Father's Day Tid-Bits

I was 28 and Mark (my brother) was 27 and Dad had died about 3 years before. Mark was driving us somewhere and there was a cardboard box in the road. "Don't hit the box. There could be a puppy inside." Mark laughed and looked at me like I was nuts. "Didn't Dad ever tell you that? He and I were driving somewhere and he told me not to hit this plastic bag in the road because it might have a puppy in it."

Mark laughed and said," Puppy, hell, he told me it was a baby! How did you get off so easy?"

Dad had just been chewing out my baby brother Jason about something and Jason was the only one who had not come to the dinner table. To understand this story you need to know that in our house you could say whatever you wanted to say no matter how crass or crude or disrespectful or honest or heartfelt - as long as it was funny. God help you if it was not funny.

Like I said, the whole family was at the table and Jason was apparently not coming since he and Dad had just had it out. Dad looked into the living room from his chair at the table and said, "Does it make you feel bad when I look at you with this face?"

Jason shot back, "You got another one?" And the rest of us just cracked up. I am not talking about polite laughter or a few giggles. I am talking about red-faced, tears down the cheeks laughing. I think Mark may have shot mashed potato out of his nose. At least I hope to God that was potato. And my mom cackled. If you have ever heard my mom laugh uncontrollably, then you know that "cackled" is the only what to describe it.

I looked at my Dad and he was smiling and smirking and I could tell he was struggling to come up with a reply. He just HAD to say something in rebuttal but was coming up blank. "Hush," I said, "there is nothing you are thinking of that will top that line. He won. Shut up and eat your pork chop." That was the only time in my life that I EVER told my dad to shut up and he was smirking at me as he bit into this pork chop.

I was 13 years old and was laying in my parents bed next to my dad and we were having one of our Saturday night conversations. I have written about them before - we would talk about anything and everything and I would almost always come away having learned something. This time, I think my dad might have learned something. My dad told me the story of the Titanic and how the survivors could hear the people in the water and how some of the last life boats were full of people and even one more person would cause the boat to capsize and kill everyone.

My dad had a way with words and painted the picture of the the icy cold water and the total inky blackness where voices of misery and hopelessness would find their way into your soul. "What would you do? What could you do in that situation?"

Did I mention I was 13? As you might be able to tell, I never got the feeling that Dad dumbed things down for me. I sat there and thought about the situation for a bit and then came up with an answer. I didn't like my answer much. I did not really want to say it. But I finally said, " I guess I would do the Christian thing."

Dad jumped on this. What was the Christian thing? Leave the people in the water to die so as not to sacrifice the others in the boat? Pull the others in and all die together? He reminded me that if one more person was on the boat, it would sink and kill everyone.

I replied, "That's why I am saying you would have to do the Christian thing. Christ took our spot on the cross. As a Christian, you gotta get out of that boat. You have to give up your seat for one of the folks in the water. You've been saved. You don't know if the person in the water has yet. You have to buy them more time to find Christ. You know you're going to heaven"

Dad just looked at me. I have thought about that look for years and years now. Back then, my dad knew everything and never ever made a mistake and I was convinced this whole thing had been an exercise to lead me to this revelation. Now, I know my dad had his own flaws and foibles and I honestly think I solved a puzzle that he could not.

My dad and I car pooled to Valdosta State College when we were both going to school. One afternoon on the ride home he seemed particularly annoyed. I asked him what was up and he said that his anthropology professor had ticked him off. The guy had said that only the woman was certain of who the father was of her children.

That hit Dad wrong. If you have read the story about my Grandpa, you know the kind of things that can happen if things hit a Mancil wrong. Dad challenged the professor. I believe his exact words were, "You don't know what the hell you are talking about!"

He went on to say, "If she were that much of a slut, even she won't know who the father is. She might be able to narrow it down to the Northern Fleet, but that would be about it. Other than that, your statement, given with the full authority of your professorship, has all the worth of a cold, crusty turd."

The professor, an obviously shrewd man, apologized to my father if he had said something that offended him and then asked why my dad was so emotionally invested in this. My dad responded with, "I have a wife at home. I have no idea what she is doing right now, but I promise you, that whatever it is, I approve of it."

