A life to Remember

My father was a strong man of many talents. Years before I was born, he was a circus performer, riding bulls and racing horses for a show. We have yellowed newspaper clippings of some of the times he would win his horse racing, "McDuffy Wins Again!", in a bold black headline. I would hear stories of how he and his many, many siblings would often beat the snot out of one another, my father loving to tell the story of how he once broken 2 of his brothers' noses in a single instance of fighting. My father would always laugh and laugh, our home echoing his recollection of bringing his family members to the hospital. When I got older, I realized that story might be part of the reason Uncle Gary and Uncle Dan don't come around to visit so much anymore. Dad was the oldest of the 7 siblings he had, so he took on the role of protector. He would toughen up his siblings and roughen up anybody who wanted to mess with them. I used to think he sounded so cool, so big, so strong, so macho, a man's man, you know? My dad was the coolest. I wanted to be just like him.

As I got older, I started getting stories of my own from my father. He was never really involved in school or academics, but he was pushing me towards physical success in sports and athletics. I remember the first time I lost in flag football. It was our first game ever, and we got stomped badly. I was on the sideline after my team had broken the post-game huddle, and we agreed to practice the next day after school. Tears were rolling down my face slowly. I felt like I let my team down. I felt like I let my dad down. I had picked up my waterbottle and hadn't made it to the steps before my father appeared, towering over my 4th-grade self. I didn't even bother looking up at him, just staring at his grey tennis shoes, ripped and torn, with white paint from the fresh coat he had given our house a week prior, that he had been unsuccessful in getting out. I recall the feeling of trying on my father's shoes, those shoes, as an even younger boy, how big they seemed to be on me, how hard they were to walk in. I remember how my father placed a firm hand on my shoulder and guided me off the field. We shared no words, just the murmuring of a crowd packing up, the clanking of metal legs as families packed up their lawn chairs, and the ignition of cars all starting, staggered by 25 seconds each in an effort to avoid traffic.

My dad had a bright blue pickup truck that he would drive. I opened the backseat and threw my gear in before clambering into the passenger seat, where my father awaited me. He hadn't turned on the car ust yet.

"Son," I pulled my gaze from the floormat at my feet to look at my dad. He had both hands on the wheel, gripping the leather firmly. He continued, "Why were you crying out there?"

I sniffed and paused for a moment. I tilted my head and scrunched my eyebrows in confusion. He glanced at me and took a deep inhale before asking again, "Why were you crying out there? Did you get hurt? Did somebody hit you? Or..." He let his question trail off.

"No pa," I squeaked out, "I just, I feel bad after losing. Like I did something wrong or let people down."My gaze returned to the floormat. I noticed the plastic soda bottles that littered the floor. It was kind of messy.

He cleared his throat, "Well, son, I think you did alright. You tried awfully hard out there today, and that's all you can do sometimes." He turned to me and released his grip on the wheel. I waited a moment before yielding and looking at my father. "I think you did okay, kid. Don't beat yourself up too hard, now, you hear?"

I nodded, "I hear."

"Good kid. Now, ice cream and don't tell your momma?"

I nearly jumped out of my seat at the idea of ice cream. The night got much better after that evening. My dad got ice cream and laughed and enjoyed each other's company until the street lights came on and it was time to go. He was a big mint-chocolate-chip guy. I was more into chocolate sundaes.

My father is a good man. He treated me right up until the day I moved out of our home's basement. He and my mother both wept as I left, but he’ll never admit he was crying. I got a speech on how proud they were of me and how I needed to call them 2 times a week to make sure I was still doing alright. I promised I would call at least once a week. And with that, I went to college. I worked and got busy trying to make a living for myself. Lost myself for a while in my studies and jobs that I was doing, not to mention the occasional party, and then the occasional night in the county jail. I never did anything that bad, just drinking or noise-related complaints, followed by an attempt to flee the law, which often got me a cold night at the station. My school was about 45 minutes away from home, but every time I needed a bail, my father would be the one to come and get me. He would often apologize to the officer before slapping me on the back of my neck and letting me hear it on the rides home. He would remind me that this was the last time he was doing this. Yet he never turned down a call to help me.

I ended up graduating with minimal issues, a teaching degree, and a future of helping shape America's next generation of students. My mom and dad said that they would be at my graduation, and they were. They sat right in the middle and held up signs that I'm sure were meant to embarrass me, but I didn't mind too much. I was just happy to be seen. My father had started to look older now. His shoulders pulled him forward, and new wrinkles were appearing around his eyes each day. It wasn't long before he needed a cane to help him walk. I ended up moving out of state. A job offered called me from Missouri up to North Carolina, and I was an excited young man with something to prove. I should have considered more than just my career at the time, but hindsight is 20-20, right?

