Dad gave me a classical education

I have become my father.

Thank God!

His was a life worth emulating. Stoic. Resourceful. Imaginative. But mostly, principled.

And he was passionate about classical music. Tears would well in his eyes when he listened to Tchaikovsky’s “Pathetique,” Smetana’s “Moldau” or Mozart’s “Requiem.”

My daughter, Melissa, recently walked into our house as I was blasting Beethoven on the CD player. I was savoring the Fifth Symphony, performed by the Seoul Philharmonic Orchestra. For the moment, I was in musical heaven – or maybe it was literal heaven.

Quoting a line from Yogi Berra, the scenario was “deja vu all over again.”

I remember innumerable times walking into my parents’ home as an adult and hearing classical music blaring from dad’s stereo. In fact, often I hadn’t walked into my parents’ house at all, but was standing curbside next to my car. I could hear the music emanating from the screened door and every window.

“Dad’s home alone,” I’d deduce.

When mom went shopping, dad cranked up the stereo. Our Eastside Costa Mesa neighbors got an earful — though I don’t ever recall a complaint. When dad passed away 10 years ago, we put Mozart on the stereo at the reception and bumped the volume to “ear-splitting.”

Whenever dad had the stereo to himself you could be certain Mozart or Beethoven or Haydn would be commanding its speakers. And the volume level was always 10. In fact, it seemed louder than a live L.A. Philharmonic performance.

Well, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

Like my dad, I love classical music — the louder the better. When dad and I listened to Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture together we wanted to feel in our sinus cavities the rumble of the cannon, and against our cheeks the flash of the charge. Singe my eyebrows, dang it!

When I became an adult, dad and I went to dozens of concerts together. He was a voracious reader of classical music literature and would tell me fascinating tidbits prior to the start of every concert. Others sitting in the audience around us would crane their necks to listen.

He taught me that a symphony lingers only for a moment in the ether, then is gone. It’s always on the verge of extinction.

Dad was forever coaxing back on his stereo long-dead symphonies and composers. And he eagerly introduced them to our neighborhood.

Now, when I listen to classical music I feel a reverberation in my spirit. The music lifts me to near Valkyrian heights and soothes my sometimes-frazzled psyche. I think often of dad as I listen to classical works, though I don’t necessarily listen to them for that reason.

I listen because they feed my soul.

And also because my dad spent years and years teaching me how to appreciate them.

After decades of equivocation, I’ve come to the conclusion that Ludwig van Beethoven is the “Big Dog,” “Numero Uno” and “Smokin’ Hot” on my personal All-Time Composers List. He’s The Dude above all dudes.

Dad’s favorite was always that supernova, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. I can’t quibble with that.

But Beethoven, for me, is the Grand Canyon, Yellowstone and Yosemite all wrapped into one.

I’m not saying anything revelatory or earth-shattering here. Millions have sung Beethoven’s praises over the last two centuries. And for good reason. It took no less a musical genius than Franz Schubert to say: “Who can do anything after Beethoven?”

Exactly! Is he human? If you prick him does he bleed?

Beethoven was the Vin Scully of the 19th century: he painted pictures with unparalleled complexity and color. His observations on life contained breathtaking insight. That was Ludwig. That is Vinny.

It must also be noted however, that Scully’s humility and attention to hygiene separate them.

Beethoven’s symphonies slay me. The Ninth, the Seventh, the Fifth and the Third — so profound! Has anyone ever written anything in any medium so compelling? Only one in my book: the divine author of the universe Himself.

Thanks dad for opening my eyes to magnificence.

JIM CARNETT, who lives in Costa Mesa, worked for Orange Coast College for 37 years.