My Dad died 19 years ago. Bill Murray and John Prine help keep his spirit alive.

There’s an unbearable freight train that runs parallel to the condominium building I live in. My unit is on the 5th floor, with several windows that look out onto the tracks. For anyone who visits, the sight and sound of the mammoth machinery elicits a childlike fascination: “Would you look at that, a train!” they exclaim, as if they are about to embark on the Orient Express. I find this wonderment puzzling. To be fair, these naive guests have never tried watching a movie while 6,000 feet of rolling cargo roars and rumbles by, rendering the dialogue between the film’s protagonists a total mystery for the viewer. When the weather is pleasant, opening one’s bedroom window at night would normally be divine, but the sound of a conductor’s horn blast, coupled with the blinding high beams of the surging locomotive, makes sleep feel like a failed prison break from Alcatraz.

Perhaps Mother Nature felt the need to flex her disaster muscles, because a thunderstorm raged through one night that made the train sound like a kitten’s purr. I laid in bed, counting the beats of each heart palpitation, unable to fall back asleep. Truthfully, it was the symbolism of the storm that weighed heavy on my mind, as loud and striking as the electrical current in each bolt: Earlier that evening, the world learned that the beloved American country-folk singer, John Prine, had died from coronavirus complications. I wondered what kind of message the universe was sending my way, as I turned the lyrics to Prine’s “Angel from Montgomery” over in my head, his words coinciding with the weather: “If dreams were lightning, thunder were desire, this old house would have burnt down a long time ago.” (The following morning, I was informed that lightning had in fact struck the top of my building, knocking the power out to the elevators.)

I had gone to bed saddened by the news. John Prine’s music had become a security blanket for me, albeit later in life. At 35 years old, I’ve been listening to his songs for only a few years, and while I appreciate all of them, “Angel from Montgomery” is what I listen to the most. I wouldn’t categorize it as an incredibly happy tune, but there’s a sense of hope in the words. You feel yourself rooting for this dejected individual, singing, “the years just flow by like a broken-down dam,” and “I ain’t done nothin’ since I woke up today.” I suppose I relate to this dispiritedness and feel better listening to it while doing something productive, like cooking or sweeping the kitchen floor. Lying on the couch in my pajamas as Prine sings just hits too close to home.

According to my mom, my dad loved John Prine, but I have no memory of it. As a kid, I spent summers memorizing the words to most Steely Dan, Van Morrison and Joni Mitchell songs, cartwheeling around in my bathing suit for hours on the front lawn of our Philadelphia home. “Would you go shower and put clothing on?” My mom would yell from the window when company was expected to arrive. “And tell your brother to stop drinking from the garden hose! Jesus Christ, it’s not like we live in the backwoods of Kentucky!”

Every winter, the Charlie Brown Christmas album echoed throughout our garland wrapped hallways. I liked to pretend I was an ice skating Snoopy by wearing socks on our hardwood floors. My dad was always tasked with fitting the freshly cut balsam into its metal stand, while my mom was the General Contractor, shouting placement instructions from across the room. Eventually, I’d trip over one our dogs, or my sock would catch on the head of a rogue nail and send me tumbling down the staircase to the tune of “O Tannenbaum” and my dad’s muffled cursing from behind the tree.

It was Bill Murray who introduced me to John Prine’s music. I met him at the hotel I worked for and knew of his stay months in advance. The hotel operator had called my extension in the executive office to ask about parking for a future VIP guest. I wondered who was this VIP that required such parking.

“Bill fucking Murray?!” I shouted into the receiver.

“Yes, Bill Murray,” the operator snapped. “He’s coming in April and needs somewhere to park his RV. Valet says he can’t leave it in the port.”

I clutched the phone while staring out the window at the February snow. My dad and I loved Ghostbusters. We would take turns quoting Dr. Peter Venkman’s lines, exercising our best imitations. As hard as my six-year-old self tried, my dad was way more advanced.

“Dogs and cats, living together, mass hysteria!” He’d shout.

“This chick is toast!” I’d jump and echo back, spilling a bowl of popcorn.

