The older I get, the more I realize what an enigma my father was and how insufficient my overtaxed memory has become at dispelling the mystery of the man. Time and again I fix his portrait within my mind's eye only to look away and find it reduced to paint chips and sparkling dust.
Now and then I can hear him before the last 30 years of silence picking out a tune on Mom's piano, fists clenched, forefingers extended and stabbing out the notes, singing: "I like coffee, I like tea; I like the girls, and the girls like me!" Sometimes he sang-along with Sinatra's "Young at Heart" on the hi-fi or, embarrassingly enough, offered up a boisterous Tony Orlando & Dawn's "Tie a Yellow Ribbon" which was always sung up-tempo with a load "Whoa!" to properly kick off each chorus.
As I grew up, he practiced routines that were utterly foreign to me, my sisters and our friends and used a language all his own. Dinner at the kitchen demanded cloth napkins, no elbows and mouths closed when chewing. Conversation there was punctuated by Dad's sparse French "Passez-moi le beurre, s'il vous plait" or simply "Ou est le beurre?" Time alone with Dad was sometimes even more incomprehensible, especially when confessing sin. The private disappointments I authored were often met with the horrified odd exhortation, "Use yer beano Murray, use yer beano!"
In winter, on the coldest of Sunday mornings, he would warm the car before driving us to Sunday School. He consigned us to the backseat where he wrapped us in car blankets knowing we could never be too warm in the brittle snap of February. Thus mobilized, we were a captive audience to his ongoing lecture series on the perils of being a child.
Dad's favorite (and oft repeated) themes included "You Think Money Grows On Trees" (Part 1) which, if he drove slowly or we left early, was followed by a brisk "You Kids Are So Ungrateful" (Part 2). Although wildly popular, "I Would Never Speak To My Mother Like That" could never hold a candle to the masterful "My Father Would Have Thrown Me Across The Room If I Ever (fill in the blank)" which, quite frankly, always brought down the house.
Ever the dutiful disciplinarian, Dad always strove to ensure that, by the time we reached church, we were indeed ready to come to Jesus. Sadly, faithful, dogmatic repetition of these time-honored themes didn't phase us. We were awful kids.
I say that in hindsight, of course. Back then, we were golden, Teflon, unimpeachable--the glowing, ripening apples of our grandmother's eye! Except perhaps for one tiny, irreducible flaw passed down to us from our mother: we were always late. No matter where we were going, no matter where we had been, somehow we were always, always late--no mean feat for children raised in a town that thrived on time. Elgin watches aside, we were a tardy people who made others tardy as well and that was unforgivable. Dad had a strange and exotic name for someone who kept him waiting: Aggie Twaddle.
"Come on Aggie Twaddle," hands fixed at 10 and 2 and thumbs thumping out the measure while he fought the urge to honk. "Let's go Aggie Twaddle," locked doorknob firmly grasped in one hand and car keys splayed in the other ready to poke the engine to life. "Are you ready Aggie Twaddle?" innocent expression fixed over Mom's left shoulder in the mirror even while the anxious eyes gave it all away.
Who, I have always wondered, is Aggie Twaddle and where in the world is she going? Is she just another fleck of fallen paint chip or does she have more to say on the subject of Arthur Macdonald Ferreira?
I doubt he realized it, but Dad's lessons might have made more of an impact at the time had he been more forthcoming about his own life. His family were strangers to us and infrequent visitors to our home. Reunions--seldom held--were private affairs looped around Dad's poker table, fortified with gin and tonic, scented with menthol cigarettes and punctuated with the foreign vowels of Boston's streets.
What they discussed over those long nights is unknown, but they had no shortage of history for review. Their father died early in life and left their mother, Jeannette, destitute with four children to raise in the growing dust of the Great Depression. Though still a child, Robert, the oldest, quickly grasped what few adults could: Jeannette was unsuited to her fate, oblivious to their peril and incapable of escaping her condition. Resolved, the children closed ranks to protect her. Robert quit school to work mean jobs and feed the family. Arthur and George scoured the nearby railyards every day, buckets in hand, searching for stray bits of coal to dull the teeth of their New England winters. Their sister "Kargy" took charge of the household as best she could.
