THE LUNAR REPORT - "EXTRAORDINARY NEW NAME" Father's Day, 2010
Sometimes I called him, Joe. Most times I called him, Daddy. In the evenings these days, when I have a first cocktail, I raise my glass to the heavens and say, “Cheers Paw-Paw.”
My dad was extraordinary. In almost every way. He was extraordinarily funny. One of the funniest people I have ever known. He was extraordinarily generous. His mom, Mama Moon, told me one time, “Joe would give you the shirt off his back.” He was an extraordinary dancer. My ex-wife and all four of my Mom’s sisters fell in love with the man on the dance floor.
He was extraordinarily other things as well. Some of those other things might please you. Some might shock you. But if Joe had his way, you’d know them all. And it wouldn’t matter a twit to him how you really felt about those things.
He was extraordinary in that way, too.
Daddy was a big man. About six-feet tall. But a bit on the round side. Imagine a six-foot tall Jackie Gleason. That was Joe. He even had the “And awaaaay we gooo” move down pat. Every Saturday before Father’s Day and every July 15, the day before Daddy’s birthday, Joe would leave a couple of twenty dollar bills on the kitchen table before he left for work. He knew we would need that loot to visit Lebo’s Big and Tall Men’s Shop on Laura Street in downtown Jacksonville. For his gift. It was always boxer shorts and tank-top type undershirts. It was tradition. And he loved it. The ones we bought him the year before were almost always worn out by the time Father’s Day and his birthday rolled around again.
The bad thing for Joe was that his birthday came around only about a month after Father’s Day. And Daddy got his favorite meal only two times a year. Father’s Day and his birthday. But this was good for the rest of us, I think. You know. Get it over with quickly. Kind of like pulling off a bandage.
All that Daddy ever wanted for Father’s Day and his birthday was the new underwear and a plate of freshly cooked dried pinto beans, with diced onions and vinegar, and corn bread. Joe had an extraordinary appetite. And taste. Mama always obliged him on those two days. But she also had young and growing children. She knew we could all handle the underwear thing. But we just couldn’t, in Mama’s eyes, go without a more balanced meal. Not even on those two important Daddy days. And my sister and I hated onions and vinegar. That left beans and corn bread.
So to make things right for her children and for Joe, Mama almost always boiled chunks of beef. Stew beef she called it. My sister, in later years, referred to the entire menu as a “depression meal.” You know. Boiled beef and pintos. She had a point.
I guess I’m like every kid. Many memories of Daddy. One comes to mind right now. On one special day of Joe’s – birthday or Father’s Day, I cannot remember which – he did something else extraordinary. I was very young. But this memory stuck with me. It was a Sunday. We were living in Roanoke, Virginia. On his special day, that year, he bought, delivered, set up and installed a swing set in our back yard. For my sister and me. A gift for my sister and me. On HIS day. At the time, that whole thing confused the hell out of me. Since? Well it all makes perfect sense to me now.
In 1970, Joe decided to buy a new car. He took me with him to find the car he wanted. Being included in that meant the world to me back then. It still does. Daddy and I decided on a dark green Chevrolet Impala. It was the first new car our family had ever owned. Joe let me drive it to a friend's house one evening just a couple of days after buying it. I went to Murph’s house. Murph and I were on his front porch when his elderly neighbor decided to back out of her driveway. She backed right into Daddy’s brand new Impala. It left a dent. Nothing more. Just a dent near the left front door.
I was terrified of telling Joe. Mama assured me it was best to just face things. And tell him. She knew the man. At least when it came to things like this. So I told Daddy what had happened. I was shaking as I told him. Disappointed in myself. And in the way I had handled the responsibility Joe had given me.
I said, “Daddy, Murph’s neighbor backed into the car and left a dent on the driver’s side.” Joe was kicked backed in his La-Z-Boy, watching television. He really didn’t want to, but he turned his attention from the television to me. Briefly. And he didn’t leap out of the chair to run outside to survey the damage. He just looked at me. With a smile. And said, “Good. I was afraid I was going to put the first dent in the damned thing.” He then turned back to the crime show he was watching on television. Extraordinary.
Daddy left us way too damned early. But he was an extraordinary Grandfather to at least one of his grandchildren. He got so much pleasure in his later years picking up from school his young granddaughter. It was a regular thing. He loved to complain about how she would change the radio station from some talk channel to a more hip and loud station that pleased my young niece. When he complained to her, she would just look at him and say, “Paw Paw!” But he loved every minute of it. That is such a special relationship. To this day.
My son knew Joe. A little bit. Not enough. But some. My son was only seven when his Paw-Paw left.
My son has children of his own now. His oldest son, almost three, is talking up a storm these days. When I see the little guy, he looks at me, raises his eyebrows and calls my name. Over and over again. That youngster calls my name.
Want to know what it feels like to have a lump in your throat at the same time you experience some extraordinary level of euphoria? Walk in my shoes and hear your own grandchild call your name.
