2008 - Glendale Community College

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
Glendale Community College
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