24 My Nickel by Ed Swanson Nonfiction 1st Place Fractured Glance by Betsy Knauf-Van Antwerp Raku Stoneware
your crummy nickel,” Dad said merrily, ratcheting “Here’s himself out of the depths of his favorite chair. He thrust his right hand into the pocket of his neatly pressed golf shorts and dragged out a handful of change. He picked out the dull silver disk as he stood over me sitting on the family room sofa. “I don’t need your money,” I laughed as he placed the coin ceremoniously in my palm. I hesitated to take any money from my dad, no matter how insignificant the amount. “No, no. I insist!” he replied, standing tall, chin up, shaking his head, voice bristling with mock imperiousness. I had to respond. “OK, if you insist. Let’s see… How much interest should I get at five percent… times how many years…?” He collapsed back into his chair and we both laughed until our stomach muscles ached. Later on in my shop I drilled an eighth-inch hole in the nickel and installed it proudly on my key ring. *** Dad had been a most mellow and wonderful fixture in our household for five years. His careful retirement was spent meeting his cronies before dawn to capture the first tee time at Papago Buttes golf course or puttering around in his Lair, the floor-to-ceiling jam-packed upstairs bedroom he inhabited. There was always some “paperwork” for him to do, or some planning for his next trip. With two sons in the airline industry, Dad frequently used free standby tickets to visit kids and grandkids around the country. Late in the afternoon Dad would bark like a dog from the Lair, signaling that it was time for some “tea” and conversation with his daughter-in-law and with me if I happened to be around. He’d saunter downstairs humming a tune from the Second World War. Ice clinked into a glass, followed by a measure of Scotland’s cheapest, as Dad tried to cajole us into joining him. He would settle on his throne and regale us with the details of his latest trip. His face glowed as he leaned forward to assure us that we should see how niece Alicia gracefully danced across the stage in her latest college musical production. Dad’s arm stretched out, and he gazed into the distance as he proclaimed Alicia was just like his sister Aunt Jean in the 1920s, the star of the family. And wouldn’t we be amazed to witness nephew Matt catching the best <strong>Glendale</strong> <strong>Community</strong> <strong>College</strong> baseball games in the Pacific Northwest, unerringly calling the exact pitch needed to exploit a batter’s smallest weakness. We enjoyed the news of our extended family’s life, but we loved feeling Dad’s passion for them and we treasured the knowledge that he spoke about us with the same excitement and pride. *** On the afternoon that I got my nickel our conversation had turned to the memories we kept from childhood. “You know, Dad, none of your grandchildren can believe that while we were growing up you were an ogre sometimes.” My siblings and I had previously had this discussion and shared its sentiment, so it wasn’t just my imagination. “Whaddya mean,” he asked. “I never treated you guys mean.” Dad simply could not believe that he had ever been anything but fantastic with his children, as he was with his grandchildren. So I related to him one of my most vivid childhood memories. The incident occurred before the days of myriad government handouts. And before it was acceptable to have an ethic that would abide with, much less welcome this largesse. Like many other uneducated men in those times, Dad had to spend too much of his time working and not enough time playing with us. So he was always good for a horse ride, but seldom available. He was a fun but formidable, mostly occasional force in our world. The fruit of Dad’s two jobs slowly satisfied the massive appetite of the pile of medical bills rung up by my three eye surgeries. Just as Dad might have gotten respite from this albatross of debt, my baby brother Peter was born needing reconstructive surgery for a hare lip and a cleft palate. Dad got a third job and shoveled more dollars into the maw of the medical community. The slim remainder of his wages was carefully reserved for the food we could afford and for rare special occasions. But we never went hungry, and we never thought of ourselves as poor. *** One day my sister Marianne had a “special occasion.” I can’t recall what it was, but she needed a nickel for it. I watched from the kitchen doorway as Dad gave her the shiny, precious coin. “I want a nickel too” I demanded, already savoring the five different kinds of sweet penny pleasure I would purchase 25
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- Page 23 and 24: Death by Marianne Ferrari, Poetry 3
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