nickelndime

I wasn't even going to participate in the, “Coil Gratitude Challenge” hosted by Ken, but after reading XRPGord's post, I changed my mind. If you haven't read any of Gord's posts, you're missing out. Gordie not only influenced my decision to do this challenge, but I'm also stealing the topic he wrote about this morning. His article about his relationship with his father inspired me to write about my relationship with my father, and a lesson that he taught me that I am so grateful for.

A little background.

I am the youngest of four boys, and grew up middle class, during the late 80's, early 90's. My father worked on the assembly line for one of the big three (Auto Makers). For 15 years he installed the front seats to a car on an assembly line until he eventually he got into the skilled trades and became a tool and die man. My mother wrote romance novels... yes these ones...

Yup... my mother wrote this. I tried to read it, but when I got to the first scene where characters were gonna do stuff with each other, I noped out of there fast.

My relationship with my father wasn't strained, but it wasn't great. I believe it's from the fact that he was raised in a time that really didn't value warm relationships with your children. When I've described my father in the past I would say, “My father is like Red Foreman from, 'That 70's Show' only not as warm.” For those of you who haven't seen the show, Red is a very stern blue collar father. That was my father to a tee.

My father was always losing his temper. In his defense my brothers and I were four unruly children. It wasn't that we were bad kids, but we definitely where not saints. For example, here is a picture of the four of us from the early 80's. My mother had just instructed us to get ready for Sunday mass and somehow the four of us made our way outside and ended up looking like this.

I defy you to find a more 80's picture than this.

A lesson learned from my old man.

This lesson was taught to me when I was 15. I had developed quite a sarcastic tone in how I would respond to my parents, or any adult in general. One evening during diner, I had gotten to the table last out of my brothers. There was only one seat left, and that was next to my old man. Nobody liked to sit close to my father because if you were eating too fast, or said something he didn't approve of, he would swat you upside the head and instruct you not to be such an animal.

Now this evening it was particularly hot. It was mid summer and boiling inside our home. Now unlike most families at the time, we had a central AC unit. The bad news was that my father never turned it on, unless we had guests over or the pope made a surprise visit. In was utter madness so I took it upon myself to request the AC.

“Dad,” I sighed, “It's brutal in here can we please turn on the AC?”

My father didn't even look up from his food as he asked in between bites, “Do you know how expensive it is to run the AC?”

I didn't even think before I replied very condescendingly, “That's easy pops, all you have to do is put in more hours at the plant.”

At that my father stopped chewing his food and shot a look at me from the corner of his eye. I felt for sure I was going to get a back hand upside the head, but I didn't. He just stared and replied, “That's really good advice Nicholas, I'll keep that in mind.”

Everybody at the table stared in disbelief that my father hadn't flipped the table and that I was still in one piece. Diner was finished mostly in silence. By the time evening rolled around, I had completely forgot about the incident, and I assumed my father had as well.

I was wrong.

The next morning I was awoken by my father, “Get up, get dressed, go to the bathroom, and meet me in the car.”

“What time is it?” I groggily replied. It was still dark out. I looked at the clock by my bed. 4:45am? I was so confused, It was a Saturday, why was my old man waking me up this early? Did he finally crack? “Dad,” I moaned, “It's not even five o'clock...”

My father cut me off, “You've got fifteen minutes, or I'll carry you out to the car... dressed or not, you're gonna be in that car.” With that, he walked out of my room.

I threw on some clothes I had laying on the floor, went to the bathroom and went outside. The family car was started and my dad was in the driver's seat. He had a mug of coffee in one hand, and a cigarette in the other. The breakfast of champions, I thought to myself as I opened the passenger door and got in.

My father pulled out of the driveway and onto the street. He put the radio on talk radio. “It's just too early for music,” he said. I couldn't tell if he was talking to me, or to himself. He continued, “Back when your mother and I would go square dancing I would listen to the tunes on the drive in...” he trailed off in thought before he continued, “That was before I got switched to day shift and now it's just too early for me to listen to music.”

That was all he said as we drove. We both sat in silence listening to talk radio. It was a good 45 minutes before we got to our destination. It was the assembly plant my father worked at. My dad pulled into the parking lot and parked the car. He let out a defeated sigh. I got the impression he made that sigh every time he pulled into the parking lot. “Well... we're here.” As he spoke those words he put the car in park and turned the car off. He opened his door and got out. My father didn't instruct me to follow, he just started walking towards the plant. I felt it would be best if I followed him.

