Scribblings: Dad

Dad

I sit in front of the screen, wondering if I can create a sculpture from words. My hands move to the keyboard as a sculptor moves to his chisel. The white of the blank page is as intimidating as a block of granite when the subject matter is taken into account.

You place the chisel so, then strike with the hammer. *chink*

I remember days when I was younger–remember nights, more like; kneeling in front of the window long after bedtime, waiting to hear the throaty growl of the diesel engine as it brings him home.

*chink*

I would see the maroon body of the semi pull into the driveway and break into a smile. Hopping to my feet, I would hear sounds from my sister's room that bespoke of her doing the same. Daddy's home.

*chink*

Some nights, we would greet him at the door, my sister and I. I remember mother feigning surprise that we were still awake–I am sure she knew, but tolerated it. Always the question was the same, from both my sister and I. "Did you bring us anything?"

*chink*

He built me a small basketball court when we lived in town. Made everything himself. The standard was an old telephone pole, the backboard fashioned out of plywood, the rim welded together. Maybe it was cheaper than buying a pre-fabricated one–I'm sure it was, at least when money is the criteria. But no pre-made one would show the love he had. That's something that I've missed ever since we moved to the country–even though I was never good at the game of basketball and the rim fell into disuse, it was a monument of sorts.

*chink*

I remember sitting downstairs, watching television with my dad. A big bowl of cheese popcorn, a two-liter bottle of Royal Crown Cola. Action films, sporting events–we were content to watch whatever was on.

*chink*

I remember after one of those nights, waking up in the morning to find dad wasn't there, he was in the hospital after having a heart attack. He survived, but the cheese popcorn and RC went the way of the dinosaur soon after.

*chink*

I remember when my grandfather–his father–died, dad tried to hold back, to stay "strong" for the rest of us. Dad and granddad were a lot alike–too much alike, for some people's tastes–and it hurt him more than he would–or could, I think–show us.

*chink*

Dad, working night shifts at a local factory, taking Friday nights off during my high school days to watch me play football. I don't know whether he switched shifts one night a week, or just told Trailmobile to go somewhere nasty, but he was there to watch his boy play. Few things have meant more to me in the short time I've been around–and, I feel, few things will supplant it.

*chink* And so, the statue begins to take shape.

It wasn't all peaches and cream, though. I was–hell, probably still am–somewhat of a disappointment to my solid, blue-collar father. My long hair, my earrings–not his idea of a perfect son, I wouldn't think. With a kids' perverse logic, the bad stand out in my mind over the good.

*chink*

The day I got kicked off of the football team, my junior year of high school; when I flunked out of college–those days stand out, to be true. But what stands over all, is that my dad has stuck with me. Fully supporting me as I tried to make a different start to the same story.

*chink*

It hasn't been easy for him, having a son like me. We've clashed on many things, great and small–all families do, I suppose. The minor things blown out of proportion, the major things given more than they're worth. But throughout it all, he's been there. He's still there, to take me to task over my budgeting (or lack thereof), my grades (or lack thereof)–everything that I do, he's there, whether he knows it or not.

*chink*

I was given a taste of mortality a while back, when he went in for bypass surgery. I didn't like it, not one bit. Despite all assurances to the contrary, I was convinced that I had seen my father for the last time. I am overjoyed to say that I was wrong. He came through that like he's come through everything else that's been thrown his way.

*chink*

For all my dad has given me–my features, the faith I have that my way is the best way, my desire to work for what I want and damn the cost–I have given him little but more concerns and disappointment. It would seem that I have taken all that he has given me and twisted it. I have no confidence in my looks (and this despite the fact that he married my mother, still beautiful), I'm too stubborn for my own good, and I don't know what I want yet. I haven't nearly given him enough to repay what I was given.

*chink*

So am I ungrateful? No. The memories I have of him cheering me on from the sidelines–and rest assured that I knew exactly where my mother and father were at the entire game–of greeting him when he got home from a week-long haul, of watching television with him in the basement of our home. . .those are memories I will cherish. I can only hope that, someday, when I have a son of my own, that I am half as good a man, half as good a father, that he is.

*chink*

Did I capture him in the stone, in the words? No, for my skill, my talent is too small and insignificant to hope to do him justice. Some small amount, perhaps. But nothing near what he deserves. He's my dad.

