They visited the Washington Monument, the Lincoln Memorial, and Mount Vernon, George Washington’s home. They also visited battlegrounds of the Civil War. Don’s father was very interested in history. Don was bored, but pleased to see his father happy. He said, “Seeing these places that were so important in American history delighted my father – he had read so much about them. It was his last, and only hurrah.”
It gradually became apparent to Don that his father was not well. One day they decided to climb to the top of the Washington Monument. Don’s father only managed one flight of steps before he sat down and said he could go no further. McLean said, “Something must have alarmed him, because he scared the hell out of me. Later, in our hotel, he took out his wallet and said, ‘Look son, if anything should happen to me, here’s my wallet. Call your mother; she’ll know what to do.’”
This foreshadowing clouded the trip with an underlying anxiety, but without further incident, Don and his father returned home safely. McLean found out later his father knew he was dying and secretly took medication. “He was brave and gallant and did not want to frighten me or my mother.”
Don’s father was a typical member of 1950s middle class America. At that time, men and women retained the discipline and character that had been essential for survival during the Depression and World War II. The idea of “having it all” was déclassé. People were more likely to get a sense of self-worth from getting by on less and making it seem like more. Don’s father worked all his life for Consolidated Edison, taking only two weeks of vacation each year. He never complained about this or the relative lack of reward, because people didn’t complain. He did not dress casually. He worked in the garden wearing a flannel shirt, tweed trousers and scuffed wingtip shoes, which he used only for that purpose, since they had long outlived their use for wearing in public.
By contrast, Don’s mother had a relaxed approach to life, but could be neurotic and caustic. Each winter she went to Florida for two weeks with her sister Ann. This year, Don’s father decided to take the opportunity to do some painting inside the house and have it finished by the time she returned. This was his idea of a great time and a big surprise. Unfortunately, Don had a surprise of his own: the worst school report card ever. Music had become a total distraction.
Don McLean
with his
parents
Don and his father took his mother to Long Island to meet Aunt Ann for the beginning of their trip, and returned home late that night. As they pulled into the driveway, the green radium light of the dashboard lit Don’s father’s face. In McLean’s memory, his father seemed to have sunlight on him, as he looked at Don and said, “What would you like to be when you grow up, son? I would really like to know.” Don thought he looked tired, his little wisp of white hair falling down over his eye but he had a look on his face that said: this is a beautiful moment; I’m asking my son what he would like to do with his life.
Like father, like son. Don answered honestly, “I want to be a musician.” His father’s expression turned to sadness, then to anger. “What the hell are you talking about? Musicians are nothing but bums. I want you to go to college.” The fathers of teenaged boys in Don’s neighborhood hoped their sons would take the right path in life, not the road to the circus.
When things did not go the way Donald II wanted them to, especially with family members, he withdrew all emotional contact from that individual. He did this to his children almost as a reflex. He was never able to uncouple his own desires for his children from their desires for themselves.
McLean always knew that he was destined to be an artist and that it was probably the only thing he could do successfully. It was unfortunate that the one thing Don knew he could do well carried absolutely no weight with his father. All the things that were important to Donald II, such as athletics and scholarship, meant nothing to Don. Today McLean believes that, had his father lived, he would not have become a musician, because he could not have withstood the withdrawal of his father’s affection. “My father thought nothing of not speaking to me for days if I pissed him off.”
As the days went by, the clock ticked, until high noon and the arrival of Don’s report card, the anticipation built to unbearable, mind-bending surrealism. The mailman became the most frightening person in the neighborhood. Finally, the day came, and Don had to show the card to his father. Don expected a beating, followed by a freeze-out. His father was indeed furious, and there was a bad scene. Don went to his room, and his father continued painting the stairway railing.
Around 1a.m. Don was awakened by his father standing in the hallway in front of Don’s little room crying and holding his chest. He was saying “Oh my God, oh my God.” Tears streamed down his cheeks. Don knew his father needed help, immediately. He helped his father into his room and laid him on the bed and said, “Dad, I’m going to call the police and the hospital.” His father begged him not to, but Don placed the calls. If word got out he was sick, he might lose his job.
Suddenly, in the early morning hours of January 18th, 1961, the house was full of strangers. The police were on the ground floor, while the paramedics prepared to take Don’s father to the hospital. They put him on a stretcher, bundled him up, and put a towel around his head. It was bitterly cold out. Fresh snow was on the ground.
The local policeman, whom everyone called “Irish” because he spoke with a heavy Irish brogue, was on the telephone talking to Don’s mother in Florida. She was hysterical. “Ah, Mrs McLean, don’t worry,” said Irish. “It’s just a bit of indigestion, it’ll be fine.” He even chided her for not being home to cook for her husband and son. “A man can’t live on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches,” he said.
Eventually, the paramedics carried Don’s father down the stairs to the ambulance. As he passed Don, he gave him a very tender smile. Don felt that he was saying goodbye. He was letting him know that he was a man now and very proud of him.
Arrangements were made for Don to spend the night with friends. He walked alone to their house through the crisp snow and ice. The night was crystal clear with a thousand stars in the sky. Everyone was up when Don got there.
At about 4 a.m., the door to the bedroom where Don was sleeping opened, and the light went on. Standing in his overcoat and hat and gloves, with cold air all around him, was Uncle Malcolm. With a grim expression he said, “I have some bad news for you, son. Your father died tonight.” Then Malcolm took Don with him to Garden City. It was the longest and loneliest drive Don had ever taken.
The next day Don returned home to Larchmont Woods. He was shattered and could not stop crying. The window on the stair landing where Don had sat and sung as a child was flooded with winter sunlight. He could see in the blazing light the grey fibers of the hospital blanket that had swaddled his father on the stretcher the night before. The fibers were stuck to the newly-painted banister. “I was unbearably blue. I would remain so for years.”
For the next four days, Don spent most of his time at the George Davis Funeral Parlor in New Rochelle looking at his dead father and receiving visitors with his mother. From time to time alternating waves of crying and disbelief would give way to hysterical laughter, and Don and his cousin, Jock, would sneak away to unknown parts of the funeral parlor to visit the other corpses.
The funeral service was filled to overflowing with hundreds of grief-stricken people who loved his father. Donald McLean had given freely of his time and energy to neighbors and family for decades. Someone said, “To know him, was to love him.”
His father’s wake and funeral seemed to go on forever. They were the last Don ever attended. Today, McLean says, “I decided I would never again go to a funeral.” Family members were upset when McLean refused to attend his mother’s funeral, 24 years later. However, he figured that she wouldn’t mind. He had no desire to see her that way or to watch her put into a hole in the ground.
A few days after his father was buried, a man from the Consolidated Edison Company came to 15 Mulberry to return his father’s briefcase. It made a big impression on Don that this was all his mother got for her husband’s 30 years of corporate devotion. Don vowed then that he was never going to work for anyone.
Extract from The Don McLean Story: Killing Us Softly With His Songs by Alan Howard Copyright 2007 Starry Night Music, Inc. All rights reserved. Reproduction or translation of any part of this work without the permission of the copyright owner is unlawful. Used by permission