Earliest Memory

I never got around to writing anything last night as I was busy, busy working until wee hours. I guess I have that on my mind which is kind of influencing this evening's topic.

I was working on some interviews with women in a rehab center. They were all asked the same questions, mostly about their upbringing, their parents, their relationships with their parents. It's curious as you can see obvious similarities, but then sometimes, not. Very curious how we all get to where we are and in some cases there's so much blame, and other cases there's so much thankfulness and perception is the key. Such fine lines. Ah, anyway, I get too intimate with work sometimes.

She asked each participant the earliest memories of their mother and then their father. It's so fascinating because I totally relate to all of them in one way. I don't know if it's maybe a mama thing or being closest with your mom or what, but I can't remember an earliest or first memory of my mother. It's my mother, she's always been there. She's always been number one. But with my dad, I have a very clear memory, probably one of the firsts, if not the first. I don't have a very particular instant with my mom. So funny. I've been racking my brain the past 2 days trying to pinpoint something, but I haven't been able to yet.

Okay. So, the first memory I have with my dad. It's spotty, but you'll get the gist of it.
I think I was maybe 3 or 4. Not in school yet.
There was a baby shower. I honestly can't even remember which aunt it was for, wait a minute. Maybe it was for my mom when she was pregnant with my sister. That might be it. Or maybe it was for an aunt pregnant with one of my little cousins. I really don't remember, but I remember that it was at my mom's house.
I remember everyone prepping for the party. Decorations, snacks, drinks. I remember being in a powder blue dress. I remember that my dad was assigned to go to St. John's Liquor's, which is no longer in business, to get ice and drinks or things of the like.
I remember climbing into my dad's truck and going with him. I followed him around the liquor store. The check-out counter was really tall. I had to stand on my tip toes to make myself eye level with the ledge of the counter.
On the counter was a basket of Dum Dum suckers. I wanted one, sure. What kid wouldn't? But I was an incredibly shy kid. I typically hid behind my Mom's legs in public and in this instance, I was with my Dad, so I knew better than to ask. The woman behind the counter asked me if I wanted one. I nodded yes. She told me to take which ever one I wanted. I grabbed one.
My dad paid for his selection. We walk out of the store. I climbed back into the truck, and before my Dad started the truck he noticed that I had a sucker. He didn't realize that the lady behind the counter told me I could have one. I didn't understand how he missed the entire interaction between me and the woman behind the counter. He didn't believe me that she said I could have one. He told me I stole it. I cried. I went to my room and missed out on most of the party because I was so upset.

That's basically all that I remember.

It's so funny. I was so small, such a tiny kid. And looking back, I have a handful of memories throughout my childhood and adolescence where I felt as upset as I did over the Dum Dum because one or both of my parents didn't believe me when I was telling the truth.

That doesn't make my Dad a horrible father, nor my Mom and awful mother. By any means. They did what they knew how to do and what was natural for them. How did that become the earliest thing I can remember about my Dad?

What is going to be the earliest thing Owen remembers? Has it already happened? Will it happen this year? Next?

I whole-heartedly believe that this memory has had an impact on the way I handle things with O. I talk to Owen like a regular person. Which I know can sound really weird especially when I'm in Target and someone overhears this adult conversation I'm holding and then I turn the corner with Owen. I only mention this because I've received a lot of strange looks in public when I realize I've been talking to Owen for a while. Lots of stuff like that, so on and so forth.
Anyway, everyone wants to be taken seriously no matter their age.

Mama's here to listen.

Feeling Crummy

I feel really crummy today. Laid on the couch most of the day praying that Owen would quiet down and it never really happened, nor did he take a nap.

If I was in elementary school today would be a day where I'd insist that I had to stay home sick. Sick days were awesome when we were kids. If my brother, sister or I stayed home sick from school, my Dad would bring us a two liter of Sprite and a king sized Hershey bar on his lunch break. He'd eat a sandwich and watch either Sanford And Son or All In The Family and go back to work. I don't know why, but he did it every time until high school, really. Those were the days.

Lawn Mowing, Dave Ullrich Style

This one's going to be short and sweet (and hilarious- well, to me at least) because I'm sleepy and want to watch netflix all curled up in big blankets.
Dag, I wish there were some Duraflame logs laying around. I'm so ready to kick up the jams in my fireplace!

