Whirlwind
You know what one of the cool things about life is?
Doing something, or making a movement and thinking:
"That was just like something my Dad would do."
Of course I hear him in my voice when I'm bantering with the kids.
Dad's right there in my laughter when I say something biting that makes the guy I'm insulting (playfully sometimes) laugh.
(The guy thinks I'm kidding).
Dad was the king of that.
And there are moments when it really hits me, of course.
Like today.
He's been gone for three years.
That's a lot of days when you realize that there were so many that preceded it that you couldn't imagine life without him.
But he's not really gone, right?
My Dad commanded a room.
"You always knew right where he was," I often say to people in way of description.
"He was a quiet introspective man," I say to get a laugh sometimes.
But Dad was way more than all of that.
He was a presence. A whirlwind. A freaking tornado.
And of course, I hate missing him when I hear him in my own voice or see him in the tear that sort of catches in my mother's voice as she tells a story.
And my head is filling up with angst right now as I write this because whirlwinds aren't supposed to be quiet for 3 years.
But all this week I've thought a lot about one night back about 30 years ago.
It was just Dad and me drinking a few beers on a summer night in Mill Valley, California. I had recently finished up my first year of college and was working as a laborer, chipping concrete, living alone with him for a few weeks before the rest of the family could make the trip west.
We were talking baseball.
Dad was showing me how Yogi went back on the ball in left that Mazeroski hit to end the 1960 World Series.
(We were quite a few beers in).
He tripped over the coat hangar in the corner of the room and even though he didn't go down, he stumbled, and we both laughed for better than three minutes.
You know those laughs.
When all the rest of the world is shut out.
And it's just you and the person you're laughing with.
And nothing bad can ever get in.
"Is that how Yogi played it?" I asked.
(In a matter in which he would ask the same question).
And we laughed some more.
And I remember the next morning because we had to go into work really early, and my head hurt, and I wondered if he might just sleep in and skip work.
(For the record, we NEVER skip work).
And I headed to the kitchen, smelling bacon, of all things.
And Dad wasn't there.
But my breakfast was ready.
Three eggs over-easy, bacon, toast and potatoes with onions.
And the newspaper was open.
And the Yankee box score was circled.
And there was just a little note on a piece of paper in his handwriting.
"I had fun laughing."
So did I, Dad.
So did I.
Doing something, or making a movement and thinking:
"That was just like something my Dad would do."
Of course I hear him in my voice when I'm bantering with the kids.
Dad's right there in my laughter when I say something biting that makes the guy I'm insulting (playfully sometimes) laugh.
(The guy thinks I'm kidding).
Dad was the king of that.
And there are moments when it really hits me, of course.
Like today.
He's been gone for three years.
That's a lot of days when you realize that there were so many that preceded it that you couldn't imagine life without him.
But he's not really gone, right?
My Dad commanded a room.
"You always knew right where he was," I often say to people in way of description.
"He was a quiet introspective man," I say to get a laugh sometimes.
But Dad was way more than all of that.
He was a presence. A whirlwind. A freaking tornado.
And of course, I hate missing him when I hear him in my own voice or see him in the tear that sort of catches in my mother's voice as she tells a story.
And my head is filling up with angst right now as I write this because whirlwinds aren't supposed to be quiet for 3 years.
But all this week I've thought a lot about one night back about 30 years ago.
It was just Dad and me drinking a few beers on a summer night in Mill Valley, California. I had recently finished up my first year of college and was working as a laborer, chipping concrete, living alone with him for a few weeks before the rest of the family could make the trip west.
We were talking baseball.
Dad was showing me how Yogi went back on the ball in left that Mazeroski hit to end the 1960 World Series.
(We were quite a few beers in).
He tripped over the coat hangar in the corner of the room and even though he didn't go down, he stumbled, and we both laughed for better than three minutes.
You know those laughs.
When all the rest of the world is shut out.
And it's just you and the person you're laughing with.
And nothing bad can ever get in.
"Is that how Yogi played it?" I asked.
(In a matter in which he would ask the same question).
And we laughed some more.
And I remember the next morning because we had to go into work really early, and my head hurt, and I wondered if he might just sleep in and skip work.
(For the record, we NEVER skip work).
And I headed to the kitchen, smelling bacon, of all things.
And Dad wasn't there.
But my breakfast was ready.
Three eggs over-easy, bacon, toast and potatoes with onions.
And the newspaper was open.
And the Yankee box score was circled.
And there was just a little note on a piece of paper in his handwriting.
"I had fun laughing."
So did I, Dad.
So did I.
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