My Dad

Growing up at the time I did, it was my father that was expected to bear the weight of providing for his family. While my Dad didn’t always spend a lot of time with me, the times he did were special, as every kid can attest to. He was a hard worker; being a switchman for the Milwaukee Road Railroad. It was a dangerous occupation even then. In the old days, before the advent of automatic coupling, the bosses would ask for a show of hands if you were a switchman. If you were missing a lot of fingers, it meant you’d been around. The cars would come together with a loud jolt and the pin would have to be dropped in with perfect timing. Hence the fingers.
Around 3:30 in the afternoon he’d come home wearing those overalls that had a zillion pockets,along with his striped cap, and his worn boots. I’d wrap my arms around his waist taking in the peculiar smell of the Railroad Yards. It was a combination of fresh air, dirt, and grease, and I loved it. With his crew-cut, pencil mustache, and solidity, he was more than a role model for me; he could have been a template for designing a Dad anywhere on the Earth.
Sometimes, in the evenings he, my Mother, and I would go to the local bar two blocks away. It’s name was The Mohawk Bar & Grill, and for a sign it had this wonderful Huron indianhead done in glowing, magical neon. We would slide into a booth, the cool dimness encompassing us like a delicious secret and drink beer. I always got to have about a half glass of Grain Belt, preferably with some salt on top. I remember being fascinated with the dark wood of the booth and its attendant sign reading, “Under Minnesota law, it is illegal to serve alcoholic beverages to anyone under the age of 21.” I thought the world of grown-ups was pretty cool with the privileges of drinking, working and just being tall. My father had a way about him. An easy way, as if he should drawl his words when he spoke.
Most nights we’d eat at the table in the tiny kitchen, the fare being the mashed potatoes and meat everyone ate in those years. Afterward he’d read the newspaper, his legs crossed and looking for all the world like a man at home in his skin. He was a strong man but also had a kind almost empathic heart. I never recall being spanked or hit, but it could have happened, being so long ago.
He loved to watch baseball and boxing especially. He’d get excited and rise from the chair, muscles tensed. First he’d stand, then crouch, finally he’d just be in front of the TV wanting to crawl inside and help out the boxer. I was fascinated watching him; like a little kid himself, he got taken into whatever he was doing at the time. Sometimes I’d go down and watch him at his workbench doing the most amazing things. The talent for improvising a solution to problems were remarkable and ingenious. The time I broke a croquet mallet he got the wood out of the head, cut the broken handle and re-threaded it....with a hand file. It goes without saying I was really impressed with that. What couldn’t he do ?! The answer to that question was answered on occasion when he wouldn’t come home at the usual time, and we’d worry for hours. Eventually he’d show up around 8 or so, dead drunk and melancholy about every wrong he’d done in his 40 years. He’d lay on the carpet in a puddle of vomit, moaning and crying, “I’m sorry...I’m sorry.” And he really was sorry, I knew it in my childs heart, though I still don’t know what he was sorry about. Maybe it was the drinking he was sorry over; maybe something buried deep inside. Whatever it was, it was wrenching to watch. I remember trying to get him on his feet, my 8 year old arm pulling with all its strength. He would end up sleeping on the floor for the night.
My favorite memories of him were at the beach. He’d take me to Tanners Lake, where the changing room was a sty and smelt of urine. I would wade into the water, gradually adjusting to the cold water. He would climb the dock and dive in, getting it over with. It seems he went through life like that; he would dive in.
My mom told me that when I was 4 or so, I saw my dad standing in the tub, naked, soap thick on his genitallia, and pointedly asked, “Is that a potato ?”
One time I accidentally swallowed a moth and ran home, panic driving my feet. My Mom wanted to take me to the doctor, but he just looked at us and said, “Big deal, he ate some meat, finally.” It was true. I never liked the taste of meat and still don’t. The Doc and my Mom would say I’d have big problems if I didn’t eat my meat. My Father knew better, bless him. He loved to be a kid sometimes. One summer day I entered the porch to see him crouched down with my pea shooter to his lips. With a blast of air he hit me square in the chest, as deadly as an aboriginal. I cried. He was sorry, and put his arm around me. “I’m sorry, Butchy,” he’d say. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, I just...” He almost cried himself, he felt so bad.
As the years went by, he retained his youthful appearance and vigor. I’d make him a bowl of popcorn and he’d rub his hands together in anticipatory pleasure, a big grin on his lined face. I still have a photo of him at my 40th birthday; stuffing his mouth with a piece of cake that would have choked a horse. Looking through the old photos, I see something I missed because of my youth. In every picture, his eyes are exceptionally bright and his face has a shit-eating grin on it, as if he could take on the world....and win. As all people, he saw his share of the darkness of life, but chose to reflect the light instead. We were all shadows to his Sun.
If there was one thing about him that was obnoxious, it was his Copenhagen (snuff) habit. After a meal he’d whip out the can with a flourish, look at us and say, “Now for some dessert.” To knock the tobacco off the lid - and for his amusment - he’d rap on the can 3 times, then once with his elbow, then once more with his knuckles. All in quick succession. My mother and I would exchange looks and wonder about his sense of humor. There was nothing wrong with his humor, it was our problem.
He showed me how to make rockets out of paper matches, the sulpherous smoke filling the kitchen until my Mom cried enough and shooed us out. Watching him eat corn on the cob was nothing less than a tutorial on gluttony. He’d put a pat of butter on, salt the thing, then chomp away down the lenght of the ear. Twice. Then smack his lips and start again. He would drink a malt so fast he’d get a headache. “But it tastes so good...” he would say, contritely whilst holding his head. Then he’d have more. I realize he ate the way he lived.....taking large bites and savoring the flavor. If there was a human that reflected the Green God, he was it.
The last few years of his life he started acting odd, as if the joy of life had left. He wouldn’t read the paper anymore, but he still watched baseball. He started talking less and seemed depressed over something. He never said what it was, but I think he was just tired of this world with it’s bad news. One time he told me to never wish my life away. There was a small faire at the shopping mall and I brought home a bag of hot mini-donuts. I whipped them out expecting to see that “Oh boy, let’s eat” look. He said he wasn’t hungry; maybe later. That’s when I started to worry. From that day on he only got more sick. Maybe a year later, he died from cancer. Earlier I described him as The Green God; the Goddess’s consort. Truely he was the Pagan God, passing away when the Sun was at it’s lowest, close to the Winter Solstice. I wasn’t there when he went and initially I regretted it. I eventually realized that maybe he planned it that way, so I wouldn’t have to carry that image around for the rest of my life. When I see him in my memories, I picture him in his railroad overalls coming home from a hard day working. In that perfect fantasy moment, I am again 8 years old; handing him a cold beer.

Philip Leighton