The wind changed yesterday. Mary Poppins blew out of town. And I must admit I’m feeling rather melancholy about it.

For much of February, Mary and Co. took up residence at Gammage Auditorium in Tempe, and in a short time she’s become quite the topic of conversation in our house. We’ve owned the movie (on both DVD and VHS) for years, but it’s never held much interest. Then the stage show came to town, and my mom asked if we wanted to go.

It was magic. As Mary literally flew off the stage at the end of the musical, I wasn’t just teary, as I often am at the end of a good play. I was sobbing. I looked over at my mother. Same.

It might have been because both girls so thoroughly enjoyed the performance. (A first for Sophie — sitting happily through a long production that didn’t feature characters covered in fur.)

Maybe it was because we had been lucky enough to score tickets the previous day for a tea party with several of the cast members, including Caroline Sheen, who plays Mary Poppins. Sophie literally sat on her lap, then made the connection during the performance. (And for days afterward, asking, “Where is Mary Poppins?” and happily receiving the news that she was here in Tempe.) 

Perhaps it was because I have a real affinity for Mary Poppins, with so many wonderful caregivers in our lives — in the form of teachers, therapists and what’s becoming an alarmingly large collection of babysitters. (That’s what happens when you hire college students; they graduate and leave and break your heart.) 

But the truth is that I know why I was so affected, and it has more to do with George Banks than Mary Poppins.

George Banks is the uptight, straight-laced, workaholic father who — in the end — comes around after it’s revealed that he had a horrible childhood at the hands of a mean nanny.

If George Banks were around today, he would go to work very early in the morning, play a lot of golf, and spend the rest of his time on the couch, watching TV.

He would be my father.

I hadn’t paid enough attention to the Mary Poppins story before we saw the play to realize how stunning the similiarities are.

Like Mr. Banks, Mr. Silverman winds up being a terrific guy in the end. No, he doesn’t sing and dance. He still watches a lot of TV. But he also calls me on a regular basis, comes to Annabelle’s piano recitals and plays tic tac toe with Sophie. (I do have to remind him to let her win.) 

I’m guessing I’ll never know much about my father’s childhood. His family moved a lot — there was, I know, a Bar Mitzvah in Cedar Rapids, Iowa (a largely Jewless place) that may have been a low point — and clearly he was not raised by a mother as effervescent as either Mrs. Banks or my own. I bet all that has something to do with his standoffishness.

In any case, no Mary Poppins ever arrived on the scene to forever change Amy and Jenny Silverman and their parents.

But I do think the arrival of grandchildren might have nudged my father in the right direction.

Particularly one little girl who pays no attention to which direction the winds of Papa’s mood might be blowing. She climbs on the couch and onto his lap, sticks her thumb in her mouth, sighs contentedly and snuggles in.

I watch from the doorway as his big hand awkwardly strokes her hair and I don’t sob, but I do get a little teary.