Etch-a-Sketch Poetry

My dad doesn’t read my blog. My mom does. You’ve probably seen comments from her. She’s very supportive of all that I do. Not that my dad isn’t, he just doesn’t get very involved in the girly things. He can’t stand when me, or my mom or heaven forbid, me, my mom, her sisters and their daughters are all in the same room doing what he calls “Tiny Muscle Movements.” That’s when we’re all sitting around knitting, crocheting, needlepointing – whatever, and gabbing until our hearts content. It drives him mad. And that’s OK, because he spends an extraordinary amount of time in the garage doing all sorts of “man projects.” The Candyman and I are trying to convince him to set up a video camera in the garage to record his crazy shit. Recently, he brought me into the garage to show me the extra storage platform he built “for my mother.” It was this whole thing with a pulley system and ropes and knots and wood and it really was kind of amazing. But I stopped him mid-description of the contraption and said, “You built this for Mom?” Bullshit. You got to use all sorts of tools to do this. I see nylon rope with heat finished ends. I see a pulley system. You built this for you.” I got a slight smile and light shove and he continued to describe the system until I wandered away uninterested, as he continued to talk for the next hour or so, most likely to his tools.

My dad wasn’t always around a lot. It’s not because my parents split or that they had a troubled marriage or anything like that. He just worked. All. The. Time. His military career took him away for months. He didn’t make it to all the plays and recitals. He missed a lot of stuff. And he was also kind of a scary dad at times. He didn’t tolerate goofing around, dinner plates that weren’t spotless, sassing of any kind to any person nor poor school performance. We likened him often to Robert Duvall’s character in The Great Santini (a side note: this film was shot in Beaufort, South Carolina, when we lived there. My dad is one of the fighter pilot’s flying the F4 jets in the movie’s flying scenes. We can also point out old neighbors/pilots in other scenes of the movie!).

In these later years, the old dude has chilled the fuck out considerably. He’s still away from home a lot, riding his motorcycle all over Hell’s half acre. In fact, next month he’s going to Switzerland to ride the Swiss Alps. On a motorcycle. The dynamic between us has changed over the years. It becomes more and more apparent how alike we are. When I was young, people used to tell me I was the spitting image of my mother. Now, more people comment on how much I look like my dad. When I get indignant about something with The Candyman, he says, “OK, Gus! Whatever you say!” The Candyman likes to think this an insult. I do not.

Though my dad wasn’t always around, he did teach me a few things:

He taught me how to laugh at an early age.

He taught me how to water ski. This is me, circa 1978, having jumped the wake for the first time!

He was there for the big stuff, like when I gradumutated from Indiana University.

Summers in the low country made for lots of fun.

I’m sure my mother will cringe at this, but he taught me that the occasional Etch-a-Sketch drunken poetry about a cow is completely acceptable. This is the one time in my life where I’ve seen my dad completely hammered. In fact, there were a few of us who happened to be in the same alcohol-filled boat on this day. Let’s just say it was at the beach, it was raining and there was a one year old SCREAMING ALL DAY. There was no escape, so we hit the booze early and didn’t stop.

He taught me to be myself and by example, to stand up for what I believe in. He taught me to have a code in which to live by.

He also taught me how to curse, but not on purpose.

When I was 18, we lived for a moment in Grand Prairie, Texas, where there was an amazing water park. We went there together, just he and I. We went on every slide, jumped off of every ledge and got dunked in every pool. Towards the end of the day, we stood looking up at the three-story slide we had yet to ride. My dad loves to tell the tale of how I told him we HAD to ride it, “Because it’s the rule. You have to ride every ride in the park.”

I think he’s taken that “rule” to heart. There isn’t a place in the world he’s wanted to go to that he hasn’t been to. He has hundreds of friends, most who’d do anything for him simply because they know he’d reciprocate in a heartbeat. He’s been married to my mom for 46 years. He’s seen and experienced more of the world and the people he encounters than I can ever dream of (he takes pictures of random waitresses and bartenders on his motorcycle trips, deeming each one, “the nicest server I’ve ever had!).

He’s 69 and is riding every ride in the park.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad.

Comments

[Christy W]

Beautiful.

[Mom]

Nice Tribute to your dad. I'll try to get him to read it.... :}

[Dad]

It is clear to me that I need to start reading your blog.

Never have I been so flattered. No promotions, no awards, no assignments, no nothing has made me feel so wonderful as these words of my gracious daughter, Louise.

Although Louise has, for good and bad, many of my genes, the genes that allow her to always respond to any pleasantry with a thoughtful note she inherits from her grandmother, Vida. She never misses a birthday, an anniversary or any other celebration without a well worded note. In many places this is a lost art. But art it is and nothing seems to make one feel better than getting a hand written invitation or thank you note via snail mail.

Louise is an incredibly strong-willed woman. She is not a person you want to cross swords with over any subject. She is painfully right almost all the time. As I was once evaluated while in the Marine Corps, "she leaves a wake of turbulence, but she gets the job done." Readers believe me. Loyalty and Trust are the hallmarks of her social and professional relationships. You could have no better or truer friend than my daughter Louise.

Although I lack the words to adequately express my emotions for Louise, I can tell you she is my pride, she is my joy and I am so glad that I can claim her as my daughter.

Thanks for a wonderful Father's Day gift.

Dad.

[Trisha]

This was wonderful! Thank you for sharing it with us!