I'd like to think that this painful, hard-won knowledge would have made Dad's lessons more meaningful to me as a child. Surely all these moments and scattered bits of information would have cracked the hard, glossy shell of cynicism my sisters and I wore so openly. And my father's witness--the mysterious Aggie Twaddle--perhaps most of all, would have spoken volumes about the hopes and dreams of a child who would later become the man. Ironically enough, she would have done so without saying a word.
Who was Aggie Twaddle? Released on Christmas Eve 1922, the silent movie "Broke and Back Home" was pure Horatio Alger with its rags-to-riches plotline. It tells the story of Tom Redding's journey back to respectability and introduces us to the people he meets along the way--including our very own Aggie Twaddle. Even though her name only appears in the cast listing and no mention of her place in the story is made, I can imagine what she might have meant to my father. He would have been 10 at the time, and the storyline would have gripped him. When his apparently wealthy father dies and leaves only debts, Tom Redding is deserted by all save Mary Austin. Desperate, he goes west and successfully develops an oil well. Later, Tom returns home in the guise of poverty, secretly buys up property and then rubs everyone's noses in his good fortune and gets the girl when he reveals that he's rich. Small wonder that, just seven years later, Dad turned his back on Boston and struck out for California in hopes of finding a little good fortune of his own.
Whatever part Aggie Twaddle may have played in Tom Redding's life, it's clear she made a lasting impression on my father and, in turn, on me. What's funny is that I didn't have far to look for her at all. I just needed to be willing to look. She was a resident in my father's every home, a passenger in every car and a sympathetic friend with whom he synchronized his watch every time I made him wait. She's present in my home and mind as well now, no longer a discarded or decaying bit of portrait paint. Instead, she's taken on some dimension and loaned a bit of it to Dad. She's given him some color and definition, filling in the background with meaning instead of shadows and adding purpose and perspective to the lines around his eyes. I'm still filling in the gaps, but his portrait is far from incomplete. I'm not worried though. After all, memory is a work in progress, too.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Sunday, July 3, 2011
In Praise of the Third of July
Despite the fact that the Fourth of July marks the signing of the Declaration of Independence, the founding of our country and the launch of modern democracy, the holiday hasn't carried much weight with my family for almost 30 years. I guess, in a way, we can take it or leave it.
We didn't always feel this way, however. Back in the 50s, 60s and 70s, my extended family gathered at my grandparents' home where we'd picnic in the back yard and listen to the cicadas' song rise and fall like a lazy siren. At twilight, my sisters and cousins and I would play "kick-the-can" with the neighborhood kids and pursue one another through Miss Purdy's yard and the Mayberry's bushes. And finally, when the night had fallen into a pool of velvet dark, my Dad would pile all of us into the station wagon and we'd drive all over the county as we chased the fireworks shooting overhead.
All of that was lost when I went away to college at the University of Missouri-Columbia. With my grandparents gone, the house on Oak Street was sold to strangers. And after years of anxious waiting, my father announced his plans to abandon suburbia and retire to a 10-acre "farmette" he'd found a few miles outside Jeff City, the capital of Missouri. It was a nice spread as these things go: a small barn for boarding horses, 8 acres of fenced pasture, a chicken coop, a workshop and all kinds of old tools, plows and implements hidden in the weeds. Every other week Dad would find one of these ancient, blackened marriages of iron and rotting wood, drag it to the front yard and slap a "FOR SALE" sign on it--entrepreneurial to the end.
