The Finish

Nascar was blaring exhaust sounds from the television as I lay on one of the sofas at my parents house.  I never thought it would be a common denominator between my dad and I, but as he lay on the other sofa watching, I knew this was more than  Jeff Gordon  making a dizzing display of dust across the track.
 This was a trigger mechanism, that sound, I don’t have to watch it,  I am transported back in time to the flowered sofa watching my dad trying to maintain an air of dignity and muscle up to the the rigors of exhaustion due to chemo.
  We shared a bond thanks in part to the race on the television , even though most times  I would have rather been at the local antique shop.  But  I wouldn’t have traded that time for anything.  Anything other than to have my dad here now,  and healthy.  It will be nine years since  you lost your battle with cancer and the pain isn’t as sharp as it once was., but  time has a way of reducing the stabbing pain associated with the loss.

07/27/00—–07/27/09

 I will always be bustersdaughter remembering…………….
  

 

Milk builds strong bones

 

When he was little, Buster,  would ride along to help his dad, Walter, deliver milk for the San a Pure Dairy.  Milk really is good for you.

 Bustersdaughter……………..

The Garage

I remember walking into the garage out back on Wallace Street.  It smelled of oil and  grease.  The garage had seen better days. Calendars dating a few years back hung crooked on the wall next to the license plates. The oil and grease stood thick on the work table strewn with tools of all sorts.  The old tool box was open and wrenches, socket and otherwise were flowing out and onto the table like a cornucopia overflowing on a Thanksgiving table.    Below were all kinds of oil cans, rags in containers for  wiping spills up.   Tires leaning up against the cement block wall and a couple of mowers with their guts laying all over the floor.  Days of mowing have ceased, at least until the miracle of  the resurection of  putting it all together again happens. 

Do you remember, your dad, my grandpa with his crunched up faced, hands on his hips, he always seemed as if he was smiling but that’s just what he did with his face.   Then about five minutes later he’d pull out his can of Prince Albert and his rolling papers and roll a cigarette,  light it and continue talking.  He also cussed like a sailor on leave.  Both of you could have been an ad in a magazine for how joyous tobacco made you feel and look.  Hindsight hated those cigarettes because for every conversation you couldn’t seem to converse without them. Unfortuneately cigarettes, with the  grease, cars, trucks,  went hand in hand.   

There aren’t many times when I get to pass through a garage and smell in the memories of grease and oil, get to see the motors and spark plugs waiting to be placed in their rightful places.  Who would have thought a woman would even want to.  But when I get the chance I breathe it in as if a rare flowers essence is in the air, and I relive the memories of my dad and grandpa as if they were doctors working on their patients.  There was a seriousness that went along with it, an occasional laugh, a cough from the smoke, and Roger Miller on the radio. 

  Bustersdaughter and Quaker State miss you both.

The Aisle

I don’t know if you ever had hopes of walking me down the aisle, I never really thought about it before.  I never knew what you really thought as my fiance and I were on our way to get married.  You wished us well, and had him promise you, to take care of me always.  I never thought about what your dreams were for me.  I was a selfish kid, like all the rest and I was madly in love, as much as you can be at that age, when we drove off to say our I do’s.   We thought we were saving everyone from alot of hassle and family connections that probably would have started another war.  I never once considered maybe you would have wanted to put my arm in yours and look me in the eye and wish me well.  Tell me you love me and send me on my way to happy life with a man/boy I wanted to be with.  I am hoping in your comfy room of heaven you are reading this and knowing I am truly sorry for what you may have missed because of my youthful desires and inconsiderations.  So in my mind we have walked down that aisle together arm in arm and you did wish me well and I said I love you dad and thank you.  And even though this picturebook of marriage didn’t last he has fulfilled his promise to you.   I think you knew that.  ……..Bustersdaughter…………

Don’t dink with that!

My dad was always busy, would be busy tinkering with something in the garage and then doting on the orange trees out back.  His look on his face spoke volumes,  it said, don’t mess with me I am busy.  He would come into the kitchen and sit at the table with his “work” and still  looking and tinkering intently to finish fixing whatever was wrong with it so he could  use it  whereever it belonged. 

 One occasion, his granddaughter sat down on the chair across from him and curious as she was, started to touch the work in progress.  My dad had a very effective way of saying no!…He’d say. don’t dink with that!  And  he’d use his very strong index finger , and I’m sure he thought he was lightly tapping on the back of her hand but he wasn’t.  Now some might think that was a tad strong, that he shouldn’t have done that.  He should have talked to her and politely told her no.  What planet are those thoughts from? My dad was from a generation of cut the apple switch off the tree so I can spank you with it.  If there is any question,  I’m still fine, my posterior is minus any apple marks, and I have no other permament scars as well, so you see the spanking didn’t kill or maime me, it did set a presadence that  I never did said problem ever again.  So don’t dink with that with an index finger was gentle compared to the apple tree. 

Years later after his passing we laugh about how funny it sounded for him to say that and imitate his intense index finger smack.  There is a lesson here, don’t dink with that and that  too was in the life of bustersgrandaughter.

No Sharing

He liked his pineapples, melons, oranges, all kinds of healthy fruits and vegetables too, but when I arrived that afternoon with a two layer nutmeg, cinnamon, allspice, infused, old fashioned layer cake with cream cheese frosting, whipped up fluffy and light.    He was especially possesive.  I knew he liked Spice cakes but I had no idea I’d never get to taste it.  He wouldn’t share with a soul.  My soul loved it.  It was worth not giving to the friend it was originally supposed to go to.  I’m ashamed to admit I didn’t specifically make it for him, but I didn’t specifically make it for the friend either.  It was a toss up and I don’t regret for one minute that I gave it to the stingy man called my dad.

Another day in the life of Bustersdaughter.