Vintage Dad #1

The clenched jaw.

The centered vertical furrowed brow.

The laugh lines around his eyes.

The open mouthed smile.

The dreadful homemade jokes.

The banter between he and mom. (Philena!)

The way he laughs at himself.

The jump-shot hoisted from beside his right ear.

The quilted flannel shirts.

The billowing fury during a Syracuse game.

The nights beside the radio listening to Yankees baseball.

The years of mowing our lawn with a bushhog.

The mirrored body language while watching his children play sports.

The silent belly laugh drawing tears.

The change in his prayer voice. 

The garden straw hat while tilling the dirt.

The concentration when he bowled.

The attempt to lead family devotions with unruly children.

The sermon before the spanking.

The big bowl of popcorn on his lap.

The lifting of the shirt to scratch his belly for minutes on end.

The house projects left unfinished.

The picture of him sawing lumber behind the Woodmizer.

The nights I would go watch him referee basketball games.

The animation of him leading worship as the song leader.

The back of the car leaving the driveway to go to a deacon’s meeting.

The stiff shuffle of his feet behind the snow-blower.

The days of him coaching our basketball and soccer teams.

The competitive streak that coursed through his veins.

The way he called balls and strikes for my brother and I.

The circus song he would sing on family nights as he flipped us over his head with his feet.

The holding of mom’s hand behind the pulpit as they sang special music together.

The desk he would sit behind in the Principal’s office.

The left turn out of church on Sunday signaling lunch at Ponderosa.

The times he would push the clutch and turn the van off while coasting down a hill.

The days he would let us sit on his lap as boys and steer the van on a trip.

The static sound coming through AM radio while driving in the Catskill Mountains.

The limp due to arthritis from an old ankle injury.

The graduation where he got his Master’s and I yelled, “That’s my dad!”

The day I hit him with the hard plastic sled at “Downhill with Dad”.

The days of wood-splitting where he would push the lever back and forth.

The sound of dad stoking the wood stove in the middle of the night.

The phone calls outside my bedroom of dad calling to cancel school due to snow.