I piloted my new trike with the ‘rocket’ theme (complete with battery-powered afterburner) on a lifetime of interstellar trips around the block in the five short months since Christmas. Then I crashed it accidentally one morning when I launched it unceremoniously off the back porch in anticipation of the latest exploratory journey. Mission aborted; broken spokes on the rear wheel with no replacement parts at the store proved fatal. Dad tried to fix it with the limited tools at his disposal, but it happened during spring baseball season, and took a weak second place to coaching my older brother’s team. He never got back to it; he died that summer.
Trying to remember him now, I don’t have much to go on. I don’t really remember him much from our six years together, though I still feel his presence everywhere.
I know him largely through scenes from the poorly edited film replaying in my head.
He’d usually be off to work already when I awoke. I know where he went, driving off in that shiny new ’59 Ford Fairlane, two-tone (white over cream), because I visited him there, once.
It was a late Saturday morning. We pulled into the gravel parking lot on the side of the building, a humble monument on the corner of a busy thoroughfare near my grade school. The building had classic Art Deco lines, complete with a false tower and a big clock. I can still summon a vivid picture of its other features: tall, 2-story windows all around; yellowish-green stucco; a grand, double front door opening onto a modest brown-tile hallway floor. Dad’s office was at the end, on the right.
His pretty, younger secretary was typing at her desk as we entered. She looked just like Della Street on Perry Mason. No, she was Della. All attorneys in the 50s had attractive secretaries. I shrunk sheepishly in her presence, and looked away from her when she looked up at us — my mother, my just-older sister, and my way-younger sister, still a babe-in-arms.
“Al is expecting you. Let me show you into the lounge where you can wait for him. Would anyone like something to drink? Soda? Coffee? Water?” We sat on a green plastic-leather couch, the kind with large swooping chrome endrails, and waited for him. Della followed us in short order and chirped, “The pop machine is just around the corner. You don’t need any money. It’s set-up to work without. Just pull out the bottle you want. Al will be right in.”
When he came in, the long sleeves of his crisp, white shirt were rolled up to mid-forearm. His tie was loosened slightly, the unbuttoned neck of the collar declaring that the cooler summer morning was over. A big smile soared above his 6’-1” stature. I don’t know why we visited him that day, but I was in awe before we went and after we left. That’s one of the few scenes I can replay anytime from the archive tracks in my head, but other snippets with Dad are equally vivid. Like the summertime office picnic at the boss’s fancy retreat at the big lake in the mountains.
It was a blue-sky sunny Saturday morning. Dad’s co-worker’s small family of two kids, and three of my family piled into their fake-wood panel station-wagon at curbside in front of our house. Mom and Dad followed behind us in the Fairlane with my two older brothers. Somehow after a nearly two-hour drive, we arrived together. The ‘cabin’ was more of a ‘palace,’ but it had the requisite log construction and knotty-pine paneling that meant its heart was in the right place.
“Hello, hello, welcome everyone!” was the hostess’ bright greeting as she threw open the door. “Kids, grab your swimsuits and towels, change in the downstairs bathroom! The rest of you, meet us out back and grab a beer from the cooler. So glad you all could come!” was issued without missing a beat.
Out back, Dad was already comfortably ensconced in the colorfully-webbed lawn chair, beer in one hand, cigarette in the other, sunglasses on his nose, sporting rarely-seen plaid Bermuda shorts when we found him on the deck. “If you don’t swim, don’t jump off the dock,” we were admonished happily by God’s female voice. “Go down to the beach below and grab an innertube!” quickly followed. We did as told; this was a heaven-sent day and we weren’t about to abuse it.
In a little while, Dad came down to the dock to check on us.
“How’s it goin’ Junior?” was happily inquired. I had rarely seen him so comfortable.
“I wanna’ jump off the dock like the big kids,” was the imploring, not-much-hope-of-that-happening request.
“Hmm… that’s a problem. Let’s see… I’ve got it! How about the two of us go down closer to the shore where it’s shallower and jump in together!
“Really? Can we? O-boy!"
When we were in place, he grabbed me up in his huge, hairy arms, “Hold your nose when we jump. Ready? One-two-THREE!!!!”
I’m pretty sure he hit bottom easily, but I clutched him tightly and never let go. We both went under for a few brief seconds, long enough to come up both sputtering:
“Let’s do it again!” was my rapture-filled response. How could he refuse?!
“Okay, once more, but then you grab an innertube and paddle around close to shore here,” he gently commanded, still clutching me tightly.
