Thanks, Dad

The grayish tinge of the sky, the chill in the air, along with a sliver of sun behind naked trees, always signals a lingering winter. As I walk the wooded path near my home, the south wind has announced its presence. It creeps past me, transporting brown, wounded leaves of the White Willows down the path. The helpless leaves pass in bunches, lithesome slaves to the wind. Down the path the leaves scurry. I lose sight of them as if they are banished into oblivion. I continue to walk past a few stragglers caught in the grasp of a fallen tree branch or clumps of weeds. There, trapped, these leaves await a slow death.

For once, time passes slowly as I meander through the woods, usually thinking about what the day holds for me and what is scheduled for the next few days. But this morning brings different thoughts. I am thinking about my father. Although he as been dead for 17 years, he still lives within me. Special souls are alive and well in those who love them.

My father, Michael, lived most of his childhood near the bayous of New Orleans. He had a Huck Finn existence. His dad was brutally mean, seemingly unhappy most of the time and physically abusive. Michael would oftentimes find a watermelon patch or the trunk of a huge tree to sleep in until it was safe to go home. He did not find much need for education, barely getting through grade school. Yet, my father made it imperative that I attend school, including college. He had many sayings, but one that sticks with me, and serves me well: A strong man can always take something from a weaker man, but no one takes anything from a smart man.

One time, just one time, I tried to show my dad how much smarter I was than he. At fifteen years of age, I presented him a math word problem. After a few moments, he shrugged his shoulders and gave up trying to solve the problem. I tried to make my father appear small and stupid by providing a complete and eloquent answer to the problem.

Seemingly satisfied with my answer and without hesitation, he smiled and exclaimed, " I didn't raise no dummy!"

That is the one and only time I tried to belittle my father.

Michael was a good-looking man. One of my aunts overtly loved to hug my dad. She would kiss him on the cheek, exclaiming he looked like Dean Martin or Tony Curtis. He stood maybe five feet, six inches tall. Dad had black, wavy hair. He had a nice physique due to a Charles Atlas course he took in his early twenties. Michael was the only man at his age who looked chiseled in a bathing suit. Put it all together and there would always be a few women hanging around him at parties. But dad was shy. I feel he had an inferiority complex since his lack of education kept him from speaking intelligently to people with more education.

My dad worked as a milkman. It was hard work, on his route by 5 am and not returning home until 4 pm. The heavy crates full of dairy products took their toll over the 26 years he worked for the dairy. He was up and down, off that truck maybe thirty to forty times a day. As tired as dad was, he always had time for my brother and me after his workday or his day off. There were so many memorable times spent with him. His country-boy lifestyle created some fantastic experiences for us. One hot summer day, while hiking, we found a pond hidden in the foothills near where we lived. My dad had us strip down to our underpants and jump into the water. On other days, he would pitch me bottle caps and I would try to hit them with a sawed-off broom stick. This type of activity helped me tremendously when playing baseball at higher levels. Michael taught me how to survive in the wilds with just a pocketknife. I learned how to start a fire, found out which plants were edible, and how to make a lean-to for shelter. I even knew what to do if a snake bit me. Learning these skills from my dad helped me to be fearless if I were alone and lost in a forest which eventually did happen once.

My father was dedicated to his family. He loved my mom. No matter how upsetting she could be, dad would be right there, for better or for worse. On occasion, after an argument with mom, he would leave the house to blow off steam. His leaving resulted in him walking a mile or two away. It worried me since I felt he was never coming back. But there he was returning after a couple of hours.

My mom never worried about my dad's good looks even when other women flirted with him. All she had to do was walk up to him and he would have this incredible smile for her as if he was in the presence of a goddess. I think he loved mom more than she loved him.

Thanks to President Roosevelt and the New Deal, Michael always had work. He taught himself to play the guitar as a young man in the Conservation Corp. Years later, my parents provided me the opportunity to take piano lessons. After a couple of years of lessons, my dad and I would jam together. He always put an extra note in a measure, making it a little difficult for me to follow his lead on the guitar. But it was fun!