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	Dad I sit in front of the screen, wondering if I can create a sculpture from words. My hands move to the keyboard as a sculptor moves to his chisel. The white of the blank page is as intimidating as a block of granite when the subject matter is taken into account. You place the chisel so, then strike with the hammer. chink I remember days when I was younger–remember nights, more like; kneeling in front of the window long after bedtime, waiting to hear the throaty growl of the diesel engine as it brings him home. chink I would see the maroon body of the semi pull into the driveway and break into a smile. Hopping to my feet, I would hear sounds from my sister's room that bespoke of her doing the same. Daddy's home. chink Some nights, we would greet him at the door, my sister and I. I remember mother feigning surprise that we were still awake–I am sure she knew, but tolerated it. Always the question was the same, from both my sister and I. "Did you bring us anything?" chink He built me a small basketball court when we lived in town. Made everything himself. The standard was an old telephone pole, the backboard fashioned out of plywood, the rim welded together. Maybe it was cheaper than buying a pre-fabricated one–I'm sure it was, at least when money is the criteria. But no pre-made one would show the love he had. That's something that I've missed ever since we moved to the country–even though I was never good at the game of basketball and the rim fell into disuse, it was a monument of sorts. chink I remember sitting downstairs, watching television with my dad. A big bowl of cheese popcorn, a two-liter bottle of Royal Crown Cola. Action films, sporting events–we were content to watch whatever was on. chink I remember after one of those nights, waking up in the morning to find dad wasn't there, he was in the hospital after having a heart attack. He survived, but the cheese popcorn and RC went the way of the dinosaur soon after. chink I remember when my grandfather–his father–died, dad tried to hold back, to stay "strong" for the rest of us. Dad and granddad were a lot alike–too much alike, for some people's tastes–and it hurt him more than he would–or could, I think–show us. chink Dad, working night shifts at a local factory, taking Friday nights off during my high school days to watch me play football. I don't know whether he switched shifts one night a week, or just told Trailmobile to go somewhere nasty, but he was there to watch his boy play. Few things have meant more to me in the short time I've been around–and, I feel, few things will supplant it. chink And so, the statue begins to take shape. It wasn't all peaches and cream, though. I was–hell, probably still am–somewhat of a disappointment to my solid, blue-collar father. My long hair, my earrings–not his idea of a perfect son, I wouldn't think. With a kids' perverse logic, the bad stand out in my mind over the good. chink The day I got kicked off of the football team, my junior year of high school; when I flunked out of college–those days stand out, to be true. But what stands over all, is that my dad has stuck with me. Fully supporting me as I tried to make a different start to the same story. chink It hasn't been easy for him, having a son like me. We've clashed on many things, great and small–all families do, I suppose. The minor things blown out of proportion, the major things given more than they're worth. But throughout it all, he's been there. He's still there, to take me to task over my budgeting (or lack thereof), my grades (or lack thereof)–everything that I do, he's there, whether he knows it or not. chink I was given a taste of mortality a while back, when he went in for bypass surgery. I didn't like it, not one bit. Despite all assurances to the contrary, I was convinced that I had seen my father for the last time. I am overjoyed to say that I was wrong. He came through that like he's come through everything else that's been thrown his way. chink For all my dad has given me–my features, the faith I have that my way is the best way, my desire to work for what I want and damn the cost–I have given him little but more concerns and disappointment. It would seem that I have taken all that he has given me and twisted it. I have no confidence in my looks (and this despite the fact that he married my mother, still beautiful), I'm too stubborn for my own good, and I don't know what I want yet. I haven't nearly given him enough to repay what I was given. chink So am I ungrateful? No. The memories I have of him cheering me on from the sidelines–and rest assured that I knew exactly where my mother and father were at the entire game–of greeting him when he got home from a week-long haul, of watching television with him in the basement of our home. . .those are memories I will cherish. I can only hope that, someday, when I have a son of my own, that I am half as good a man, half as good a father, that he is. chink Did I capture him in the stone, in the words? No, for my skill, my talent is too small and insignificant to hope to do him justice. Some small amount, perhaps. But nothing near what he deserves. He's my dad.