Post by Worthington on Apr 19, 2009 20:25:55 GMT -8
Thoughts of my Father
He was always “Dad” … the rebellious teenager trapped in a man’s frame with the swept up hair and the over-confident swagger. He was the New York tough guy with smart-guy antics … he acted up and acted out.
To him, the Cadillac was king. White shoes were “sharp” and matching your socks to your shirt was the ultimate in being “put together.” He spent weekends in the “Army Reserves,” but never really “served.” He was too young for Korea … too old for Vietnam, but he kept his boots in the basement in case there was something in between.
Hanging on the banister at the end of the staircase, his raincoat smelled like a Chinese restaurant. His hat … like a bar. I pictured it on a stool somewhere next to his friends “Finky” and “Tom.”
Middle-aged men that drank too much but lived well and bared their chest for their bypass when they hit “60.”
I knew Dad little back then. He was a boozy kiss and a pat “Good Night.” He was a beer, a glass of wine, and a rum and coke. He was the man we met on weekends that read “the paper” and ate a soft roll.
He was the smell on early Sunday mornings of fried up Spam and deli bologna. He was the man with “the places” during the week: Cullen’s, The Clarksville Inn, The Silver Pheasant.
Dad was a half-hearted warning about “my room,” spoken on behalf of my mother. He was the guy that never kept a car for more than three years, but had the same black umbrella in the pocket of the back seat, for my entire childhood.
He wore pressed shirts and an overcoat. He got up and out early and carried a briefcase that said “RMM” in gold, embossed letters with hinges that snapped briskly open on the sides. He would drive you anywhere if you got up early too.
When he turned to drop me off on the playground of St. Margaret's School, I could hear his ring tapping along the grooves of the steering wheel. I could smell his cologne on the seats. I found a strange relaxation and safety in the music crooning from the car radio. I didn’t like to ride the bus. Dad said I didn’t have to do anything that I didn’t want to do.
I was always early to the playground because Dad was always early. He told me everything looked differently at that time of day. He was right. When he would leave me there, sometimes I felt a little cold and a little alone, until I looked around and saw what he meant.
The playground was peaceful. The milk company was just delivering our little red and white “Crowley” lunch milks. The school was clean. The windows were clear. The teachers were slowly arriving in their middle-income cars. The nuns were crossing in determined formation from the convent. And I felt a strange power in having been there first.
Worthington
www.worthingtonaberdeen.com
He was always “Dad” … the rebellious teenager trapped in a man’s frame with the swept up hair and the over-confident swagger. He was the New York tough guy with smart-guy antics … he acted up and acted out.
To him, the Cadillac was king. White shoes were “sharp” and matching your socks to your shirt was the ultimate in being “put together.” He spent weekends in the “Army Reserves,” but never really “served.” He was too young for Korea … too old for Vietnam, but he kept his boots in the basement in case there was something in between.
Hanging on the banister at the end of the staircase, his raincoat smelled like a Chinese restaurant. His hat … like a bar. I pictured it on a stool somewhere next to his friends “Finky” and “Tom.”
Middle-aged men that drank too much but lived well and bared their chest for their bypass when they hit “60.”
I knew Dad little back then. He was a boozy kiss and a pat “Good Night.” He was a beer, a glass of wine, and a rum and coke. He was the man we met on weekends that read “the paper” and ate a soft roll.
He was the smell on early Sunday mornings of fried up Spam and deli bologna. He was the man with “the places” during the week: Cullen’s, The Clarksville Inn, The Silver Pheasant.
Dad was a half-hearted warning about “my room,” spoken on behalf of my mother. He was the guy that never kept a car for more than three years, but had the same black umbrella in the pocket of the back seat, for my entire childhood.
He wore pressed shirts and an overcoat. He got up and out early and carried a briefcase that said “RMM” in gold, embossed letters with hinges that snapped briskly open on the sides. He would drive you anywhere if you got up early too.
When he turned to drop me off on the playground of St. Margaret's School, I could hear his ring tapping along the grooves of the steering wheel. I could smell his cologne on the seats. I found a strange relaxation and safety in the music crooning from the car radio. I didn’t like to ride the bus. Dad said I didn’t have to do anything that I didn’t want to do.
I was always early to the playground because Dad was always early. He told me everything looked differently at that time of day. He was right. When he would leave me there, sometimes I felt a little cold and a little alone, until I looked around and saw what he meant.
The playground was peaceful. The milk company was just delivering our little red and white “Crowley” lunch milks. The school was clean. The windows were clear. The teachers were slowly arriving in their middle-income cars. The nuns were crossing in determined formation from the convent. And I felt a strange power in having been there first.
Worthington
www.worthingtonaberdeen.com
