My Dad

My dad’s played a major role in my thoughts lately, in part because he is scheduled for back surgery on Wednesday (and I won’t be there) and in part because with the start of school I am trying to organize my family of five into a relaxed but efficient routine. Three children overwhelm me most times so I occasionally revisit my memories of Dad’s overwhelmed moments. These moments, while rare, demonstrate a human vulnerability that even the most easy going, worry-free, big hearted man can succumb to now and again. To give credit where it’s due, Dad’s moments often came on days when he worked from mid-night until eight in the morning and had to deal with six kids on very little sleep. My moments just come.

Dad liked to declassify himself from the family when things aggravated him when I was a kid. “You people,” he began, referring to all of his children but creating a wide berth between himself and his offspring, “live like pigs. You people are going to clean this house now.” I really disliked being referred to in such a manner but now I love using it.

“I don’t know who you people think is going to pick up your dirty dishes off of the table,” I say to my own children. The reference reinforces the strangers that sometimes replace my typically considerate, well-mannered children. And it’s difficult for a nine year old to quickly respond with a biting remark of her own. I remember.

According to Dad, we were the most energy-sucking, wasteful consumers on the planet. Like most children we enjoyed air-conditioning the neighborhood, leaving lights on just for the aggravation factor and purposefully depleting the water heater of hot water just to watch the electric meter spin as it heated more. Dad demonstrated with his thumb and forefinger (almost touching) the appropriate amount of water required for a bath.

“Yeah, if we displaced as much water in the tub as you do we wouldn’t use much water either,” we’d snicker. He showed no amusement and continued with his pursuits to keep us in check.

He made up for the water usage when he chose to do laundry. Mounds of dirty laundry accumulate quickly in a large family (and in an average family, I’ve learned) and Dad washed clothes in giant, unsorted batches. Dad washed but didn’t fold and after a long day at school and a hot walk from the bus stop Dad invited us to a clothes folding party. These solemn occasions included gathering your clothes from a huge mountain of washed garments and hoping that at least one of your school blouses or pairs of socks wasn’t a new shade of pink but remained white.

Dad cooked, too, in his larger than life manner. He knew how to make a good chicken andouille gumbo and served it with a warm, onion-filled German potato salad. When pressed for time Dad would quarter an onion and bell pepper with some ground meat, put it in the oven and call it a meatloaf. He turned a bunch of uneaten, over-ripe bananas into a mega dessert that, if enough willing people could be gathered to eat rotten bananas with vanilla wafers and vanilla pudding, would serve 50.

My parental skills in homework assistance will soon be tested by my middle schooler. Again I look into my past. Unfortunately for Dad, none of his children showed any real proficiency in math. A natural talent in all forms of mathematics Dad could not reduce concepts to a level that I could understand. I’d ask for help, producing a sheet of paper with a problem and a pencil and stand next to the brown rocking chair that clicked when he rocked waiting for instruction. Dad looked over the paper, took the pencil and scribbled out some numbers.

“Well, how did you get that, Dad?” I’d asked just as perplexed as when I first looked at the problem.
“It’s the answer,” he responded matter-of-factly.
“Yes, but we have to show our work.”
“What do you mean show your work?”
“You know. Write down all of the steps to get to the answer.”
“What steps? There’s the problem. There’s the answer.” He poked the paper with the pencil tip.
“But…”
“It’s the new math. We had a problem we put down the answer. All of this new math. I don’t get it.”

I’m going to play the “new math” card when Miren brings me a problem I can’t help her with.
“It’s the new math,” I’ll tell her, shrugging my shoulders. “We didn’t do it like this in my day.”

I’m giving Dad a hard time but really, he’s as good as they come. He thought nothing of taking a trip to Albuquerque for three weeks to play Alice to my brother’s Brady Bunch while my sister-in-law healed from a broken foot. He’ll babysit in Abita Springs or in Atlanta if asked. He’s spent many an hour at my house tearing down walls, putting up sheetrock, framing twelve on twelve pitched roofs or whatever menial tasks Craig hands him on our various house projects. He’s willingly played Captain Hook, Mr. McGregor and the Grim Reaper for my children’s various parties. He continually gives advice that calls us to not worry insisting that everything will work out. And he’s usually right. So, in Bob Marley’s words that echo Dad’s – good luck on Wednesday and
“Don’t worry about a thing Cause every little thing gonna be all right
Singing don’t worry about a thing Cause every little thing gonna be all right
Rise up this morning Smile with the rising sun
Three little birds Perched on my doorstep
Singing sweet songs Of melodies pure and true
Sayin, (this is my message to you-ou-ou)
Don’t worry about a thing Cause every little thing gonna be all right
Singing don’t worry about a thing Cause every little thing gonna be all right!”

- Love you Dad - Kara