Another Father's Day, and I’m looking forward to spending time with my kids. But I'm also looking backward to times spent with my dad. Dad married young and was devoted to his wife and six sons. He dropped out of high school and spent much of his life underground in mines. He was passionate about rocks, and knew more about 
geology than anyone I know, stuff he taught himself from books. He fixed his own cars and maintained our houses, plumbing, electricity, everything. He was a good softball pitcher. He loved camping, he was an excellent driver, and has never been lost. He was respected in our town.
Dad led our small church. When our building caught fire, they wouldn't let Dad in, so he broke open the back door, and rushed through the flames and smoke to save some papers and our hymnals.
Late one night, there was a commotion outside his office, a bunch of hoodlums yelling. I was afraid, but Dad went right to the door and stood on the sidewalk, watching. Seven or eight punks were threatening a girl, a rape in the making. My dad, alone, started toward them, yelling in a voice I'd never heard. This broke up the attack. One of the hoods yelled back, "You a cop?" My dad, alone, still walking forward, still using that voice of steel, said, "You'll wish I was a cop if I get hold of you." The punks ran away.
So Dad, Happy Father's Day. I love you. And remember that time I took your car and you were out looking for me at 2 a.m. and I passed you on the highway doing 95? I'm sorry about that.
This is a beautiful tribute to your father.
My father's grandfather spent a great deal of his life underground mining for coal in a small town in Missouri. I didn't know him as a miner but as an old man sitting on the porch in an old metal lawn chair. The kind of chair a guest of a Route 66 motel would sit in while resting from a day's drive.
He smoked cigars like his lungs were never tortured by the black air of the coal mines. He wore suspenders, deep wrinkles, and a white, sleeveless undershirt. He teased us all. He helped us catch fireflies in mason jars for nightlights and could be caught slapping great grandma Vanchie on her billowy butt on his way through the kitchen all the while declaring that she baked the best cherry pie a man could ever eat.
He died of black lung disease when I was nine.
Tonight, I watched my dad sitting on his porch, smoking a cigarette, wearing a white t-shirt and telling stories to my daughter. He is begninning to look like his grandfather. Dad never worked the mines, but was an airplane and railroad man. He helps his grandaughter catch fireflies in a mason jar. He teases. He has been known, despite her glares, to slap my mother on the butt while she is cooking. She makes great pies too.
Happy Father's Day!
Posted by: Kelly | June 17, 2006 11:05 PM | Permalink to Comment