Your new name.
“Paw-Paw.”
Cheers Daddy.
My dad was extraordinary. In almost every way. He was extraordinarily funny. One of the funniest people I have ever known. He was extraordinarily generous. His mom, Mama Moon, told me one time, “Joe would give you the shirt off his back.” He was an extraordinary dancer. My ex-wife and all four of my Mom’s sisters fell in love with the man on the dance floor.
He was extraordinarily other things as well. Some of those other things might please you. Some might shock you. But if Joe had his way, you’d know them all. And it wouldn’t matter a twit to him how you really felt about those things.
He was extraordinary in that way, too.
Daddy was a big man. About six-feet tall. But a bit on the round side. Imagine a six-foot tall Jackie Gleason. That was Joe. He even had the “And awaaaay we gooo” move down pat. Every Saturday before Father’s Day and every July 15, the day before Daddy’s birthday, Joe would leave a couple of twenty dollar bills on the kitchen table before he left for work. He knew we would need that loot to visit Lebo’s Big and Tall Men’s Shop on Laura Street in downtown Jacksonville. For his gift. It was always boxer shorts and tank-top type undershirts. It was tradition. And he loved it. The ones we bought him the year before were almost always worn out by the time Father’s Day and his birthday rolled around again.
The bad thing for Joe was that his birthday came around only about a month after Father’s Day. And Daddy got his favorite meal only two times a year. Father’s Day and his birthday. But this was good for the rest of us, I think. You know. Get it over with quickly. Kind of like pulling off a bandage.
All that Daddy ever wanted for Father’s Day and his birthday was the new underwear and a plate of freshly cooked dried pinto beans, with diced onions and vinegar, and corn bread. Joe had an extraordinary appetite. And taste. Mama always obliged him on those two days. But she also had young and growing children. She knew we could all handle the underwear thing. But we just couldn’t, in Mama’s eyes, go without a more balanced meal. Not even on those two important Daddy days. And my sister and I hated onions and vinegar. That left beans and corn bread.
So to make things right for her children and for Joe, Mama almost always boiled chunks of beef. Stew beef she called it. My sister, in later years, referred to the entire menu as a “depression meal.” You know. Boiled beef and pintos. She had a point.
I guess I’m like every kid. Many memories of Daddy. One comes to mind right now. On one special day of Joe’s – birthday or Father’s Day, I cannot remember which – he did something else extraordinary. I was very young. But this memory stuck with me. It was a Sunday. We were living in Roanoke, Virginia. On his special day, that year, he bought, delivered, set up and installed a swing set in our back yard. For my sister and me. A gift for my sister and me. On HIS day. At the time, that whole thing confused the hell out of me. Since? Well it all makes perfect sense to me now.
In 1970, Joe decided to buy a new car. He took me with him to find the car he wanted. Being included in that meant the world to me back then. It still does. Daddy and I decided on a dark green Chevrolet Impala. It was the first new car our family had ever owned. Joe let me drive it to a friend's house one evening just a couple of days after buying it. I went to Murph’s house. Murph and I were on his front porch when his elderly neighbor decided to back out of her driveway. She backed right into Daddy’s brand new Impala. It left a dent. Nothing more. Just a dent near the left front door.
I was terrified of telling Joe. Mama assured me it was best to just face things. And tell him. She knew the man. At least when it came to things like this. So I told Daddy what had happened. I was shaking as I told him. Disappointed in myself. And in the way I had handled the responsibility Joe had given me.
I said, “Daddy, Murph’s neighbor backed into the car and left a dent on the driver’s side.” Joe was kicked backed in his La-Z-Boy, watching television. He really didn’t want to, but he turned his attention from the television to me. Briefly. And he didn’t leap out of the chair to run outside to survey the damage. He just looked at me. With a smile. And said, “Good. I was afraid I was going to put the first dent in the damned thing.” He then turned back to the crime show he was watching on television. Extraordinary.
Daddy left us way too damned early. But he was an extraordinary Grandfather to at least one of his grandchildren. He got so much pleasure in his later years picking up from school his young granddaughter. It was a regular thing. He loved to complain about how she would change the radio station from some talk channel to a more hip and loud station that pleased my young niece. When he complained to her, she would just look at him and say, “Paw Paw!” But he loved every minute of it. That is such a special relationship. To this day.
My son knew Joe. A little bit. Not enough. But some. My son was only seven when his Paw-Paw left.
My son has children of his own now. His oldest son, almost three, is talking up a storm these days. When I see the little guy, he looks at me, raises his eyebrows and calls my name. Over and over again. That youngster calls my name.
Want to know what it feels like to have a lump in your throat at the same time you experience some extraordinary level of euphoria? Walk in my shoes and hear your own grandchild call your name.
Your new name.
“Paw-Paw.”
Cheers Daddy.
Please visit the sites of some of my friends.
Comments