Today something triggered a synapse in my head and connected
to a memory of my father and events not thought of in years.
I was 16 at the time, a new kid in a new town at a new
school. This move to little Dayton,
Tennessee was just the latest in a life-long (my life, that is) series of moves
to new jobs, better places, different rental houses, fresh starts.
In keeping with the natural condition of 16 year-old boys, I
felt awkward and insecure in my new environment, but I made up for it with a
veneer of indifference and bravado. At
that point I had never heard of the movie, but I was like that Footloose guy, only without the dance
moves or cool hair.
During the first week finding my way through new classes and
faces, I did meet a few promising people, some potential friends. I also met one promising girl, who hinted the
most potential of all. By the time
Friday night rolled around, things were feeling a bit less awkward.
I never really thought of my dad as a sensitive guy, but I
realize now that he must have been very sensitive to what his oldest son was going
through. I realize this now because he
let me take the family car out on that Friday night to cruise the drive-in,
explore the territory and maybe talk to that girl with potential.
In our old town, Dad rarely let me drive the car, much less
go out alone. The four door, robin’s egg
blue Ford Falcon was the only car we had.
I was not insured to drive it. A
night out alone to cruise and listen to rock-n-roll on the AM radio, and maybe
even to invite someone into the passenger seat, was something I had never been
allowed to do.
I realize now the freedom to drive with the windows down and
the music loud on that warm April Friday was like a note from my dad that said,
“I know this isn’t easy. Everything
will be ok.”
And I went to bed that night feeling like everything would
be ok, but early the next morning my dad shook me awake and asked me to come
outside. I put on some jeans and stepped
out to see that all four whitewall tires on the Falcon were flat. You could see clearly where they had been
stabbed with a knife and an ice pick—a two-man job.
“Do you have any idea who did this?” Dad asked. I truly didn’t, but somehow I knew that this
gesture wasn’t some random act or an enemy of Dad’s. I stood there barefoot on my second Saturday
in that strange town bearing the burden that this fresh assault on the family’s
finances was somehow my fault.
I found out many months later that the knife belonged to an
old boyfriend of the girl with potential and the ice pick was one of his friends. I never cared for the knife dude, but ice
picker turned out to be pretty decent guy who eventually told me the whole
story.
The memory of my father that washed over me this morning
was not that he let me borrow the car.
It was that he replaced the tires and never mentioned it again. He knew I felt guilty. He knew it was not my fault. He knew a parental rant and a hundred
questions would not undo the damage.
He let me go back to bed and life go on.
Caring parents do deliberate things to shape the character
and behavior of their children. That’s
good, but parents also need to think about the life-shaping impact of the
things they do not do.
I remember two times when Dad did take action to mold my
character. The first one was when I was
five or six, and I asked Dad to play a game of Candyland with me.
I was very insistent that he play the game with me right
then and that he go first. That was
because I had stacked the cards so I would draw on my first turn the card that
carried me all the way to the Ice Cream Floats, from where I would surely win.
Dad did not view my scheming as the cute, mischievous act of
a lovable little prankster. He took off
his belt and spanked me.
My father had an unforgettable style of rendering corporal punishment. He would hold my arms above my head with one
hand and strike his belt hard on the back of my legs. In truth, if you punished a kid like that today,
you would probably do a perp walk on the 6 o’clock news. My dad wore me out.
And it worked. For
all my life I’ve disdained cheating. I
don’t roll my golf ball to a better lie, even when there are so-called “winter
rules.” I call every foul on myself in
pick-up basketball. I’ll pay the $200
for landing on one of your stupid railroads in Monopoly, even if you don’t
notice I’m there.
My dad beat me like that one other memorable time after he
told me not to ride my friend Mack’s bike to school. Mack left it at our house one day when a
storm blew up and my mom had to drive him home.
I didn’t have a bike of my own and Mack said I could ride it. I was 12.
Dad told me not to take the bike out of the driveway, and I
said I would not. But I waited until he
and my mom went to work. Then I peddled
out of the driveway and down the country road for about two miles to school,
where I put Mack’s bike in the long silver bike rack beside all the other
Schwinns I coveted so.
My little rebellion did not stay secret long. Dad and mom stopped by a friend’s house on
the way home, and the friend’s children asked them why I was not on the bus
that morning. The whipping was
legendary.
The lesson was delivered, though. I can’t say I’ve never told a lie since that
day, but duplicity comes hard. I know
there is a heavy price to pay for every careless word.
But it is the things my dad did not do that I celebrate
today. I learned important lessons from
those too.
Recalling the blue Falcon connects me to another story and
another Friday night. I was out with a
girl of genuine potential, who would one day promise to have me and hold me
through sickness and health, for richer or poorer.
That Friday night we were rich in stars and kisses as we
parked overlooking a lake at the end of a long dirt road.
I had spotted and avoided the mud hole on the way in, but on
the way out I drove right into it. With
a gurgle and a hiss the Falcon sank like Elisha’s axe head. A half hour of gunning, spinning, rocking,
praying and pleading produced no miracle.
We were stuck.
By the time we climbed out the windows of the car, jumped
from the hood to dry land, walked the long dirt road, found a house with a light
on, used a phone and convinced a friend to provide a ride home, it was 3:30 in
the morning.
In the pre-dawn Saturday hours I shook Dad awake and told
him what happened. I told him where the
car could be found and that I was sorry.
I told him I would pay for the tow and the clean up and whatever else
might be wrong. Then I went to bed.
When I woke up the car was home. It was washed. It ran fine.
And Dad never mentioned it again.
Those silent lessons guided me when my own children came
along and grew old enough to venture out and make their own mistakes and
messes. Sometimes we show the most love
when we do nothing at all.
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