I read A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius over the last few weeks and for whatever reason it got me thinking about my dad, circa my wide-eyed eight year old image of him. More specifically I'm thinking of the year or so when my older brother and I lived with him in Sawyer's Bar, California (we knew it then as the most isolated town in California, and a former miner outpost; later as a hideout for some of the state's largest cocain distributors). He was a firefighter for the National Forest Service then, a strong, bearded, outgoing 32 year old father of three. He'd often head out to fight fires for weeks in the summer, sometimes with only enough notice to scribble us a note in the wee hours of the morning so we'd know where he would be when we woke up and got ourselves to school. He'd return after a few days or a few weeks with a longer beard, a scruffy yellow suit that looked like it weighed a hundred pounds and he'd grab one of us up with one arm while he carried his ax and chainsaw into the house with the other. Or something like that. All I remember from that year are his manly feats, stuff worthy of idolatry by any 8 year old boy, let alone a shy son. I remember, too, the hearty laugh and understanding smile he gave me when, for example, I flew wildly off the back of my horse trying to follow him, scared witless, up an impossible mountain.
But honestly, I never fit the part. The cowboy hat that my mom gave me so I could look like him made me look goofy (luckily he stopped wearing cowboy hats shortly thereafter). I didn't feel comfortable on the back of horse until I was 16. I still can't sail single-handidly, not if my life depended on it. Despite the jealousy I harbored for my dad's adventurous nature I wasn't really interested in anything except books and chess, briefly, until computers and the internet came along. When I travel I sometimes worry. I have no idea why we were living in Sawyer's Bar, without electricity, except that it allowed him to fight fires (rest assured it had nothing to do with the cocain). But when I think about the texture of the fried cheese my dad would sometimes make as we woke up those winter mornings I can't help think that if it wasn't for my dad's adventurous personality I wouldn't be here, in Brooklyn, thousands of miles from him, running a little web company (if you could call it that). The fact is that whenever I do anything that requires a bit of courage I have to think about my dad and what he would do [it!]. And I kick myself for not being more like him and having to think about it. Girls? I'm helpless. My dad? I don't know how he does it (though luckily, again, those times are long gone).
The other weird thing (haha) is that my dad would tell us about the adventures he wanted to go on, or was planning, or went on, and they all sort of became unspoken aspirations of mine. I think of sailing around the world pretty often. Or at least to Hawaii. I consider the fate of Donald Crowhurst with a moment of silence (not really). I often think that I should be riding across the country on a horse, or getting married in Mexico and starting a coffee farm, but I don't know why, exactly. Clearly I'm still baffled by a lot of what my dad did and does, but I'm glad to have his dreams floating around in my head, pushing me ever so slightly to do new things or at least reflect upon the character my dad has developed through his many adventures; cheerful, funny, thoughtful, self-reliant, etc etc.
I've been in Brooklyn for a year and a few days now and I'm reminded that I should get to know my dad better. Maybe I'll get a better hold of myself and all these crazy dreams of mine in the process. Oh, and I have no idea what's wrong with my brothers, they turned out fine.
p.s. sorry if you've been getting random updates via RSS, I've had to mess with some things during this most recent redesign.
photo by Superbomba.
One Year In Brooklyn
06 Aug 2008 | 0 Comments
I read A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius over the last few weeks and for whatever reason it got me thinking about my dad, circa my wide-eyed eight year old image of him. More specifically I'm thinking of the year or so when my older brother and I lived with him in Sawyer's Bar, California (we knew it then as the most isolated town in California, and a former miner outpost; later as a hideout for some of the state's largest cocain distributors). He was a firefighter for the National Forest Service then, a strong, bearded, outgoing 32 year old father of three. He'd often head out to fight fires for weeks in the summer, sometimes with only enough notice to scribble us a note in the wee hours of the morning so we'd know where he would be when we woke up and got ourselves to school. He'd return after a few days or a few weeks with a longer beard, a scruffy yellow suit that looked like it weighed a hundred pounds and he'd grab one of us up with one arm while he carried his ax and chainsaw into the house with the other. Or something like that. All I remember from that year are his manly feats, stuff worthy of idolatry by any 8 year old boy, let alone a shy son. I remember, too, the hearty laugh and understanding smile he gave me when, for example, I flew wildly off the back of my horse trying to follow him, scared witless, up an impossible mountain.
But honestly, I never fit the part. The cowboy hat that my mom gave me so I could look like him made me look goofy (luckily he stopped wearing cowboy hats shortly thereafter). I didn't feel comfortable on the back of horse until I was 16. I still can't sail single-handidly, not if my life depended on it. Despite the jealousy I harbored for my dad's adventurous nature I wasn't really interested in anything except books and chess, briefly, until computers and the internet came along. When I travel I sometimes worry. I have no idea why we were living in Sawyer's Bar, without electricity, except that it allowed him to fight fires (rest assured it had nothing to do with the cocain). But when I think about the texture of the fried cheese my dad would sometimes make as we woke up those winter mornings I can't help think that if it wasn't for my dad's adventurous personality I wouldn't be here, in Brooklyn, thousands of miles from him, running a little web company (if you could call it that). The fact is that whenever I do anything that requires a bit of courage I have to think about my dad and what he would do [it!]. And I kick myself for not being more like him and having to think about it. Girls? I'm helpless. My dad? I don't know how he does it (though luckily, again, those times are long gone).
The other weird thing (haha) is that my dad would tell us about the adventures he wanted to go on, or was planning, or went on, and they all sort of became unspoken aspirations of mine. I think of sailing around the world pretty often. Or at least to Hawaii. I consider the fate of Donald Crowhurst with a moment of silence (not really). I often think that I should be riding across the country on a horse, or getting married in Mexico and starting a coffee farm, but I don't know why, exactly. Clearly I'm still baffled by a lot of what my dad did and does, but I'm glad to have his dreams floating around in my head, pushing me ever so slightly to do new things or at least reflect upon the character my dad has developed through his many adventures; cheerful, funny, thoughtful, self-reliant, etc etc.
I've been in Brooklyn for a year and a few days now and I'm reminded that I should get to know my dad better. Maybe I'll get a better hold of myself and all these crazy dreams of mine in the process. Oh, and I have no idea what's wrong with my brothers, they turned out fine.
p.s. sorry if you've been getting random updates via RSS, I've had to mess with some things during this most recent redesign.
SAHA