The farm was Dad's dream and his long awaited chance to raise Black Angus cattle, board horses and weed two acres of scraggly lawn to within an inch of its life. For him, it was heaven. Mom, on the other hand, was presented with water in the basement, snakes in the rec room, bright orange kitchen countertops, "harvest yellow" appliances and a quarter-acre of flower garden to tend--a little less divine for her, I think.
"Living the dream" was difficult for Mom, and she was very lonely in those first few months. I was never home (I lived on campus), and my sisters and the rest of the family were 400 miles away. Dad, sad to say, was a stranger to Mom's mood. He was too busy slapping aluminum siding on all the outbuildings and hiring the crack-shot 4H kid next door to shoot down the pigeons that were always roosting on his pristine, aluminum-sided barn.
My sister Donna, however, knew Mom's mind and plotted a surprise "mission of mercy." She convinced my sister Susan, cousins Colleen and Becky along with Mom's brother Dean and my great aunt Della to squeeze into Uncle Dean's posh Safari van and drive eight hours for a brief visit over the holiday weekend. The idea was good, but the timing was a little off because the 4th fell on Monday. Since some of them had to work on Friday (July 1) and everyone had to be back at work Tuesday morning (July 5), Saturday (July 2) and Monday (July 4) became travel days. It was a cold hard fact that seemed to strip the holiday of everything we had come to expect.
When they arrived--tired, cranky and late--Mom was very happy to see them but at a loss as to where to put them because she hadn't fixed up the guest bedrooms yet. So, most of them just sprawled on the new living room carpet. Mom asked, "Does anyone want a pillow?" Uncle Dean, already going comically deaf, looked up, smacked his lips and enthusiastically said, "Jell-o? Jell-o? I'll have some Jell-o!"
Mom was disappointed to learn that they would only be staying two nights. But Susan, Becky, Colleen and Donna were not dismayed in the least; shopping, they swore, can work miracles and make memories. Armed with $150 cash and an ounce of determination, they hit the fireworks stands along I-70 and scored sparklers, worms, bottle rockets, cherry bombs and Roman candles. Cruising up and down the aisles of Wal-Mart, they grabbed kiddie pools, disposable barbecue grills and Chinette dinnerware which, the next evening, made for a macabre yet festive family reunion as we celebrated the Third of July.
"Third of July! Third of July!" we cried as we ran up and down the driveway with sparklers blazing in our fists. "Third of July!" we screamed each time we set off a bottle rocket and sent Dad hunting through the grass to find and dispose of the leftover stick. We sang camp songs ("Peanuuuuuuuuuut Peanut Butter--Jelly!"), told ghost stories, and when the night fell into the velvet dark--something the Chicago suburbs can no longer do--we sent our own fireworks into the sky and called everyone to follow.
It was one of the best times in my life, and it's probably my most cherished family memory. Yet, Mom and
Dad and I missed out on the perfect finish touching for that weekend. Driving home on July 4, Uncle Dean took "the back way" up Route 47 where he spied scores of eager locals waiting for the DeKalb County fairgrounds to open for the evening's fireworks show. He pulled his glorious Safari van to a stop near the gate, rolled down his electric window and yelled, "Cancelled! Cancelled! Go home! TOO DANGEROUS! Cancelled!" before starting off again on their way home.
My sisters and cousins, of course, were tickled pink. And me? I was and am just a little green with envy for having missed a moment that has since become family legend.
We didn't always feel this way, however. Back in the 50s, 60s and 70s, my extended family gathered at my grandparents' home where we'd picnic in the back yard and listen to the cicadas' song rise and fall like a lazy siren. At twilight, my sisters and cousins and I would play "kick-the-can" with the neighborhood kids and pursue one another through Miss Purdy's yard and the Mayberry's bushes. And finally, when the night had fallen into a pool of velvet dark, my Dad would pile all of us into the station wagon and we'd drive all over the county as we chased the fireworks shooting overhead.
