To My Father

Today is my father's 115th birthday. I could fill a book with poems just about him, but his life spilled into so many others' lives. It would become a family saga.

My father at a skiing event in Alta, UT in the early 1040s.

Skis

I found them under the basement stairs
rimed with dust on brittle leather straps 
that bound a boot lost decades ago.
Made of wood scratched by hidden rocks
the tips bent past my up-stretched hand.

Mom and Dad told stories
of that season in snow 
where a timid kind of love followed 
them down Thanes Canyon
or over Alta’s breach to Hattie’s
where they dined on chicken 
and dumplings for fifty cents.

All winter held their company 
then stopped in the Spring.

She waited out the summer,
watched her sister marry a man
she silently adored.
Wondered about the one 
who stood at her door 
after she’d been dumped.
You’re going skiing with me, he said,
and swooped her away to Park City.

Would he ever return?

The first snow reached the valley floor.
The doorbell brought her huffing down 
the stairs where he stood at the door.
Ski wax warmed in his hands once again. 

Camaro

He grumbled as he squeezed
Into the Corolla
Like putting on a coat
It was a cute little car
Diminutive like me.
Dad was about to expand
My universe.

A midnight blue Camaro
White racing stripe
Ringing the hood
Gleamed from the lot
Across the street. 
I gulped at the prospect.

My first debt granted
I took keys in hand
Felt the power thrum
As I pushed the pedal.
It pressed into the pavement
As the speedometer climbed.

He followed me home
Told Mom to simmer down.
Who's going to marry her now,
Driving that car around town?
He winked at me 
And then I knew 
I'd just bought my wings.

Coal

I remember my father shoveling coal 
Every morning before work.
He'd scoop coal from a dark 
Cement room then heave it 
Into the flaming mouth of the furnace.
Black dust hung in the basement 
where ghosts reside
In the shadows under the stairs.

Once a month a truck would slide
Coal down a long chute
Us kids were told to stand out of the way
Each spring, another truck came
A man spread a long cloth bag 
Along the entire driveway
It swelled like a massive hotdog
Bulging and wheezing as it filled
With dust from the air ducts.

One kid lay down under the bag
It started to engulf him 
Until his brain kicked in 
And he pulled himself loose 
All us kids laughed as he 
Brushed dirt and leaves 
From his dungarees
It was the best show in town.

In winter, Dad would stoke 
The living room fireplace 
Before he went to bed. 
He'd bank the embers 
And place a lump of coal 
Balanced just so in the grate
It smelled of oil and ancient
Plants pressed together for eons.
By morning it was gone
But the room was still warm.

Then we got an electric furnace
It purred and Dad could enjoy 
A second cup of coffee before work.
He used the coal room for photography
Later mom stored her supply of food
No more trucks came to entertain us kids
We had to find other ways to amuse ourselves
When summer days waned long and hot.

The Deer

Its body hung from the garage rafter
Nose touching the cement floor
Accusing eyes and a dribble of blood 
Holding my father accountable.

He breathed out slowly
Hands in pockets
Tapping his boots together
Before he retreated to the house.

Throughout that winter
We ate the deer, seared 
Then simmered in the iron pan
As if it were pot roast
Its gamey taste lost 
On my unsophisticated tongue.

Dad continued to hunt with his cronies
Telling stories of tramping through woods
Over mountains and across canyons
But he never again brought home a deer.

One year, he left his rifle in the closet
And took his fishing gear instead
Told us he wouldn't shoot a deer 
Unless it was in self-defense and 
the deer came into camp to get him.

Dad’s Tree

They talked every day over the picket fence
Solving the world's problems as only they could
Gramps held in his hand some errant twig 
He picked up from his lawn after the windstorm.

Dad grabbed it and plunged it into the loam 
Next to the tomatoes on his side of the fence.
Let’s see if this will amount to anything
He winked and Gramps grinned sealing a deal.

Years passed and they watched that stick
Reach high above the garage, leaves spread
To shade a wide circle over brick and cement
Tomatoes flourished out of the blistering sun.

Gramps died; his widow kept vigil out her window
My father watered tomatoes and tree each day
Until she died too and her sons claimed the house.  
One morning, Dad found the tree sawed to the ground.

The Parade

The neighbors are amused
When they see Dad shuffle
Down Redondo every night 
His dogs and a cat following 
In single file behind him.

The corgi waddles with pained steps
while the terrier tiptoes in circles
impatient to pass the old dog.
The cat pauses now and then to preen
And twitch his tail at this daily ritual.

Dad's neighbors love this little show.
It always ends halfway down the block
In front of Cottrell's where they all pivot
And return home in a straight line 
Before crossing his immaculate lawn.

Everyone sighs with the knowledge
That as long as the parade continues 
The kitchen window darkens at nine
Followed soon by the porch light
All is well in Dad's house.

Next morning, the kitchen light flickers on
Talk radio flows through the window 
Along with the rich aroma of coffee. 
That tells all who have known him for decades
That Dad woke up for one more parade.

If you enjoyed these poems, feel free to explore more in the Ring Around the Basin Archives.

I really enjoy the interaction with my readers. Please comment at anytime. I would especially appreciate your show of support by becoming a paid subscriber. Thank you.