Dad and Me - Lisa Perron
In honor of Father’s Day, I am sharing an excerpt from a small book I wrote for my Dad a couple of years ago called The Fallen Barn. Sadly, he never got to read these words, but I know that if he had, he would have been pleased.
As Dad reflected on all of his kids growing up, he was always careful not to show any favoritism. No matter which child he talked about, he would say that he or she was real special. However, when he got to his fifth, he grinned and hesitated. “Lisa, well, she always had a mind of her own.” He probably thought he had parenting down until I came around. I gave him plenty of opportunity to practice patience.
I teased my dad frequently about his propensity to mispronounce titles. Instead of shopping at K-Mart, for Dad, it was K-Mark. He called my first workplace Richard Gordon’s instead of Richman Gordman. No matter how many times I corrected him, he just couldn’t pronounce some words correctly.
Dad and I shared a love for John Wayne and old westerns. We rarely missed an episode of The Waltons or Eight is Enough. We were both crushed when Eight is Enough was canceled. Several months later, reruns of the show began to be aired. One day, my dad clamored through the door after a long day at work. His whole bearing screamed of his exhaustion. Out of the corner of his eye, he recognized one of the characters from our favorite show. His face lit up, he sat on the edge of the couch with his elbows on his knees and said, “Oh boy! Is this Seven is It?”
* * * * *
When I was two years old, my dad forgot me at the grocery store. Just the thought of this is bound to take the breath out of every parent. Most parents can understand how something like this could happen. I know it’s unusual, but I remember this event quite well considering the passage of time. This story has been retold often, much to my father’s dismay; however, this story is about more than just a parent’s mistake. For me, this event is one of the best of my childhood.
It was a Saturday morning; my mom was working, so my dad had taken my three older brothers and myself with him to do the week’s grocery shopping. Four children going four different ways while you are trying to achieve this unpleasant task creates much stress and frustration for any parent. I’ve been in situations like this, when all I could think about was getting out of the store and back home where I might regain what little sanity I had before I’d begun shopping. I’m sure by the time my dad arrived at the check out, he had this same mentality.
While he was busy checking out, my older brothers sat on the low sill under the large storefront window. I tried to climb onto the sill, but had a difficult time managing it. I climbed and slipped off numerous times until I finally succeeded. “Dad, look!” I said looking up for the first time since beginning my task.
My dad wasn’t there.
I hopped down from my perch and began my search. I thought, “Dad likes meat,” and ran straight for the meat department.
Dad wasn’t there either.
I ran up and down the aisles hollering, “Dad!” stopping only to pick up the balloon off of the floor that he told me to leave alone earlier. I reached the front of the store and tried to go out. Fortunately, this was before automatic doors so I wasn’t strong enough to push it open. I repeated my search, again starting with the meat department. By the time I made it back to the front of the store, my dad was coming in the door. I ran to him. As he scooped me into his arms he asked, “Were you scared?”
“No,” I said. “I was just mad.” I should’ve been terrified, but I wasn’t. In all my searching, I never once considered that my dad was gone. I knew that I would find him.
My mom hates when this story is brought up because all she can think about is what could’ve happened. I have the luxury of knowing what did happen. My dad was not the kind of parent to forget me; this event was very unusual for him—a simple mistake. Remembering this story doesn’t make me dwell on the fact that he left me at the store. Instead, I focus on the fact that I knew he would come back.
* * * * *
When I was in high school, Dad drove an old two-door Ford Colt hatchback. Several rusted holes covered the light blue hunk of tin; one of which was just below the clutch. If his foot would’ve slipped off of the pedal, it would’ve went right through the floor board. He could’ve pushed off the road with his feet like Fred Flintstone. One time, there was something wrong with the starter. The car wouldn’t stay on unless he held the key in the on position. He couldn’t possibly drive the stick shift by himself since his right hand was keeping the car running, so I rode with him. He pushed in the clutch and I shifted, all the while hoping that no one I knew would see.
