REMEMBERING DAD
He worked on a dump. His clothes always held the smell of dustheap. There was always grease under his fingernails. His hat, socks, work boots and shoes, every bit of his clothing held the odor. On his yellow International Harvester, TD-15, he would move one pile of trash toward another, grading the earth. There was always a synchronized rhythm to the noise of the tracks, the blade and the exhaust the bulldozer. In all kinds of weather, from a modest seat, pulling knobs, pushing pedals, he made his living on that massive machine. He built his home, faithfully kept his marriage, raised and educated two children. He never completed school beyond the sixth grade. The youngest of 10 children, he worked the farm, his father died when he was a baby. He fought in the infantry during World War II, wounded in action, his body held shrapnel scars. He was awarded a purple heart which he buried in mom’s cedar chest, which looks like a miniature coffin. He never spoke much of war.
I remember when the parents of my classmates would pick them up from school. Their dads would be wearing suits, white shirts and pressed ties, wheeling around in nice cars. Then came my dad, in an old green pick-up truck with a fuel tank and tool box in the back. His un-buttoned shirt and rolled-up sleeves exposing his work tan, arm hanging out the window. A CB radio antenna affixed on the hood. I remember feeling shame, wondering why he could not be like the other dads. Now, I am more than grateful he wasn’t, proud of who he was, and taught me to be.
His nieces and nephews called him Bubba, a southern name of someone who is always faithful and beloved in a family. Cousins on my mom’s side called him Uncle Mal, and they loved him too. So did I. I remember and loved his gentle way, his beholding a contemplative demeanor, without knowing what the word even meant. On this Labor Day weekend, I remember his rough hands, from difficult labors. Suddenly I realize in this moment of silence, it was on a Labor Day weekend, thirty-seven years ago, when I received the call of his cancer diagnosis. He died shortly thereafter. My life has never been the same, and I miss him.