All of that was lost when I went away to college at the University of Missouri-Columbia. With my grandparents gone, the house on Oak Street was sold to strangers. And after years of anxious waiting, my father announced his plans to abandon suburbia and retire to a 10-acre "farmette" he'd found a few miles outside Jeff City, the capital of Missouri. It was a nice spread as these things go: a small barn for boarding horses, 8 acres of fenced pasture, a chicken coop, a workshop and all kinds of old tools, plows and implements hidden in the weeds. Every other week Dad would find one of these ancient, blackened marriages of iron and rotting wood, drag it to the front yard and slap a "FOR SALE" sign on it--entrepreneurial to the end.
The farm was Dad's dream and his long awaited chance to raise Black Angus cattle, board horses and weed two acres of scraggly lawn to within an inch of its life. For him, it was heaven. Mom, on the other hand, was presented with water in the basement, snakes in the rec room, bright orange kitchen countertops, "harvest yellow" appliances and a quarter-acre of flower garden to tend--a little less divine for her, I think.
"Living the dream" was difficult for Mom, and she was very lonely in those first few months. I was never home (I lived on campus), and my sisters and the rest of the family were 400 miles away. Dad, sad to say, was a stranger to Mom's mood. He was too busy slapping aluminum siding on all the outbuildings and hiring the crack-shot 4H kid next door to shoot down the pigeons that were always roosting on his pristine, aluminum-sided barn.
My sister Donna, however, knew Mom's mind and plotted a surprise "mission of mercy." She convinced my sister Susan, cousins Colleen and Becky along with Mom's brother Dean and my great aunt Della to squeeze into Uncle Dean's posh Safari van and drive eight hours for a brief visit over the holiday weekend. The idea was good, but the timing was a little off because the 4th fell on Monday. Since some of them had to work on Friday (July 1) and everyone had to be back at work Tuesday morning (July 5), Saturday (July 2) and Monday (July 4) became travel days. It was a cold hard fact that seemed to strip the holiday of everything we had come to expect.
When they arrived--tired, cranky and late--Mom was very happy to see them but at a loss as to where to put them because she hadn't fixed up the guest bedrooms yet. So, most of them just sprawled on the new living room carpet. Mom asked, "Does anyone want a pillow?" Uncle Dean, already going comically deaf, looked up, smacked his lips and enthusiastically said, "Jell-o? Jell-o? I'll have some Jell-o!"
Mom was disappointed to learn that they would only be staying two nights. But Susan, Becky, Colleen and Donna were not dismayed in the least; shopping, they swore, can work miracles and make memories. Armed with $150 cash and an ounce of determination, they hit the fireworks stands along I-70 and scored sparklers, worms, bottle rockets, cherry bombs and Roman candles. Cruising up and down the aisles of Wal-Mart, they grabbed kiddie pools, disposable barbecue grills and Chinette dinnerware which, the next evening, made for a macabre yet festive family reunion as we celebrated the Third of July.
"Third of July! Third of July!" we cried as we ran up and down the driveway with sparklers blazing in our fists. "Third of July!" we screamed each time we set off a bottle rocket and sent Dad hunting through the grass to find and dispose of the leftover stick. We sang camp songs ("Peanuuuuuuuuuut Peanut Butter--Jelly!"), told ghost stories, and when the night fell into the velvet dark--something the Chicago suburbs can no longer do--we sent our own fireworks into the sky and called everyone to follow.
It was one of the best times in my life, and it's probably my most cherished family memory. Yet, Mom and
Dad and I missed out on the perfect finish touching for that weekend. Driving home on July 4, Uncle Dean took "the back way" up Route 47 where he spied scores of eager locals waiting for the DeKalb County fairgrounds to open for the evening's fireworks show. He pulled his glorious Safari van to a stop near the gate, rolled down his electric window and yelled, "Cancelled! Cancelled! Go home! TOO DANGEROUS! Cancelled!" before starting off again on their way home.
My sisters and cousins, of course, were tickled pink. And me? I was and am just a little green with envy for having missed a moment that has since become family legend.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)