Mighty Mac

The December wind slices through my coat as I load the last box into the SUV. Mom and Dad's things, years of memories, bound for Goodwill. Five years without Dad. Two without Mom. My eyes avoid the For Sale sign in the yard as I step back inside the house. There is only one task left. Dad's coat is waiting in the closet. Hanging there—alone, like a vigilant guardian.

The old floor creaks under my steps as I move down the hall. Entering my parents' bedroom, their bed still stands against the wall, the last piece of furniture in the house. Opening the closet door, I find it empty except for the heavy brown coat with its thick fur collar. Dad had christened it Mighty Mac.

Reaching in, I pull the coat from the closet, the weight far heavier than my own winter jacket. I settle onto the bed, its springs creaking softly beneath me. I spread the coat across my lap. Its design pure 1975—marked by years of Dad's winter battles.

My thumb catches on a stiff dark patch of brown just above the coat’s right pocket: the coffee stain from the winter of ’78. That was the year of the Big One. Snow piled two feet high, the wind whipping and driving the temperature into the single digits. Most faced it with dread, but not Dad. He couldn't wait to get out there and go to war. He wrapped his head in a thick wool scarf, leaving only his blue eyes uncovered, sharp and gleaming against the winter glare. He pulled on Mighty Mac like armor, slid on his heavy steel shank arctics, and gripped the snow shovel like a broadsword—his small thermos of hot coffee stuffed in Mac's deep pocket.

He cleared our driveway first. I tried to help but mostly got in the way. He worked steadily, like a human snowplow, stacking the snow into a ponderous white tower along the side. He took a coffee break halfway through the job. Pouring liquid from a thermos while wearing thick gloves was no easy task. After a few fumbles, he spilled the half-full cup onto Mighty Mac, leaving a brown splotch over the pocket. A short burst of words I wasn't allowed to say filled the air, but Dad quickly convinced himself it simply added character.

With our driveway finally cleared, Dad told me to go inside and warm up. I turned to leave and asked, “Don’t you need to warm up, Dad?” He grinned, “I don’t need to, son. Mac makes me feel like I’m in Miami.” He then attacked the elderly neighbors’ driveway and cleared it in minutes. Mrs. Jackson always thanked him with a plate of chocolate chip cookies, most of which I ate.

I slide my finger away from the coffee stain and along the coat until it rests on a rip on the right sleeve. By the mid-’80s, Mighty Mac was a winter legend. The week-long front in ‘84 felt directly imported from the North Pole–twenty below zero with the wind chill. Otto, our miniature Schnauzer, stood at the door wanting out. Dad patted him on the head, “Three minutes, little buddy. It's too cold to be out there for long.”

Dad opened the door, and Otto trotted into the Arctic blast, little legs pumping furiously, nose twitching against the icy wind. Then Dad’s voice thundered through the neighborhood: “Someone left the front gate open!” Otto was an escape artist, a miniature Houdini who never turned down an opportunity to run wild. He bolted straight through the open gate like a fifteen-pound rocket. Freedom!

Dad yanked on Mighty Mac and threw on his shoes and wool hat. I scrambled off the couch, pulling on my own coat and boots, but Dad–mid-fifties body and all–moved with purpose. He was already pounding down the street, shouting, “Otttttoooooo!” When I finally stepped outside and the stinging cold hit me, I could see Dad at the far end of the street, clutching Otto like a tiny furry prize won at the carnival. Otto was panting, eyes wide and victorious, as if to say, “See? Look what I did!” Dad marched back through the gate. Shaking his head. “Wildman. The dog thinks he's Carl Lewis. Didn't get very far, did you, buddy? Lucky I caught you before you froze your butt off.”

He let out a few more grumbles as we all stepped back into the warm, cozy house. As he took off Mighty Mac, he turned the coat around and checked the back of the right sleeve. “Snagged it on top of that gate when I ran out…” A small rip was now visible on the coat, “Oh, Mac, sorry about that…things happen in emergencies—just another beauty mark.”

Dad had left many “beauty marks” on the coat over the years. My fingers press against Mac's thick fur collar, soft and warm. The lower edge is still sticky against my skin—a reminder of the last time I hung Christmas lights outside with Dad. The winter of ’94 was the first time I felt the changes. Dad was no longer invincible.

I was home from grad school for Christmas. Dad roped me in for Christmas light duty about thirty seconds after I’d set my suitcase down. “Come on, son—it’s tradition!” he said. It sure was. I’d been his assistant since I was six. He fancied himself the maestro of Christmas lighting–the tangled strings of bulbs and cords were the notes of his very own symphonic masterpiece. Together we stepped out into the crisp, cold afternoon.

The box of lights, cords, and the ladder were already on the back porch. He snatched the ladder with a grin. “Come on, slowpoke!” Mighty Mac swayed against his shoulders like a brown sentinel, bristling with purpose as he placed the ladder against the house. I carried the box of lights from the porch and set it down. I began untangling the brightly colored maze of knots—red, blue, and green lights. Dad tore a few pieces of gray electrical tape from the roll and pressed them onto Mighty Mac’s collar. “Easier than standing on the ladder and tearing tape.”

He climbed the ladder deliberately, hands trembling just enough to betray him. Each step was a little shaky, far slower than the man who had once decorated the house and yard with more lights than a landing strip. The world was getting faster than Dad now—only a single box of lights remained. The maestro was directing the last act of his symphony. Dad was nearly 68. My voice cracked. “You want me to climb up on the ladder this year, Dad?” I asked. Dad’s response was immediate and confident. “No, son. I’ve got it. I’m old, but not that old.”

He looked down at me with his big blue eyes. “Son.” He trailed off for a heartbeat before continuing. “I talked about it with your mother. This will be the last year for Christmas lights… It’s getting too rough for me. But, I will be damned if I don't get them up one more time.”

He turned back to the task, taping another bulb to the gutter. “There comes a time when things end. When I was younger, I put them up because I fancied myself a lighting engineer. Then you came along, and once you were old enough to help, I put them up because I loved spending time with you.” I handed him a string of lights, and for a moment we just stood there, the cold air pressing in around us. The only words I could find to speak were the truth, “I'm going to miss it, Dad.”

He didn't look at me, concentrating on his work. "I will too, son, but we all get old," he said softly. “For a few, they get lucky—problems don't come around 'til late… but most of us…” He looked down at me, a warm smile softening his eyes. “Most of us end up taking one pill for the rest of our lives…then two…next thing you know you're on the doctor's Christmas card list.”

As he pressed more of the lights into place, the memories of every past Christmas—the laughter, the snow, the joy—passed between us. I looked up and, for a second, still saw the father who had stood strong, not just against the winter winds, but for me.

As I sit on the bed with Mighty Mac, that feeling is as clear as yesterday. The faint stickiness of the electrical tape is still clinging to the furry collar, never letting me forget.

Standing up, before I even realize what I'm doing, I strip off my thin winter jacket and toss it onto the bed. I slide my arms into Mighty Mac's sleeves and pull him around me. He fits perfectly. I catch my reflection in the mirror on the wall. Dad's same blue eyes stare back at me.

I turn and head toward the front door, the floorboards giving a final loud creak. I pull it open, and the cold December wind slams into me, burning my uncovered face, but Mighty Mac covers my torso like a wall of warm defiance. I sink my hands into the pockets, warmth curling around my fingers like the hand of an old friend. In one pocket, I feel something wadded and sticky. I pull my hand out.

In my open palm lies a gray, crumpled piece of electrical tape.