He was the second oldest of eight children, the oldest son of five. He grew up about fifty feet from where he lives now at 2047 Midvale Mine. Twenty-three years ago he married the girl who lived down the road from him whom he started dating when he was sixteen. At the age of twenty-three, he became my father and at forty-five he still has the spirit of a seven-year-old boy. My parents were married for three years before they had me. When they decided to have children it was due to the coaxing of my father. Mom claims she never really wanted any kids; I believe that changed even though she may never admit it. Anyway, Dad wanted me. Regardless of his age, he could always be spotted at the family reunions playing hide-and-seek, tag, or fishing for minnows in the sulfur creek. He was the �cool dad� who would run around the yard flailing his arms and bellowing like the rest of us. On hot blazing days, while Mom sat in the lawn chair solemnly shaking her head (as I would be futuristically prone to do), Dad was the first person to run through the sprinkler fully clothed. When I was eleven, it rained so much that our yard flooded and Dad, being the responsible adult, did what only Dad would do--took off his shirt, went sprinting toward the river of water, and discovered nature�s own Slip-N-Slide. Rug-rides were Dad�s own invention. He would be sitting on the couch when my brother and I would hear him say, �Who wants a rug ride?� My brother and I knew this was time of night more worthy than Kids Incorporated or Mickey Mouse so we shot up from the floor and sprinted to the corner of the basement in anticipation. Dad would dig out the old brown and orange paisley printed comforter, grab it by a corner, and start pulling it all around the basement while my brother and I sprawled out on the bedspread, clinging to it like two pieces of Velcro. I can�t imagine how Dad determined it would be fun to be drug around on a blanket, but it was great. I wish we all could be takers of rug-rides. Flash Warnings and the Dark Hole are the only things I remember detesting as a child. In order to wake my brother and I up for school on the mornings that Dad was either �laid off� or �rained out� (phrases common to any asphalt crew), he would stand in the hall where he could reach both my light switch and my brother�s. He then proceeded to flicker the lights and yell, �Flash warnings!� Where this technique originated I haven�t a clue, but it was definitely more effective than any alarm clock (and more annoying). The Dark Hole was even worse, in my opinion. This concoction consisted of Dad lying on the floor and grabbing our legs while saying in a low, monotone voice, �You�re going to visit the Dark Hole.� He would pull us into his arms where we couldn�t see anything and where I was convinced it was a complete vacuum void of all oxygen. My brother somehow figured out how to escape the Dark Hole by squirming through Dad�s arms, but I only figured out how to hyperventilate. Dad taught me how to do math by using shiny plastic cups. When I was in sixth grade I wasn�t very gifted in attaining correct answers to story problems. I remember Dad sitting me next to him at the island in our kitchen on a wooden bar stool. Half of the cups were yellow, the other half were red and they represented everything from dollars to days of the week. He would spend hours moving the cups around while reading the problem in order to illustrate to me whether Sue was older than Bob or younger than Billy. Dad never went to college. He always told me that �college isn�t for everyone.� I wanted to remind him that being a foreman of a construction company isn�t for everyone either, but I think he already knew that. Dad also thrived on saying, �Do I have �stupid� written across my forehead?� when I attempted to pull more than sheep�s clothing over his eyes. I know part of the reason that I never participated in illegal or immoral activities during the time when those things were socially encouraged was partly because of self-conviction and party because I knew Dad would know. He had (and still has) this psychic ability granted to Dads who are willing to use the power. This gift enabled him to predict that Jimmy wouldn�t last, Matt wasn�t the one, and someday I�d be out in the �real world� and that�s when I�d understand. Dad hates to shop and only owns about twenty articles of clothing. I refuse to buy him anything more, because then he feels it�s necessary to balance the gain with a loss (he throws out something old when he gets something new). His four basic clothing groups include Hanes T-shirts, short-sleeved plaid shirts, tapered Levi�s stonewashed jeans, and Dickies (those pants that are usually khaki green and found at K-Mart). To my knowledge he owns three pairs of shoes: white New Balance tennis shoes, tan construction boots covered in asphalt, and brown dress shoes that look more like house slippers. I believe he owns one suit jacket and a tie since last Christmas. As much as Dad detests shopping, he was always willing to take me. When I went to pick out my senior prom dress Dad drove Mom and me to Minerva to find one. After trying on countless numbers of dresses to no avail, Dad, sitting on the sofa provided by the boutique, got up, guided me by my shoulders to the other side of the store and said, �Do me a favor; just try on that one dress over there.� He pointed to a mannequin modeling a simple purple A-line dress with beading at the top that trickled down to nothing at the waist. Humoring Dad I tried it on. The dress was perfect. It�s endearingly strange to be able to say that Dad picked out my senior prom dress. At thirty I think Dad had a mid-life crisis (maybe it was twenty�I believe that�s when I had mine). He never did well with the idea of aging, and I thank him for my own phobia. Up until thirty Dad always combed his jet-black hair forward, but after his �crisis� he began to slick it back. Lightly dusted on the sides and thinner on top, it�s now in a permanent horizontal position that cannot be reversed. I can�t recall anything else really changing at that time. His blue eyes never lost their luster, his skin was still leathery due to excess sun exposure, and he still wore the same plaid, short-sleeved shirts and tapered-leg jeans. Dad still went to bed at nine o�clock and woke up at five. He still watched Tom and Jerry and ate chocolate ice cream with potato chips. He still got confused when we spelled out sentences instead of just saying the words, and he still spent the winters he was laid off remodeling houses for friends. He still leaves by saying, �Adios,� and pronounces it incorrectly. He still gets easily embarrassed by old women who tease him about being �good enough to take home.� He still fills my car up with gas and insists that the �gas fairy� did it. He still gets belligerent if someone takes his Easter egg coloring before he�s finished with it. He still expects the respect he deserves. And he still answers questions with, �Because I�m your father and�� to which I reply, �I�m your daughter.� |
| Plain and Simple: Always My Father's Daughter |