Yes, No, Maybe So--Part III

Every night after supper, Dad camped out in the living room. Over the course of each evening he’d nurse two bottles of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer and polish off an entire can of salted peanuts, the Spanish ones with the skins on them. I never got why he liked those kind. The skins made for a tooth flossing nightmare. Dad didn’t mind though. He wasn’t much for dental hygiene. Come to think of it, he didn’t care much about personal hygiene at all beyond combing his hair and Abraham Lincoln beard. I knew for a fact he rarely used deodorant and Mom and I had to beg him to wear aftershave whenever he treated us to supper at Shoney’s.

            So while Dad would fold himself into the floral Ethan Allen wing chair under the picture window and devour peanuts and guzzle beer, Mom would arrange herself and her muumuu-looking housecoat, usually a pastel blue floral, on the couch. She’d puff on her cigs—Benson and Hedges Light—and sip Tab diet cola from a glass she got in a box of Tide laundry detergent. I’m fairly certain she washed it first. Maybe. She wasn’t Suzy Homemaker or anything. In fact, one of her favorite sayings was, “You’ve got to eat a peck of dirt before you die.”

            Most nights my parents watched television or read. Dad was a big time reader. Mom too, but she usually went for paperback romances. Dad read smart stuff because he was that kind of guy. He had three degrees including one from Harvard. Yep, my daddy was smart, but he sure didn’t know everything.

            More often than not at night, some or all four of us kids would be in the basement glued to the tube. Sometimes we had friends over, not because Mom was the Kool-Aid mom or anything. Just because.

            If communication was necessary between us and the folks, we yelled up or they stood at the top of the stairs and hollered down. If Dad was worn out, he just roared from his wing chair.

            “You kids pipe down!” Or, “Stop horsing around! Don’t make me come down there. I swear. I'll tan your hide.”

            Only when we got really loud would he stomp down the stairs. It was never Mom. She didn’t scare us. That particular night, the one with the Rolling Rock, Jude made sure we didn’t make too much noise. He was good at that.

           

After two minutes of whispering in the kitchen, Katie Lynn and I tiptoed back down the painted gray steps. Tried to keep from creaking the stairs. All three of Charlie’s pistol-packing Angels darted hither and yon across the TV screen but the boys didn’t pay any mind. They were too busy hawking loogies at the fireplace. Without opening the screen. Viscous, pale green gobs stuck and slid. Smeared and clung. Left shiny trails in the charred mesh.

            “Ga-ross,” I said.

            Both guys whipped around at the same time, swiping their wrists across their lips. I saw Robbie puff into his hand and sniff. A corner of my mouth lifted. He was cuter than I remembered.

            Jude patted the couch. “Why don’t you all come down,’ he said. “Sit a spell.”

            I started back up the stairs. “I don’t think—”

            Katie Lynn gripped my wrist and tugged. “Okay,” she said. “We should sit boy girl, boy girl.”

            I grumbled under my breath as I wedged myself into the space between the sofa arm and Robbie’s leg. Katie made herself at home between the guys. Robbie reached into the styrofoam cooler and lifted out a green bottle. Wiped the wet off with his t-shirt. Jude tossed him the bottle opener. The cap catapulted across the room with a sucky sound. Robbie grinned and handed the icy beer to me. Repeated the process for Katie.

            I hovered my nose over the bottle top. “Smells like hamster pee.”

            Robbie chuckled “Try it,” he said. “You’ll like it.”

            I sipped then wrinkled my nose. “Tastes like it too,” I said. “Jiminy Christmas! How do you all drink so much of this stuff?”

            Jude leaned forward. “See?” he said. “I told you we shoulda bought Boone’s Farm.”

            Robbie huffed. “Who doesn’t like beer?”

            Jude stood. “I’ve got an idea,” he said. “Be right back.” He took the stairs three at a time. Returned with two straws. “Try these,” he said as he tore their wrappers away. “And hold your nose.”

            Katie Lynn juggled the tasks. “Seems complicated,” she said.

            “The good thing about straws,” Robbie told me, “is they get you drunk quicker. That’s what my science teacher says.”

            I think Robbie was onto something. After my first two sips, I felt very confident and way braver. Was that what being intoxicated was like? Wasn’t too bad. In fact, I figured if I had one more gulp, Imight just  jump up and perform a lively rendition of Dancing Queen. I squinted at the fireplace tools and considered how I might use the fireplace poker as my microphone. No sooner did the idea form in my brain than it was shot all to heck. By ham salad.

