The ghost of Hamlet’s father
haunts the castle, clanking around the upper corridors and turrets in armor. I
remember my Shakespeare class teacher back when, Elizabeth Armstrong, saying, I
think this is what the image of a father meant for Shakespeare. There are all sorts of fatherly variations
in Shakespeare’s work—Polonius in Hamlet
is all father too, and he’s a bit of a tedious, but caring, fool, who meets his
end being foolishly in the wrong place at the wrong time—but the ideal father overall
comes off as strong, a bit distant, usually with a pretty harsh edge. They have
to be men, and all that.
I have lots of memories of my
dad, of course. Neck deep in the gray-green water of the Little Miami River
while fishing, then having to swim, when we slipped into a hole deeper than we
bargained for. Him sitting on the edge of his bed in the morning, head bowed,
dreading the nasty situation at work he was forced to go back to. Young as I
was, I understood and felt bad for him. On a canoe trip, wide awake, soaked and
freezing at 4 in the morning from camping in the rain in a leaky tent, with a
sleeping beagle who had serious adenoidal snoring issues, and just laughing
together because it was so ridiculous. Happy and excited on his return from a
hunting trip in Wyoming, with his rifle and a big chest packed with dry ice,
meat, and the head of a pronghorn antelope. Furious with me for not doing my
homework. Excited over the shotguns he got my brother and me for Christmas,
when I was 13. Disappointed with my grades. Proud and smiling at graduation
events. Dropping me off in Cincinnati as I moved to the city for college,
knowing he was thinking that this kid isn’t ready. (I wasn’t.) Dropping me off at
the airport on my way to study in France, knowing I was off on a great
adventure. (I was). Showing me how to safely use a table saw, how to carry a
shotgun in the field without it going off, how to smell and taste a fine Bordeaux.
With his friend who had a huge gun collection and a pet chimpanzee. We laughed
at the monkey so hard we were bigger monkeys than the monkey. Pushing my head
underwater as I was struggling for the ladder in my uncle’s pool. Laughing at
me when I got drunk at a wedding when I was 16. Playing with slot cars and
electric trains in the living room. Constant wrestling. The most important
memory I have of him is one of the earliest. I was four or five years old, sitting
on a scratchy gray-green hide-a-bed in his den, while he studied over the mail
chess games he was always absorbed in, or working on his paintings. I remember
him working on this one, a stormy lakeshore scene with that scary greenish
light that makes you think “tornado’s coming!” and head for the basement. The
den smelled of turpentine and linseed oil. Kay Starr and Frankie Lane and Glen
Miller 45s stacked on the phonograph. I always associate gray-green with
memories of my dad, and the smell of oil paint. He was a solid chess player,
with a strong almost invincible positional game, and not into fancy
combinations and clever fireworks. He was very tough to beat—conservative,
smart, careful, and rock solid. He stopped playing chess because he couldn’t ever
stand to lose. I remember the smell when he taught me how to gut and skin a rabbit. He loved the West and never got tired of fragrant gray-green
sagebrush and the great mountains. Maybe the most memorable of our family
vacations was one where we followed the Oregon Trail through Nebraska and
Wyoming: Chimney Rock, wagon ruts worn through sandstone, names and dates
carved in a cliff face, Windlass Hill on the great rolling prairie, where some covered
wagons still sat in the open, with rust-brown wheels, the arches of the canvas
supports still curving overhead, the wooden planks of the wagon beds silver-gray
under the sun and the huge sky, endless blowing grass and gray sagebrush, a few
dark cottonwoods in the gullies. When I started writing, he started writing
also, publishing reminiscences in retirement magazines and letters to the
editor that were snarky and sometimes even aggressive and bitter, but usually
pretty funny. When he died, he had been ill with Lewy Body dementia, but it was
still a grievous day. Mom had been amazing in her dedication and stamina,
caring for him. We were there with him holding his hand. If he made mistakes as
a man or as a father, they weren’t important. He loved his family, there was
never a single doubt about that, and that always overcomes a man’s mistakes in
the long run. His favorite color was green. He had gray eyes.
Lovely
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