When we lived in South Carolina (the home where my push puppet lion disappeared!), we had both a living room, with the new brown sofa and chair, and a den/dining room, with the old brown sofa and chair. My mother was definitely always about the earth tones (coppertone kitchen appliances, remember). In the mornings, I would take my bowl of Cocoa Puffs and creep into the dark den to sit on the arm of the old brown chair and stare at the wall. I liked silence and dark when I awoke. In a previous existence, I may have been a mole.
The particular den wall I stared at, in the light from the kitchen, was my mother’s Wall of Your Father Is Pretty Damn Amazing. His most recent military award certificates or commendations were framed and hung there, along with a painting or two (of his), and this.
Someone did this caricature of my father giving a second lieutenant hell for his unshined combat boots. If you know anything about military rank, you know that the second lieutenant is an officer who outranked my father, an enlisted man. But a second lieutenant is the lowest of the low; I can still remember the saying that the most dangerous thing in the Army is a second lieutenant with a map and a compass. In any case, rank isn’t everything, and my father’s age and experience as a (at that time) first sergeant would have meant the inexperienced second lieutenant would do well to take the scolding. And to polish those boots.
Though my father’s hair was never this bright a red in my memory, the caricaturist for sure got one thing right. His uniform was always inspection-ready. One of my “chores” as a little girl was to put my father’s boots on a chair one at a time, put both my hands down inside the boot, and hold it still with all my strength while he buffed a flawless shine on it using one of my mother’s discarded stockings. There were things we did together that were more fun–he taught me how to cast with a rod and reel, how to drive, how to make cole slaw, for example–but the smell of shoe polish still makes me happy as I remember this particular father/daughter activity.
you have amazing memories of your father – thank you for sharing them
Thank you for reading them and letting me know you enjoy them.
The caricature needed no title for me. I recognized that profile immediately.
Since you mentioned it as a positive one, I semi-reluctantly share a “teaching you to drive” memory I hold of you and your dad; one I’m sure you wish to be long forgotten. I have a clear and regrettable image of a subsequent too-hard teasing that ended badly. Apologies. Mr. Cochrane was much more gentle and forgiving with the daughter he deeply loved.
OMG, are you talking about when I hit Robby M’s car in the parking lot? I can’t believe that story’s not on my blog somewhere. I LOVE that story. Did I get teased about it? I don’t remember that part, although I’m sure at the time I was mortified. I more remember it as another example of my father being so smart about how he handled it. I honestly don’t think many people understand the minds and souls of young people the way he did.
That’s the story. I remember that I, along with someone else (probably Browning), dogged you about hitting the “only car in the parking lot.” We repeated that particular phrase rather frequently, made you cry, and felt horrible for it. I’m glad you remember the tale more positively than I do.
Monsters!
You can see what an impact it had on me, since I don’t even remember it. What’s that thing about “misty watercolor memories of the way we were?”
BTW, Jim, it was Robby M’s car–I fixed my comment above. He was SO nice about it. Probably because the damage to his car was $10–I barely scratched his bumper–and I can still remember that the damage to the blue Pinto was $190. That was like a zillion dollars to me back then.
I realized after reading this that all the memories I have of my dad come from the last couple years of his life, or photographs (so, not really a memory as much as just an image) 🙁
I’m gonna work on it, though, so thank you. <3
You’re welcome. I heard something interesting once–that when we remember people we’ve lost, we can’t really see them. We can see pictures of them from photos we have. I’ve been trying to determine the accuracy of that ever since.
i well remember that illustration. is it possible to get a color copy made so that i may add it to my collection of our father’s memorabilia? you, of course, may write “copy” on the reverse, so that it doesn’t become confused with the original as the centuries pass.
Yes, Philboyd, of course. And thanks for dropping in from the Vonnegut universe. I’ll look forward to seeing where you come from next visit.