Forty years ago, I wrangled my way into my father's secret life for a day. Well, that is how my 8 year-old mind perceived this one special memory.
What are those memories we hold dear? Family vacation? Camp? Birthday party?
Mine involves my dad. Most times, he was an enigma to me. But every now and then, I glimpsed a different man. That was the man I wanted for my father. I wanted the one who talked loudly with his friends; the one who told the jokes and everyone laughed. Not the one who yelled, swore, and intimidated.With us-his two daughters, two sons, and wife-he shouted and didn't tell jokes.
As a parent now, I realize my siblings and I produced stress in his life and his buddies helped alleviate it. I get that. My kids can be a pain in the ass, but they are also an endless source of joy. I'm not sure I was a source of joy for my dad the way my children are for me. Then again, it was a previous generation. Love was revealed differently.
I spied bits and pieces of my dad's alter ego sprinkled throughout my childhood. The first time was after a church service. Mom got caught up talking to the pastor, while Dad slipped by and went outside. I restlessly stayed by my mom's side. I wanted to be outside too in the May sunshine and grass. As she and I left the foyer of the church, I saw Dad. He was with a cluster of other men, about six of them. All their ties had been loosened from around their necks to varying lengths. Dad's face and hands were animated as he talked. Suddenly, all the men burst out laughing. As wives and children appeared, each man left the shrinking circle to shoulder their responsibilities once again.
Occasionally, my family got together with our neighbors for pinochle parties. The grown-ups played cards, while the kids fought and played downstairs. Despite the childish shouts, "Red Rover, Red Rover, send Danny right over," I could hear a man's boisterous laughter reaching my ears through the air vents. It was Dad's. Why couldn't I make him laugh like that?
Every Wednesday in our small town was a livestock sale at the sale barn. My dad went once or twice a month, depending on the weather and work. How I snuck into this bastion of maleness, I can only guess. I suspect Mom dropped Dad off while she went grocery shopping and warned him not to eat any pie at the sale barn cafe. She had apple and peach pie at home.
"Pie? I'm starving. Let me go with Daddy!" would have been my desperate response.
To most people, the smell of cow manure, cherry pie, and coffee seems peculiar, even off-putting, but to me that mixture of odors represents my young hand nestled into my dad's over-sized, calloused farm hand. The only lipstick in this place, was on the woman behind the luncheon counter who my dad briefly flirted with in an attempt to get out of paying 35 cents for his cup of coffee.
Inside the sale barn, I sat next to Dad on the wooden benches that enclosed a large pen that could hold a dozen cattle. We sat next to my favorite neighbor, Leland, who lived down the road a couple miles. "Guten tag, liebchen," he said to me and winked. They two men continued on with their German. My dad spoke only German until he started first grade at the local rural school in Kansas around 1933. Apparently, he managed to retain enough of it to converse with someone else who spoke it infrequently. To this day, I love hearing German spoken.
Their conversation was drowned out by a motherless, baby calf that was pushed into the empty arena. He bawled so loudly for her, the auctioneer had to have him pushed out before bidding could start. Next, a few head of cattle got herded into the well-worn, dirt-covered area. The auctioneer was busy calling and scanning the crowd for potential bidders. His assistant prodded the lumbering animals with a stick to display their girth. I understood more German than whatever words were reeling off the auctioneer's tongue. I looked over at my dad. More men had sat down and joined him and Leland. English replaced the German. I was glad Dad had changed into a clean pair of overalls.
I realize now the cattle sale was just an excuse for him to get away and be amongst his own kind--other hard working farmers, worried about corn, wheat, and cattle prices and the next blizzard. I hope my tagging along didn't ruin his afternoon.
Everything mesmerized me that day. The auctioneer with his unintelligible language, men relaxing, paying for pie, instead of eating their wives' pie that was most assuredly sitting on clean counters at home.
But nothing was as mysterious and wonderful as my father's personality on display for me for an entire afternoon.