Anyway, no pictures tonight, sadly, as I don't believe any exist. Which is a very sad story, but maybe not. Maybe best in my memory. Who knows?

So, dads mow the lawn, right? My Dad had a very interesting lawn mowing outfit. And no one really knows where or why. Maybe he did this to annoy and embarrass my Mom? Maybe it just felt right? Maybe he want to make me, my brother and sister laugh hysterically? Part of me thinks it's a little of all of that, but most of me sort of thinks that he just had his own motives that he'll never tell, and even if he did, we'd never understand.

He wouldn't wear his lawn mowing outfit every time he mowed the lawn, but when he did (unannounced) my Mom would see him out front and close the front door and all the blinds. Seriously, so funny. We (my brother, sister and I) would be screeching gleefully.

My dad would be trucking along the front yard, on the busy-ish street that my parents live on, with all the neighbors looking on, wearing denim shorts that he cut super short, his big black work boots, a large wicker cornucopia turned backwards on top of his head, no shirt and sunglasses. On occasion he'd wear those oversized novelty sunglasses. He'd mow the entire front and back lawn like this, then come inside as if nothing had happened. Totally straight faced, totally puzzled at the questions we'd ask him about what he was wearing and continue on with the day like nothing was out of the ordinary. Again, this wasn't every time he mowed the lawn, but until the age of about eleven or twelve, this happened at least a couple times every summer.

It hasn't been brought up in years, but I'm almost positive that if I mentioned it to him he say to me in a very, very quiet monotone voice, as serious as could be, "I don't know what you're talking about." And maybe he'd kind of mutter something to himself or shake his head and snicker a little.

Really, what a nutter. Definitely an amazing Dad Moment.

My Dad and His Cars

Obviously, when I said EVERY DAY in September, I meant every weekday.

So, I just spent the past 2 hours going through my old hard drive and thousands upon thousands of photographs, and I don't have a single frackin' photo of either of my dad's Pontiacs. I swear, I've taken tons of photos of them. I'll dig further and update with more pictures later.

My Dad's first car was a 1966 Pontiac LeMans. He bought it from my grandpa when he was 16ish for something stupid like $400 or something along those lines. He still has it.

It's a sparkly gunmetal with gorgeous chrome. Black leather interior, bucket seats and the whole nine. I'm sure my brother and sister have the same feelings about the Hot Pink Led Zeppelin Houses of the Holy eight track that I do, that will forever be associated with a Pontiac LeMans for me. The ignition was never right. I'm not sure exactly why it didn't work like every other car, but the ignition dangles below the steering wheel and he'd put the key in there and get it started. I think he's fixed that, but I'm actually not too sure.

My Dad's LeMans always had a smell to it. Nothing weird, it's a combination of an auto mechanic's shop, turtle wax and Swisher Sweets mostly. Maybe some other things mixed in.

He only drives it in the summer time. He's never let my mom drive it. Who knows why, but he will not let my mom drive it.

When I was fifteen and a half and had just gotten my driver's permit, it happened to be Friday Night, which was Dairy Queen Day.

Quick side story: I don't know when, or how or why, but at some point during our childhood my Dad decided that on Fridays, only if we reminded him, he would take us to Dairy Queen. We still don't forget. He would begrudgingly take us to Dairy Queen. I usually opted for a Peanut Buster Parfait or sometimes a Dilly Bar. Sometimes my Dad would play some hilarious hijinks on the poor high school kids that worked the drive-thru of that Dairy Queen. I'll tell those stories later.

Anyway. My brother, being 3 years older, was off with his friends, doing high school boy things. So my sister and I remind my dad that it was Dairy Queen Day. My dad asks me if I want to drive. I say yes. Then I realize he meant the Pontiac. I knew my mom was going to be so pissed if she found out, and I knew I really wouldn't be in trouble, but I felt like I'd be in trouble, and then I knew I'd feel bad because really, my Dad would be in trouble. But whatever! My eyes lit up, sister in the back seat, Dad in the passenger seat and we're heading to Dairy Queen! Except I had to back out of my parents driveway, which is gravel, narrow, really long. And I was nervous, and in the LeMans! And I needed to get out of there fast before my mom figured out what was going on.

