Some Father Thoughts

I got a comment on a post that speculated I wasn’t a father because I didn’t do anything in the way of a post for yesterday’s occasion. I’m not. I’ve over the weekend read a couple of posts by bloggers about their fathers. I’d recommend Hedyblog.blogspot.com and Steve’s Nude Memphis Blog for your reading enjoyment on the subject.

Even if Steve hadn’t done a great post, I’ve decided to give him a plug on a regular basis because that Nude word, Nude, Nude, Nude (by the way there’s, or at least was, a strip club on Century Boulevard between LAX and the 405, on your left as you leave the Airport, that has/had a huge reader board that said “Nude, Nude, Nude.” Don’t know the name of the strip joint, but, having mentioned Steve and it, I figure I’ve got my Nudism covered for the month, so to speak. Fermi, I think this is how you drive the traffic, in answer to your comment.) Oops, turns out that wasn’t a complete sentence. Here’s the end of it: really drives traffic.

So, to the subject of the post. My father.

He grew up during the Depression. He helped build the Alaskan Highway while in the Army and then followed the combat troops through Europe. He came home and had a lot of different jobs. We never had a lot of money. But, we always had lots of food and clean clothes.

Random remembrances:

I was four or so and we were on vacation at a family friend’s cottage in Northern Michigan. The friend was on the dock with me and Dad was in the water, both encouraging me to jump. I was not biting. Friend picked me up and threw me, missing the target of my Father. He scooped me up quick enough and realized I was scared to death. He held me as he walked up to the grass and sat awhile. Nothing said, just his presence.

When we “visited” (that’s what you did back then) friends and relatives we got a lecture on what was and wasn’t allowed. We did what we were told.

I got a D - - for a grade in Algebra II. The minus minus kept me on the Varsity wrestling team. It didn’t impress my father. He very softly explained that he could not afford to send me to college; but, I was going, he said. To do that, I had to have good grades to get grants and scholarships. I paid a bit more attention in class after that.

I wrestled in high school. My Father, at the end of my senior year. got an award from the team, none of whom told me about it, for the ‘best parent.” He attended about 95% of our meets. I was, with some shame now, embarrassed. My teammates had more class than I did.

After I got out of college, I lived at home for about six months. At night I worked as a bartender, getting off work at 2:30 a.m., and then often going to a party for a while. One late morning, I wandered into the kitchen for a cup of coffee. My father was sitting there. He said “when you finish your coffee, come on outside, I want to show you something.” “What?” “Nothing much, when you’re finished, I’ll be outside.” I walked out. He was sitting on the swing. My car was in the driveway. The sides, up to the windows, were streaked with mud and weeds. I walked over to him. “I don’t want to lose you. Give me a call next time. No questions asked. OK?” This from the man who yelled at me if I had my feet on the couch.

My father didn’t get a high school diploma. Wasn’t that big a deal in the late ‘30’s. When I was in my twenties, I’d come home on a weekend to “visit.” Maybe the visit thing is a Michigan phenomenon. My Dad was a member of the small town, local restaurant “coffee club.” They had the big table in the back. If you weren’t a member and thus part of the town elders, you didn’t sit there. No one said anything, you just didn’t. We went in one morning and he introduced me to his fellow elders as “my son, David, that went away to college.” They knew more about me than I thought my Father knew.

One time when I was visiting, I announced that I was taking Mom and Dad and my brother, his wife and their then three year old daughter out for dinner for the Friday Night Fish Fry at the Mushroom Bar. All you can eat for something like $7.99. My niece spilled her milk two or three times. The young waitress was always there immediately with a bar towel and more milk. The fried perch, fries and coleslaw were never ending. When she brought the bill, my father tried to grab it. I fought him off. The total was something in the neighborhood of $40.00. I put $50.00 on top of the bill as we gathered ourselves to leave. She brought back the change. We got up and my father nudged me, “you forgot your change.” “That’s for her, she worked her butt off.” My father, the child of the Depression, “you’ll spoil her.”

There are a lot of other stories. These came off the fingers first as I typed.

Mark Twain, said something like, it’s amazing how much my father learned after I turned 21. I wish I’d had more time to learn what he knew.