Riding around in that car was so embarrassing. The muffler had fallen off some time before, so it sounded like a freight train rolling down the road. I used to lay the passenger seat all the way back to keep from being seen. One day, I decided that my hiding while riding with him was rude. That day, I was determined, no matter what happened, I would remain in the seated position. It wasn’t so bad until a white sedan cut him off. He switched lanes and sped up making the engine howl even louder. If that wasn’t bad enough, as he got up next to the sedan, Dad shook his finger at the driver. I reached down, pulled up the lever next to my seat and stayed horizontal the rest of the trip.
After I graduated from high school, I got my first full-time job, and wanted to buy my own car. I didn’t think I would get the best deal possible as an 18-year-old girl, so I asked Dad to come with me. The red two-door Buick Opal was listed at $2100. My dad pointed out a few minor issues with the car that he wanted fixed before I purchased. The salesman left for a few minutes to talk to his manager. He came back and said, “The best we can do is $1800.” I held my breath waiting for my dad to show his great negotiating skills.
He shrugged his shoulders. “That sounds fair.”
It took every bit of self control not to laugh out loud. Nevertheless, I purchased the car for the “fair price.” My sister, Teresa, had to drive it off the lot for me because I couldn’t drive a stick shift. After a couple of lessons, I tried my first solo drive.
It did not go well.
I was so excited to drive my own car alone for the first time, I’d practically skipped on my way to the car. It didn’t start off terribly. I managed to get the car going on the first try. At the first stop sign, I killed the engine a couple times before finally jerking my way through the intersection. At every stop sign or stop light, I had more and more difficulty getting my car going. If there happened to be someone behind me while I tried to get started, I preformed worse. I was terrified that I would never make it back home, and by the time I did, I was immensely frustrated. I slammed the door to the house, and with tears running down my face, I yelled, “I am never driving that thing again!”
Dad was still chuckling as he followed me into my bedroom. He didn’t say anything, just waited for me to blow. “I’ve tried, but I can’t. I can’t drive that car and I won’t ever again.”
A smile threatened but he managed to keep his composure. “You bought the car. It’s yours. What choice to you have?”
Using my 18-year-old wisdom I said, “I’ll sell it.”
He laughed. He tried not to, but he just couldn’t help it. I’m surprised he held it in as long as he did. “You can’t just sell it. When you’re ready, I’ll help you figure it out.”
Ten minutes later I stormed through the living room and said, “Let’s go.” Dad patiently coached me for at least forty-five minutes on flat side roads. He kept saying something about a catch point in the clutch. “Once you figure out where the catch point is, you’ll have the hang of it.” When I managed to get going without giving us both whiplash, he’d say, “Did you feel it?” I had no idea what he was talking about; until I did. I ventured on to the main road. I stopped on a hill at a stop light and began to panic. I looked in the rearview mirror as a car pulled up right behind me. I was sure I was going to roll backwards into it. Dad tried to offer me encouragement.
“You can do this. I know you can. Just feel for the . . .”
“Catch point. I know!” And, after I killed it a couple of times, I did it. Dad was right. I just needed to figure out that darn catch point. I was a fiercely independent child, but I always knew that my dad would be there when I needed him. He was strong and steady. He was security. He was my barn.
* * * * *
My Granddad passed away in September of 1989. It had only been three months since I had visited him last. I knew it was coming, and yet, I was unprepared. After the funeral, I drove alone to Granddad’s old farm. The picket fence was gone as well as the screen around the front porch. Behind and to the left of the house spanned a large grassy area where the barn used to be. I felt like I’d been kicked in the stomach. If I were to see that farm with a designer’s eye, I might have felt differently. However, I had to wonder if tearing down the barn—my barn—was necessary.
