When I was 15, my father cut his own thumb mostly off. He was putting incredibly tasteful wood paneling, in a diagonal pattern, on my bedroom wall. He slipped while cutting the paneling and nearly severed his thumb with an Exacto knife. I wasn't home, but my stepmother, brother and step siblings were. In total, there were four people, other than the man in question, who could have taken my dad to the hospital. He asked for a towel, wrapped his dangling thumb in it, and drove 10 miles to the local E.R. for treatment. This is my father. He's not one of those weird medical miracles who doesn't feel pain, he just doesn't want anyone's help when he does. And, while he was no monster of a parent, he naturally expected my brother and me to not bother him with trivialities like severe poison oak, burns, ingrown toenails so infected that I couldn't wear shoes, etc. That pissed me off as I child. I had friends whose parents would take them to the doctor for a cough and I sat at home for a whole day with a broken collar bone to see if it got better--it didn't.
My dad could pick my brother and me up at the same time, one in each arm, when we were in high school, all of his 5'8" bulging and reddening. He had a temper and was prone to threatening us that he would, "knock our heads through a goddamn wall". To his credit, he never did. He thumped us and smacked our heads on occasion and that was enough. He was less tame in dealing with others. As a kid, I never saw my dad take any amount of shit from anyone. Scratch that; I have yet to see it. About 10 years ago, after my first son was born, my 60 year old father chased one of his neighbors down the street for questioning the legality of our fireworks display. In short, he is not to be fucked with, but he will never go out of his way to fuck with you.
On the contrary, he is one of the most likable people anyone would ever meet. He has always been generous to a fault, incredibly funny and truly tolerant (if we leave off politics). I never left my house without money in my pocket when I lived with my dad, either because he gave it to me or because he never busted us for stealing his change out of the chicken bank on his dresser. My father was loving too. He was a traveling appliance salesman, so he was gone much of the time. Still, he would find a way to show up to baseball games, band concerts, etc. Once, when I was in Santa Barbara, an hour from where I grew up, attending summer camp and staying with my Grandmother, my dad showed up. He was coming back from Santa Maria on a trip and he found where I was. This was in the time before cell phones, so I know it was no small feat for him to find me, sitting with my friends at West Beach, eating lunch at camp. My dad came walking across the field in his suit and my heart leapt. I knew he didn't need to be there, he just wanted to see me. I was 10 years old at the time and I still see him, his 1978 white afro, his three piece brown suit with an open collar exposing a gold coin medallion necklace--he was cool and at the height of his "disco" Mike phase.
Now that he's getting older, my dad has slowed down. He lives in Denver and doesn't come out. A few years ago, he had a heart attack. Naturally, he refused to call an ambulance and drove himself to the hospital, or should I say two hospitals. The first one had no emergency room, so he drove to another one that did have an E.R., but no free parking. Needless to say, he drove a block away, parked the car and staggered into the lobby where a flabbergasted doctor said, "You're having a heart attack" to which my father replied, "I know." Some things never change.
My brother and I are going to see him in a week or two and I'm excited. We're taking him to the Raider-v-Bronco game. My brother and dad haven't seen each other for a year or two, so it will be good. For my part, I'm going because of that day in Santa Barbara, because he showed up to my public defense of my dissertation, because he called me twice on Sunday to rub in the fact that he was killing me in our fantasy football league, because I love you, Dad.
My dad could pick my brother and me up at the same time, one in each arm, when we were in high school, all of his 5'8" bulging and reddening. He had a temper and was prone to threatening us that he would, "knock our heads through a goddamn wall". To his credit, he never did. He thumped us and smacked our heads on occasion and that was enough. He was less tame in dealing with others. As a kid, I never saw my dad take any amount of shit from anyone. Scratch that; I have yet to see it. About 10 years ago, after my first son was born, my 60 year old father chased one of his neighbors down the street for questioning the legality of our fireworks display. In short, he is not to be fucked with, but he will never go out of his way to fuck with you.
On the contrary, he is one of the most likable people anyone would ever meet. He has always been generous to a fault, incredibly funny and truly tolerant (if we leave off politics). I never left my house without money in my pocket when I lived with my dad, either because he gave it to me or because he never busted us for stealing his change out of the chicken bank on his dresser. My father was loving too. He was a traveling appliance salesman, so he was gone much of the time. Still, he would find a way to show up to baseball games, band concerts, etc. Once, when I was in Santa Barbara, an hour from where I grew up, attending summer camp and staying with my Grandmother, my dad showed up. He was coming back from Santa Maria on a trip and he found where I was. This was in the time before cell phones, so I know it was no small feat for him to find me, sitting with my friends at West Beach, eating lunch at camp. My dad came walking across the field in his suit and my heart leapt. I knew he didn't need to be there, he just wanted to see me. I was 10 years old at the time and I still see him, his 1978 white afro, his three piece brown suit with an open collar exposing a gold coin medallion necklace--he was cool and at the height of his "disco" Mike phase.
Now that he's getting older, my dad has slowed down. He lives in Denver and doesn't come out. A few years ago, he had a heart attack. Naturally, he refused to call an ambulance and drove himself to the hospital, or should I say two hospitals. The first one had no emergency room, so he drove to another one that did have an E.R., but no free parking. Needless to say, he drove a block away, parked the car and staggered into the lobby where a flabbergasted doctor said, "You're having a heart attack" to which my father replied, "I know." Some things never change.
My brother and I are going to see him in a week or two and I'm excited. We're taking him to the Raider-v-Bronco game. My brother and dad haven't seen each other for a year or two, so it will be good. For my part, I'm going because of that day in Santa Barbara, because he showed up to my public defense of my dissertation, because he called me twice on Sunday to rub in the fact that he was killing me in our fantasy football league, because I love you, Dad.
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