“Hmph” is all he says, and barely that.
Just a bit of air expelled through two tautened lips. He could say more—wants to, I’m sure—but the presence of two grandchildren in the room prevents any further commentary. That’s a shame. You’ve never fully appreciated the news until you’ve watched it alongside my father’s commentary.
The pictures on the television are the sort that’s been played and replayed for a while now—tents and marches and protest, people with microphones shouting down with this and up with that. It’s all a little too much, especially with the grandkids sitting there (right now they’re working on the Play-Doh, but I know they’re watching the screen).
I ask him if I should turn the channel. He works the chaw of Beechnut in his cheek and shakes his head. “Wanna see who won the race,” he says.
So I watch the screen and I watch him and I watch my kids and I know that I am in the middle. I’m the bridge between him and them. I’m the link to hold the chain. And I realize that it really wasn’t that long ago—if you can call twenty years long—that I was sure my father had no idea what the world was all about.
I think your teenage years are proof that the more you think you know, the dumber you really are.
My kids—his grandkids—are watching now. They’re showing a policeman pepper-spraying a young man with long hair. Dad watches, too. I’m wondering what they’re all thinking and if what they’re thinking is pretty much the same. I think so. I think when you get right down to it, crazy looks crazy no matter what age you are.
In the end (and as it should), Play-Doh wins out over the news. The kids don’t care what’s happening a thousand miles away in some city. Their world’s here in the mountains, where things are quiet and life makes more sense. But Dad, he keeps watching and working that chaw, turning it around in his mouth, thinking.
He’s been in a good mood lately. Not that he isn’t usually, just more so now. After thirty-five years of work, he has only three days left. Appropriately enough, Thanksgiving Day will be his first day of retirement.
It hasn’t been easy, those thirty-five years. The ones before it weren’t easy, either. He took the job for the same reason that many husbands and fathers do—because it paid well and offered a better life for his family. Certainly it wasn’t because he enjoyed it—who would enjoy driving a rig up and down the Southeast, being separated from family, living off greasy truck stop food?
But he did it anyway. Day in, day out, through blizzards and tornados and hurricanes and floods. As a child I would pray every night for his safety. I still do. And God’s watched over him—Dad’s driven over three million miles without an accident. Back in ’98, he had a stroke just outside of Fredericksburg. The doctors couldn’t understand how he managed to drive his rig into the terminal and back it up to the dock before falling out of the cab. I could. It was his job, simple as that.
His formal education ended at the eighth grade. He grew up in poverty and hustled pool, but the Army straightened him out. And when it came time to marry and start a family, he swore he would give his kids a better life than he had.
That’s exactly what he did.
On the television, one of the protesters says he’s there because he wants a free education. He’s owed that, he says, though he doesn’t really say why. Dad doesn’t say what he thinks of that, and I’m thankful. If he did, I’d have to write it with a lot of ampersands and exclamation points.
Because Dad and his eight-grade education knows more about the world than the people on television and their college degrees. Because he knows that no one is owed anything, and the sooner you realize that the better off you’ll be. Because you have to work and scrape and save and drive the truck.
He won’t say that only those who have stood up to work should have the right to sit down and protest. The grandkids are in the room.
So I’ll just say it for him. Because after thirty-five years, I think he’s earned it.
I’m fairly certain I would enjoy HC’s commentary immensely. Ampersands and exclamation points included.
Bravo! I think I would like your father a whole lot — I know I already admire the stew out of you.
Obviously I’m of your father’s generation, and although I don’t have a chaw of Beech-Nut in my cheek, I’ll echo his sentiments. “Owed” can be a four-letter word.
Has he asked aloud how people can spend forty days camped out and marching, rather than pounding the pavement looking for work? Or, like me, has he just thought it?
Once again you rock it, Billy – and the acorn doesn’t fall far from the tree!
Amen, you are blessed with a very wise dad.
Makes me sad for America. Kinda hard to find a job when you spend every day (and night) inside a park….your dad and my dad would have gotten along.
I would LOVE to hear his commentary. It would probably make much more sense than any commentator that gets paid the big bucks could say! Can’t wait to read the newest book! Lori
The unfortunate thing is this is the ‘everyone’s a winner, even the losers’ generation and it shows in their attitude of entitlement and lack of work ethic.
Thanks for the post, Billy. I’ve struggled to put into words the same thoughts and feelings. I can hear the heaviness of the silence that is meant to protect the children. There is wisdom in that. And the kids will know the truth by the example they have in their grandfather and in you. Just awesome.
I hope your Dad truly enjoys his retirement. He’s definitely earned it!
I agree with your Daddy.
I got into an argument with some people over at KZ’s blog, about the OWS movement. Usually I avoid political debates like the plague, mostly because I think that arguing over opinions is just about the least effective use of one’s time.
If I DO wade into a fray, you can be sure it’s only after I’ve gathered enough information to back up my positions ad nauseum. 🙂
Saw that argument. I was very tempted to say something snarky, but something tells me most of those folks wouldn’t think I was very funny.
There was a time in our country that those protesting now would have been called freeloaders among many other things and would have never lasted a night in a dark park. But as it is, it’s just another sign of how sadly devalued we are as a nation, losing our founding ways.
I for one appreciate that you have addressed this subject of entitlement so well. Thank you for another good one! We too worked hard for anything we got, and it is sad that so many want everything free and they almost add the words – “Or else.” I suppose riots are next!
Spot on!
AMEN! It drives me nuts! People say it’s my generation, but I know too many people who are in my generation who also think it’s pointless and that the protesters just need to get over it and actually earn something before claiming to deserve it. It’s just that the squeaky wheels of the generation determine how the generation is known. So I and the others have to work all the harder to do right and not have that owe-me mindset.
Second post today that has me teary. What a beautiful way to say, “I love you.”
Your dad sounds like a lovely, wise man. Guess the apple really doesn’t fall far from the tree.
What? One comment? Catching up at your blog Billy, and this one was GREAT!
“Because you have to work and scrape and save and drive the truck.”
gaah!
It’s the Disqus thingy. Put it on here and all the comments went kaput.