Smoky Days
Sundays. Waking up and walking into the kitchen. My dad in front of the stove, chomping on a five cent Corona cigar, the long gray ash drooping precariously toward the pot of spaghetti sauce he was stirring. Dad would get up around 4:30 every morning for work. Leave the house by 5:30, home by 4 in the afternoon. He worked in the aerospace industry as a precision machinist. On most Saturdays he'd work half day- till one pm. Sunday mornings it was impossible for him to sleep in. He'd awaken early, dress in work pants and a white t-shirt, pick up a dozen rolls and bagels at the local bakery, then start cooking so that, by the time my sister and I started rustling around the kitchen, he'd already have been awake for about 5 hours. My mom was the coffee drinker. She'd let me have a cup, diluted with milk and sweetened with two spoonfuls of sugar on those Sunday mornings. Dip a buttered roll into the brew.... Nowadays I drink Starbuck's black. Back then it was more like Chase and Sanborn flavored milk.
Nowadays my dad no longer drinks. Nor smokes.
My dad was always the cook in our family, though I can't remember what else he might have made besides our weekly spaghetti sauce. An old family recipe he created from scratch, never measuring. And yet, each week it tasted the same. It must have been the cigar ash, we joked.
My father was not a talker. OK, that's not exactly true. He had no trouble talking to my mother. Or my sister. But to me he always seemed to be at a loss. He'd fall silent. To remedy this, someone came up with the idea that the two of us should take a road trip together. It was probably my mother's suggestion. I don't remember much of the trip. I know we drove up the Pacific coast and visited Hearst Castle. Made it all the way to Sacramento, then back down. I can't tell you about the places we saw, or the meals we had, or anything about the motels we slept in. But I do remember the long excruciating hours of silent travel. No doubt he was as happy as I was to finally get back home.
It was around that same time that we had our father/son chat. About sex. He sat me down on the edge of my bed one late afternoon, sat next to me and turned in, placing one leg on the bed, one down. He hemmed and hawed, then blurted it out. "First of all, a man and a woman are built differently from each other. If they weren't, we'd be in a lot of trouble." For some reason, he thought this observation hilarious. He started laughing and couldn't stop. He left the room and never returned. Such was the extent of my sexual education. Never picked up where we left off. Left to my own devices, fumbling around in the dark.
Years later I was home from college for the summer. I must have been about twenty-one or two so my dad was forty-seven or eight. I had gone out one Saturday night, connecting with old high school friends. When I got back, the house was dark. I could hear my parents talking in their bedroom so I walked down the hall to say good-night. When I got to their bedroom door, my mom was giggling. I said hello and she started to laugh. My dad shouted, "the one night I get lucky and he has to come home early!"
My mom is gone now. Dad has sunk into a depression. His lifelong mate of 58 years. He tried to care for her at home as long as possible but when her Alzheimer's became so bad that she didn't recognize him, screamed at this stranger in her bed, lost most of her bodily functions,my sister and I were pressed into service to have her admitted to the nursing facility. My dad couldn't do it himself. At the beginning he was there twice a day every day, helping her to eat. When even that became too much, my sister and I would alternate evenings at meal times and my dad would go once a day, every day at lunch time. Now he has nothing.
He just turned 88. He works as a crossing guard a half hour each morning and each afternoon. Other than that, he sits in front of his television watching old reruns of Law And Order whenever there is no football or baseball. Oh, and The Price Is Right.
I visit him once a week.
He's still not a talker.
Nowadays my dad no longer drinks. Nor smokes.
My dad was always the cook in our family, though I can't remember what else he might have made besides our weekly spaghetti sauce. An old family recipe he created from scratch, never measuring. And yet, each week it tasted the same. It must have been the cigar ash, we joked.
My father was not a talker. OK, that's not exactly true. He had no trouble talking to my mother. Or my sister. But to me he always seemed to be at a loss. He'd fall silent. To remedy this, someone came up with the idea that the two of us should take a road trip together. It was probably my mother's suggestion. I don't remember much of the trip. I know we drove up the Pacific coast and visited Hearst Castle. Made it all the way to Sacramento, then back down. I can't tell you about the places we saw, or the meals we had, or anything about the motels we slept in. But I do remember the long excruciating hours of silent travel. No doubt he was as happy as I was to finally get back home.
It was around that same time that we had our father/son chat. About sex. He sat me down on the edge of my bed one late afternoon, sat next to me and turned in, placing one leg on the bed, one down. He hemmed and hawed, then blurted it out. "First of all, a man and a woman are built differently from each other. If they weren't, we'd be in a lot of trouble." For some reason, he thought this observation hilarious. He started laughing and couldn't stop. He left the room and never returned. Such was the extent of my sexual education. Never picked up where we left off. Left to my own devices, fumbling around in the dark.
Years later I was home from college for the summer. I must have been about twenty-one or two so my dad was forty-seven or eight. I had gone out one Saturday night, connecting with old high school friends. When I got back, the house was dark. I could hear my parents talking in their bedroom so I walked down the hall to say good-night. When I got to their bedroom door, my mom was giggling. I said hello and she started to laugh. My dad shouted, "the one night I get lucky and he has to come home early!"
My mom is gone now. Dad has sunk into a depression. His lifelong mate of 58 years. He tried to care for her at home as long as possible but when her Alzheimer's became so bad that she didn't recognize him, screamed at this stranger in her bed, lost most of her bodily functions,my sister and I were pressed into service to have her admitted to the nursing facility. My dad couldn't do it himself. At the beginning he was there twice a day every day, helping her to eat. When even that became too much, my sister and I would alternate evenings at meal times and my dad would go once a day, every day at lunch time. Now he has nothing.
He just turned 88. He works as a crossing guard a half hour each morning and each afternoon. Other than that, he sits in front of his television watching old reruns of Law And Order whenever there is no football or baseball. Oh, and The Price Is Right.
I visit him once a week.
He's still not a talker.
Hi, very interesting post, greetings from Greece!
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