I Remember Papa

 

Most of us have memories of our fathers. 

Some good, some bad, some just plain funny (in retrospect!)

My Dad used to be one of the latter; he didn’t get drunk and get funny or cute, nor did he dress out of fashion, either.  In fact, looking back, he did OK on that score, considering our lifestyle. 

He was a mortician; looking presentable was mandatory, and he played it very well.  Not too ostentatious, not skid row, either.  Just right.

He was always on the lookout for us kids; my brother and sister, along with myself.  We never really wanted for anything.

One of Dad’s favorite things to do was fart.  Big long ones, followed by, “Ahhhh, that was great!”  Or, sneaky ones, deadly.

I can remember one time at a Class B basketball tournament in Helena.

In those days, people would go out of the gym and into the lobby during halftime for a smoke or three.  You could get cancer in those places.  Lots of smoke, lots of coughing.

I was outside in front, cold as hell, watching through the glass doors, waiting for halftime’s buzzer to sound so we could all go back in.

Dad signaled to me with his hand to come in; the look on his face was serious as I’ve ever seen it.  Coming through the entry, he again waved me over to him. 

“Come here, Dave; I have to tell you something.  C’mon over here.”

Stupidly, I did.

As I leaned to hear him whisper what was so important to the security of the free world, he asked softly, “Do you smell something funny?”

He had cut one of his finest.  I darned near gagged, and longed for the sweet smell of the Camels and Marlboros!  It was all I could do to keep my temper and remain vertical.

That was Dad, and it wasn’t the only time he got me with that stunt; I sure miss him.