Inadequate words, scraps of memories, images…
After a pause, a bigger boy — a teenager — appears. On his head is a ridiculous bolero hat, on his upper body a flashy silk shirt, on his upper lip a patently false pencil-thin mustache; tucked into the hat is what seems to be a bushel of thick black hair. He’s leaning over, striking a would-be “artistic” pose, something he picked up from dancing school, and he’s grinning — grinning, crookedly, for all he’s worth.
The older boy executes a sweeping bow, almost a curtsy, and sashays back into the trees…
I don’t have real pictures of my Dad to correspond to all these memories. But if I could keep only one of the real ones, I know which it would be: any of three or four taken at about the mid-point of his life. He’s got a Budweiser in one hand and a cigarette (a Tareyton: he hadn’t switched yet) in the other… He’s grinning, of course, and why not? His life is in place: he’s happily married, all four of us kids are on the scene, we’re living in the first and only house he and Mom would ever own or ever need.
Dad could be a lively conversationalist. When he talked, I loved his facial expressions, especially: the goggle eyes and slackened jaw of bogus shock; the steep, steep, steeply-angled furrows of his brow (we joked he could hold pencils there) that seemed to say, “What in the hell are you talking about?!?”; the fake teeth-gnashing as he pretended to bite his tongue at someone else’s idiotic remark that he’d only get in trouble for responding to… Dad was, in short, a great mugger.
…when Dad wanted you to pass him something, he’d just sort of look in its direction until someone finally asked, “Is this what you want?” (Our first guess was invariably wrong, and then he would say, all exasperation, “No, the salt!” or whatever. Few things annoyed him more profoundly than our failure to know when he wanted the salt.) …I hope we passed him whatever it was he wanted this time, although now (of course) we’ll never know for sure.
One of these years, I may get through an entire June 4th without thinking there’s anything special about the day — even without feeling foolish or sentimental otherwise. I will say, though, that over the years the fact or manner of his death seems ever less significant: we all die, after all, and the varieties of death are countless. But the fact that he lived, and how he dealt with it all (or didn’t) — yes, that. That.
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Quotations in this post come from an unpublished essay,
“Crossing the Line,” first written in 1989 or 1990.
cynth says
Thanks, John. I knew you would write, as did I. How did it get to be 25 years? I feel it more than anything today of all days.
John says
Lovely piece over at your site, cynth. Thanks.
I almost did not post this, finally threw caution to the winds. It feels important not to get all mopey, and I don’t. But I do miss him. Eerie how easily I can summon up in my mind’s eye his voice, the feel of his unshaven cheek, the tobacco (cig or pipe) aroma, and his customary postures (including the ones when he wasn’t really conscious of being observed — like when he was absorbed in a TV show, or working a crossword puzzle).
Speaking of crossword puzzles, I recently came across what must’ve been his last book of them. It’s not complete, of course. But there’s that familiar inked block lettering he used… The capital Es really jumped out at me.
s.o.m.e. one's brudder says
Weirdly, I thought it was 25 last year. It fades, and yet some parts still stick. Thanks for posting the pix, as I have a real dearth of good pix of him and often wish that I could still see any of those “mugs”. I know we all will always miss him. I know that we all go. I just wish that he hadn’t left so soon.
s.o.m.e. one's brudder says
that would of course be: “wish that I could still SEE any of those “mugs”.
John says
Fixed the typo for ya. :)
I’ve got a photo album which is a gold mine for old pix of him, Bob, Marion, Pop (and some of me, age between 0 and 1)… It used to be Nan’s. The thing is, the glue used back then is like Krazy Glue or something. I’d really need to (a) remove the pages from the album (they’re fastened with a cord), (b) scan entire pages, and (c) photo-edit the scanned pages down to individual images. (Also (d) reinsert all the pages back into the album for safekeeping.)
(I don’t think any of these three photos came from that album, even the one in dancing duds.)
But boy, it’d be worth it. “My Buddy, 3 months.” “Johnny’s [i.e. Bud’s] first car.” “Bachelor Eddie [i.e. Pop].” “Grandma Simpson [i.e. Pop’s mother].” Etc.
whaddayamean says
what great pictures.
John says
Mr. Personality, he could certainly be!
I don’t remember seeing any of his dancing-school photos — in most (all?) of which he was costumed something like this — until after he’d died. He always seemed like such a “guy’s guy” to me; I’ve wondered if he’d prefer those pix to remain under wraps…
Jayne says
That. Yes. Beautiful, John.