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I’ll never forget the day my friend asked me, “Does your dad have a mustache?” In my mind I went over and over every image I could muster of my father, but when I’d zoom in on his chin and upper lip…nothing. Not a clean shave or a bushy beard, or even a well trimmed ‘stash, it was as if the one who took the picture blurred that part of the photo on purpose.
“You don’t know?!” My friend shot back. “How long have you known your dad?” I hung my head and chuckled.
“I guess I never noticed. When I look at him, I just see my dad.”
It’s funny, the more you know a person, the less you see him, and, too, the more you see him. You notice that he eats his popcorn right after complaining of being too full after dinner, but you can’t remember if he’s tall or short. You can hear the sound of his laughter filling the house even when you’re alone in it, but you can’t remember his birthday.
I remember the night dad took me down into the basement of our old house on Denison to show me how the piping worked, or the electricity…hmm? Well, he knew what he was talking about.
I think I was studying something vaguely related in my science book, so down we went to the smallest room of the house. A light bulb hung on a string in the adjacent room, and just enough light seeped in for us to squint our eyes and see the outline of the pipes.
I’ve always noticed surroundings, and never failed to take everything in but what I was supposed to pay attention to. That moment was no exception. What I remember is how much I loved that little room. I can see it, dark, dingy, a little window up in the corner, and barely big enough to fit the two of us. I was so close to my dad that the arm of his t-shirt hung over my face as he pointed to this pipe and that one. He asked if I was paying attention. And I was. Drinking in the moonlight, and I was etching my daddy’s young intent face into my memory. Being so close, and learning from him, that was my job.
He told me a lot of numbers, and I remember being real obedient in my stature, if not in my facial expression. I remember the moment as if he took me there a second ago. It’s funny the tid bits we have left in the mind, and what we don’t. It’s not always obvious why some parts are deleted and some are kept, inadvertently. But I think I remember this moment because that’s what I love about my dad. He could explain your ear off about a lot of things that are important, things you need to know to keep on going, and he cares so much for you to know it, because if you get into a jam, then you’ll know how to get out of it.
As for me, I could sketch a drawing of every inch in that room, the window pane and dingy tools lying around, the upswept floor and mysteriously strewn red bandanas. Just don’t ask me if, in the moonlight, my dad’s face is clean shaven or hairy, ask me how I love him.
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