That’s a moment in time I won’t forget. It meant as much to me that day as the endless hotdogs and all the root beer you could drink. I remember other scenes from our life, but few as vividly as that day he co-starred in MY movie. In a lot of them, he was the leading actor, and I only had a supporting role, but they were important for my nascent career.
I remember him, wistfully now, when he took off to ‘go fishin’ with my two older brothers and old Mr. Shaw. I was usually waiting for him when he got home, because he always brought back something.
“How’d you do? How’d you do?” I’d shout as I ran up to the car, anticipating a haul.
“We caught our legal limit early,” was what I wanted to hear.
The green cooler was ceremoniously dumped on the front yard grass, and out flowed ice chips and water with mess of trout. The smell of fresh fish on the lawn glittering in the noon-day sun stays with me even now.
“Look! That one’s still wiggling!! He’s alive!!!” I’d exclaim.
It wasn’t always so good.
“Bad luck today. Only bites and not enough of those to stick around all day,” was the remorseful news. I took it in stride because I knew I always caught SOMETHING. A left-over glazed donut or potato chips, maybe a bottle of pop or a funny postcard from the ‘lodge’ at Banks:
“They grow ’em big out here” was the teaser inscription above the oversize trout on the flatbed trailer.
On the back,
“The one that got away.”
It never occurred to me to ponder, “If it got away, what was it doing on the truck? They must have used good worms.”
‘Nightcrawlers’ was actually the correct vernacular. They were “goin’ fishin’ ” tomorrow because Dad was watering the lawn in the dark at 10 o’clock. Flooding the lawn would draw the nightcrawlers out of the ground, gasping for air. I was there, and sometimes dad would hand me the flashlight and let me help catch ’em.
“When they stretch out of their holes real long, Grab ’em quick,” he’d instruct. “But you gotta’ be quick because they leave just enough in their hole so they can get back real fast if they need to.”
I approached stealthily with the big ol’ flashlight. After a few zipped away, Dad would provide more critical information.
“If you see them with the flashlight, turn away real quick! They’re light sensitive. Always walk slow and careful, too. They can feel you coming. When you’re real sure which end is nearest the hole, grab there! Be quick, they’re fast and most times you only get about an inch to hold.”
I tried again and it took me a few attempts to guess which end was which. “Darn, that was a real monster.” Finally I got the hang of it with a good grip on one. I called out loud in supplication, “Don’t you dare slip away. Don’t make me break you in half! Let go! Let go, darn it!! That’s it. Nice and easy. Gotcha’!!”
“SSHHH!, they can hear you. You’ll scare the others away,” was my father’s imploring advice,” still clear in my memory.
Remembering back now, that had to be the perfect activity for any boy who loved his father. Who could resist mud, worm slime, the thrill of the chase, and “helping out Dad, ’cause he’s “goin’ fishin’.” I hold onto that moment. I knew I was still a long way from going fishing with him, but I wanted to be there. Out fishin’ with Dad. Letting the big one get away. Catching a sodapop at the Banks Lodge while he filled up the gas in the Ford.
I never got that chance, but I can replay other scenes from our shortened time together.
It’s Saturday morning at home. The bright sun streams in through the clerestory windows above the fireplace in the living room. Dad is occupying his beloved recliner chair, laid back and nestled in like he owned it. The smoke from his pipe curls up from his face then spreads out above him. Sunbeams pierce this lightly fogged corner of the room in multiple places, dancing with each subsequent puff before dispersing out of reach.
I’m watching him settle in from the adjoining dining room while I gallop across the landscape on my favorite hobby-steed. He looks like he’s “headin’ for a nap, podner” and then it crosses my mind that he’s missing something. Me.
I dismount quickly and saunter across the room. The attempted leap into his lap is temporarily aborted by a “whoah, what’s up, Cowboy?” but I’m in a not-to-be-denied mood.
“Can I take a nap with you?” is the honest and thinly-veiled request to satisfy a deeper need.
“Sure, come on up,” he agrees without hesitation.
When I wrinkle my nose at the too-fragrant smoke cloud, he responds without words by putting down his pipe on the ashtray in the bookshelf beside us. His left arm is cradling me, keeping me from sliding out under the open arm of the chair. He is soft and warm, and the dad fragrance he exudes from his undershirt blends softly with today’s tobacco choice. Together, we have a moment. I don’t know ‘how’ or ‘why’ it ended, but I know all about the ‘when.’
It never did.
Author: Al Tietjen
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