I pull into the gravel driveway get out of my car and close the door.
It’s been more than four years since I’ve made the trip back east to see him. We talk on the phone about once a month – never a scheduled conversation, just whenever one of us has something to say. I send him birthday cards and Christmas presents. He doesn’t remember things like birthdays, other than his own, and that’s only because I send him a card. He does, however, send me videos, epic videos; some sad, many downright thought provoking (what are you trying to say here, Dad?), but all entertaining for one reason or another.
The most recent videos I received, three of them, came in a Nike’s shoe box addressed to “Ding,” a nickname harkening back to my high school days. “Ho-ho-ho” was scrawled at the top left with his return address, Rt 3, Narrows, VA. He loved playing Santa, but that’s another memory for another time.
Inside the box was a cryptic note in his chicken scratching – “6 videos.” There were three. They were labeled #1, #3, and #6. Yay! My day starts off with a mystery. What happened to numbers 2, 4 and 5, Dad? Did you forget to include them? Is this a test of my cognitive skills? Did you intend to send 3, but because one was labeled #6, you thought you were sending six? Did I really want to know? I mean how would I even ask the question?
In a random moment of warm fuzzy, I made the executive decision to show the videos at my in-law’s house after Christmas dinner. Let’s just call that mistake number two in the record book; for those keeping track, the first mistake was the fact that I did not pre-screen said videos before the after-dinner premier. Did I mention this was at my in-law’s house? With all the extended family present? Some of whom have a shaky grasp at best of who I am, let alone who my father is? Let me just say, had I previewed them, I never would have made mistake number two…
The first video was filmed two months earlier at Thanksgiving featuring Daddy, his brother Luke, sister-in-law Claire, and their son, Doodle – all sitting, passing food from one end of the table to the other, and chewing. When the camera was not recording platters and bowls making their journey from one end of the table to the other, it recorded the chewing; there was a lot of chewing, interrupted by an occasional napkin dab at a mouth corner, and the request for something to be passed from the other end of the table.
None of Dad’s family are great conversationalists. (Remember, one of the offspring is legally named “Doodle.” That says a lot.) They are “hill and holler” folk. In this instance holler refers to the deep chasm between the mountain sides where they live, not loud vocalizations.
I can almost feel the tryptophan hardening in real time as it slowly flows through my arteries. This, you need to realize, is hillbilly holiday eats, where a normal plate consists of, in prescribed order, turkey (light or dark meat, your choice), a mountain of hand mashed potatoes, with at least a cup of whipping cream and a stick of salted butter. Next to the taters is stuffing (not dressing) soaking up the gravy that escapes the mashed potato crater. Then sweet potatoes with the toasty burnt marshmallows on top, green bean casserole, a couple spoons of cranberry sauce, and finally three homemade yeast rolls…Yes, this dinner breaks the keto-meter. My mouth waters just thinking about it.
I cut the action short at the two-minute mark, and that was ninety seconds too long. At a private viewing later in the week I determined the full length coming in at an enthralling forty-three action packed minutes.
I hit the kill switch on the second video at the five-minute mark. It seemed much longer due to the subject matter… Snow falling…just. snow. falling.
You may ask yourself, why did I allow it to run that long? I noticed that the audience fell into two categories: those early victims of the tryptophan, who were snoring before their fannies made contact with chairs, and those that, while still awake, were distracted and gossiping about the snoring family members. I fell into a category all my own. I was mesmerized by the white-out on the screen, and so I was the only one in the room that witnessed the most exciting thirty seconds of the entire five-minutes, a bare hand brushing the accumulated snow away from the lens of the camera. Dad’s hand…because no one else would think it clever to video such an event. I found this endearing and peaceful. And I turned it off. Again, I held a private viewing later that week to watch the entire recording while ironing… compelled by the urge to confirm that there was nothing more to the video… no greeting…or message… nothing buried within. Nope, nothing. Just snow falling.
My favorite video was the last one, or as Dad called it, #6. Like I said, I should have previewed all three of these before subjecting the family to them. But this one… this one in particular was not good for after-dinner-viewing due to questionable content, and yet I could not bring myself to end it before its time. This one he made of himself sending me a holiday greeting. It began innocently enough.
“Merry Christmas to all, ho, ho, ho. Just wanted to check in. Not much happening here. Got your presents. Thanks.”
He sits forward a little and looks down to brush something from his chest, sits back and looks up at the camera again.
“Probably go to Luke’s in a bit for grub. Claire invited. Luke ain’t talkin’ to me. I reckon he’s still mad at me for almost burnin’ down the mountain Saturday. Grouchy old SOB.”
Daddy, in his blue recliner, unconsciously rocking, his right hand taps the arm of the chair with every forward motion; his left arm cradles Ruthie, the tiny Yorkie named after my Mama. She sits atop his mountainous belly within reach of his beard, which she checks periodically for stray crumbs. Due to the rocking motion, she seems to nod her agreement at his discourse. He punctuates every break in his monologue with a distinct sucking of his teeth. Annoying habit, and once you hear him do it, it is difficult to focus on much else.
