He had the most beautiful hands I had ever seen. His fingers were long and slender, each one a twin of the next. Sometimes, he would let me hold them as we strolled into a store. His arms and legs were oh so skinny. He never went without a shirt. When he was a child something happened and his spine had an unnatural curve to it. It was some kind of fever that caused his spine to bend, according to my mother. I would watch him as he worked in the garage. His thick black hair would often fall into his eyes when he was working hard at painting a car or a boat. I would bring him coffee whenever he asked for it. It was my pleasure to get him a cup, well, not always. He smoked like a chimney and going on trips was almost unbearable for those of us who sat in the back seat. Fishing was his passion and he spent many Saturdays sitting on a riverbank somewhere. I cannot say that he was handsome, nor will I declare that he was the opposite. He always had a job and we never went hungry. This man I am talking about is my Dad. He has done things to make me happy and has, also, disappointed me. Yet, still, he is my dad.
Charles is his given name. A few people called him Charlie, some called
him Chuck, but Mom always called him Charles. My dad was by no means a literate
man. If I remember correctly, his
education didn’t go past the fourth grade. He read the paper sometimes.
Sherlock Holmes was one of his favorites. Then there were the fishing magazines; there
was always one sitting on the table beside his chair. Many nights he took a nap before dinner and
went to bed early so that he could get up at four in the morning to start all
over again. He was in general a quiet
man at home. Arguments were always
started by my mother and he never raised his hand to her.
Dad took great pride in being a
spray painter. He painted tractor
trailers for Fruehauf Corporation. A
perfectionist to the last detail. I
remember one time he took my brother and I to see a trailer that he had painted
for the company. It was a special
edition trailer and it traveled to various places around the country. His face lit up as he talked about his
work. As we toured the factory, my
brother Randall and I were able to see his work station. We met his good friends, Corny and Brock.
During the times that he was laid off, he would paint cars to supplement his
income. This was when I realized that he
was his own person apart my mother. Part
of his life was outside of our humble home.
It was a place where my mom would never be included.
Music was a big part of our lives
growing up. We had record players and radios on nearly all of the time. Dad
sang whenever we were in the car. He
whistled while working and he loved Jerry Lee Lewis. Whenever my parents would have an argument,
with a long sorrowful face, he would listen to, Who Will the Next Fool Be, made popular by his favorite
singer. We never lacked for musical
instruments. We had a piano, guitar, and
drums. I couldn’t play a note on any of them
though, my brother has that gift. Luster
Laws, a neighbor from down the street, had a twin brother Lester. Dad had invited Lester to come over one
evening to play his guitar. We all
gathered in the family room. Sitting on
tall stools, my brother played his guitar right along with Lester. It was like a scene from, O Brother Where Art Thou? We were just plain folk sitting around
singing and listening to the music. Even
though Dad was a good singer, he was too shy to participate. He sat on the sofa
and listened, while I sang loud enough for the both of us.
Many weekends he brought home
enough catfish to fill the bathtub. Some
were as large at the tub itself. It kind
of grossed me out to think that fish were in the place where I bathed. There
was a peace and quiet he experienced when he went fishing that was hard to
duplicate at home. Often my mother or
brother would go with him. I rarely went
because I was a Sunday school teacher and spent a lot of time at church, but on
one rare occasion he let me come along. Early one Sunday morning, we loaded the car
with the fishing poles and tackle and then headed out. I cannot remember the lake or the river we
went to. Time alone with dad was
something that I longed for. I don’t
ever remember getting many hugs or kisses. It wasn’t that he didn’t love us; he just
didn’t know how to show it. We settled
in a spot on the water. Cast our lines
and waited for bites. We talked as we
fished. He told me how proud he was of
me. “Teaching Sunday school is such a
wonderful thing”, he said. Even though
he enjoyed having me along, he said that the children at church needed me
more. My heart sank. I needed time with him and his love more than
teaching a Sunday school class. That day
was my last time to go fishing with him.
A year or so later he was diagnosed with cancer and passed away. If only I could have had more time with
him. I never saw him as an old man when
I tried to imagine him 20 years down the line.
Maybe my spirit knew that he would never grow old. I just wish that he could have stayed a
little longer.
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