And ladies and gentlemen, if you were wondering what kind of trust you must have in a marriage - that is it. You have to trust blindly and totally and if you can't or if your partner is not worthy, then you don't need to be married.

We had a washing machine that was on the fritz. It would get stuck in the agitate cycle and just ruin a load of clothes. The Sears repairman had been out about 3 times and still had not gotten it fixed. It had only ruined some the work clothes that us boys used at that point. But then, one night, it got stuck and ruined an entire load of my mom's clothes that she wore as a teacher. They were a little more expensive than the t-shirts and stuff that had gone before and this was also the fourth time this happened and did I mention it was my MOM's clothes?

Well, she wound my dad up good and then sent us all off to Sears with the washing machine in the back of the truck. We pulled around back of the Sears and Dad had us dump the washing machine on the back of their loading dock. I think Mom's ruined clothes were still in the stinking thing.

I was about 15 or so and Mark is 18 months younger than me and we are quiet as Dad leads us through the back entrance of the store. I still wonder about what the folks thought as they saw us coming through there. I wonder even more about what they thought when we came back through.

We came out on the sales floor by the customer service desk where the manager was located. This issue had gone on so long that the guy knew my dad by name. He asked my dad how he could help and Dad responded, " The washing machine you sold me is F'd up. I want another one." You all know what "F'd" means, right? I am trying to maintain the illusion that this is family friendly.

We walked all through the store heading to the large appliance section with the manager offering another service trip, to replace the motor on the machine, and anything else he could think of to deal with this crazy person and his two sons plowing through his store. To everything the man said, my dad replied, "The washing machine you sold me is F'd up. I want another one."

We finally get to the washing machine area and Dad asks Mark, "Baby, is that about like the one we had?" Mark replied that it was and I remember being amazed that he could speak. I don't know if I could have.

"Load it up," and we did. As I bent down to pick it up, I looked at the store manager and gave him a look that I hope said, "I know this is nuts but I have to live with him."

We proceeded to go back the exact way we came in only this time carrying a washing machine. To every protest, my dad's only reply was ,"The washing machine you sold me is F'd up. I want another one."

When we got to the loading dock, Mark again found his voice to point out that this washing machine did not have a drain hose and so Dad ripped the one from the old washing machine off and threw that into the back of the truck. We loaded up the new washing machine and left. Never signed anything or paid anything or said anything other than," The washing machine you sold me is F'd up. I want another one." And that washing machine lasted my mom another 2o plus years. When it finally gave up the ghost, Mark went over to her house and stripped parts off of it. I still have the starter knob from that washing machine in my medicine cabinet right now.

I was working night shift at the Walmart DC in Douglas and I would get home around 2 or 3 in the morning and sometimes my dad would be sitting up in his hospital bed that we had in the living room and we would talk for a little bit before I went to bed.

I remember on this night I was in an especially good mood for some reason. I walked in through the kitchen door and had a big stupid grin on my face. And then I saw my Dad crying. I had never seen my Dad cry. I came up to his bed and stood just out of reach. If he could not reach me, then this might not be real. He reached out for me and whispered, "Come here."

And I took his hand and he pulled me into him and wrapped his arms around me as I wrapped mine around him. I felt his stubble on my neck and could smell his distinct scent as well as old cigarette smoke. And he cried. I have no idea how long. I held him. He held me. And he cried.

We all knew by this point that he was dying and we all decided that we would not bury him until he was dead. We were ALL going to live for as long as ALL of us were living. That night was the one and only time our decided reality was interrupted by the one the rest of you live in. Finally, he sniffed loudly, right in my ear. "Okay," he said. "Go to bed."

And I went to bed. I woke up the next day and I never said anything about it and neither did he. It was like it had never happened. And I never told anyone about it either. No one. Not my mom or my brothers or even my wife. This is the first time I have even written about it.

There was an older man in our church named Joe who really enjoyed talking to my dad. Dad would spend hours talking to Joe. When Joe was in hospice and finally ready to leave this world, our preacher and Dad went to visit him. The preacher told this story at Dad's funeral saying that Dad taught him about service and ministering during this visit. Joe had complained about this feet being sore. Dad moved his chair down to the foot of the bed and took off Joe's socks and spent the rest of the visit conversing with the other two men while rubbing Joe's feet. The preacher said that the relief was obvious and Joe thanked Dad profusely as they left that night.

