[thenightwriterblog] The Night Writer: In My Father's House, Part 1

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Posted by The Night Writer:
In My Father's House, Part 1
http://thenightwriterblog.powerblogs.com/posts/1178144910.shtml


   The day before Father's Day this year I happened to be parked at the
   far pumps at a BP gas station and convenience store in Ottumwa, Iowa,
   filling up. As I squeegeed my windshield I heard a commotion behind me
   and turned to see a large pickup rock to a sudden stop in front of the
   convenience store. It wasn't the sound of the approaching truck that
   had caught my attention, however, but the not-so-muffled shouting
   coming from inside the cab.
   A man was yelling at a boy, waving his arms and perhaps throwing some
   litter around. Outside of several f-bombs it was hard to make out what
   was being said, but it was a one-sided exposition. I casually and
   automatically looked away as the man got out of the truck, continuing
   the barrage. "Happy Father's Day," I thought, as he stalked off into
   the convenience store, my own thoughts suddenly dizzy in my head. A
   couple of minutes later I hung the nozzle back on the pump, and made
   my way toward the store as well. I had to walk in front of the truck
   on my way. Not wanting to embarrass the young man further I glanced
   sideways at him through the windshield and was impressed to see that,
   though tears were rolling down his cheeks, he had his head up. I
   turned my head fully toward him, made eye-contact, and winked.
   I hope what was communicated was encouragement, a friendly contact and
   a silent assurance that things will get better.
   Yeah, I've been there. My own father's temper has been known to be ...
   expressive. I absorbed my share of it growing up, though I can't
   remember now any particular incident or cause, no more than I remember
   a particular thunderstorm. I mean, I know there were thunderstorms
   when I was growing up but I don't remember any specific ones. What
   does come back to me now, however, is a time when I was in second or
   third grade and my dad was trying to get his business launched,
   working long hours away from the house. He must have felt some need to
   spend some time with me, however, and out of the blue one Sunday
   afternoon he took me for a special treat: to play miniature golf. I
   don't remember where my brother and sister were, but I'm sure I was
   delighted that I was the only one to get this attention. The problem
   was, it was an especially hot day and the putt-putt course was laid
   out on what seemed like acres of cement, none of which could have been
   very far from my head given my height then.
   I don't know how long we played, but at some point I started to feel
   dizzy and nauseous. I didn't know heat stroke from heat rash then but
   I was definitely sick and my dad was definitely scared. He got me off
   of the premises, carrying me to his car and laying me down with a wet
   handkerchief on my face. We went home and he put me in front of the
   window a/c unit until I recovered. I'm sure he felt bad that his great
   plan to spend some time with his son had almost ended in disaster; I
   know I did, though for different reasons. I remember the concern on
   his face, however, at a time when I might have expected him to be
   angry.
   Another time when he could have gotten angry and didn't was when I was
   16 or 17 and we were anchoring a mobile home. He was steadying the
   4-foot anchoring rods in their crosspiece while I swung the 8-lb.
   sledge to drive them in. At one point I accidentally clipped the upper
   part of his ear with the handle of the hammer as I repositioned myself
   for another swing. It drew blood but no explosion, though I'm sure he
   didn't like it. (Which also reminds me of a time when we were trying
   to level and anchor a trailer on the side of a steep hill near
   Steelville, Missouri. He wouldn't let me get under the unit as he
   delicately worked with hydraulic jacks, concrete blocks and wooden
   shims along the underframe. Just as he was placing a shim and lightly
   tapping it into place with a hammer a sonic-boom rocked the valley. I
   had heard of greased lightning up until that time, but I had never
   seen it until I saw him crab sideways out from under that trailer!)
   Family lore has it that my father's father was known for a volatile
   temper. I saw a little of it growing up, but other than a couple of
   years when he lived near us I wasn't around him that much. Most of the
   accounts are from stories my uncles would tell at family gatherings.
   Most folks today will accept that a temper can be passed on to each
   generation whether by nature or nurture or a spiritual manifestation.
   Whichever, my father received his inheritance and passed it on. My
   brother and I heat up about as quickly as he did, though expressing it
   is an indulgence that I have tried hard to limit and thankfully
   haven't seen it in my children.
   Anyway, I survived with minimal trauma and with greater memories such
   as the ones I've just described taking precedence. I don't know what
   the future holds for the young man and father I saw in Iowa, but I
   hope the incident was an isolated one that one day will be
   acknowledged yet set aside in favor of ones happier and more
   plentiful, for both their sakes.
   As I entered the store I tried to think of something to say to the
   father; something encouraging, in just a few words, that might give
   him a different perspective. I could come up with nothing in the
   moment and even now, months later, I still can't think of the perfect
   sentence to calm the situation and allay my own fears. My fears were
   not for the future of that family, or that whatever I said might
   provoke an additional outburst. My concern was that in speaking to
   that father I might end up telling him why I was in Iowa that day and
   telling him where I was going and why, and that neither of us would
   want to hear that outloud.
   You see, the reason I was standing in that gas-station was because my
   daughters and I were on our way to Missouri to see my dad as a
   Father's Day surprise. He had been feeling sick for weeks and
   experiencing a lot of back pain. Though we could barely breathe the
   word, our family was concerned that cancer had returned. Thoughts of
   the past and the future had been folding themselves constantly in my
   mind during the drive. If it was cancer, would he need chemo? If he
   needed chemo, would he put himself through that ordeal or -- after
   what had happened to friends of his -- say, "To hell with that"?
   He was surprised and pleased to see us when we got there, twisting
   stiffly in his swivel chair to see what the dog was barking at. He got
   up for hugs all around, his golf shirt stretching a little around the
   bit of gut his cardiologist had been after him to lose. He didn't look
   much different since I had seen him back in [1]December, but I could
   tell he was in pain from a fractured vertebrae and the subsequent bone
   biopsy he'd had the day before. We talked some over the weekend about
   the pain and the possible implications, but tried to keep things light
   and positive. The test results would be back on Tuesday, I was heading
   back on Monday.
   The girls and I stood around him and prayed before we left. He
   acquiesced, but it felt to me as if I was throwing a saddle on a newly
   busted bronco for the first time. I have personally seen and
   experienced great, even miraculous, results from prayer, and have
   prayed many times for people, standing on scripture and faith, the
   words usually come easily as I follow the leading that comes. This was
   harder, though; so much I wanted to pour into it, so little that
   seemed to want to come out. Through the long drive home I took some
   comfort from the knowledge that it is the power in the words, not the
   eloquence that makes the difference. We arrived home Monday night.
   Tuesday brought the word. Lymphoma, stage four. He would start chemo
   on Wednesday, no fuss. "Let's get it done."

References

   1. http://thenightwriterblog.powerblogs.com/posts/1167538953.shtml