A Man of Few Words

Revisions Note:  Brian, I left this stet.  Please go to the next post “A Man of Few Words:  Remembering My Dad” to see all revisions.  This is here for your comparison, only.

Target audience:  Class or a creative writing group 

 

A Man of Few Words

    My father was a simple man; simple in his wants, tastes and needs. That is different from being simple in the way that makes someone easy to understand.  He was not simple in that way.  In fact, the sparseness of his ways could deceive a friend or son or daughter, which I am. The scarcity of knowledge that I had about his life or that he shared about himself, made him appear neither secretive nor humble.  He was merely a self-contained man who thrived on simplicity rather than dramatic complications.

         Perhaps that’s why one of our last visits together will always disrupt the otherwise stereotypical memory I have of him.  It started with a question that threw me off guard in a way I can still recall, “Do you want to go see the house I grew up in?”

 

         The question seemed to summarize the dance my father and I had started and continued all my life.  Ours was a process of distance and closeness that came in and out of focus.  He was there and he was not there.  He called and then he never came.  We talked and then we didn’

t talk for a while.  Within this rhythm, I suddenly realized I had never seen the house he grew up in.

      I knew the town he grew up in was Hebbardsville, a little town about thirty miles deeper into Kentucky farmland than where our house was located.  Once, I had seen a picture of him in an old-fashioned basketball uniform.  He was so thin and handsome, I hardly recognized him.  There had been little talk of his basketball career other than it had been cut short after he was diagnosed with a heart murmur.

         As a young girl with a life of her own to live, this had seemed sufficient knowledge of my gruff, wordless father.  But now that we were both adults, his childlike question, “Do you want to go see the house I grew up in?”

brought tears to my eyes. 

         We drove out past our property while rolling farmland with red barns lined up one after the next.  My father watched the road, silently, until we entered Hebbardsville and he began his speech.

     “This is Hebbardsville.  Never was much to speak of.  Still isn’t.  Over there’s where Granddaddy lived. His son-in-law, my Uncle Rich, still lives over there. He’s must be more than 90 years-old.”

 

     “Dad! Who is Uncle Rich? Why don’t we know him?”

 

     “Well, I know, him,” my father replied, as if to say, “What use would it have been for you to know him when you ran off and lived in Chicago and France and now, North Carolina or any other place that pleases you, with the clear exception of home.”

 

         He continued his narration. “Here’s the main street of Hebbardsville. That next house there. That was ours.”

 

     A small house with pretty, carved gables and tall, cathedral windows sat on a hill looking down over Main Street.  He pointed out the stoop where he sat on summer days, and he laughed at the memory of throwing pebbles at passers-by from behind a bush in his front yard.

     We continued on and he pointed out a large barn-like building that was the gymnasium he used to play basketball in.  He seemed excited to recall those days and it made me think my father was a better basketball player than the heart murmur story had allowed for.

         “If you keep on going down this road, you reach the Green River,” he said.  “Can’t cross it anymore.  Used to be a ferry for horses and cars.  Nowadays, people take the Pennyrile Parkway to Owensboro,”

he explained in a tone that hinted at the uselessness of expensive roads, purposely built to avoid the natural excitement of crossing a hidden river on a ferry boat.

     “Better get back to the house,” he said as he began to turn the car around.  “Thanks, Dad,” I smiled at him, “I really enjoyed that.  I’m sorry we’ve never done it before, but I’m glad we did it today.”

 

     “Today’s as good a day as any,” he said.  We caught a long look into each other’

s eyes, and drove home without words.  There was really nothing more to say.