I always talk about my mama, but I so rarely mention my dad. He's simple, but I don't mean stupid. I just mean he'd probably connect with most Bruce Springsteen songs, and when I asked him what he wanted for christmas this year, he replied: “a shoebox full of hunnert doller bills. I dunno kid, I have everything. but I found what we can get your momma. maybe a battery powered floor sweeper and/or some one piece pajammas. I saw some advertised on tv.”
When people ask his name, he says, "Doug - like you dug a hole yesterdie," and he's a firm believer in small government and getting in and out of stores as quickly as possible.
He really loves music, too. A few years ago he taught himself how to play guitar using online videos and whatever lessons we could afford. Now he has a collection of guitars and plays music in his garage with our poker-loving neighbors every weekend.
He hates pop and loves bluegrass, but he likes music fast. He doesn't want the banjos and guitars to melt together like two people melodramatically making love; he likes their sounds to leap through the air together like two frantic, happy deers in the wilderness. You can tell when he loves a song because he closes his eyes, takes a sip of beer, and sits relaxed with his elbows on his knees.
Growing up I hated bluegrass music. I thought it was for old people. But now, the very sound of it, especially the first few seconds of every song, is comforting. What's safer than music you heard in your daddy's garage when you'd spend the evening listening to the radio, making fun of the voices singers used? Sometimes we'd dance along as well, going in circles and slapping our knees. I'd have to make sure not to step on his tools or kick over his beer.
It went like this: a mixture of a lady singing "don't let your deal go down, go down," my dad's laughter as we mocked the singers' voices, the sound of people clogging in the background, the smell of my daddy's beer, the feeling of summer air at night, and the shadows of moths and nats dancing in the lights. As John Steinbeck says in East of Eden, "the memory of odors is very rich." My dad's garage always smelled like cut grass, rust, dust, gasoline, old tools, and the thousands of tiny bolts and nails he keeps in boxes for work and stray projects.
My dad's certainly not a shallow man, and I know his soul contains multitudes I'll likely never know. Stories about the war he was in, about what it was like to be a biker, how he felt when his parents died. Over fifty years worth of stories, and only a few have surfaced. I'm okay with never knowing, and I like to think he's okay with never telling. The times I've experienced his gentle spirit have been concise and sincere - "I'm proud of you, kid," "If there is a Heaven, I know nanny's in it," and "you need to do more around here to help your mama."
It's shown in actions, too, like all the times he's changed the station when songs about fathers came on the radio. All the times he's let me win our political debates. All the times he's picked me up from parties and skating rinks. All the times he's held his anger in when I've almost wrecked his car or made messes in the house.
We keep a safe distance from each other. We're never sentimental without our affections taking the form of subtleties, and it always seems right that way. If he had to pick a lyric to describe his life, it'd probably be something like the lines from Bruce Springsteen's The River - "I got a job working construction for the Johnstown Company, but lately there ain't been much work on account of the economy."
He's just Doug, like you dug a hole yesterdie. He comes home with smashed fingers from work; once he caught his pants on fire and fell off a roof; and he's spent weeks full of late nights re-building Hardee's restaurants so my family will be able to eat every night. He's just my dad, and I really wouldn't have him any other way. Balding head, strange political views, and all.