The Car Daddy

The Hyundai dealership in Fairfax, Virginia stayed open late that night, just for me.  Just so I could call you.


"Should I buy it, Daddy?  It's brand new and bright red."


"I'll look it up in Consumer Reports, honeypot.  Call me back in five."




I wheeled your chair through the doors of the Wishing Well Manor.  Took you outside where the forsythia branches waved and the dogwood blossoms pinked up the world.  I set the brakes on your wheelchair.  Right in front of my new-to-you Dodge.


"I named her Snow White," I said.  "'Cause she's--"


You weren't looking.  Your head hung down as you scratched the wheel chair tray with your too-long fingernails.




I put my hand over the divot in my throat as I walked towards the door of the Wishing Well.  An orderly let me in since it was after hours.


"I won't be coming 'round anymore, Daddy," I said, inside my head, as I walked to your room.  "To show you my cars."


I blinked at the pinky-orange exit sign at the end of the hall.


"There'll be no more visits to the Wishing Well," I said softly, so as not to wake the residents.


I felt hot tears, headed for my mouth.


""Cause . . . there's no more Daddy."

I Remember Dad

My father doted on me. It’s no wonder really. I was the youngest child and the only girl. Sometimes Dad called me, “Lil Svester” which I think means little sister in German. Other times he called me, “Honeypot.”


Every Saturday morning we’d run errands. We’d drive to his office at the local college where he taught psychology. He’d catch up on work and I’d whistle at the guinea pigs and rats in the lab.

After an hour or two we’d walk uptown to the bank.

“Would you like a lollipop, sweetie?” the teller always asked.

I’d rest my chin on the counter and look up at her. “Yes, please.”

“We got some new piggy banks. Would you like one?

“Yes, ma’am.”

“What color?

“Pink, please.”

Next stop was The Peanut Shoppe. I loved the aroma of roasting nuts, royal red cherries and chocolate bridge mix.

When it was our turn to order Dad would go first. “I’ll take a fourth pound of Spanish peanuts. Svester, tell the lady what you want.”

I’d point at the glass. “I’ll take a fourth a pound of pistachios—the red kind, please.”

I’d eat them on the way home and my fingertips would be red until the next Saturday. Dad would save his peanuts to eat later. He’d eat them while he drank a couple of Pabst Blue Ribbon beers each night.

Every month or so we’d cross the bridge into Ohio where he could buy beer cheap. He always let me get a couple of plastic mermaids to hang on my glasses of blue raspberry Kool-Aid.


Dad’s office was three miles from our house. He walked to work every day, weather permitting. My school was on the way so he and I would walk that far together. If it was rainy or really cold, we’d drive. He had a little blue Subaru. It was the first one in the state. It only cost $1,500.00.

When we got to the gate of my school he’d put his hands on my shoulders and look me in the eye.

“Learn lots of interesting and useful things today, L’il Svester. And remember, you can learn from anyone and anyone can learn from you.”

Actually, I lied. That’s what I tell my son when I put him on the bus every morning.

Dad would pat me on the back and I’d run up the steps to the playground. Most days I’d watch until he disappeared over the hill. If he looked back I’d wave until it felt like my arm was going to fall off.

My friends thought Dad looked like Abraham Lincoln with blue eyes.


Dad had a hobby. He was a telegrapher—a Morse code operator. It was what got him out of the house at a young age. His father had one idea of what his future should be. He had another. Dad didn’t want to be a banker so he lied about his age and joined the Navy. Off he went to World War II where he worked as a telegrapher. He was just a couple months shy of eighteen.

Every night after supper Dad would push his chair back from the dinner table and say, “I’m going on the air now.”

He’d go down to the basement and spend a couple of hours sending telegraph messages all over the world. Sometimes I’d sit beside him and watch him and his equipment. I liked the dial with the aqua glow.

Dot, dot, dash. Dash, dot, dash. It all meant something.

Sometimes we’d be in the living room and the phone would ring. Mom would answer and hand it to Dad. “It’s for you.”

If I was sitting close I could hear the person on the other end.

“I want to send a message to my grandson. He’s stationed in Japan. Can you do that?”

“Yes, ma’am. I sure can.” Dad would grab a notepad and pen and jot down the message. Then he’d head for the basement. It was a mystery and thrill that my dad, his telegrapher’s key and his Morse code buddies could somehow talk to people on the other side of the world.


I regret not learning Morse code. I think Dad would have liked that. Sometimes I wonder if I could’ve communicated with him in Morse code once he got dementia and pretty much stopped talking.

How do you say, “I love you, Daddy” in Morse code? What about, “I miss you.”