My Father and I
With a little bit of mischeif I got off work early to find my father, after a long day's work in his shop, slumped in the recliner, his feet up and his hat, dirty and red, pulled across his face. In the silence I snuck by and tried to write at my computer, but could not think. He awoke and asked me if I could go to the market and retrieve some milk and bread, which I agreed to without second thought. When I got back he asked me where my mother kept the old candles. I went and found one, yellow and melted, and gave it to him, which he took and placed in his pocket. He then asked if I would follow him out to the shop so that I could see what he had been doing all day. Intrigued by a new machine he had bought (which cost him seven-hundred dollars) I followed, again without second thought, assuming this was what he would show me.
As we walked the short distance from the house to the shop my assumptions were confirmed.
"Have you seen this new machine I've got?" he asked me. I had secretly snuck into his shop only the day before, looking to find the equipment to fix my bicycle, and in doing so had seen the machine. I did not want him to know this, so I lied and told him, "No."
"Well, I'm using it to mill steel in the shop," he said back to me.
"I saw the semi pull up to the house the other day," I told him, "and saw you drive out with your truck. I thought you were getting a delivery of wood, but then I saw him open the back and pull out this little crate. Heavy crate, I thought."
With that he laughed and we walked into the shop. For nearly thirty minutes he showed me how it worked, how it could cut steel within a thousandth of an inch, and what parts he needed to use it for. I was impressed, and his inginuity complemented this when he pulled the old candle from his pocket and rubbed it on the running drill-bit which rotated and cut the metal. The layer of wax, I correctly assumed, took away most of the friction of the cut, making the milling marks smoother and less noticable.
The entire time he spoke I noticed the music playing from his radio, though quiet, was not his usual country station. At first I wondered why they were playing Merle Haggard, then I noticed no commercials and that all songs were Merle Haggard. My brother must have given his a Greatest Hits CD, I thought. I was correct.
After he had properly intruduced the machine to me, he turned my attention to the music playing, which we listened to for another thirty minutes. I pulled up a chair and he brought me a Coke, and we listened to his favorite music, that which inspired him to sing and write when he was a young man like I. He marveled out loud at the inginuity of Merle Haggard, whom he referred to as "The Hag", and how he could write about anything, how he spoke the truth in his words, and how my father could have made it as well if only he had not been so cocky when he got his contract in Memphis, Tennessee for song writing. "He was my hero when I was your age," he said to me. He told me that I had the world by the balls and that he was watching me make all the same mistakes that all the other people in the world have made, even himself.
"I can't choose the path for you. Only you can do that. All I can do is show you where all the pit-falls are at and hope you believe me...but you don't."
I thought to tell him I did listen, that I did believe but that it was hard to avoid them, as most were accompanied with temptations few are stong enough to avoid. However, I have thought to tell him this on many occasions and refuse to, reminded of how those thoughts are of no concern to him. Temptation is no excuse for idiocy.
After a short while more of listening to songs, we retreated back to the house, just before it began to rain, and ate microwave-able chili from a pouch, which was quite good. I should be sleeping soon, though. Maybe I'll think of a song or two in my dreams. Maybe he will as well.
As we walked the short distance from the house to the shop my assumptions were confirmed.
"Have you seen this new machine I've got?" he asked me. I had secretly snuck into his shop only the day before, looking to find the equipment to fix my bicycle, and in doing so had seen the machine. I did not want him to know this, so I lied and told him, "No."
"Well, I'm using it to mill steel in the shop," he said back to me.
"I saw the semi pull up to the house the other day," I told him, "and saw you drive out with your truck. I thought you were getting a delivery of wood, but then I saw him open the back and pull out this little crate. Heavy crate, I thought."
With that he laughed and we walked into the shop. For nearly thirty minutes he showed me how it worked, how it could cut steel within a thousandth of an inch, and what parts he needed to use it for. I was impressed, and his inginuity complemented this when he pulled the old candle from his pocket and rubbed it on the running drill-bit which rotated and cut the metal. The layer of wax, I correctly assumed, took away most of the friction of the cut, making the milling marks smoother and less noticable.
The entire time he spoke I noticed the music playing from his radio, though quiet, was not his usual country station. At first I wondered why they were playing Merle Haggard, then I noticed no commercials and that all songs were Merle Haggard. My brother must have given his a Greatest Hits CD, I thought. I was correct.
After he had properly intruduced the machine to me, he turned my attention to the music playing, which we listened to for another thirty minutes. I pulled up a chair and he brought me a Coke, and we listened to his favorite music, that which inspired him to sing and write when he was a young man like I. He marveled out loud at the inginuity of Merle Haggard, whom he referred to as "The Hag", and how he could write about anything, how he spoke the truth in his words, and how my father could have made it as well if only he had not been so cocky when he got his contract in Memphis, Tennessee for song writing. "He was my hero when I was your age," he said to me. He told me that I had the world by the balls and that he was watching me make all the same mistakes that all the other people in the world have made, even himself.
"I can't choose the path for you. Only you can do that. All I can do is show you where all the pit-falls are at and hope you believe me...but you don't."
I thought to tell him I did listen, that I did believe but that it was hard to avoid them, as most were accompanied with temptations few are stong enough to avoid. However, I have thought to tell him this on many occasions and refuse to, reminded of how those thoughts are of no concern to him. Temptation is no excuse for idiocy.
After a short while more of listening to songs, we retreated back to the house, just before it began to rain, and ate microwave-able chili from a pouch, which was quite good. I should be sleeping soon, though. Maybe I'll think of a song or two in my dreams. Maybe he will as well.
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