It's really amazing that he didn't croak me. God knows I was an idiot kid; my brother not much better.
The older I get and the longer he has been gone the more I remember my dad. It HAS to be one of the toughest jobs--raising sons. Daughters cut you some father slack, probably because they are smarter than you from the day the stork drops them. No doubt moms and daughters provide the only buffer between men and their own dysfunction and destruction. Given enough unsupervised time, we males would turn the whole damn place into a gaseous cloud in about fifteen minutes, and no I am not talking about that unfortunate extra spicy bean dip on the Fourth of July 1996. Give us enough alcohol and a moderate amount of explosives and we're a lock to start World War III. Testosterone poisoning is a terrible thing to waste.
Sometimes it is overwhelming. I recall misadventures from grade school through high school that would have had most dads booking a reform school reservation. There was the incident with the saw and my parents bedroom furniture, also taking the car for a spin when I was eight or nine, and the famous 1958 or '59 caper resulting in multiple broken windows for a neighborhood building. I blame the latter on bad companions, (Phil Brown), and a sugar buzz. In junior high and high school most infractions were tobacco and booze related. I watched my dad's hair turn gray with each offense. He was cursed.
Dad traveled for a living. Every year he put thousands of miles on his car as he peddled farm loans for Prudential around the upper Midwest. Cars were important to him. He traded most every year and not just because he wore them out. He loved new cars with lots of gadgets. Never able to justify a convertible in a section of the country where Summer lasted just three quick months, he did the next best thing by always having a very sporty hardtop with the biggest engine and often in a cool color.
Like all boys I counted the days until my sixteenth birthday and MY DRIVER'S LICENSE. I studied for the written test and had practiced the dreaded parallel parking part of the test many times in our driveway. When March 16, 1964 dawned I was ready. School lasted forever that day; I couldn't wait for it to be over so that I could get to the Iowa Highway Patrol office to take the test for my license. Naturally, having all but memorized the answers to the test, I aced it. I even impressed the trooper who administered the driving portion of this very big deal. I was pure gold. Look out adult world here I come!
When I got home I asked dad if I could borrow his car for a date I had already set up for that night. (Talk about confidence.) I had expected him to reject the request and offer mom's old 54' Buick as the perfect set of wheels for my first solo ride. He surprised me and said it would be okay to take his new car. I couldn't believe it. Wow! I had a date with Debbie, a redhead who still had that "new" girlfriend patina, and I had a car worthy of a profile in Esquire magazine. I was a young man on a mission.
The evening started out just fine. I drove to Debbie's house, made nice with her parents, opened her door like a gentleman and then promptly backed dad's car into a truck parked across the street. First driver's license, dad's new car, first accident-- all in one day. I was making real headway in grown-up land. Surprisingly enough, I did the right thing and called home to report my driving screw up. Dad told me to get all the pertinent information from the truck owner and to give him our insurance information and that we would "talk" when I got home.
Debbie and I went to the drive-in where we, as was the custom, never watched a minute of the movie. (I have vivid memories of the soundtrack of several 1960's era movies, but no recollection of having seen any of them.) We made out like I was going to "the chair". That part of the evening I would rate as very satisfactory. When the date ended and I headed home to what I was sure would be my sudden death I reflected on my life and decided it had been good even if it was to be short. Dad was waiting for me when I slipped in the side door. He seemed calm as we inspected the damage to his newly crumpled right rear quarter panel. We discussed his conversation with the owner of the truck and he told me that they had agreed to settle the damages without getting the insurance company involved. He had already figured out how much per month I was going to pay him back from my part-time job at Swanson's Super Store and--- that was it. No yelling, no "I told you to be careful", no "you'll never drive my car again", no NOTHING. I was relieved and wary at the same time, but nothing more happened. Perhaps he had lost his fastball? Or, just maybe he thought that cracking up your old man's car on the first day you got your license was punishment enough. I'll never know, but boy did I appreciate it. It is one of the many things I should have asked him before he shuffled off the planet sixteen years ago last month. We were finally able to talk to each other like a couple of adults there toward the end. For that I am grateful.
Somebody, I can't remember who, said, "A father is someone who carries pictures in his wallet where his money used to be." My hope is that wherever he is dad has a couple of pictures of my brother and me---right behind the shot of that beautiful new, but slightly dented, red Buick with the Wildcat engine.
It really was a sweet ride.
