Dad about questions of life and politics. But, as she frequently observed, my brothers and I would alwayslisten for the last word from “our hero”—Dad’s end of the table.Sometimes Dad would talk about things that didn’t interest any of us at all—or so we thought. For example,when Dad was in his 50’s, he joined a small group of men who read about a topic and presented a paper to theothers once each year. One year, Dad’s paper was on UFO’s. By the end of the year, the whole family waslooking in the night skies for extra-terrestrials.I will always carry with me memories of growing up with Dad, almost all of them pleasant. He got angry atme from time to time, but I remembered thinking later that I deserved it most of the time. I remember himhitting me only once, and I distinctly remember deserving it then.But there were other memories I will remember more.When I was about nine years old, I remember having a paper route. It was always dark and sometimes coldwhen I would get up and walk the silent and familiar streets by myself during the weekdays and on Saturdays.On Sunday mornings, Dad would drive because the papers were heavy. My brother and I would sit on thetailgate of the family station wagon, and jump off and deliver the papers.Dad’s breath would always smell of coffee; in the winter, he would wear his heavy coat. Dad never oncecomplained about getting up early on what was probably his only day to sleep late. In fact, he gave everyindication of looking forward to doing it with us. When we were done, he would go upstairs to wake mymother and then their day would begin.The house that we lived in after I was ten was surrounded by fields and woods. We had a tractor to mow thefields and move the large rocks, and I was Dad’s partner in these adventures. I would drive, and Dad woulddo the work. What better arrangement could there have been for a boy too old for toys but too young for a car?Dad was famous (among the family) for his profanity when things didn’t go together quite right, or quicklyenough to please him. I learned quite a number of fascinating words from Dad—words I would repeat to myfriends to impress them.Dad was a source of adventure as well as knowledge. In my 16
th
year, Dad and I and a friend of mine made a pilgrimage up to his roots in upstate New York. We towed the 19-foot boat Dad had made in our basement.I’ll never forget Dad turning to me on the Massachusetts Turnpike and saying that he wanted me to drive so hecould snooze a little. I was driving the largest vehicle on that turnpike that day, for sure!!When we arrived, we put the boat into the St. Lawrence River, visited some of his relatives, and then took off upriver on a camping expedition. It was raining and blowing, and the relatives told Dad not to chance it, butthat didn’t stop Dad a bit. We battled the wind and waves for days on end, and ended up arriving back safe,sound and dry. Only much later did I realize the importance to Dad of that trip: Dad had fulfilled his own boyhood dream of exploring a river that he had loved as a young man. And we had been with him. Dad had been himself (and sometimes more—I never heard him belch so loudly before or since that trip), and we hadshared that with him.Dad is changing—he’s finally growing old.Dad and Mother visited our family for Thanksgiving this year. They had not been to Oregon in the last fiveyears, and they marveled at the changes in our home as well as all the new buildings in Portland.We spent most of the next three days together, going to shops, eating turkey and the trimmings with friendsand neighbors, and catching up on things. We talked a lot—about family, about children, about politics, andabout each other. Dad was sharp and incisive, the way he has always been. He had his opinions and heexpressed them; they made sense and he was fun to listen to and debate with.Dad was more energetic in the morning. When he and Mother came over to our house from the bed and breakfast inn down the street, he was ready to go. He didn’t have to go anywhere, but he had to do something.Sometimes he would pick up a book and start to read; sometimes he would go downstairs and practice a golf game on the computer so that my son wouldn’t be able to beat him so badly later that day.In the afternoon, he would begin to tire. One day, we were in the car waiting for Mother and my wife to comeout of a shop where they were buying some wrapping paper. Dad had been sleeping as we were driving towardthe shop, and I expected him to wake up when we arrived, as the motion of the car and soothing vibrations of the engine stopped. But he continued to sleep, and I looked over at him as he slept. His skin was tanned from2
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