What are YOUR memories of YOUR Dad?
This is rather lengthy, but I write
….and you asked;
More thoughts on Dad
My first remembrance of my dad was seein’ him come home from work through the kitchen door.
Guess I was about three.
He was a giant in my eyes, shirt sleeves rolled up, curly auburn hair combed straight back, kindly smile bearing witness to his good feeling of getting home.
My circle of life was complete when he arrived.
I never really ever ran up to him like a lot of kids do, as I revered his presence.
He was my god.
He was a simple man, and we lived simply.
It was all us kids needed, ever.
Oh he had dreams, big dreams, and later on a good portion were realized, but with the sacrifice of a working man.
That’s what it took.
At about 4 years of age I remember my dad explaining an appendix to me after overhearing someone talk about having theirs out.
‘Oh, it’s a little man inside you that keeps you well, and sometimes the little man will save up all that sickness and pop.Then he has to come out.’
Seemed to satisfy my curiosity and maybe any other explanation would not have done much better.
Four year olds are quite impressionable, as overhearing my sister talk about a schoolyard mishap gave me a more vivid picture than I should have created.
‘Dennis Blickenship fell off the slide today and split his head open.’
(SPLIT….HIS….HEAD….OPEN??!!)
This gave me the vision of a kid runnin’ around with two head halves, split down the middle, propped up by his shoulders.
Course Dennis Blickenship was a bully, and I felt kinda good about it, bein’ he was the one that tied me up in the tool shed all afternoon while him and my sister did whatever they did.
Still…….
What’s for Dinner?...... Gnah! Whazzat?
The wife has cured me of most my finicky leanings, but I’ll be darned if I’ll ever relish things like chicken liver, or hearts, or any organs for that matter.
Dad was the same way.
We did have all four of the basic food groups, however.
Taters, peas or beans, and hamburger or chicken….oh and ketchup…..
Mom could be very creative with this broad selection.
So, one develops mono-taste buds when fed this combo in all its variations for twelve or so years.
Dad was even finicky about pieces of chicken, legs being the most kosher in his mind.
If I happened to reach for a leg, Dad would go into his subversive mode.
“Oh, you like the pooper, aey?”
I don’t think parents really realize how they give their children a sense of comfort and well-being.
I remember long trips in the Dodge, trips that would become overnight stays.
And me and sis would be sittin’ in the back.
No seat belts. Seat belts? Those were for racecar drivers, Indy, Le Mans.
I’d just sit there, not seein’ much, but the tops of telephone poles, so I was content to examine the petrified booger I’d placed on the back of the front seat from the last long trip,
and the backs of my folk’s heads.
Mom with her permed do, somewhat Lucille Ballish, and Dad with his curly hair neatly trimmed in the back.
I’d wish for that curly hair to be mine, but I had my own,
the cow lick being as close to curly as I’d get.
But toward the end of those long drives I’d get all sleepy, and as consciousness faded, I’d faintly hear my parents chatting away,
voices becoming unintelligible murmurings in sync with the hum of the motor, until I was zonked, slumped over like I’d just been shot.
Their voices were quite soothing, and I looked forward to those long trips, just for that.
Not sitting by the car for days waiting for voices on a long trip, but none the less, a subconscious thought of that scene was a comfort
….quiet voices in a cloud of nothing else but stillness…all is well…… I have parents that I can willfully take for granted, without even really thinking about it.
I wasn’t the most curious child in the world.
I could very well have been in the world’s top three least curious.
Actually, the term ‘acute awareness’ might as well have been in a foreign language.
Untied shoes, zipper at half mast, jam from breakfast on my afternoon chin, all were part of my repertoire.
As mentioned, I looked upon my father as God.
I revered his very presence.
And it was intimidating.
So, just me and God are going down the road.
Mom, in her momliness, ‘Don’t forget your coat and cap!’
The morning became quite warm.
I don’t know where we’re goin’…never knew…..never asked.
The sun is beating down through the windshield.
Sweat is beginning to pour outta my cap and into my coat.
‘How ya doin’ over there?’
‘G-o-o-d.’
‘What are you thinking about?’
(THINKING????!!!)
(GOD IS ASKING ME A QUESTION!!!)
(THINK MAN, THINK!!)
(Whaddya think Adlai’s chances are?....How‘bout them Mets?...what then???!...I got nuthin’)
‘Arrre you warrrrm enough?’
(He’s got me. I’ve got this damn coat and cap on, don’t I…?!)
‘Maybe you should roll down the window.’ (words heavily dripping in sarcasm)
(Well, there it is. God is looking upon his idiot mongoloidal first born son.
Hopes of a bright future dashed against the rolled up window.)
The breeze was refreshing.
I really wanted to hang my face out the window, but dare not make a move that may totally confirm his thought pattern at present.
Things went like that with me and God….for quite a few years really.
Throwing the baseball into the dark of night till my arm fell off.
‘You’ve got a natural curve, son.’
(curve?...my damn fastball is going so slow, he thinks I’m throwing a curve ball…)
I've got a bunch more, but will spare y'all