The older I get and the longer he has been gone the more I remember my dad. It HAS to be one of the toughest jobs--raising sons. Daughters cut you some father slack, probably because they are smarter than you from the day the stork drops them. No doubt moms and daughters provide the only buffer between men and their own dysfunction and destruction. Given enough unsupervised time, we males would turn the whole damn place into a gaseous cloud in about fifteen minutes, and no I am not talking about that unfortunate extra spicy bean dip on the Fourth of July 1996. Give us enough alcohol and a moderate amount of explosives and we're a lock to start World War III. Testosterone poisoning is a terrible thing to waste.
Sometimes it is overwhelming. I recall misadventures from grade school through high school that would have had most dads booking a reform school reservation. There was the incident with the saw and my parents bedroom furniture, also taking the car for a spin when I was eight or nine, and the famous 1958 or '59 caper resulting in multiple broken windows for a neighborhood building. I blame the latter on bad companions, (Phil Brown), and a sugar buzz. In junior high and high school most infractions were tobacco and booze related. I watched my dad's hair turn gray with each offense. He was cursed.
Dad traveled for a living. Every year he put thousands of miles on his car as he peddled farm loans for Prudential around the upper Midwest. Cars were important to him. He traded most every year and not just because he wore them out. He loved new cars with lots of gadgets. Never able to justify a convertible in a section of the country where Summer lasted just three quick months, he did the next best thing by always having a very sporty hardtop with the biggest engine and often in a cool color.
Like all boys I counted the days until my sixteenth birthday and MY DRIVER'S LICENSE. I studied for the written test and had practiced the dreaded parallel parking part of the test many times in our driveway. When March 16, 1964 dawned I was ready. School lasted forever that day; I couldn't wait for it to be over so that I could get to the Iowa Highway Patrol office to take the test for my license. Naturally, having all but memorized the answers to the test, I aced it. I even impressed the trooper who administered the driving portion of this very big deal. I was pure gold. Look out adult world here I come!
When I got home I asked dad if I could borrow his car for a date I had already set up for that night. (Talk about confidence.) I had expected him to reject the request and offer mom's old 54' Buick as the perfect set of wheels for my first solo ride. He surprised me and said it would be okay to take his new car. I couldn't believe it. Wow! I had a date with Debbie, a redhead who still had that "new" girlfriend patina, and I had a car worthy of a profile in Esquire magazine. I was a young man on a mission.
The evening started out just fine. I drove to Debbie's house, made nice with her parents, opened her door like a gentleman and then promptly backed dad's car into a truck parked across the street. First driver's license, dad's new car, first accident-- all in one day. I was making real headway in grown-up land. Surprisingly enough, I did the right thing and called home to report my driving screw up. Dad told me to get all the pertinent information from the truck owner and to give him our insurance information and that we would "talk" when I got home.
Debbie and I went to the drive-in where we, as was the custom, never watched a minute of the movie. (I have vivid memories of the soundtrack of several 1960's era movies, but no recollection of having seen any of them.) We made out like I was going to "the chair". That part of the evening I would rate as very satisfactory. When the date ended and I headed home to what I was sure would be my sudden death I reflected on my life and decided it had been good even if it was to be short. Dad was waiting for me when I slipped in the side door. He seemed calm as we inspected the damage to his newly crumpled right rear quarter panel. We discussed his conversation with the owner of the truck and he told me that they had agreed to settle the damages without getting the insurance company involved. He had already figured out how much per month I was going to pay him back from my part-time job at Swanson's Super Store and--- that was it. No yelling, no "I told you to be careful", no "you'll never drive my car again", no NOTHING. I was relieved and wary at the same time, but nothing more happened. Perhaps he had lost his fastball? Or, just maybe he thought that cracking up your old man's car on the first day you got your license was punishment enough. I'll never know, but boy did I appreciate it. It is one of the many things I should have asked him before he shuffled off the planet sixteen years ago last month. We were finally able to talk to each other like a couple of adults there toward the end. For that I am grateful.
Somebody, I can't remember who, said, "A father is someone who carries pictures in his wallet where his money used to be." My hope is that wherever he is dad has a couple of pictures of my brother and me---right behind the shot of that beautiful new, but slightly dented, red Buick with the Wildcat engine.
It really was a sweet ride.
1 comment:
Ken: for some reason I am thinking you had another misadventure at your house on Race Street . . . wasn't there an event regarding a painted porch from which you escaped punishment? BTW . . Phil became a very respected State of Michigan Attorney. Hope all is well.
Lon C.
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