Missing him, more often after nightfall, sometimes on long drives, or after waking up in a fog from a dream where I hear his voice as clear as if he’s in the living room, gives me pause to take a moment to remember.
Just last month, I pulled into the Denny’s parking lot to look for a space. I wasn’t that hungry, but I wanted to sit in the last place where we had breakfast together, and have a coffee. The lot was full, the line at the door too long for him, for sure. I did what he would have done; I turned around in the back lot to go somewhere else.
I inherited Art Cotton’s genetic disposition to vocalize that most things are not worth waiting for. Not for more than five minutes, anyway. I did just that, in a low voice, “I’m not waiting in line,” steering the truck toward the exit.
I’ll get back there sometime. The lot will have open spots, and that stool at the end of the bar will be free for the taking. That’s where I sat after helping the Old Man to get upon his—the second one in.
I stood behind him, his solidity still impressive, with my hands at the ready in case he slipped from the stool during the mounting phase. I did not touch him, but I remained ready, just in case. You have to keep in mind a man’s pride when helping him into a chair, especially if he spent the first years of your life putting you into yours. No one taught me that. A son knows. If you don’t, you haven’t paid enough attention to the many evident clues in everyday encounters.
I drove away, only slightly disappointed. It was not the right time to have breakfast alone; that time will come, but not yet. The crowd saved me from a series of melancholy sips of mediocre coffee.
I grabbed a substitute, a stand-in, at the Dunkin’ drive-thru. If he’d been the co-pilot, he’d have asked me to check with the tired-looking cashier if her decaf was fresh.
If answered in the affirmative, a decaf—regular—would have been on my list. Instead, I took just one, a medium, black, and drove back toward the house beyond the town limits, a place he had never visited. He would have liked it here, saying something like, “This is nice,” with a lighter tone, channeling Sylvester the Cat’s enunciation of the letter S.
Pop started doing the impression after he made all four of his kids laugh at the supper table while looming over a steaming bowl of my mother’s American chop suey, probably on a Wednesday evening, before hustling us to the Chevy wagon for mid-week prayer meeting.
Art knew his audience; he kept his slurred s-pronunciation between us, a private family joke. It made us all laugh far into adulthood when he sprung the inside joke at random moments.
You see, the Old Man was funny, even when the world was scary or serious.
While he scolded me many times for flippant remarks during moments that should be more solemn, I know he appreciated my sense of humor, mostly by his smirk when letting me know that this wasn’t a good time for that.
I found love in Dad’s smirk. I knew he was proud. Frustrated, oh yes, but proud that I didn’t let those dark or serious things waylay me from my mission, for a time unknown to all.
A couple of weeks ago, I stood in front of the mirror, unshaven for three whole days. Back when my knees didn’t ache when rising from a crouch, three days’ growth held few examples of gray, but now the white is the predominant strain, much to the chagrin of someone close to me who has told me many times that I appear to be a derelict when she is away. I cannot disagree, but I’ll shave when I feel like it.
I ran the back of my right hand against the grain of the manifestation from seventy-two hours of laziness, thinking to myself that the coarseness was impressive.
In a sudden flashback, I was six, wrestling with Dad on the floor of a wood-framed, white with black shuttered parsonage on Rt. 302 in Casco, Maine.
One of his signature moves when he came inside— out of the cold— was to hug me, rubbing his frigid face up and down on my cheek to give me a little whisker burn. Then, he’d take off his jacket like he was preparing for a bar brawl, tossing it onto the dark green three-cushion couch, challenging me to take him on to show him that I was “man enough” to defend myself against the fatherly friction.
I’d attack repeatedly, running at him, swinging, and he would let me believe that I had a chance; I didn’t. I barely had a chance of taking him down in my prime.
Godly, loving pastor persona aside, he was tenacious and strong. At 5’9 with shoes on, he wasn’t flabby at two-hundred and five pounds. Early poverty made him grateful for everything. However, if someone tried to take it by force, there would be injuries requiring hospitalization. You knew it by looking at him in his eyes. They smiled, but there was fire and brimstone installed long before he accepted Christ as his Savior.
My Dad grew up fatherless after the age of 8. My grandfather died in a woods accident. Pop’s training for fatherhood was a chronic alcoholic stand-in, whom my wonderful grandmother took in, thinking it better for the kids.
We called him Uncle Ed, but he wasn’t. None of us ever understood how sweet Irene could have married such a lout. Irene Hall was a saint, raising five wild boys and one wonderful daughter on her own, working full time in a western Maine mill town. The term “feral” was unspoken but appropriate.
Once Dad put me down on the braided rug after a spin or two in the air, he’d repeat the razor burn trick as a jovial punishment for taking him on. Sometimes he’d beat his chest after my loss and roar like King Kong, then mess up my hair with a softer hand and let me know that I was tougher than I looked.
Those whisker burn moments, followed by a soft touch and a dose of confidence, gave me precisely what I needed on more than one occasion throughout my career.
Show up, do what you’re supposed to do, walk away proud, and don’t be afraid to do a Sylvester the Cat impression when applicable. It’s worked for me, and I learned it all from him.
Missing him, more often after nightfall, sometimes on long drives, or after waking up in a fog from a dream where I hear his voice as clear as if he’s in the living room, gives me pause to take a moment to remember.
I’d certainly welcome a good dose of whisker burn again.
From the Jagged Edge of America, I remain,
TC