nights with dad

This post was originally published on April 22, 2008.

I remember the nights I used to spend with my dad outside when I was young. I'd say at about nine or ten years old, I would stay up late on Fridays and Saturdays and hang out as my dad worked on stuff.

Bugs flew every which way, filling up the space around the hanging light enclosed in a protective wire shell, allowing us to see. The air smelled fresh, almost foreign, for these were the first nights I soaked in what it felt like to be outside in the middle of nowhere, 100 feet from cow pastures and maize, both acting as fences. All that topped with the distant howl of a freight train a mile away.

Sometimes I would sit and organize tools that my dad had to repeatedly remind me of the functions. We wouldn't really talk; I would ask an occasional question and he would answer in his deep, soothing, countrified voice. At the time, I didn't realize he had an accent.

Other times, I would ask to help him screw in some part of the motor or offer my excellent light holding abilities. I really thought I helped him out those times I had to wash my hands with GoJo. It felt nice to doodle around in a grownup's belongings.

One time, we organized his whole shop and I found a place for every screw, bolt, nut, you name it, I found a place for it. I spent hours looking through the years of buildup, especially when I came across my old kitchenette complete with plastic coffee cups and plates. There were even plastic food items, like fries and ketchup.

Dad let me clean out his desk and I found old 8 track tapes and a pen that when turned upside down, revealed the naked body of a woman. Let's also not forget the Mr. Peanut pen that, no matter how much I scribbled on a piece of paper, had no ink.

Mom would already be in bed by the time we finally walked through the door for the last time. I would lock it, and he'd double check. We'd eat cereal together, too, not saying much there either. I still, at 25, eat cereal at night.

My dad will tell you that he is a man of few words, which is ironic, I know. I would have to somewhat agree. I definitely know that five minutes into a phone conversation, a series of one-worded responses will soon follow. I know it's a signal to wrap up. Sometimes, I question if I really know the inner workings of this man who I am a part of.

I am no longer the needy daddy's girl, but I do try and simulate those bonding moments we had that have now slipped away. I've offered to help my dad when a part on my car needs tightening or when he has to work on his own mess of cars. When I helped him set his timing chain on his Buick, I had to stick my finger into the engine while he started it. We calculated the timing together and got the car's engine to finally turn over. He gave me this look that was a mixture of surprise and pride. It was a good feeling.

It took me back to those quiet nights.