Father's Day

I’m a father of two boys. My oldest, Jackson, is an incredibly imaginative six year old whose thoughts are usually racing so fast that rules only get in the way. He reminds me of myself. It always seemed to take something impactful to drive home my Dad’s way of doing things. It’s not that I didn’t understand what was expected of me, I did. It was that I never could fight off those voices in my head assuring me that if I just went for it, the reward would definitely be worth the pain. Most times, those voices were my downfall.

With that said two stories of discipline from my childhood really shaped my views toward parenthood and how to herd the cats of Jackson’s mischief.

My Dad is a very, very routine person. Everything has a routine. Every task has an order and an expected outcome. Yard work was the best example his special brand of neuroses. My parents are geniuses. They somehow designed a half acre lot that was capable of supporting 7,841 pine trees. It was incredible. My numbers might be a tad off, but this was how my mind’s eye perceived it. For those of you that may not be familiar with the hell that is maintaining pine trees, it goes something like this. They are too tall to climb (this is critical to a growing boy), and they shed incessantly. They shed pine cones that make it impossible to walk through the yard barefooted without being hobbled by splinters. They shed pine straw that will kill all of your grass. Finally, they drip pine tar that will de-value your vehicle faster than plastic spinner rims.

Therefore, mowing this small yard was a process that went something like this: Pick up any sticks on the ground >>> bag them, and put on the street for pick up >>> pick +/- 2000 pine cones >>> bag them, and put on the street for pick up >>> rake pine straw for 2+ hours >>> pile on street corner for the mulch guys to pick up >>> riding mower >>> trimming mower >>> re-rake clippings >>> blow off drive-way and pool deck >>> skim pool. This process usually took about 4 hours for a half-acre yard. So needless to say, as an early teen I could think of many better ways to spend my Saturday mornings.

One Saturday in particular really sticks out to this day. It started with a 7:00 a.m. wake up call from Dad, who told me to grab some breakfast and get started on the yard. I groaned. Twenty minutes later, same script. Ten minutes later, you guessed it, same script. Finally, he wings my door open and gives me the ultimatum. “Son, I’m gonna run down to city hall and grab some groceries from Myatt’s (local grocery store). If you haven’t started on this yard by the time I get back, I am going to tear your ass up!” OK, here’s something I want to clarify about my Dad. He was not the disciplinarian in my family. He was mostly a talker, whereas I still wake up in the middle of the night, screaming at the thought of my Mom with a tiny switch. In fact, just typing that caused the back of my legs to tingle.

So, this threat did not fall on deaf ears. If he said it, he meant it. So, I quickly closed my eyes and dozed off for a few more minutes. It was the only logical thing to do. I figured that I would run grab the pine cones, screw the other 74 steps and mow the front yard before he got back. I guess I thought he would be so marveled by my efficiency that he would overlook my process short-comings.

In one of my earlier blogs I discussed “Nolan luck.” If you are familiar with that blog, you should already know what’s coming next.

I hopped out of bed; quickly picked up what pine cones I could, and ran to the back yard to jump on the riding mower. This mower was great. It was produced some time shortly after the civil war and was mostly held together by years of caked on clippings stuck to the frame. It usually took a good four of five yanks of the cord to wake the old girl up, so I wasn’t too surprised when it didn’t crank right away. However, maybe it was the 95 degree June temperature, or the 100% humidity, but I really think it was a combination of pulling the cord 130 times and fear that caused me to collapse on to the grass. I couldn’t bear to pull that cord one more time, so I tried other methods. I beat on the top of the engine with my fists, kicked the tires, cursed at it, even spit on it. No luck.

That’s when I heard it; the whine of my Dad’s car pulling in to the driveway. “James Devan!!!” He marched to the back yard never breaking eye contact as I frantically tried to explain how I had been sabotaged by the demon machine. And wouldn’t you know it. My old man walked straight up, grabbed the cord, and the damn thing purred like a new Ferrari. Oh no. He quickly looked up at me, pointed his finger in my face, and lowly growled “go get my belt.” Needless to say, I should have just push mowed the yard afterward since I wasn’t able to fully take advantage of the ability to sit down while mowing.

But this taught me something. Maybe the mower should not have been the key piece of evidence to guide his decision. Couldn’t he see my desperation? But, as a parent I now understand how tricky it can be to distinguish between the desperation of a child that’s trying to please, versus a child that’s trying to cover something up. I try so hard not to rush to punishment. I try.

