Happy Father's Day, Dad....

“I'm leavin' it all up to you 
You decide whatcha gonna do”  

Squinting from the back seat, there is enough dashboard light for me to see that it’s just before three.  I’m cold.  Dad has the window cracked so he can smoke, and even though the heater is going full blast, the December night air is frigid. 

“Now do you want my love? 
Or are we through?” 

I start to tell Dad that it’s freezing in here, but then I find that my blanket has been confiscated by one of the twins.  I gently nudge her over, and as she turns to snuggle into the lap on the other side, I sweep the blanket back over me.  Dad hears the movement in the backseat and, knowing it’s me awake, asks if everything is okay.  I answer by asking where we are. 

“Passed through Evansville about 45 minutes ago, should be coming into Madisonville in just a few minutes.  We’re still on 41.”  I pull out my map and flashlight and follow the path he mentions. 

“How much longer to Georgia?  Are we going through Chattanooga?  Are we gonna use the tunnel under the mountain?”   I was always the navigator on trips, could always remember where we had been, what the shortcuts were.  When Dad realized my interest, he made sure I could read a map and a compass (“just in case”). 

Dad cautions me not to wake the others, and motions for me to look out of the window. “Those stars have been there as long as people have been on this earth.  They’ll be there long after I’m gone. Long after you’re gone, they’ll be there.  Some things you can always count on.” 

I was puzzled by the last part of his statement.  His voice seemed to break just a bit as he said it.  “Dad, is everything alright?” 

“Everything is fine now, Red.  Just want you to remember that – some things you can always count on.  Some things always will be.”  He lit a cigarette as an end to the exchange, turned up the radio, and hummed along with Dale and Grace.  I had been dismissed still full of questions, but somehow, the familiar scent of the tobacco on the cold night air comforted me.  I drifted back to sleep gazing at the Milky Way and Orion’s belt.

We had to come through Birmingham to get to Waycross.  A freakish December storm promised a White Christmas to North Georgia, but it was a nightmare to travelers. Highway 41 was already closed coming out of Chattanooga, and the roads were closing fast behind us.  Dad had been driving close to 26 hours now, but he refused to stop until he got past the mountains.   There was snow falling on Iron Mountain as we went over it, but just the other side of the city, the roads were clear.   We pulled into my Grandmother’s driveway just as the sun set on Christmas Eve.   As Dad turned off the ignition, he said, so quietly that I could barely hear it, “Some things you can always count on.” 

Christmas Day dawned, and it didn’t occur to any of us that we had not been visited by Santa Claus.  It was sunny, and warm, and didn’t seem like the right time of year for the holiday.  We discovered the neighborhood and its treasures, and that seemed gift enough.  There was more food than we had seen in a long time, and there was a bit of wonder, along with the relief in my father’s eyes. 

Growing up, I often did battle with Dad.  I was spirited and inquisitive, and seldom a week went by that I was not into some kind of mischief.  He would always show his disapproval, but he would always say, “There are some things you can always count on.” (Of course, at the time I took that to mean a belt on my seat.) 

Dad’s last years were not the best, but he tried to make the best of them.  Those last weeks, he didn’t know me, and was often combative.   

Then, there came a night that he was very lucid.  He called me by name when I came to the door of his hospital room, asked me how I was doing, and could I please find him something to eat.  He said the staff had celebrated his birthday, but wouldn’t let him have any of the cake. 

“Dad, you’re a stinker!  But I love you!” 

“I know, Red.  Some things you can always count on.  Just like the stars.  They’ll be here long after I’m gone.” 

At three a.m., I sat on my porch and mourned.  But looking into the clear, cloudless sky, I saw the stars, and heard him whisper, “Some things you can always count on.  I love you, Red.” 

I miss my Dad

Summer

I love my Fridays now that school is out.  Monday through Thursday, I'm still in the trenches with the summer program at my high school, but these 3 day weekends are are for me.  Fridays are for the farmer's market, a trip to Wally World, grilling out, and just plain relaxing. 

On my trip to the farmer's market, I struck green gold - green tomatoes.  I knew what would be for supper tonight, so after returning home, mowing the back lawn, and then napping in my girl-size recliner, I began working with my prize.

I soaked large slices in buttermilk, and then popped them into a bath of flour, cornmeal, and Emeril's BAM .  Slid them lovingly into hot oil in my cast-iron chicken fryer, turned them gently as they achieved just golden comeliness.  Ah, what a delight!  They crunched ever so lightly when bitten and then melted on the tongue.  Didn't need another thing to go with it except a cold glass of tea.

The newly mowed grass smells almost exotic in the late evening warmth, and lightning bugs (!!!) have begun their intermittent communique en masse.  It is a lovely evening, a Friday, and it's all mine.

Hot wings and watching a mid-life crisis

Husband decided he wanted hot wings for supper.  There are several choices for that particular delicacy (most of them bad), but we decided that there was a new one we hadn't tried, so off I went to pick up a to go order.

"You can pick them up at the bar, " said the voice on the other end of the line.  "Give us about ten minutes." Those two sentences contain an oxymoron - bar and ten minutes - an indication that I will have a considerable wait, and that the venue will be ripe for people watching.  Sure enough, the order was no where near ready when I arrived 30 minutes later.

But the bar was beginning to get interesting.

Happy hour was just beginning, and there were several newly-washed, slicked down fellas in full man-o-pause there to entertain the knock-off Hooters waitresses in their very brief shorts (with black shoes...but I don't think they were seeing the same thing I was).  I felt slightly embarrassed for both groups:  the men because they were painfully uncomfortable with aging, the young ladies because they were making their best tips when feeding their fantasies.

Mid-life "crisis" doesn't have to be cliche.  Mid-life changes can be good when they allow one to look to the future as a time for new beginnings, of becoming comfortable with one's own skin, of having time to do the things of which you've been saying, "I'd like to do that one day."  I'm there.

 And the wings weren't too bad, either.

Another attempt at a blog

Okay, so I start and get sidetracked.  If I didn't know better, I would swear that I'm ADD.  But I'm going to try to post regularly, using the blog as a journal of my work as an instructional coach, my "other life" of wife, mom, grandmother ("Gigi", please), and sometime writer.  We'll see where this one takes me :)