How could they tear down that barn? Did they have any idea what they’d done? The very walls of that barn encased echoes of every life, whether man or beast, that ever found shelter there. In leveling the barn, the new owners leveled the best parts of my childhood. I felt violated. Not only had I lost my grandfather, my last connection to him was reduced to only a memory. As I closed my eyes, I saw it again. I entered the barn and took a deep breath. The smell of horse and hay comforted me. I felt the warmth of Queen’s breath on my face as I caressed the horse’s forehead all the way down to her muzzle. My fingers lingered on the tip of her velvety nose. I had never felt anything as soft. I spied the haymow ladder and wondered if there were any new litters of kittens up in the hayloft. I opened my eyes and stared at the empty space. Where did the cats raise their kittens now that their home was gone? My home was gone. The ground looked undisturbed as if the barn never existed and all of my dad’s stories were just figments of imagination.
My tires crunched noisily as I drove slowly past Granddad’s old farmhouse three or four times before finally vowing to myself to never return. This place was no longer Granddad’s. It was no longer my favorite place in the world. I was no longer a child, and it was time to move on. If only it were that easy.
Sadly, Granddad’s barn was not the only one leveled. Barns are one of the nation’s most threatened historical resources. Maintaining these magnificent buildings is laborious and expensive; however, these barns are more than just buildings. They are a connection to America’s history and those who built her.
When I lived in Iowa with my own family, we frequently passed an old leaning barn on the side of a two-lane highway. It looked as if a little tap from someone’s finger would bring it crashing down. “I wonder why they don’t just tear that thing down,” my husband said. I knew why. That tilted barn was more than just a crumbling building. How many lives flourished because the barn was there to house food, livestock, and farm equipment. In the pioneer days, most settlers would build the barn first and many times the house they lived in didn’t come close to the size and sturdiness of their barns. These settlers would understand why the leaning barn still stood.
In many ways my dad was like that old leaning barn. Just as the grain of every plank of wood in that barn held the stories of all who sought shelter there, the lives of all that had gone before him ran through his veins. That is the reason for his stories. He told his stories not so he would be remembered, but so that those who were no longer living would not be forgotten. It was his responsibility to pass on their legacy.
Now it is mine.
As my dad aged, at times he could be pessimistic and melancholy. However, whenever his kids or grandkids walked into a room his face would light up. This contrast between despair and hope defined Dad’s demeanor in his final days. He was never a large man, but the effects of Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease (COPD) reduced him to less than 100 pounds. A nasal cannula connected him to his oxygen tank twenty-four hours a day. The muscles in his throat were so damaged that when he tried to eat or drink, some of what he consumed would end up in his lungs. Every time he took in anything by mouth, he would risk contracting aspiration pneumonia. Every bit of nourishment he received was from a tube in his stomach. He became so weak that he couldn’t walk from the parking lot into a store without a walker. Little by little, all of his freedoms were taken away. Little by little the barn leaned farther over. He asked me, How do I think positively about never being able to eat? Like him, I too can be pessimistic. I told him that I would have trouble thinking positively in his situation too. However, it must have something to do with focusing on the things that he has instead of the things that he doesn’t. That is, perhaps, one of the most difficult things to do when you’re depleted.
Dad always answered the phone gruffly, as if the person on the other end had just interrupted something important. One of my favorite bits about calling him was how his irritated “Hello” would instantly shift to an excited “Hi Babe!” when he realized it was me calling. I could hear the smile in his voice and I knew that my voice brought him as much joy as his did me. He had asked me several times in the last couple years to write his stories down for him. By writing them down, I would make them permanent and unforgettable. His legacy would live on after he was gone. The last time I talked to him on the phone, we were both so excited that I was finally going to put his stories on paper. I told him that over the weekend, I would write down questions to ask him when I called him next. When we hung up, I wept. I wept in thanksgiving that my dad was still around for me to call. I wept for all the times in the future when I would want to call him, and he would not be. And, I wept for all of the days when he was there and I had failed to pick up the phone. A couple nights later, I couldn't sleep. I had this feeling in the pit of my stomach that something was terribly wrong. I tried sleeping on the couch, and then the recliner, and back to the couch. Then my mom called, and I knew that I had heard my dad's voice for the last time.