The second story is quite the opposite. I was about sixteen years old and the world was my oyster. I had a little Toyota pick-up truck where I spent most of my time. What better way to get in to trouble that to have the ability to do it away from home! The only problem was there wasn’t a lot to do riding the back roads of South Mississippi. One day in particular I found a fool proof plan to waste time. I would go shoot stuff. We had a few guns hanging out around the house, and I had been shooting since a child. I had taken hunter’s safety class, so I had to be an expert, right?

I grabbed a little .22 revolver, and some extra ammo, and headed down to the creek to shoot some cans. I drove up to the creek bank, cranked up some music and began loading the pistol. Once it was loaded, I decided I would practice cocking and releasing the hammer a few times, like you see on TV. The hammer on this pistol was really long and not very ergonomic to my teenage hands. Sure enough, the first time I went to release it, my thumb slipped off of the hammer, causing a round to discharge. Now, that’s a really diplomatic way of saying that I shot a dang gun in my truck. My initial focus was whether or not I would ever hear again. After about fifteen minutes, the ringing subsided and my focus quickly shifted to the hole in my windshield. How in the world was I going to explain this?

I drove home, parked where my parents couldn’t see my windshield and mentioned nothing of the event. Then, as my parents drifted off to sleep, my plan was put in to motion. Disclaimer: I HAD ABSOLUTELY NO CLUE WHAT TEMPERED GLASS WAS. No one ever explained to me that car windows actually have a layer of plastic in the middle to keep them from exploding should something strike them. My plan was simple. I would drive to work early the next day, only to return in frustration over the fact that a mysterious dump truck threw a rock through my windshield. One problem, the hole was too symmetrical. It was too clean. So, I snuck out to my truck, grabbed a decent sized rock and began trying to force it through the hole.

Thank God it was dark. I can only imagine what someone would’ve thought had they seen me standing on my hood, staring at my windshield, crying at the realization that my plan would never work. I would have to own up to this one.

Defeated, I slinked back inside, quietly woke my Mom and explained to her my misdeeds. In a haze of exhaustion she sighed and told me to go back to bed. Paranoia sets in. When was it coming? I barely slept that night until my door opened at 4:30 a.m. My Mom poked her head in and said “Jamey, come tell your father what you’ve done.” Oh God, anything but that. I stumbled into my parents’ room and laid down on the bed next to my Dad who was barely awake. He muttered, “What did you do this time?” as he raised his arms and rested his hands on his forehead. “Dad, I messed up. I took the .22 out to the creek and accidently shot a hole through my windshield.” Seconds seemed like hours. Finally he softly sighed, almost like a prayer “You are so, so stupid. Go back to bed.”

When I got up for school nothing was mentioned. Not one word. I got dressed; duct taped the hole, and went to school. However, when I came home Dad was waiting for me in the driveway. He hopped in the truck and told me that we needed to go see a man about something. We met up with the man who had a mobile home full of junk. It stunk to high heaven. Dad then told me to grab the hand truck and retrieve an old refrigerator from the mobile home. We loaded it up and headed back to the house with not one word mentioned of what we were doing. As I unloaded it, Dad returned outside with dish soap, bleach, some scrub brushes, and steel wool. “Make it shine” he said, as he smiled and walked away. Three or four decades can create some very interesting smells and stains inside a frig. I dry heaved more than once. Some hours later, it looked brand new. Dad got it working again, and sold it off to a friend of his for just enough money to replace the windshield.

It was a powerful lesson, but not for the obvious reason. I was old enough to understand that mistakes take work to fix. I also understood that some mistakes can never be fixed. But, what he really taught me was grace and mercy. He could have easily screamed at me or made me feel ashamed. But he knew I was already ashamed. He took the opportunity to allow me to work it off, rather than taking it out of my rear end or my self esteem. I was spared, not spoiled. I’ve never forgotten it. It’s something I go back to over and over again. It taught me not to pile on. I can see when Jackson is ashamed or afraid. It’s the saddest look I’ve ever seen. But trust me, nothing makes that look of fear and shame disappear faster than when he knows that I understand how he feels. He still has to work to fix the mistake, but only the mistake.

Thanks Dad, I love you. Happy Father’s Day!