Bill’s RV was eventually approved, and it was on a Wednesday in April when I saw him at the hotel. I should note that it’s clearly stated in the employee handbook that we are not permitted to cross that line of acknowledging a celebrity; we treat them as one of our guests and that’s it. Termination is a real possibility for anyone who asks for an autograph. I was fully prepared not only to throw my entire career in the trash but also be carted away by the state police if that was deemed necessary to have even a sliver of a chance to talk to the man I idolized for most of my life.

He was sitting at a corner table in the restaurant, facing out, in the likeness of a deity. Seeing this as an opportunity worth seizing, I slinked in and shamelessly pretended to work by straightening chairs and checking silverware for watermarks. When he didn’t look up, I maintained the facade by refilling beverage glasses and asking patrons if they were enjoying their meals.

And then it happened.

A motion from the man himself, from across the room, to me. I blinked at his waving hand, striving for nonchalance as I approached the table while my insides screamed at what was unfolding.

“So, are you the one in charge here?”

“I am,” I lied. Bill was unfettered.

“Oh, good! Listen, I hope you can help me. I’m looking for a charger.”

The charger was for an old version of the iPad, and I knew where to find one. I ran like a linebacker to the concierge office and ripped a charger out of the wall socket, ignoring the concierge’s barrage of questioning. Valiantly, I handed it to Bill, the way a cat presents a dead bird to its master.

“Oh wow, you’re the best. Thank you. I’m Bill, by the way.” I shook his outstretched hand.

“Julia. It’s so nice to meet you.”

“Ahhh, Julia.” His eyes closed for a moment. “That is one of my most favorite songs.”

“The Beatles song?”

“Yes.”

Bill could have said anything. He could have said, “I torture puppies for fun,” or, “I’m a Republican,” and I still would have been the physical embodiment of the heart eyes emoji. To hear him say “Julia” was one of his favorite songs, the song my dad named me after, was like hearing the voice of God.

We talked for a while, mostly about him and why he was in the city. He was performing at a theater not far from the hotel. He said something that made me laugh, and I couldn’t contain my emotions any longer.

“Um…I’m not supposed to do this, but, I’m a huge fan of yours.”

He cocked his head and looked at me. “Why are you ‘not supposed to’ say that?”

I was beginning to sweat through my suit. “Well, I’m supposed to respect your privacy. But — I have to tell you. I can’t not tell you. I feel like I’m going to burst if I don’t tell you. I’m such a huge fan.”

He smiled and took my hand in his again. “Well, Julia, I’m so glad you told me. Thank you for breaking the rules. You just made my day.”

My dad was an active guy, always in shape. It was he who taught me how to fish and how to surf. He loved to golf and although I thought it was as exciting as a crochet demonstration, I would join him. We never used a cart; he consistently insisted on walking the 18 holes, a preference that framed my future resentment toward anyone who owned the four-wheeled, egocentric vehicle.

“What’s your favorite club, Dad?” I asked during one of our outings.

“Well, it all depends on the situation.”

“Yeah, yeah I know, I get it,” I protested. “But if you had to pick a favorite, what would it be and why?” I proudly swung my driver. Our eyes followed the ball as it sailed across the course and nestled defiantly into a sand dune.

“Hmmm. If I had to pick a favorite? I guess it would be the pitching wedge.” He pulled the shiny, metal object out of his club bag. “I like it because it’s versatile.”

As a ten-year-old hearing this, I didn’t understand what he meant. He might as well have been speaking Korean. Today, as an adult, I recognize that my dad was versatile himself. A man of few words, he was a self-taught carpenter and built the outdoor deck for our house. I remember one summer at our swim club I was writing a letter to the President of Spain. I had just discovered what happens to bulls in bullfights and I was assembling my bulleted argument on why the barbaric tradition needed to immediately cease when my pencil broke. I showed my dad, who I assumed could whittle an entirely new one. Instead, he rubbed the broken end along the cement surrounding the pool until a fresh point formed.

Dad

Immediately after meeting Bill, I was spinning like Julie Andrews. I twirled my way down the halls of the hotel. MY hand had actually touched HIS hand. The hills were alive with the sound of Murray. I floated on to lunch, still in awe of the encounter, forgetting that — in an act of astonishing confidence — I had slipped my business card in with his check. “It was SO great meeting you!” was inscribed at the top in feminine, handwritten loops.

