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I Wonder What Would Happen If My Dad Read This
I wasn’t afraid of my dad when I was young. I don’t remember anything but joy in his presence and feeling secure. My father was big and he looked after us. He took us to his job on the weekends. He was an educator. I remember the school hallways where he worked being shadowy and dark, like some secret realm.
One time I stepped on a tack, running through the halls in bare feet. It was the 70s, people were a lot more chill about things like bare feet in those days. I remember the pinch of it, but not the problem. My dad must have cleaned it, put a band-aid on, or maybe he just said put your shoes on, but I didn’t get into trouble, no yelling or belittling. Those days came later.
Back then I was just his Gooter. I don’t know where the nickname came from, but he had it printed on a navy blue t-shirt for me with a giant orange smiley face. My brother was Tank. He had a green shirt with that on the back and a red rat on the front. I felt loved by my dad. He’d wrestle with us, laugh and joke.
In those days, he did projects around the house with his good friend, John. Hung bookcases and created flowerbeds surrounded by oiled railroad ties. He had a garden with my grandfather and together they grew vegetables and put us to work on the planting and harvesting. It was hard, hot work some days but the rewards were sweet when you picked a green bean and ate it fresh from the vine, still warm from the summer sun. And…
