On Memorial Day, I visited my father’s grave at the National Cemetery. I hadn’t been there in a long while, and I wasn’t certain I could find it on my own.

Cemeteries aren’t my first choice to visit when I want to pay tribute or find solace. I feel my dad every time I step onto a tennis court. He’s everywhere I look when I find my way to Camp Mountaineer in Morgantown. He’s ever-present when I visit the Baptist Temple or wander up to Morris Park, both on the east side of Fairmont.

But no matter where I am, I hear him.

The tone of his voice when he said, “Genny Ann” or, on occasion, “Genevieve Ann” and his advice and stories and songs remain with me.

Dad often sang to my brothers and me. The songs he gave us, he also sang to his grandchildren. Now, we sing them to our baby grands. Like “McNamara’s Band”:

“Oh, my name is McNamara I’m the leader of the band

although we’re few in numbers we’re the finest in the land…

and Hennessy Yennessy toodles the flute and music is somethin’ grand

a credit to old Ireland is McNamara’s Band….”

And “Tora lora lora”:

“Over in Killarney

Many years ago…

“Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral, Toora-loor-ra-li,

“Too-ra-loor-ra-loo-ral, it’s an Irish Lullaby….”

And, of course, “Hail West Virginia”:

“It’s West Virginia, it’s West Virginia

The Pride of every Mountaineer….”

Dad would chuckle and lower his voice to a murmur when he recited:

“One dark night in the pale moonlight,

two dead soldiers got up to fight.

Back-to-back, they faced each other,

drew their swords, and shot each other.”

He reserved one song just for me, a tune from the early 1900s that I doubt anyone else recognizes.

“Oh, Genevieve, sweet Genevieve

the days may come, the days may go

but still the hands of memory weave

The days of long ago….”

The many Carolines whose fathers sing “Sweet Caroline” understand what “Sweet Genevieve” means to me.

Whenever my brothers and I went out with friends, Dad said, “Don’t take any wooden nickels.” It took a while, but I finally realized that was his way of issuing a witty warning: “Pay attention. Don’t let people fool you.”

We lost every battle for a later curfew. Dad always said, “Nothing good happens after midnight.” When we slept past 8 AM, he cautioned, “You’re sleeping your life away.” He was right–on both counts

A few times I came through the door in a rage—angry and complaining about having been treated unfairly by a friend or a teacher or a supervisor.

“What we really need to do is pray for her (or him),” said Dad.

“Pray for her? Pray for her? You pray for her,” I recall telling him once.

I didn’t get it then, but I do now. I still hear Dad repeating those words. His calm voice is a lifetime reminder of how to turn negative thoughts into positive activity.

When I arrived at the National Cemetery, a plan took shape in my mind. I drove up the American flag-lined hill as the reds, whites, and blues waved to me in welcome. I made the loop at the top and headed down to park and start my search.

I said to myself, “Self, just start out along this row, and check names three rows back.”

Halfway down the perfectly manicured green lawn, my father’s name in block lettering brought me to a halt. Below his name, his Navy credentials, and the necessary dates, I read the familiar inscription:

“When it’s too tough for everyone else, it’s just right for me.”

Dad said those words often as he helped my brothers and me learn how to persevere through challenging times in our lives. I heard him then; I hear him now.