When I returned to my desk, a red light from my landline caught my eye, signaling a message. I dialed the passcode and nearly lost consciousness when I heard the voice on the other end:

“Hey Brown, are you related to Chris Farley? So, we’ll just leave you a ticket for the show — and just say Bill Murray, they’re under Bill Murray. And if you need more help, you just let me know, ok? Alright, bye.”

I sat there frozen, mouth agape, trying to process what had happened. Bill Murray invited me to his show and left tickets at will call. It took a few minutes but with a quivering hand, I recorded the message on my cell phone and texted it to my mom. Her response was swift:

JULIA! ARE YOU KIDDING ME?! WHO ARE YOU TAKING?!

His performance was incredible. We were seated inches from the stage. I felt like a queen and the rest of the audience were penniless paupers. My mom was also over the moon thrilled, which ensured brownie points and future favors for me. He closed the show with “Angel from Montgomery”:

“Make me an Angel that flies from Montgomery,

Make me a poster of an old rodeo,

Just give me one thing that I can hold on to,

To believe in this living is just a hard way to go.”

After the performance, my mom and I went backstage, because Bill left us passes, naturally.

The winter before I entered high school, my dad slipped and fell on ice outside our Philadelphia home. He had hurt his back so badly that he needed surgery and ultimately couldn’t return to work. We moved to Connecticut because my mom had secured a job there, and life slowly started to change.

There was a permanent rain cloud hovering our house, and it hung solely over my dad’s head. I raised an eyebrow or two when his previously fit stomach turned into a beer gut, and was highly alarmed when he started watching a politically conservative morning talk show, hosted by a cowboy hat wielding shock jock. Most troubling, however, was when he began staring out the window at the backyard for hours on end. “Go find your father,” my mother would say, rummaging through boxes in the basement. “Tell him if he’s not going to use these golf clubs, I’m giving them to goodwill. And if he’s going to stand by that window all day the least he can do is clean it!” She’d yell, loud enough for him to hear. She was sympathetic, but there’s only so much melancholy one can tolerate.

As he grew distant, reciting Bill Murray lines for my dad didn’t have the same effect it once had. I was spending less time at home with him, preferring to hang out with my friends instead. I also threw myself into the theater program at school. The spotlighted attention was intoxicating. I know there are psychologists who would easily unpack and analyze this kind of starved behavior, but I know deep down I just wanted to make my dad proud. When he missed an important performance, and then another, it was a blow that hit hard.

“Your father isn’t feeling well. He wanted to be there.” My mom insisted after we had pulled into the driveway of our home.

“I hate him!” I screamed, slamming the car door. I was young and didn’t understand the signs.

In the wake of loss, we wax nostalgic. We immerse ourselves in the familiar, the sentiments and rituals that bring us comfort and security. I was 16 years old when my dad died from a sudden cardiac arrhythmia. I think about the past often, those moments with my dad and what I would give to have just one more conversation with him. To walk 18-holes on the golf course, to listen to “Angel from Montgomery.” Something as simple as sitting together, quoting Ghostbusters, brought so much happiness. The thought of it still does.

It has taken several years to come to terms with, not only my own mental health, but my dad’s as well. To be so sad and hurting but doing the best he could. I’ve noticed those who are close to me don’t always understand this illness of the mind. Depression is crippling. It cages you. The things in your life that once brought joy, that seemed so easy, suddenly require enormous strength and energy. I don’t blame him for staying behind and missing my theater performances. Aren’t we all just doing the best that we can? I have days when showering seems impossible. I also have days when I peel myself off the couch and cook to John Prine.

There’s an author I admire who likens the millions of events that occur in human beings’ lives to the weather, and less like, say, a game of checkers. She suggests that even with all the unpredictability we experience, we can still hold on to hope. Yes, there’s the immense pain that comes with loss, but there’s hopefulness as well. I’m not saying I believe in angels, but I truly hope my dad is somewhere heavenly and at peace. I hope he’s released whatever it was that was holding him back those last few years before he died. I hope he saw Bill — Bill fucking Murray — take my hand and say “Julia” was his favorite song.

As I roll out dough or chop vegetables, I prefer to imagine my dad, alive with dreams and desires, still building and surfing and golfing. In rooting for him, I am rooting for myself, too.

To live any other way would just be a hard way to go.