Dadalot

Dad, as a boy in Racine, Wisconsin

When my son was about this same age we had, it seemed, all the neighbor boys over all the time. In and out of the house, swords and rocks and slingshots littering the lawn, our small dining room filled with noise and elbows and smeared pizza. Sometimes I'd say to my husband, "Won't they ever go home?"

My dad loved coming to visit with all this racket and ruckus. Once we were all outside and one kid, a really handsome 9-year-old--he looks like a young George Clooney, I kid you not--was sitting very quietly on our stoop. Dad knew about the kid's parents.

He said, "J. what are you doin' sitting there by yourself?" My dad is not subtle.

"Nothin'"

"I heard your folks got divorced," my dad said and sat down on the cement stairs beside the kid.

"Yeah."

"I know what that's like. My folks divorced, too, when I was a kid."

"Yeah?" says J., and he finally looks over at my dad.

"Yeah. It's kinda hard, huh?" says my dad.

"Yeah," J. said. Then he got up and ran out to our backyard, looking relieved to be playing with the gang again.

***

My dad's graduation picture, 1954?

My dad and I butt heads a lot. He is not patient. He is loud. He'd rather do than teach. If I take a different road home and he's in the car, he'll look over at me all agitated and say, "Why are you taking this way home?" When I tell him because it's a prettier route or a less-crowded street, he just looks forward at the road and tells me, "But it's not any faster."

Some time back I flew out to San Diego for the funeral of my cousin Jim, who was my age and was born with Down's Syndrome. He had lived at least four decades beyond his original life expectancy. My mom and dad were very attached to Jim, my dad especially.

I took a cab from the airport and just as it pulled up to my aunt's house my dad, who was then about 60 and had been out waiting for me, rushed out to the street, ready to pay the cabbie. But I jumped out to say, "I got it. Don't let him pay." This time my dad didn't give me the look but instead took my bag out of the trunk and brought it into the crowded house. He seemed really glad to see me.

Later that day my cousin Kane, who is a cop in L.A., said that as they got older men started to become androgynous, losing their testosterone and gaining too much estrogen. He said, "My dad is becoming a woman and your dad is wearing velcro shoes." My dad was wearing velcro shoes and elastic waist pants but he looked strong and helpful and ready to be in charge. He did all the right things those four days of our mourning. He didn't talk too loud or too long, didn't get bossy or pouty, made beef brisket and potato casserole for everyone at night, eggs and ham for everyone in the morning. My aunt had just divorced for the second time and not only was she crazy with grief for losing dear Jim, she was so furious at her ex. My dad didn't cringe with she called all men assholes or when my other aunt acted high-strung or flaky.

After the funeral, sitting together on the porch, one of the aunts pointed out that I had a broken finger just like my dad. He and I both opened our hands to the air to display our crooked ring fingers. We talked about the similarities among my mom and her two sisters: who had Papa Teubert's mouth (Aunt Suzie) and Grandma Nelly's eyes (Aunt Pat) and Grandma Teubert's nose (no one, thank God), and Aunt Sue said to me: "You look just like your dad."

"I know," I said, "I really do."