I must have been thirteen years of age when I was late for school one morning. It was my father's day off, so he decided to drive me to school. On arrival, with kids everywhere, he leaned over to kiss me on my cheek. I balked, pulling my head away. It was embarrassing at my age to carry on the tradition of kissing family members whenever we left one another.

Seething with my arms folded in front of me, I queried, "Why do we have to kiss every time we leave one another?"

My father stared at me with those piercing green yes and calmly replied, "What if something happened to me or you after leaving one another? What if we never saw one another again?"

I looked over at him while his head turned to face the front windshield. He quickly turned back to face me, "Son, wouldn't it be comforting to know that a kiss, a sign of love, is the last thing we shared?"

I leaned over, and, without a word, kissed my dad as I quickly exited the care.

My mom was the one who handled the money in the family. Even dad had a weekly allowance, mainly gas money. When I was finally old enough to date, I would ask one of my parents for a few dollars. One night my dad just arrived home from work while mom was still at work. Before he could sit down, I asked him for some date money. He reached for his wallet in his back pocket. When dad opened his wallet, I could see he only had seven dollars. He pulled out all of the dollars and handed them to me. I did not feel very good about taking the only money he had. Dad just pushed the dollars into my hand and told me to safe while on my date. I kept thinking that mom was not going to give him his allowance for three more days. When I finally arrived back home later that evening, no one was still awake. I found my father's wallet on a living room table and was able to sneak four of his dollars back into it.

Trees are swaying along the long path as I continue my walk. Yesterday's rain left puddles blocking the walkway making it difficult to maneuver my way to an open field. Huge pine and Douglas Fir trees act as guardians surrounding the edge of the field. Although the wind is strong, it caresses me as it filters through the trees. In the distance a bald-headed eagle screeches high about the firs as if to warn other birds to stay clear of his hunting area.

The wind and its coolness remind me of a last spring day about 45 years ago. It was Father's Day, and I had planned to visit with my mom and dad. The drive was about fifty-five miles. It started off as a warm morning with the fragrance of Jasmine waffling through the air. On my arrival, the skies had darkened with a swift wind darting about similar to today's weather. I had not dressed for the uncommonly cooler temperature. My parents decided we spend our time together in the house. Mom cooked one of dad's favorite Italian dishes. I handed him a greeting card. He slowly read each word, then looked at me, again with those piercing green eyes.

"Thank you, son, for the kind words."

Our time together was special. When it was time to leave them and head back to my home, I remember shivering as the three of us walked to my car.

"Do you have enough water in the radiator and enough gas to get home? You look cold," he aptly surmised.

Before I could answer, he removed the sweater he was wearing and handed it to me.

"Here, wear this so you can keep warm on your way home."

I did not hesitate to accept the sweater from him. I could smell the scent of my father laced with a little Old Spice, as I slipped the sweater on. Mom said her good-bye and hurried back into the house to warm up. But my father stood there with only a tee shirt protecting his upper body. He smiled at me while he wrapped his arms around himself to keep warm. In silence I kissed him lightly on the cheek. Dad reached out his arms to hug me. His strong arms comforted me. I felt protected and loved just as I had felt so many times before.

I got into my car and backed out of the driveway. Michael, with his arms folded in front of him, followed me down the driveway. I waved to him. He briefly waved back, then folded his arms once again and waited at the curb. I remember driving down the block and, by accident, looking in my rear-view mirror. There was my dad, now standing in the street and still watching me. It was as if he did not want me to go. For once in my adult life, I didn't want to leave him.

Finding a small log to sit on in the field, I think about that moment and all the things that my dad had done for me to make my life better and easier. All the sacrifices he had made for me which he would argue were not sacrifices at all. He would say he was just being a father. That is the one thing I have learned now that I am a father too.

To this day, I have my dad's sweater hanging in the closet. There is still a hint of his scent. I have not worn the sweater in the forty-five years. I am saving it, just in case my son, Michael, may need it someday.