I teased my dad frequently about his propensity to mispronounce titles. Instead of shopping at K-Mart, for Dad, it was K-Mark. He called my first workplace Richard Gordon’s instead of Richman Gordman. No matter how many times I corrected him, he just couldn’t pronounce some words correctly.
Dad and I shared a love for John Wayne and old westerns. We rarely missed an episode of The Waltons or Eight is Enough. We were both crushed when Eight is Enough was canceled. Several months later, reruns of the show began to be aired. One day, my dad clamored through the door after a long day at work. His whole bearing screamed of his exhaustion. Out of the corner of his eye, he recognized one of the characters from our favorite show. His face lit up, he sat on the edge of the couch with his elbows on his knees and said, “Oh boy! Is this Seven is It?”
* * * * *
When I was two years old, my dad forgot me at the grocery store. Just the thought of this is bound to take the breath out of every parent. Most parents can understand how something like this could happen. I know it’s unusual, but I remember this event quite well considering the passage of time. This story has been retold often, much to my father’s dismay; however, this story is about more than just a parent’s mistake. For me, this event is one of the best of my childhood.
It was a Saturday morning; my mom was working, so my dad had taken my three older brothers and myself with him to do the week’s grocery shopping. Four children going four different ways while you are trying to achieve this unpleasant task creates much stress and frustration for any parent. I’ve been in situations like this, when all I could think about was getting out of the store and back home where I might regain what little sanity I had before I’d begun shopping. I’m sure by the time my dad arrived at the check out, he had this same mentality.
While he was busy checking out, my older brothers sat on the low sill under the large storefront window. I tried to climb onto the sill, but had a difficult time managing it. I climbed and slipped off numerous times until I finally succeeded. “Dad, look!” I said looking up for the first time since beginning my task.
My dad wasn’t there.
I hopped down from my perch and began my search. I thought, “Dad likes meat,” and ran straight for the meat department.
Dad wasn’t there either.
I ran up and down the aisles hollering, “Dad!” stopping only to pick up the balloon off of the floor that he told me to leave alone earlier. I reached the front of the store and tried to go out. Fortunately, this was before automatic doors so I wasn’t strong enough to push it open. I repeated my search, again starting with the meat department. By the time I made it back to the front of the store, my dad was coming in the door. I ran to him. As he scooped me into his arms he asked, “Were you scared?”
“No,” I said. “I was just mad.” I should’ve been terrified, but I wasn’t. In all my searching, I never once considered that my dad was gone. I knew that I would find him.
My mom hates when this story is brought up because all she can think about is what could’ve happened. I have the luxury of knowing what did happen. My dad was not the kind of parent to forget me; this event was very unusual for him—a simple mistake. Remembering this story doesn’t make me dwell on the fact that he left me at the store. Instead, I focus on the fact that I knew he would come back.
* * * * *
When I was in high school, Dad drove an old two-door Ford Colt hatchback. Several rusted holes covered the light blue hunk of tin; one of which was just below the clutch. If his foot would’ve slipped off of the pedal, it would’ve went right through the floor board. He could’ve pushed off the road with his feet like Fred Flintstone. One time, there was something wrong with the starter. The car wouldn’t stay on unless he held the key in the on position. He couldn’t possibly drive the stick shift by himself since his right hand was keeping the car running, so I rode with him. He pushed in the clutch and I shifted, all the while hoping that no one I knew would see.
Riding around in that car was so embarrassing. The muffler had fallen off some time before, so it sounded like a freight train rolling down the road. I used to lay the passenger seat all the way back to keep from being seen. One day, I decided that my hiding while riding with him was rude. That day, I was determined, no matter what happened, I would remain in the seated position. It wasn’t so bad until a white sedan cut him off. He switched lanes and sped up making the engine howl even louder. If that wasn’t bad enough, as he got up next to the sedan, Dad shook his finger at the driver. I reached down, pulled up the lever next to my seat and stayed horizontal the rest of the trip.
