2008 - Glendale Community College

from the small-handprint-smudged glass
case in Fishie’s neighborhood store. “You
gave Mari a nickel, so you have to give
me one too.”
Dad replied, “No, you can’t have
a nickel. Mari needs it for school.
Go play.” This was Marianne’s special
occasion and I wasn’t going to get a
nickel.
I reacted in typical seven-yearold
fashion to this unwelcome news. My
feet stomped out an indignant rhythm on
the creaky old floorboards. My soprano
complaints climbed and descended the
scales of outrage. My self-pity filled
temper tantrum was world-class, sure to
evoke sympathy from the most hardened
ogre. Dad’s admonition, “Knock It
Off!” went unheeded in the midst of my
performance.
His giant form loomed over me. He
picked me up with one hand and carried
me, still crying, to the couch. He sat
down and laid me across his lap. His
steel thighs forced the complaining
air from my lungs as his massive hand
descended repeatedly to my bottom. Soon I
was crying in earnest.
Then Dad spun me around, grabbed my
shirt front, pulled me roughly to himself
and held me face to face. I can still
hear the tight abruptness of his next
words. “Listen! I don’t owe you nothin’.
It’s MY money and I can do whatever I
want with it.” He let go of my shirt and
I fell to the floor, tasting my tears as
he stormed from the room.
My spirit was buried in a landslide
of shock and hurt. I lay on the bare
hardwood floor, the pain in my heart
bigger than the pain in my pants. The
unimaginable had happened. I wasn’t going
to get my nickel. And my own Father had
been unfair to me.
26
***
I was too young to understand that Dad
really couldn’t do what he wanted with
his money. At the time he probably didn’t
have another nickel to give me. And that
fact likely ate a bigger hole in his
heart than it did in mine. But savoring
and remembering the bitterness of this
reality was a luxury that people with
his debt ratio could not afford. So he
carefully put it behind him and carried
on.
That incident was the first time I knew
that life could sometimes be unfair. I
ultimately realized I should not ever
expect anyone to hand me anything. And I
should not ever believe that I deserved
anything I had not earned. Armed with
this bittersweet knowledge, I grew up.
And I succeeded well beyond everyone’s
modest expectations.
***
Eventually Dad emerged from debt,
shedding the shackles of his additional
jobs. There was time for fun and family,
time for nerve-calming rest. My brother
Peter got every bit of the attention
the rest of us had missed. We were not
jealous. The ogre of debt had been slain.
***
By the time Dad retired, I owned a
grand, spacious home with ample room to
invite him to share my family and my good
fortune. He joined our household, and I
had the blessing of becoming friends with
this very different, wonderful, intensely
human being who gave me life.
***
When Dad died, we spent a day laughing
and crying as we dismantled his Lair. We
puzzled over why he had kept a roomful
of arcane books and old magazines.
We rummaged through his mementos, a
retirement watch from Public Service
Bus Company, army medals and costume
jewelry. Our biggest laugh came from a
pair of silver cuff links shaped like
coffee beans. But most impressive was
the quantity of receipts that Dad had
kept, some of them from twenty-five years
back. Everything from store receipts to
taxes to warranties that were no longer
valid or that covered things he no longer
owned. All paid in full.
Dad’s estate was small. He had a set of
other-handed golf clubs that we displayed
and played with at his funeral service.
He had a ten year-old Honda with 140,000
miles on it, meticulously maintained
with receipts to prove it. There were a
few thousand dollars and a few million
memories to divide among five children and
eleven grandchildren.
But I’ve got my nickel, my most prized
possession. I’ve got an appreciation of
every good thing that I get from God, my
other father, who also loves me, and from
my own honest efforts. And I’ve got an
amazing, enduring strength that my Dad
gave me long ago.
Traveler