I had moved about 15 years ago. I still called during that time, and talked with my family, kept up with them, and told them about my big city life as a teacher on the coast. I went and found a nice girl, got myself married, and we had plans to start a family soon. We loved each other enough to not only get married but also buy a house together. It was some only beat up house that neede da lot of love, but just happened to be in the school district and within our budget. I remember the fix-up process; it was fun, hard, but very rewarding. We ending painitnt our house fresh white, just like how my parents’ place used to look. It had been a while since I had seen it. But we settled down real nice, and I got to work. Started getting my footing in the area, ran some clubs, got nominated for some teaching awards, won some of them, I dunked on a kid in the student versus faculty game last semester, which was fun. Life was going well. The school year had just ended, I had graded the last couple of papers and been sent on my way to enjoy a nice summer vacation. Normally, my wife and I would book a resort somewhere for a weekend and soak up the sun, get burnt, and laugh about how we forgot sunscreen. I had a pamphlet I found at our local pharmacy in my hand, I was reading through the results in the area tryin to sniff out a good deal for two when my phone rang. I sighed. It must be one last call from admin about how we should behave this summer, don't do anything stupid, blah, blah, blah. I picked up the phone and brought it to my ear. "Hello, McDuffy residence."

A gentle sob cut through the phone. Strange. Not the admin, I suppose. What's going on? I pressed forward, "Hello?"

"Oh my sweet boy," my mother's voice. My mom was crying and calling me on the phone. My heart sunk "It's your dad."

I don't remember much of what I did. Or what I said. Panic flooded my being, reaching the deepst corner of my stomach, turning it over, and squeezing my heart in a fashion that made it race. I asked if he was okay. I was just told that I needed to come back home. So I did. I left by myself, told my wife it was a family matter, and left within the hour. I drove the whole way in a daze, fearing the worst. Had my dad fallen and hurt himself? Had he been in an accident? A million horrible scenarios raced through my head until I pulled into my family's driveway, our old home now stained with a subtle yellow hue. There were a great many cars on the street, parked near our house. I recognized some cars, but was shocked to see Uncle Dan's family car here, and Uncle Gary's too. I parked and waited a moment. I didn't run inside; part of me wanted to turn back and drive the way I came, forget about this, and leave. pretend everything is okay and go home. But I couldn't. I have to try my best. I pulled myself out of the car and walked inside. My mother caught me at the door; the rest of the family had their backs to me and were surrounding what I assumed was my father. She grabbed my hand and held it with her own.

"My baby boy. Your father is right ahead, but there's something you have to know before you see him."

"Is he okay?" I blurted out, my hands slipping from my mother's grip. I hadn't realized I was sweating so much.

My mother looked down, and her body shook once before a deep breath and meeting my gaze again, "He's still alive, he's not hurting or in pain, but I don't think he's okay."

I had gone to college. I was an educated man. I didn't need my mother to spell out what was wrong with my father now. I need to get to him now, before anymore time passes. I pull my hand out of my mother's grasp and make my way to the group. I heard my name and a suggestion to wait a moment. I ignored it. I push through the group blocking my view and see my father. He was smiling on the couch, water next to him, a blanket covering his legs. He was almost all bald now, and he looked so small and frail. I choked down whatever feelings started to bubble up; now was not the time. My dad was talking to his brother, Gary held his hand, and they were having a spirited conversation when I pushed through. My father's head turned to look at me. I wanted to rush over to him and hug him, ask him a million questions, and make sure he’s doing okay, but I fought the urge; I had to be patient for just a moment longer. He pushed himself up from lying down and squinted at me. The wrinkles around his eyes gave him crows' feet, and his blue eyes now almost faded with a gentle white starting to sprout from the center of his Iris. he shook when he pushed himself up, denying the help offered by his brothers. His self-reliance is hard-wired into him, I guess. He took a beat before he smiled and released the tension in his face. My heart sang for a moment. The cold dread of not being able to talk to my father like I had dissipated. I made it in time, I can at least tell him goodbye now as his son rather than some stranger. Thank god He recognized me.

"Hey, kid, welcome to the party." He extended a hand. "It's been a while, right? My name is Trent McDuffy. Do I know you?"