Some mornings, when I open the curtains to see the pink light of sunrise on the distant mountains or on the trees, I spontaneously break into one of my dad’s favorite songs: “Oh What a Beautiful Morning.”  In Chicago, he didn’t have the mountain vistas I do to inspire him, but somehow he found great joy in just getting up and starting a new day.

He loved to sing, often at the drop of a hat, whether it was from the musical Oklahoma or a popular ditty from the 1930s or ‘40s. Music was his first love. From an early age, he taught himself to play the piano, the harmonica and accordion—all without learning to read music. At any social occasion he would bring out his accordion and start playing. Of course, this embarrassed his children, but now, in my older years, I can see that he liked making people happy as much as he enjoyed making music.

He wasn’t always that joyful. In his younger years, my father was often angry. In his middle age, he had to start a new company while supporting a family of nine. But, as he got older, he mellowed, especially after a quintuple bypass heart surgery. His heart changed, as if it were cracked open—not just physically but emotionally. When his youngest daughter told him she and her husband were divorcing, he cried—not something he would have done when he was younger.

As he aged, he suffered other impediments: first severe memory loss, which didn’t seem to bother him, except when my mother scolded him for forgetting to take out the garbage. Otherwise, he was happy to see the sunrise and sunset, to talk with old friends and to work in his garden. I remember once his delight when my mother told him that his granddaughter would be visiting him later that afternoon. Of course, he forgot, so when Laurie showed up later, he was delighted all over again, his happiness doubled.

In the last year of his life, he suffered a severe stroke. Suddenly, he could no longer play the piano or accordion; couldn’t swallow, so his food had to be mashed in a blender; and had a hard time talking—a small tragedy for a sociable man. Yet his caregiver could make him laugh, and I could make him happy by singing with him or finding his favorite music on my Spotify account. He still enjoyed Jeopardy and reruns of Lawrence Welk. When we drove him to McDonald’s for one of his favorite treats—an ice cream shake—he was delighted when we passed the school playground and he saw the children playing. Of course, nothing made him happier than his wife. When he woke in the morning, in his separate hospital bed, he would wave to her, as if delighted to find her there.

Where did this joy come from? Is it innate, or do we have to strive harder as we get older, finding the sweetness in life rather than dwelling on the hardships? It’s not easy.

I think of a friend who, in his 80s, lost his mobility and ended up in a wheelchair. Like my father, he had some inner happiness that he spread to others. In a somewhat decrepit nursing home and dependent on others for all his needs, my friend managed to find and spread some joy by rolling himself from room to room to comfort those who were lonely, sad, angry or frustrated.

I’m sure it made him feel better, just like my father was happy when he made people smile or even sing along to his piano playing. Maybe it’s a case of giving to others. Maybe that distracts us from our own pain or suffering.