My Champion, My Dad

The middle of June has crept up on us and I find myself thinking about what gift I should get my dad for Father’s Day. Mother’s Day this year was an absolutely gorgeous, picture perfect day whereas Father’s Day alludes to storms. Usually Mother’s Day, cemented in May, comes cloudy, cold, or rainy and my dad jokingly says, “God is mad at you mothers (if he only realized what it sounds like when he says “you mothers”). Well this year our Creator smiled upon us mothers and just may rail violently at you fathers; so there.

When I buy my dad something he “scolds” me and tells me he doesn’t need anything, which he doesn’t. So after grave consideration I decide to bake him pumpkin white chocolate muffins and a batch of cranberry oatmeal cookies. I have one day to do this for I worked all week and work the weekend, leaving me only Friday off. However Friday finds us embroiled in July-like heat and humidity (I think we are a month ahead of schedule weather- wise so I’m hoping come August Mother Nature will gift us with fall); on the other hand we may be in the grips of global warming (very mild winter this year). Whatever the reason it is hot and humid and I live on the second floor, kitchen not airconditioned. No sweat, I say. Ha, during this endeavor I am mopping copious amounts off my entire body. I tell myself I am getting the toxins out of my system. I put my meat thermometer on the counter and it registers exactly 100 degrees. As for the dew point, well never mind, I would rather not know. But I endure it cause it’s for my dad. Every now and then I go out on the little porch outside my kitchen and catch a breeze along with a birds’ eye view of a game of basketball being played at our little hilltop park (hence called Hilltop Park). Man, all these young men of color out there showing off their moves with their shirts off. I think, “where are my binoculars when I really need them?” This game, I think, almost equals the Championship game played last night; “my” team isn’t in the running this year, they won last year (worth it just to hear Dirk sing We Are the Champions). I usually root for the underdog, which is Oklahoma City but these days anything having to do with that state I detest so I find myself cheering on Lebron and the Heat. But as my loser ex-husband use to say, I digress.

My dad. Man, the memories come flooding back. I recall sledding down the hills across the street at Allison Henderson Park. One winter wonderland day my dad, my little brother Al and I (age six) were coasting down on our Flexible Flyers. We took turns going down with dad; Al was way too young to handle these babies on his own so having to show my little bro that I was up to the challenge I decided to give it a go solo. I started zooming down the hill, tether ball pole right dab middle in my path, glimpsing my dad and brother going full speed ahead of me and hearing my dad yell, yabba dabba doo; well that’s all I remember cause I hit that pole pretty damn hard. Knocked me out. I remember coming to momentarily, my dad holding me as we crossed Grandview Avenue, blood spouting from my nose on to his shoulder. He must have had Little Al (yes, that’s what he was called) by the hand and left the sleds at the park. I don’t know; I blacked out again. At home I remember sitting in the big red rocker on the back porch and my Uncle Gordy sitting in front of me with this weird look on his face as he studied my face. I don’t recall what they did for me, probably just wiped the blood off and iced the swelling and bruising. Years later as an adult I went to the ENT doctor for sinus problems and he said, “Did you know you have a broken nose?” No, I did not know that however I have a pretty good idea when and where it occurred.

I remember as a child my dad reading to us (my little brother Al and I, we were good buds) many books. We would climb upon Dad’s lap and that man would never get tired of reading to us. Such literary gems as The House That Jack Built (which I could recite by memory) and other favorites. I remember one winter evening my dad was varnishing something in the upper back porch. I adored him so I sat there with him and read and reread a book I had chosen, Corporal Crow. He listened to that damn thing over and over; and never once told me to go away. Talk about patience of a saint.

Then there were the many nights at the Drive-in movies. He would pack all us kids in the GMC, along with a cooler of pop and beer and grocery bags of popcorn that my mom popped for us (she stayed home, a night of peace and quiet) and we would watch many a Disney flick in our big metal theatre. There was plenty of room for horseplay; and I don’t remember my dad ever telling us to be quiet. Most of these time we had half the neighborhood kids along with us and he was still patient and never raised his voice (when we went to see James Bond movies with him the other kids didn’t come because, heaven forbid, their parents would not allow their kids to go to those kinds of movies that were always on the list at the back of the church rated B or C).

My mother, as many women of her generation, did not drive (her life revolved around house, hearth, and family so where would she possibly need to go without her husband)? But she loved to go for rides. She would say to me, “Ask your dad to take us for a ride,” and I would comply and off we would go in the convertible down country lanes and usually to an ice cream joint before heading back home. I remember when my kids were young and I did not have a car; therefore my dad would take us grocery shopping. One time he had just gotten a brand new car, picked us up (this was an adventure for my kids; grandpa would whiz them around the store as they hanged onto the cart shrieking with pleasure). Well five minutes into our journey my daughter, Samantha, who was probably around two at the time pukes up enough stuff to fill a couple gallon jugs. And what does my dad do? Patiently and quietly takes us home. As I clean up Samantha my dad takes his car home and cleans it up (goodbye new car smell) and comes back and takes my son and I to the store while grandma babysits Samantha. He never said a word other than something like, “well, that’s what little kids do.”

He and my mom never hesitated to take my kids when I had an appointment or when I was working. My kids, especially my son, spent many an afternoon with my dad. And it shows; my son is very much like his grandpa and I am very proud of him-- he even walks like him. I remember when my dad was in his 70’s and my kids would brag to their friends what an awesome roller blader their grandpa was; which reminded me of all the ice skating capades we kids shared with my dad over at Allison Henderson ice rink. He could glide across the rink like butter, leaving us kids in his “crystals”.

I could go on and on ad infinitum regarding my dad, but instead I will end this with one simple phrase:  I would sweat buckets for my dad any day. Happy Fathers’ Day, Dad.