He is wearing the red plaid PJ bottoms I sent him. The package of 2XXL white V-neck T-shirts can be seen sitting on the end table next to him, along with the empty Ziplock baggie of the homemade organic doggy treats. The video reveals that while he is wearing his new PJ bottoms, he did not bother to put on one of the new, clean T-shirts. This is evidenced by the stains on the one he is wearing. It too, had once been white, but now provides colorful details of the day’s (week’s?) menu. Over the T-shirt is his ever-present “motorcycle vest.” A real fashion statement, as Daddy has not owned or ridden a motorcycle in over 60 years. I have to wonder, what is the statement being made by a faded black, once-poofy, now-flat quilted garment? The ensemble as always is topped off with the sacred Silver Eagles baseball cap.
It is the final 45 seconds of this video that sets it apart from the others. All eyes are riveted on the screen; like watching a train wreck, we can’t turn away. It has come to define Christmas in a way that will be remembered for many years, at least in the memories of my in-laws. And dare I say, not in a good way.
Still rocking, it looks like Daddy might be trying to remember something else he planned to say. He sucks his teeth, then leans forward forcing Ruthie to adjust herself to the new position. Staring into the camera, he very earnestly asks…
“Did I tell you the doc pulled all my toenails out? I think I forgot to tell you, but he did. Didn’t hurt too bad, but looked pretty bad for a while. Yeah, pulled ’em right out. Can’t remember why.”
He leans back having finished his report, blithely unaware of the havoc imposed on the stomachs of viewers thousands of miles and several time zones away. Then in one motion he rocks hard back, then forward, and launches to a standing position where he remains for a few seconds, balancing himself from the sudden activity. Steady now, he shuffles toward the camera, Ruthie still on his left arm.
We stare at the screen in numbed silence as it slowly fills with red plaid. Daddy’s right hand reaches forward, and he hits the button on the video camera. The show is over, the screen goes black, and there is silence. The dinner guests collectively release the breath they had been holding. Christmas dinner has never been the same since.
Back to my arrival in Virginia. It is after viewing his holiday videos that I decide an in-person visit is overdue. I’ve known he is declining with the passage of every Christmas. This is to be expected and I brace myself for the transformation I am sure to witness in the next few moments.
I guess subconsciously I expected the sound of an approaching vehicle in the driveway and the door slamming would alert him to the presence of a visitor. It was a bit disarming as I stood next to my rental car in the stillness of the setting. No gruff greeting from him, no tiny dog yipping. The lack of any response recalled visions of the snow video. Eerie, unsettling. I wonder where he is that he can’t hear all the commotion in his front yard.
Then I see him in his bent wood rocker, sitting in the deep shade of the porch. He isn’t rocking; his head is dropped, chin to chest. I whisper a prayer.
Please let him just be napping.
Thrusting my fear down, I spend a few seconds deep-breathing, and consider how I should approach. Should I clear my throat, announcing my arrival, sort of an introduction? Or just go quietly and sit in the chair next to him and wait for nature to take its course. Realizing both approaches hold the potential of startling him into cardiac arrest, I decide to approach in a normal manner. I would figure out the rest when I got to the porch. Fate provides a different option when I step on a dry twig hidden beneath the unraked leaves, evidence of the last windstorm. The sound of the snapping twig jars Ruthie, setting off her alarm response. She bursts into high pitched yips, and Daddy awakes confused as to the source of the disturbance. Finally he realizes it is his dog and lifts her back to his chest, whispering in her ear.
Thank god, he was only asleep. One day that won’t be the case…
I stand quietly with the warm morning sun on my back. I’m waiting for him to recognize me when I realize the sun is reducing his already compromised vision. I move closer.
“Halt! Who goes there?” His gruff, big papa-bear voice booms out across the short span between us. I remember this voice. This was the voice that landed him the minuscule solo in our church’s Christmas Cantata a lifetime ago. The two-sentence singing part was to be delivered in that deep authoritative tone.
“Go and search diligently! Go and search diligently!”
I remember seeing his mouth open during the performance…and at the time I wondered why one of the tenors had stolen his solo because the voice that delivered the lines was high pitched and thin. I had peered across the heads of the congregation in front of me, focusing on his face which was drained of all the color the makeup artist had applied backstage. His lips were moving, but that was not the voice of a demanding King Herod. His last words were not audible, and he faded back into his spot in the choir on stage. His beautiful baritone had deserted him in his one and only moment in the spotlight. That’s when we learned that Daddy suffered from stage fright.
Standing within arm’s reach now, I see he is wearing the same PJ bottoms and possibly the same “white” T-shirt. And of course, the motorcycle vest hanging on his stooped shoulders.
He falters, trying to recognize his visitor. As I’m standing right in front of him, I attribute his slowness to the fact that while his Silver Eagles hat might be corralling all three wisps of his white hair, it is doing precious little to shadow his face from the sun’s glare.
I step closer to greet him with a hug.
“Hi, Daddy. It’s me.”
Never at a loss for words... 