. At it's best it can be healing and empowering, a lesson that I learned thanks to a 72 year old, county western karaoke fanatic that I called 'Daddy.'

I'm not a singer (never have been, never will be) but the evenings spent with my father singing karaoke, both at home and at his local country western bar, will forever be some of my favorite memories.

Dad got into karaoke at a little hole-in-the-wall bar in the middle of nowhere (otherwise known as Ione, California). It wasn't long before he went from listening, to dancing, to singing and he quickly became known through the town as the 'oldest singing cowboy alive.' His voice wasn't perfect - deep and gravely from years of smoking - but it was unique and everyone treated him with respect when he took the mic. He sang Hank Williams, Johnny cash, Gentleman Jim Reeves, and even The Oakridge Boys' "Elvira" to humor me whenever I came up to visit. Karaoke quickly became a passion in his otherwise quiet and humble country life.

Dad got sick with lung cancer and going to the bar became his therapy. He'd sit with his friends and sing, they'd pull up a stool when he was too weak to stand, and he looked forward to it all week long. His nurses at chemo sometimes got an a cappella treat if he was feeling especially spunky, and no matter how sick he felt, he found his way to "The BV" on almost every Friday and Saturday night. He lost his hair and his mustache, but not his spirit.

When he wasn't up to leaving the house, he'd sing at home. He 'invested' in a karaoke machine, over 1000 CDs and a couple of wireless mics. Friends would come over, but more often than not he'd sing to himself... just because. He'd sing to me and to my sister and he'd make us sing along no matter how embarrassed we might have been, and he'd even sing to the dog. Now and again the bar would relocate to my dad's house when he needed some cheering up - and karaoke could be heard blasting down the drive to welcome any and all who wanted to join in.

The weekend before my dad was hospitalized for the last time, his karaoke friends organized a party in his honor. Everyone came over, barbecued, and sang. I have photos of my dad, mic in hand, with oxygen tubing and a big smile on his face - singing his last song. He didn't have the breath to finish a whole song, but he enjoyed singing what he could and we enjoyed listening.

Karaoke became a part of who my dad was. Being a 'super star' in his little country bar gave him joy, confidence, and a quality of life that he had been missing. It was a constant for him and I'd be willing to bet that without it his spirit would have faded long ago. It was his therapy, his link to his healthy self, and something that he could share with his daughters and his friends. It gave dad a passion and it bettered his life, it was a distraction from his pain, gave him strength when he felt weak, and it brought him good friends who were there until the very end.

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