Dad
In my mind, I see him still. He’s sitting on a turned over bushel basket. His work boots, caked with mud, look like candidates for an antique collection and his clothing is classic khaki – Sears’ workpants and –shirt, likewise caked with mud. Friends called him “Professor” but he was an unlikely looking one at best. One arm is folded across his chest and the other reaches up to scratch a patch of unruly white hair curling over one ear. He’s smiling and looking off into the distance, his electric blue eyes focused anywhere but on my face. He chooses his words so very carefully, but each one is just right.
He was never one to waste words. Praise was never easily forthcoming. He knew we were smart enough to know when we did a good job. Sitting on that bushel basket, he spoke neither of personal matters, nor of the great (and small) historical events of the day.
“Consider the lilies of the field. They toil not, neither do they reap….”, , “Drink a glass of water and go back to bed”, “Gee, Susan, that outfit matches your teeth”(his version of a compliment), “Guillaume de Machaut – one of my favorite composers of all time”, “Ace 55 VF – a great tomato” Truthfully, I cannot recall many more statements from this quiet but so powerful man. He never spoke of intrigues and office politics, never spoke ill of his neighbors, never expounded on his own achievements. But when he spoke, he meant it. And when he voiced an opinion, it was embedded in the cement of logical thought. Sitting on that basket that day, his words were “You are your brother’s keeper”. He was explaining why he was spending so much of his time in retirement growing vegetables for the Connecticut Food Bank. This was a man whose words followed his actions.
He had worked for over 35 years for the same company. Without complaint, he got up every morning to go to work, sometimes heading out at 4 or 5 a.m. And I don’t remember him complaining when he got home, regardless of whether it was in time for cocktails or days later after a grueling trip halfway around the country. He almost never spoke of work, unless asked, and even then didn’t elaborate. He loved so many parts of his job, but didn’t assume it was of interest to others. I loved asking him about his business trips – the farmers he spoke with, the casual conversations with the waitress at breakfast, the pictures he took for the seed catalogs, the exposure to so many different cultures in so many states.
There were two best times to listen: out in the garden and just before heading to bed. The garden brought out everything good in him. It taught him patience and understanding. It gave him an outlet to vent frustrations and swear with all the color of a Maine lobsterman. The garden gave him a purpose in life. His soul was that garden. So it was that out in the garden, we could ask him for advice, get him to talk about his own childhood, or even just listen to his version of small talk – a minutely detailed discussion of the various positive and negative attributes of a pantheon of vegetable varieties. This was our “hang time” and when I was finally old enough to understand his connection to the garden, I treasured that time, despite the heat, sweat, and aching back. And he treasured that time, regardless of weather’s whims or the increasing infirmities of crippling arthritis.
The scene has changed. Still in his khaki work outfit, he is now sitting at the head of the table in the kitchen. Despite a lifetime of getting up early to go to school or work, he was a true night owl. So many times the lights in the kitchen didn’t go out until 2 or 3 in the morning. It was quieter at night. Perhaps the electric typewriter was humming (waiting for him to finally finish the hated expense reports…), the sound on the small t.v. turned down low enough for canned laughter to be muted, the classical radio station a faint hum in the background, and just maybe, there was the hiss of the pressure cooker as it gathered steam in the seemingly unending canning projects. Everyone was in bed. This was the time for laughing together at whatever Johnny Carson said in his monologue, or for asking for advice “what college should I go to?” “Why is it that X bothers me so much?” This is when he spoke of the lilies of the field. Don’t worry about getting ahead in the world. Follow your passion. Such was his advice in the wee hours of the morning.
Father’s Day is approaching and he has been gone for 7 years now. But the images of him are unchanged in their clarity. And his words are emblazoned on my soul. And his commitment to persevere in a life not always kind to dreamers has become my daily mantra.
Happy Father’s Day, Dad.