When we got to the main entrance my father turned to me and instructed, “It's loud in there, so cover your ears. Also, stay close to me. I don't want to lose you in there and then have to spend the rest of my afternoon trying to find you.” He turned and opened the door, and the volume of the plant greeted me. We hadn't even stepped through the door and it was deafening. I put my hands over my ears and followed my father through the doorway.

What was unexpected as we stepped through the doorway into the main part of the assembly plant was the heat. It was only six in the morning at that point and the temperature was well above 100 degrees Fahrenheit. The humidity was as thick as a sauna. As I adjusted to the noise and heat, my father walked briskly as if unaffected by the volume and temperature change. At times I would have to break into a jog, just to keep up with my old man.

We must have walked a pretty good distance, till we got to what appeared to be a makeshift office structure within the plant. My father pushed a button that sounded a buzzer, and the door unlocked and we entered. By this time, my shirt was completely drenched in sweat and there was a ringing in my ears even though my hands had covered my ears the entire time.

We entered the small office space to find a middle aged man sitting at some kind of desk. He looked up and noticed my dad, “Ed, what are you doing here?” he asked puzzled.

“I forgot to grab my check yesterday after I punched out. I thought I would pick it up and show my son the plant. This is my youngest boy, Nick. Nick this is Gary.”

Gary got up from his desk and walked towards me. “Your dad is one of the best workers I got,” he said as he extended his hand. I was so surprised. This man thought so highly of my father, that he would shake a teenage kid's hand. I gave him a firm hand shake and looked him in the eye. He seemed to notice, “Your boy is a spittin' image of you Ed! Now let me find that check of yours.”

Gary rummaged through an old file cabinet and found my dad's check and handed it to him. They said their goodbyes and we turned to walk out. As we turned around to leave, the door opened and in walked an African American male. He noticed my dad and his face lit up.

“Eddie my man!” he said.

“How's it going Leroy?” my father responded with a smile.

Then, the most amazing thing happened. Leroy and my father exchanged a very intricate handshake.

Is was as smooth and effortless as this handshake.

Source

“You all better get outta here before they find some work for you!” Leroy said.

“Don't need to tell me twice.” My father chuckled.

“Alright now, you two take care.”

“Bye Leroy. Bye Gary.”

I stood there completely flabbergasted by the events that had just transpired. First my dad's boss got up from his desk to shake my hand and to let me know how much he valued my father's work ethic. Secondly the gentleman that came in and was friendly to my father. My dad never had any friends over to the house. I had always figured it was because he was socially awkward, or people found him too abrasive to be around. This was the first time it occurred to me that maybe my dad was able to have friends, but chose to spend what little free time he had with his family.

We left the assembly plant and got back in to the car and proceeded to drive home. I was still in awe from the events that had just transpired when my father broke the silence.

“Did you see those big press machines? They stamp thin sheets of metal into parts of the car.”

“Ahhh” I replied comprehending. I had wondered what those big machines were the whole time I was there.

“Yeah...” My father took a long drag from his cigarette that he'd lit, then exhaled as he continued. “A friend of mine was crushed in one of those presses two years ago. There was nothing left of him. They just gathered his remains and put them in an ambulance and pronounced him dead on the way to the hospital. Nobody ever dies at the plant.” At this, there was a long pause before he chuckled to himself and continued, “His family got a massive payout, I'm sure his kids will never have to worry about running the AC ever again.”

He said it with such indifference that the words lamented in the air. They were as thick as the cigarette smoke that blew out the car window. It was at that moment in my short life that I realized my words had an impact on the people that they were directed at, especially the people that cared about me. Tears were beginning to well up in my eyes as I came to the realization of the lesson my father was trying to teach to me. This lesson was stronger than any sense a smack upside the head could teach or any tone of voice could enforce.

All I could focus on were the words I had smugly said to him the night before, and how out of line they had been. My parents had provided a pretty good childhood for me. Even when money was tight, my parents made sure my brothers and I could do the things we wanted to do. If we wanted to play a sport, my dad would pick up a shift. If we wanted to learn an instrument, my dad would pick up another shift. At this point tears were rolling down my cheeks from the shame I felt. Out of character again, my father didn't lecture me, or tell me to, “toughen up,” he just turned on the radio to the oldies station.

“Who is this?” he quizzed me.

“It's, 'The Temptations.'”

“Song?”

“I Got Sunshine.”

“What genre?”

“Motown.”

“Damn Straight.”

Damn straight pops.