I like a lot of you folks who will be reading this blog. I have some really close ties to some of you. I don't know if I will ever touch your damn feet.

I was thirteen and riding back from the sawmill with Dad one summer afternoon reading one of my comic books when he looked over at me and said," I really enjoy talking with you. You don't look at the world the way everyone else does." I still consider this the best, greatest, most meaningful compliment that I have ever gotten in my entire life. There is an idea in the South that you are not a man until your father acknowledges that you are a man. This was my moment.

Jason named his daughter Raelyn - Ray for my dad and lyn for my mom, Carolyn. Dad was fresh out of the hospital and I was driving him over to see his first grandchild for the first time when he looked over at me and said, "Raelyn, huh. You think we should feel honored?"

"Are you serious? YOU should. She is named after you and Mom. I am just along for the ride." I still have no idea if the man was really thick enough to think that I figured into the naming or if he was trying to be nice to me.

Best of all I was there with Raelyn and her parents when Dad got to hold her. He only did it once and she is the only grandchild that he ever met on this side of heaven.

I was 14 and Mark was 12 and we got into a foot race with Dad. We ran from the highway, down the dirt road to our house, down our drive to the kitchen door. And Dad beat us. It was not even close. He was huffing and puffing and Mom was worried that he would have a heart attack. And he was so freaking happy! He was laughing and smiling in between coughing and sputtering and he was the epitome of JOY.

My cousins, Micah and Amy, were the ones who had to tell me that my dad died. I was living in Statesboro, GA, going to school and rooming with Micah. Amy drove me the two hours home to Douglas. We went straight to the funeral home around 11pm only to find that my mom had not allowed them to move the body from the hospital until I got there.

It was a smart move on her part. I had been to that room and rooms like it for the past several years as Dad was in and out of hospitals slowly dying of heart disease. It was strange how we adjusted each time. Dad would be in bad health and you would think it could not get any worse. He would go to the hospital, come out and it would be worse. And then we would do it again and again over and over for the last couple of years of his life.

I walked into the room and I remember seeing my mom standing near him. I know Mark was in the room and I think my cousin Joanne might have been there too but I am not sure. I went to his bed without really saying anything to anyone. I looked down at him and he was not really there any more.

I understood why some pictures of ghosts have the wailing face with the open mouth frown. My dad lay there with just such a frown on his face and with his eyes not quite closed. I put my hand on his chest and the other hand on his hair and bent down to kiss his forehead. "Baby, he's cold," warned my mother.

I never said anything but I was ever so briefly annoyed with her for that. He had been dead for hours - of course he would be cold. Did she think I was that naive? And then my lips touched his forehead and it was the coldest, most pervasive lack of warmth I have ever felt in my life. I kept my lips there in defiance of the cold. When faced with death there is not anything of consequence that you can do, but I held my lips to his forehead until my own lips grew cold and only then did I pull away.

I was 17 and with some friends of mine at school a couple of hours after school was over when we saw my dad and my brother Mark at the far end of the student parking lot. He was a truck driver at this point and mom was teaching by now and he had come up to tell her bye and had seen my brother and stopped to hug him good bye too. Janet Taylor, a friend of mine, looked at me and said, "What's wrong?" I gave her a quizzical look because I really did not know what she was talking about. "Why is he hugging him?"

"My dad just does that. He is going out on a trip for a few days so if we are around when he leaves, he hugs us." I did not tell her the rest of the story. A few weeks before this, Dad had told us boys that he was a bad father. He explained that since his family - his parents - had died when he was so young that he had not learned to be affectionate. He remembered being a little boy and trying to tell one of his aunts what he wanted for Christmas and at an all too young age, realizing that she did not care. He had spent most of his life learning to not be that vulnerable ever again.

He said that he was sorry for being such a bad father and that even though it did not come naturally to him, he was going to hug us from time to time. And he asked us to understand that he loved us dearly no matter how awkward his signs of affection might seem. And with that, he made a point of hugging us at odd times for no apparent reason at all. Yeah. Such a bad father.