But I wasn't fast enough. By the time I made it to the side door of my parent's house, my mom flew out the door screaming god knows what and I was quickly ushered out of the driver's seat. My dad was in trouble. We still went to Dairy Queen though, and I got a Peanut Buster Parfait. I kind of remember my little sister being mostly silently frightened the whole time. I've driven my Dad's LeMans about 15 feet. Never been behind the wheel since.

Just after I moved to Chicago, my Dad found and acquired his "dream car" at the time. A 1965 Pontiac GTO Convertible. It's sweet. Like, it really is, but to me, it's not the LeMans. But it is really fuckin' badass.

Now, even more recently, about November-ish of 2008 my Dad purchased a car that I wholeheartedly love and think is hilariously amazing in every way, shape and form.

An elderly black woman from the North Side of Saint Louis, which is a total ghetto, called up my Dad because she wanted to sell a car that was her husband's (I think). She called my dad up because the car used to be serviced at Bert's. A 1968 Cadillac DeVille. Gold. Soft Top. And seriously, seriously, for $1200. Nigga, please!

My mom had informed me about the whole ordeal, in a rather heated tangent and as much as I would love to quote her right now, it wouldn't be fair. She hates it. HATES the Caddy. And I understand why, totally. But I love it. I think my favorite part is that I had heard a ton about this car, and in December, not long after he bought it I took the Amtrak back to St.L for Thanksgiving. Expecting my mom to be at the train station get me, I see this SEVENTEEN foot long Golden Caddy roll up, stopping all traffic and turning heads. That's my ride. HA! Definitely one of my most favorite homecomings ever.

The Pontiacs are a part of our childhoods. So many nostalgic feelings surfacing right now. I'm seconds away from buying a pink Led Zeppelin 8 Track on ebay right now. I always talk about getting a LeMans tattoo. I will someday. Maybe soon. I think I've hammered out the details perfectly now. A Catfish driving a '65 LeMans, puffing a Swisher Sweet. Back shoulder probably. I don't know, we'll see. Always toying with that idea.

Me with the '68 Cadillac DeVille, upon returning to my parent's house from my most memorable ride home from Amtrak ever. December, 2008.

September 1st - Intro to my Dad

In my typical fashion, I haven't written a damn thing, even though I planned to dedicate a whole month's worth of posts to stories about my pops. It's all up here. I got it and will do my best to stay on track.

So, as previously mentioned last week, my dad is something special. I suppose I decided to do this for a few reasons. I must share these stories. I've shared many of them with lots of friends before and I just feel like they have to be written down. They're just too good. Too good.

Not completely unlike my chihuahua tattoos, which were done prior to Totti passing, both dogs were alive and healthy, this is just something I want to do while my dad's around. And not completely unlike my chihuahuas, he won't realize what I've done. Ha. I'm serious.

My dad is middle age, but on the younger side. He's an auto mechanic and has been his entire life. He owns Bert's Auto Service. Bert was my grandpa. He passed away in 2000. My dad is a practicing Catholic. He likes Mizzou basketball. He fishes a lot. The seldom occasion that I talk to him on the phone he asks me about the weather and sometimes he'll ask me when the last time I went to church was. More recently he asks me when I'm going to baptize my son. The only time my dad has ever called me, all on his own, after asking my sister for my phone number of course, was on November 29th, 2001 when George Harrison died. My dad is not social and rather quiet. Some could say he's hard to talk to but I guess that just depends on how much you need the other person in the conversation engaged because most times there's nothing you can do or say to elicit any response from him. But it's nothing personal, that's just him.

The first time my Dad met Owen, December 26th, 2009. He was forced to hold him for this photo.

There are a lot of stories I have to share involving a cornucopia, Technotronic's 'Move This', cockroaches, Dairy Queen and Pee Wee's Big Adventure and many more random things. There are lots of things I'd love to write about, but it's not the right time or place and I'm not sure that there ever will be a proper time or place.

My dad has never been mean or abusive. He's never been a negligent parent, I wouldn't say. He may not be the best at being a dad, but he's the only one I got and I appreciate him in many ways that a lot of people would think crazy of me for.

On the agenda for tomorrow, cars. Specifically 60s Pontiacs. And a Caddy.