Odd, what comes to a guy on his way to his shack. Today a day way back in my teens had come to me. That day had stuck in my head, I guess, because it was the day my dad had said something new to me. No, up until that day, all my dad had ever said to me was, "Shut up and get to work."
It was summer. My dad and I were standing outside church. We were happy mom was inside talking, for he and I had little to say to mom anymore. And all she had to say to us anymore was, "Shut up and get to church."
I was deep in my glass-half-empty phase--been in it since I'd come to suspect Pastor Steve had short-changed me on water from the baptismal font--so it felt strange, standing on church property, feeling so positive and all. But I was eighteen, heading off to college come Friday. No more dark hometown. No more dark home down by the tracks. No more dark Lutherans who had, miraculously, gotten off track where Martin Luther's good humor was concerned.
"That's where all my troubles started," Dad said, looking up at Trinity's needle steeple. "I'd a been happy to have lived in a shack, of course, but your ma, well, of course, she wanted a house and all you damned kids."
"Two kids, dad. You had two kids."
"Two enough to get me up to my neck in debt. Two enough to keep me from retiring, gettin' out on the lake, trying my luck--finally. Nope, son, because of you and your sis, I'm goona half ta keep on working down at the Got-damned plant." Dad looked at his thick fingers. "Keep working my fingers to the bone till you and sis come back ta bury me up at Oak Lawn."
I didn't say anything.
"You're not entirely a numskull, son. And if it's in your grasp to learn a lesson from your old man who clearly is, steer clear of the curves, make a bee-line for the shack."
Now a reverent son, standing on Lutheran property, might have asked: What does this mean? But I was eighteen, one week shy of independence, so I felt the need to show off my smart ass. "Thanks for the advice, dad. I'll be sure to drive careful, then go into bee-keeping."
My dad did laugh on occasion. Thursdays he'd laugh--bowling night. Fridays he'd laugh--fight on TV. Saturdays he'd laugh--maniacally--hefting is latest lure up under that bare bulb in our garage, reenacting its likely action once he got it in a lake--finally.
But this was Sunday. The day dad got grave serious, blamed mom's God for creating something so horrific as Monday--the day that marked the start of the five days of hell he had to pay for his three laughs a week.
Imagine my surprise when that particular Sunday my dad up and laughed. "Thanks son," he said, giving my head a smack. "You've just given me the will to go on--live long enough to see life's rock wall slap you up alongside your numskull."
Well, as dad's luck would have it, he didn't live long enough to see much in the way of my choice in rock walls. Nor did he live long enough to get a lure in a lake--finally. And probably just as well. His lures had grown increasingly large over the years--larger than any fish in the lake.
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