Aug
16
Zorba, Van Gogh and the Eggman
August 16, 2006 | |
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 in 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 releases of 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. We’d wander aimlessly
amongst ghosts of The Masters, lost deep within the labyrinths of the
Expressionist wing. It was there that my father would point out works by Kandinsky, Modigliani, and Van Gogh, quizzing 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. Consisting mostly of heavy hardcover
versions on the subjects of Fine Art, Greek Tradition, or World War Memoirs. 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–The art house ones. Where popcorn and pop were exchanged for granola
and fresh cider. 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 field 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 anti-climatic 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 sleep-away 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 importantly attempts to do right, no matter how unconventional, are never
inappropriate if inspired from the heart.
So this ones 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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