After I graduated from high school, I got my first full-time job, and wanted to buy my own car. I didn’t think I would get the best deal possible as an 18-year-old girl, so I asked Dad to come with me. The red two-door Buick Opal was listed at $2100. My dad pointed out a few minor issues with the car that he wanted fixed before I purchased. The salesman left for a few minutes to talk to his manager. He came back and said, “The best we can do is $1800.” I held my breath waiting for my dad to show his great negotiating skills.
He shrugged his shoulders. “That sounds fair.”
It took every bit of self control not to laugh out loud. Nevertheless, I purchased the car for the “fair price.” My sister, Teresa, had to drive it off the lot for me because I couldn’t drive a stick shift. After a couple of lessons, I tried my first solo drive.
It did not go well.
I was so excited to drive my own car alone for the first time, I’d practically skipped on my way to the car. It didn’t start off terribly. I managed to get the car going on the first try. At the first stop sign, I killed the engine a couple times before finally jerking my way through the intersection. At every stop sign or stop light, I had more and more difficulty getting my car going. If there happened to be someone behind me while I tried to get started, I preformed worse. I was terrified that I would never make it back home, and by the time I did, I was immensely frustrated. I slammed the door to the house, and with tears running down my face, I yelled, “I am never driving that thing again!”
Dad was still chuckling as he followed me into my bedroom. He didn’t say anything, just waited for me to blow. “I’ve tried, but I can’t. I can’t drive that car and I won’t ever again.”
A smile threatened but he managed to keep his composure. “You bought the car. It’s yours. What choice to you have?”
Using my 18-year-old wisdom I said, “I’ll sell it.”
He laughed. He tried not to, but he just couldn’t help it. I’m surprised he held it in as long as he did. “You can’t just sell it. When you’re ready, I’ll help you figure it out.”
Ten minutes later I stormed through the living room and said, “Let’s go.” Dad patiently coached me for at least forty-five minutes on flat side roads. He kept saying something about a catch point in the clutch. “Once you figure out where the catch point is, you’ll have the hang of it.” When I managed to get going without giving us both whiplash, he’d say, “Did you feel it?” I had no idea what he was talking about; until I did. I ventured on to the main road. I stopped on a hill at a stop light and began to panic. I looked in the rearview mirror as a car pulled up right behind me. I was sure I was going to roll backwards into it. Dad tried to offer me encouragement.
“You can do this. I know you can. Just feel for the . . .”
“Catch point. I know!” And, after I killed it a couple of times, I did it. Dad was right. I just needed to figure out that darn catch point. I was a fiercely independent child, but I always knew that my dad would be there when I needed him. He was strong and steady. He was security. He was my barn.
* * * * *
My Granddad passed away in September of 1989. It had only been three months since I had visited him last. I knew it was coming, and yet, I was unprepared. After the funeral, I drove alone to Granddad’s old farm. The picket fence was gone as well as the screen around the front porch. Behind and to the left of the house spanned a large grassy area where the barn used to be. I felt like I’d been kicked in the stomach. If I were to see that farm with a designer’s eye, I might have felt differently. However, I had to wonder if tearing down the barn—my barn—was necessary.
How could they tear down that barn? Did they have any idea what they’d done? The very walls of that barn encased echoes of every life, whether man or beast, that ever found shelter there. In leveling the barn, the new owners leveled the best parts of my childhood. I felt violated. Not only had I lost my grandfather, my last connection to him was reduced to only a memory. As I closed my eyes, I saw it again. I entered the barn and took a deep breath. The smell of horse and hay comforted me. I felt the warmth of Queen’s breath on my face as I caressed the horse’s forehead all the way down to her muzzle. My fingers lingered on the tip of her velvety nose. I had never felt anything as soft. I spied the haymow ladder and wondered if there were any new litters of kittens up in the hayloft. I opened my eyes and stared at the empty space. Where did the cats raise their kittens now that their home was gone? My home was gone. The ground looked undisturbed as if the barn never existed and all of my dad’s stories were just figments of imagination.
