Watching Dad

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Abstract

some October fallen leaves, big cotton gloves on large hard hands, gentle hands that stroke a boy’s head and cup his face with affection.</p><p id="c1e7">I catch a glimpse of Dad under the hood of his car tightening, cleaning, checking belts and hoses making sure the oil has the right depth in case we would ask him to take us for a Sunday ride.</p><p id="7f45">I look at Pop squatting in his seersucker pants, summer brown arms bulging from his white undershirt catching my Sunday fast balls, warning me away from curves, pounding that dusty old catcher’s mitt of his, exhorting me to burn it in there.</p><p id="33ad">I see Dad through the fog of anesthetic standing over me, eyes circled in fear, watching me breath, checking my cloudy eyes for life whispering softly, repeatedly, imploringly, dear God dear God dear God.</p><p id="34ae">I watch Dad at the late night kitchen table rubbing his knotted forehead a sheaf of bills before him demanding he pay for his son’s glasses, the fixed refrigerator, his daughter’s wedding gown, doctor bills.</p><p id="6f0d">I see Pop talking, laughing, retelling tales of his children, grandchildren growing up, of him and his bride of 65 years growing along with us. He sits on the back porch watching hummingbirds flit around the feeder, burning time.</p><p id="a351">I sit with Dad after Momma died, him sunken there frail on the eternal back porch, his eyes haunted, defeated. He tells me all his papers are in the hutch

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, asks me if I still have a key to his safe deposit box, says he’s sorry he’s not worth so much now.</p><p id="5b45">I hold my sleeping son’s hand, tracing each finger in awe touching there the past and future of a man; in my daughter’s eyes I view histories coursing the fiber of her soul. And I watch my children grow, seeing them press a path from the measure of my father’s steps.</p><p id="f7d6">Thanks for taking time to read this piece. It’s a little heavier and more sentimental than my usual schtick. I write mostly satire and humor. Here’s a sample, if I’m new to you:</p><div id="1827" class="link-block"> <a href="https://readmedium.com/5-days-in-utopia-d9b46106dd2a"> <div> <div> <h2>5 Days in Utopia</h2> <div><h3>a whole other country</h3></div> <div><p>medium.com</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/1*BuQF4NtUg02NK3nooneHDA.jpeg)"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div><h2 id="e108">Want a free book?</h2><p id="537a">Click the image below to visit my website. When you join my readers group, I will send you a copy of my short story collection, Skins Game.</p><figure id="689e"><img src="https://cdn-images-1.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:800/1*q5Cq_ev_pNUq9nFkIBFnVA.jpeg"><figcaption></figcaption></figure></article></body>

Watching Dad

Tribute to an Honorable Man

Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay

Shortly after my dad died, I wrote these verses. That’s been 26 years ago, almost to the day, two days before Father’s Day. I’m 75-years-old now, well into my own fatherhood and grand fatherhood. I was fortunate to have a dad like Henry. Blessed. I had no greater mentor for life than my dad. He was always there, never faltering in his sacred obligation to be a husband and father. Men like him, who go about their daily lives practicing the values of God, family, and country are who should be role models, not shallow and vain men of celebrity. I wish to pay tribute here to all the good fathers, but especially to this great man; the most honorable, decent, and loving man I’ve ever known. It seems the least I could do.

Henry L. Truman 1909–1994

Even now I often spot Dad standing in the yard hands on his hips, back swayed in that stance of his, like all his boys stand, his eyes bright in the crisp November noon looking over the home he’d agreed to keep.

I see Pop teeth-clinching his pipe, raking some October fallen leaves, big cotton gloves on large hard hands, gentle hands that stroke a boy’s head and cup his face with affection.

I catch a glimpse of Dad under the hood of his car tightening, cleaning, checking belts and hoses making sure the oil has the right depth in case we would ask him to take us for a Sunday ride.

I look at Pop squatting in his seersucker pants, summer brown arms bulging from his white undershirt catching my Sunday fast balls, warning me away from curves, pounding that dusty old catcher’s mitt of his, exhorting me to burn it in there.

I see Dad through the fog of anesthetic standing over me, eyes circled in fear, watching me breath, checking my cloudy eyes for life whispering softly, repeatedly, imploringly, dear God dear God dear God.

I watch Dad at the late night kitchen table rubbing his knotted forehead a sheaf of bills before him demanding he pay for his son’s glasses, the fixed refrigerator, his daughter’s wedding gown, doctor bills.

I see Pop talking, laughing, retelling tales of his children, grandchildren growing up, of him and his bride of 65 years growing along with us. He sits on the back porch watching hummingbirds flit around the feeder, burning time.

I sit with Dad after Momma died, him sunken there frail on the eternal back porch, his eyes haunted, defeated. He tells me all his papers are in the hutch, asks me if I still have a key to his safe deposit box, says he’s sorry he’s not worth so much now.

I hold my sleeping son’s hand, tracing each finger in awe touching there the past and future of a man; in my daughter’s eyes I view histories coursing the fiber of her soul. And I watch my children grow, seeing them press a path from the measure of my father’s steps.

Thanks for taking time to read this piece. It’s a little heavier and more sentimental than my usual schtick. I write mostly satire and humor. Here’s a sample, if I’m new to you: