Jun
18
Zorba, Van Gogh & Eggman
June 18, 2005 | |
(Comprehending The Thinker–Continued.)
As far back as I can remember–my father always communicated with me on the level,
his level. He had this unique way of making me feel important. As if I were never a child.
He would confide in me, report his struggles at work, or with my sisters, or my mother, or society.
He’d utilize me as his personal sounding board but I took at as a compliment.
I would listen–intently.
As if I could comprehend his hardships with the mind of a woman.
And as one may guess, with his confidence in me, I grew up quickly–
And since abandoned what young girls find intriguing during their formative years.
I don’t recall a sandbox, but I see myself in yellowed photographs touting pail and shovel inside one. Maybe mine. But I don’t recall the quintessential "fun" times of my youth.
I remember the serious times.
I was raised from a very young age to believe that FUN was a four letter word.
That our society was tainted by the blackening of the media.
And the blockbuster movies released in the summer months were pathetic and henceforth a deplorable reflection on our society. The world we lived in, according to Dad, was plagued by the lethargic "ME" generation that begged to be entertained. And frivolous things such as amusement parks, dominos pizza, and shirts with tiny alligators on them were considered vacuous. Excessive, useless, unnecessary "things" of which his daughters would never indulge. Not as far as he was concerned.
Instead dad took us to college.
He turned the campus of Michigan State University into our playground.
It was there that we’d get lost in botanical gardens, or embark upon journeys through the arboretum. We’d find sunken treasure in gathered pennies green and varnished, within the fountain outside the library. Or my favorite, adventures of the art institute: Wandering aimlessly amongst ghosts of The Masters, lost deep within the labyrinths of the Expressionist wing. Where my father would point out works by Kandinski and Modigliani, and Van Gogh, and quiz us on the differing methods of each.
For a man who loathed the negative influence of our declining American culture,
he did his best to entertain us in unconventional ways.
His library being our main source of amusement. Mostly heavy, hardcover versions on the subjects of Fine Art, Greek Tradition, or Memoirs of World Wars. And as we read them, or shall I say, paged trough the pictures, he fed 8-tracks of the Beatles or Pink Floyd or some obscure Cuban folk tune into the stereo. And we’d pester him with deconstruction of funny lyrics incessantly giggling:
"Dad…Why is Lucy in the sky with diamonds?"
"Dad why is he saying he is the walrus?"
"Dad…why don’t we need no education?"
Occasionally he would take us to the movies, but the art house ones, where granola and fresh cider were exchanged for popcorn and pop. The featured matinee was not Cinderella, but instead, the Milagro Bean Field War. Sometimes we’d huddle together on his lap to take in some vintage TV. A snowy 15" RCA from 1969 complete with (inert) rabbit ears extending miles long. 60 Minutes on Sunday eves became a tradition. And we bonded, laughing when he did, at the trivial discoveries of Andy Rooney.
That’s about as lighthearted as it got on weekends with dad.
But he never stopped trying.
He marched us to church on Sundays, and Greek dance lessons on Mondays. And while our classmates were shipped off to Mystic Lake for summer camp, dad would take us on family excursions around town. Or sometimes not so around town. Like the feild trip which exported us 45 miles outside of the cosmopolitan boundaries of East Lansing to the forests of Pine Stump Junction (population 40). Just so we could catch the excitement of the Soy Bean Festival. Which in retrospect is such a happy memory. Because after an excruciating three hour car ride, we discovered that the anticlimatic festival was just that: Mounds of Soybeans and not much else lying dormant in piles, wilting in the rain.
This was fun for us because even dad laughed that day,
and we felt closer to him because of it.
Back at his home, the condo, we would pounce upon our respective heating vents. He kept the place a balmy 62 degrees when we weren’t there, and on the special occasions when his daughters stayed the night, Dad would crank it to 68 in our honor. Although the weekend sleepaway he created seemed a bit chilly, his valiant attempts to make a happy home warmed us from within. Even as children, our hearts went out to him for trying. We knew this was the best he could do. No matter how unconventional, he never stopped trying. He was the ultimate underdog for his children. For that reason, he was our hero.
And always will be.
Dad taught me many lessons.
And as a young girl, I may have been pushed into adulthood far before my time but I will say this: I have no regrets. These lessons made me the woman I am today. One that pays her own mortgage and trades her own shares and rarely feels the stresses and burdens of a life unhandleable. The flow chart lectures given behind a firmly closed bedroom door may have been premature for a child of 9. But it taught me responsibility, and that "money didn’t grow on trees." And that most of all, attempts to do right, no matter how unconventional, are never inappropriate if inspired from the heart.
This one’s for you, Dad.
For the flowchart, and the campus, and cider, and the soybeans.
For Zorba, and Van Gogh and the Eggman…
Your most valiant attempts to raise me right, no matter how unconventional, are what made me exceptional.
And I am honored to be your daughter.
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