List 100 things I remember about my dad

Squirrella’s entry reminded me of this…I meant to post it earlier, but forgot until just now.

My dad (and eventually Mom, but I have to think – knowing Dad – that this was his idea) had one answer to anything I considered too gross to eat: “Well, it’s just too good for kids.” I was no dummy…this never, ever worked on me. We joke about it now, particularly in the context of healthy crap I eat that Dad wouldn’t touch with a 10-foot pole.

A few weeks ago, R and I were making fried rice, and I decided to warm up some peas to mix in with mine. (He hates peas, so I always cook them separately.) He made some comment about my yucky peas, and I told him they were too good for him. As the rice finished cooking, he told me I could mix the peas in. “But you hate peas,” I said. “Eh, it’s okay. They’re good for me.”

It worked.

Dad laughed so hard when I told him.

Ever since his semi-retirement (he’s refusing to admit he’s done yet; just riding out his unemployment), I’ve called my dad twice each weekday: once on the way home for lunch, and once on the way home from work. We only have 5 minutes to talk (except on allergy shot day, when we have the 20 minutes it takes me to get to the allergist), and we mostly talk about my day – I try to ask about him, but he always steers the conversation back to me.

The other day, he was out when I called him in the afternoon. He called me later that evening, but I was worn out from work and my workout and didn’t have much to say. He compared it to when I was a kid and he’d fall asleep while I was talking about my day. “I’d always try to talk to you later,” he said, “but you never wanted to talk then.”

I remember. I was tired by the time he was ready to talk. How little things change.

He’s always kicked himself for falling asleep, though. Usually to the tune of “Cat’s in the Cradle.” But what I remember is that he always asked me how my day was, even when he was too tired to keep his eyes open.

These days, he’s often the only person to ask me that.

Alright, don’t be too hard on him for this one…

Somehow, we ended up with some homing pigeons. Dad was an animal lover, and someone was giving them away, and dad figured pigeons would be pretty easy to take care of, since they feed themselves and all, so…there we were with a couple of pigeons. Which quickly turned into a lot more pigeons, nesting in the rafters of the house and covering everything around with their droppings. I kid you not: to get rid of them, dad gave them to someone who was traveling out of state, and when the guy released them, they flew back to us. Yeah, I know, they were homing pigeons, it shouldn’t have surprised us, but it did. So dad gives me the stare that means he’s pondering what to do. He says “Alright, you’re not going to like this, but I need your help.” He makes me hold the little pigeons down on a stump, and he chops off their heads. I forget how many pigeons died. I only remember gently cupping my hands over their warm feathers. They knew me and trusted me, so they didn’t fight as I held them there. I don’t remember blood or noise – I must not have looked. I wouldn’t be surprised if we cooked and ate them, but I don’t remember that either. I’m sorry, pigeons.

I hung out with my dad a lot. Often I was bored, but I didn’t complain – boredom is a kid’s lot in life sometimes. For some reason I vividly remember a boring incident, an average day. Slightly chilly, we’re wearing light coats that make a lot of noise. We go to Wendy’s for lunch, and dad orders chili for each of us, and extolls its virtues as we wait for it to cool off a bit. He says it’s hot, of course, which is nice on a day like that one. It’s pretty cheap, filling, has some meat in it, and the beans, which are good for you. I picture smaller me nodding, absorbing this info, blowing on my spoon. When I eat chili at Wendy’s now, of course I think of him, picture him sitting across from me going to town on the saltine crackers.

When I was really small and didn’t want to go to bed, dad would start fake yawning and going on about how he was going to go get in Julie’s warm, soft, comfy bed, and when he would get up and move toward my room I would jump up and run to beat him there. Of course, eventually I got wise to his scheme and said “Fine, go ahead, I’ll stay here and watch t.v. with mommy.” :)

Parents often try to get kids to try new foods for their health. Dad would try to get me to eat things that he KNEW were gross and awful, for his entertainment. :) Like boiled okra. It is slimy, gooey, snot-looking stuff. Or an unripe persimmon, which is extraordinarily puckery, like when a cartoon character used to consume “alum”. He would eat it first, whatever the awful thing was, and go “MMMMMM boy this is good, wow, I hope I don’t have to share it with Julie” and I would want it, of course, and he would die laughing at the faces I’d make once I realized what was up. Ah, dad. :)

Dad used to talk about retiring and living on his little chunk of land in Campbell, Missouri. We suffered pretty hard, economically, during most of my childhood, but dad refused to sell “the land”. It was all he had left of his parents, his home, his youth. We would visit sometimes, and walk around, and he would dream, and try to show me with words and hand signals what was in his head. He did eventually retire there, and there he died. My brother and I decided to sell it, because we couldn’t pay for the funeral otherwise, but we kept a tiny chunk, an acre, because the man who bought the property is generous and offered it to us. I can still go there and walk around, skip rocks off the water in the quarry, remember the man who taught me so much. The sale of the property not only allowed me to pay for the funeral, but is helping me follow my own destiny. My father is still helping me…and I think he’d be proud of the decisions I’ve made lately. I’m taking his advice to heart, and being an adventurous spirit, bold and wild and true. I really miss him. He was so hardworking and honest, so full of mischief and raw intelligence. Why do people have to get old?

:)

I didn’t mind. I wasn’t particularly interested in the guy, but I was a freshman and all excited about being asked to prom. The guy worked at Walgreens so my dad and/or I ran into him there pretty often, and dad called him Fat Fingers. (His name was Greg.) Greg did, in fact, have fat fingers. Dad didn’t call him that to his face, of course. We did not have a super time at prom, but it was an experience. Thanks, Greg.

Yeah…I honestly can’t remember if it was mom or dad that started using it or used it more often, but they called me Sugar-booger. :) I don’t know why, probably just because it was silly. Can’t remember if I liked it or not then, but now I grin when I think of it. My granddad also called me his doll, which I liked.

and I don’t know why. Another family member maybe? Grandma or Grandpa or both just liked the name?