I’m old enough to remember a time when phone numbers would flash across TV screens prompting the viewer to pick up the phone and dial. You could call in to order a toaster or a commemorative coin or donate to the ASCPA. You could call in to talk to a preacher or an escort, or have your horoscope read to you over the phone for $4.99 plus $.99 per minute.
I discovered the telephone when I was in preschool. My new baby brother took up a lot of my parents’ time, so I had to get creative about keeping myself entertained. I watched my fair share of TV and, honestly, those commercials gave you step-by-step dialing instructions. “Pick up the phone and dial 1-800-555-5555.” I didn’t need much convincing to dial that number on the screen that would connect me to the one and only Easter Bunny! Right there on the other line! When I heard one of my parents coming down the hall, I hung up and called back as soon as I could. A few weeks later, my parents opened the phone bill and found out that my little chats with the Easter Bunny (and the psychic hotline) added up to a cool three-figures.
I was in Big Trouble.
Ever the pragmatist, my dad devised a scheme that would allow me to work off my mistake. He got everyone in the family to collect aluminum pop cans, and every Sunday for the next decade, we did cans.
My dad has always reminded me of John Goodman, particularly in his iconic role as Dan Connor on Roseanne. Big guy, blonde, works a blue collar job in the Chicago suburbs. Gruff but loyal family man. My dad also has a habit over-engineering, triple re-enforcing, measuring six times and going back to Menard’s twice. So, his can scheme involved a multistep process of washing the cans, taking off their pull tabs and lining them up in neat rows on the garage floor. Then, he would put on his work boots and pre-stomp them all before giving them all 5-6 whacks with the butt end of a 4x4 that he measured out to be the optimal length between his raised arm and the ground. The cans, which were now the width of a quarter, were checked against a magnet (no steels!), counted, and collected in garbage bags to be turned for scrap cash.
Even though the phone bill was paid off after a few months of scrapping, we kept doing cans. I was not always graceful about the time we spent together. The cans were sticky and the whole process had too many steps. In the summers, it was hot in the garage and sometimes the cans had bees in them if our neighbors didn’t rinse them out properly. In winter, the cans were cold but wearing gloves made the 4x4 hard to hold. But then again, Dad and I didn’t spend much time together without my siblings, and I liked the alone time. He would talk to me about his classic cars and his time in the Navy and the Civil War and his plans for next home improvements. He told me stories about our family in Michigan and about his childhood. Every Sunday, I set them up and he knocked them down. We did cans longer than we needed to and after a few years he had enough scrap cash to buy my mom a diamond anniversary ring.
As much as my dad loved to talk, he never actually called me on the phone. After I moved out when I went to college, he was quick to pass me on to my mom when I called. It wasn’t that he didn’t care—he just preferred talking in person. He didn’t know how to use his cell phone and my one and only text to him was Delivered but not Read. Still, every visit he would tell me something about a magazine article he read that week or a clip from a show on the Military Channel, he would tell me about the new woodworking and metal restoration videos he found on YouTube. There was never a shortage of things to tell me about.
It was my brother who called me this past Saturday night to tell me that Dad died suddenly. I didn’t believe it. I kept trying to make it feel real by writing it in texts and saying it in phone calls to friends and my boss to say that I wouldn’t be in to work on Monday.
My dad died.
My dad died.
My dad died.
I sat down to write this week’s post hoping that I could shake the feelings loose.
My dad died.
My dad died.
My dad died.
No dice.
It’s going to take me a while to understand the magnitude of the silence he left behind. Unfortunately, there’s nothing but time now.
Snapshot of the Week
In Other News…
My most recent article is out on Autostraddle! It’s about queer co-parenting.
I started reading Happy-Go-Lucky, the new book by David Sedaris. But I’m a little afraid to finish it now because there are lots of essays about his dad.