It had been a cold early winter. We were in the process of building our house, and renting from a friend. Boxes everywhere, my angel and I managed to separate the clutter by keeping stuff we used upstairs where we camped out and the rest huddled in piles in the basement. Thats where the computer ended up. We hadnt celebrated family Christmas yet. Our mother had the flu, then it had snowed, and we had put off the gathering for just over a month. Finally, the day was just about upon us, even though it was the end of January. I had gone to the basement to work on some stuff while Pam stayed upstairs with Gretchen, our black lab. I was more than a little distracted, battling the contractor over a project that just didnt seem to have an end. Id talked with both my brother and sister, and we were all excited to see each other the next day when we were to gather at our house on Fairground Hill to finally exchange gifts and spend time together. But it wasnt in our worst nightmares what we were about to live through. There was a disagreement. It seems there always was, to tell the truth. Holidays always seemed to bring out the best - and the worst - in our family. There was always something to squabble about. Sometimes worse. And that night was no different. Im not even sure how it started. But as the night marched on, I only wanted tomorrow morning to get here so we could all see each other and realize just how silly the petty arguments were, to enjoy what was really important - each others company. But my dad liked to dig. And boy could he! He could find a pick and hit right into the bone when he wanted to, and that night, he was obviously ready. Had it not been for my distractions on the computer, Id been sucked right in, having it out right there on Ma Bells best while our blood pressures raced, only to feel like a damned fool just hours later when we were to gather to celebrate Christmas. So I passed. I deflected. He shot and shot again, but I just didnt take the bait. I really didnt want THAT holiday again. He finally dissuaded and, both tired, we briefly mentioned seeing each other in the morning. I love you daddy. I love you too, son. And those were the last words we spoke. The telephone jarred me awake. It was dark outside, much too early to be up. It was my mother. Your daddys cold, she said. I couldnt make sense of it. Had the furnace failed? Or like so many nights we all lived together, had the house ran out of oil? But I sensed much more. I dressed, making a quick call to 911, and raced to the house. The police and rescue squad were there. My mom was in the living room, wrapped in a beige blanket, sitting on the end of the couch underneath the gold-painted plastic framed mirror and wooden candle holders my dad had put up as decorations decades before. He had made it to the bedroom. And that was all. Quietly, peacefully. Like he had simply sat on the edge of the bed, laid back, and gone to sleep. My dad was gone. The most difficult calls of my life came, as I rang my sister and brother to explain what couldnt be explained. How, last night, we were growling and grumbling, and that morning, we would be saying goodbye. He was a complicated man. A basketball standout at Liberty High. He played a disc jockey in a school play, spinning The Yellow Rose of Texas on a turntable - the only reference he shared with my career at the time. He worked for the Highway Department, first as a flag man and later building the interstate bridges. Served as the Towns Fire and Building Inspector until an ill-advised Christmas party brawl with the town manager, when he quickly became a tax appraiser for the state and we spent a year or so in Danville until he took the helm as manager of Marions Rays Kingburger. He was on the developmental team for the worlds first fast food breakfast, and worked his butt off to build the company and provide for us, making Director of Operations before the company folded. In the depths of the Depression of the early 80s, he squeezed out a wage by working as a night watchman at blue ridge job corps, at the Golden Galaxy game room, managed the KMart restaurant, and even worked as short order cook at the original Cliffside. He was my boss twice in my working life, and he was tough as hell on me. He was a disabled vet, serving in the 760th ENG CO USAR. He volunteered with the DAV, and served as local commander. He sold insurance for a bit. He loved my mother and his kids, even when it may not have been evident. He had a son he never met, never knew about, but thats another story for another day. He loved dogs, country music, cars, the Grand Ole Opry. And a cold Country Club or a yellowed plastic cup salvaged from the oatmeal box with two fingers Rebel Yell inside. He was my old man. And tomorrow, October 15, would have been his birthday. Ill never know all the lessons he could have taught me. I cant honestly say I realize all those he tried. But I know his blood courses my veins, and Ill catch a glimpse of my disappearing hairline and be fooled into thinking my dad is looking back from the other side of the mirror. I pull out his fire department badge every 9-11 and wear it with pride, as I do on his birthday and the day he left us. The memories of riding in that jet black Pontiac sedan with glowing red lights to a hot call always turns me back into a six year old kid who knew his dad was even better than Superman. And thinking back, this middle aged guy STILL believes that. Happy birthday, daddy. How I miss what was, and what could have been. Youd be so proud of Karen and Greg. Youd loved meeting your other son. And I sure hope you wouldnt fire me - AGAIN ;). Twice is enough. Ill continue to do my best just to make sure Im not left with the punitive job of polishing the Pearly Gates at the Heavenly franchise of the Rays Kingburger when I get there.
Posted on: Wed, 15 Oct 2014 01:34:21 +0000
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