My tires crunched noisily as I drove slowly past Granddad’s old farmhouse three or four times before finally vowing to myself to never return. This place was no longer Granddad’s. It was no longer my favorite place in the world. I was no longer a child, and it was time to move on. If only it were that easy.
Sadly, Granddad’s barn was not the only one leveled. Barns are one of the nation’s most threatened historical resources. Maintaining these magnificent buildings is laborious and expensive; however, these barns are more than just buildings. They are a connection to America’s history and those who built her.
When I lived in Iowa with my own family, we frequently passed an old leaning barn on the side of a two-lane highway. It looked as if a little tap from someone’s finger would bring it crashing down. “I wonder why they don’t just tear that thing down,” my husband said. I knew why. That tilted barn was more than just a crumbling building. How many lives flourished because the barn was there to house food, livestock, and farm equipment. In the pioneer days, most settlers would build the barn first and many times the house they lived in didn’t come close to the size and sturdiness of their barns. These settlers would understand why the leaning barn still stood.
In many ways my dad was like that old leaning barn. Just as the grain of every plank of wood in that barn held the stories of all who sought shelter there, the lives of all that had gone before him ran through his veins. That is the reason for his stories. He told his stories not so he would be remembered, but so that those who were no longer living would not be forgotten. It was his responsibility to pass on their legacy.
Now it is mine.
As my dad aged, at times he could be pessimistic and melancholy. However, whenever his kids or grandkids walked into a room his face would light up. This contrast between despair and hope defined Dad’s demeanor in his final days. He was never a large man, but the effects of Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease (COPD) reduced him to less than 100 pounds. A nasal cannula connected him to his oxygen tank twenty-four hours a day. The muscles in his throat were so damaged that when he tried to eat or drink, some of what he consumed would end up in his lungs. Every time he took in anything by mouth, he would risk contracting aspiration pneumonia. Every bit of nourishment he received was from a tube in his stomach. He became so weak that he couldn’t walk from the parking lot into a store without a walker. Little by little, all of his freedoms were taken away. Little by little the barn leaned farther over. He asked me, How do I think positively about never being able to eat? Like him, I too can be pessimistic. I told him that I would have trouble thinking positively in his situation too. However, it must have something to do with focusing on the things that he has instead of the things that he doesn’t. That is, perhaps, one of the most difficult things to do when you’re depleted.
Dad always answered the phone gruffly, as if the person on the other end had just interrupted something important. One of my favorite bits about calling him was how his irritated “Hello” would instantly shift to an excited “Hi Babe!” when he realized it was me calling. I could hear the smile in his voice and I knew that my voice brought him as much joy as his did me. He had asked me several times in the last couple years to write his stories down for him. By writing them down, I would make them permanent and unforgettable. His legacy would live on after he was gone. The last time I talked to him on the phone, we were both so excited that I was finally going to put his stories on paper. I told him that over the weekend, I would write down questions to ask him when I called him next. When we hung up, I wept. I wept in thanksgiving that my dad was still around for me to call. I wept for all the times in the future when I would want to call him, and he would not be. And, I wept for all of the days when he was there and I had failed to pick up the phone. A couple nights later, I couldn't sleep. I had this feeling in the pit of my stomach that something was terribly wrong. I tried sleeping on the couch, and then the recliner, and back to the couch. Then my mom called, and I knew that I had heard my dad's voice for the last time.
Finishing The Fallen Barn after my dad died was one of the most difficult tasks I had ever undertaken. However, it forced me to grieve. At least now I can think about my dad and not weep. But once in a while, missing my dad takes the wind out of me. If only I had known that that last phone call would be the last time I would hear my dad’s laugh; it’s what I miss most about him. I can only imagine how amazing his laugh sounds in heaven.
