On the 2nd anniversary of my Father's passing... May 7, 2011
A quick preface: I wrote this the morning of his memorial service on June 20th, in 2009. I had done a tremendous amount of writing up to that point about watching cancer steal my Dad from me, but it was important that I share a story that communicated who my Dad was in a perfect, distilled sense. This doesn’t catch all of it, because it doesn’t talk about his love for social justice, passion for music, and quiet spirituality, but it does talk about the Dad that I knew when I was growing up. And like many things that are important, it’s also (to me) funny. I hope you enjoy it.
When you're a young boy, you really want your dad to be an action star. You want him to DO manly things, and show you how to play baseball or throw a football or build you a tree house (and in my case, mostly because i just wanted to fit the fuck in, in any way possible). My dad was none of these things*, and if there was ever a moment where it was evident, it was a night that, in my head, has become "the sausage parable".
Mom was out that night, and by this time, both of my sisters had moved out. I was stationed penitently at the kitchen table, doing hard time for absolutely failing to do my homework (a common occurrence). the good thing was that since dad was providing dinner that night, it meant that it would be some sort of meat and starch combination - or in this case, just meat. I could hear the sausages he'd bought sizzling away in the oven as they broiled, and with the oven door open a crack, there was a nice meaty aroma wafting throughout the kitchen.
It’s important to note that my dad's personality was one of cerebral and goofy good-naturedness. He had a wonderfully lively sense of humor (and a laugh to match), and could think his way through some seriously complex logical problems. But what he was not, was a man of dashing action.
I heard what can only be called a fooshing jet noise - the kind you get when you light a match, and press down on the hair spray nozzle - causing a stream of roaring flame. And i looked over, and shooting out of the oven, singing the towels, was a 3 foot long jet of flame. So i did what you do in situations like this - call an adult. And the adult in question was my dad.
"Dad! Hey dad! I thought you'd want to know there's a fire in the kitchen!" i hollered, in that maddeningly insouciant way teenagers have. "What was that?" he said at the bottom of the stairs, and i replied (in that perfect exasperating way only teenagers can) "fire. You know, FIRE."** He hurried up the stairs, and stared at the jet of fire shooting out of the oven, utterly paralyzed and unsure what to do. by now, i could see over his shoulder what was going on - he'd failed to poke a hole in any of the sausages, and one of them, having reached the boiling point, had developed a perfect pinprick hole, where all the pressurized grease was shooting out in a continuous stream, hitting the electrical element, and igniting - just like hairspray across an open flame.
I pointed it out "dad, it's the sausage... its shooting grease!” he said "what? i... what?", and i grabbed a pot holder, reached into the oven, and moved the broiler pan one inch forward, so the grease-fountain was now missing the element entirely. At which point, dad decided that dinner was served.
That was the moment that any thought of my father being a television dad ended (and thankfully, along with the chance for the mill valley fire marshall to write up is first "house demolished by malevolent sausage" report). being a teenager, i relayed this story to all my friends, because delighting in the quirks and faults of our parents was one of the easiest ways to help us distinguish ourselves as burgeoning adults***. It was an unkind thought, and as the years went on, it evolved into a tale where it showed what a bumbling and loving goof my father was.
But i have to thank the sausage (let's pause for a moment here, because who really gets to say that in a literal fashion?) - I needed to realize my dad was not Ward Cleaver, Clifford Huxtable, or any other unattainable goal. He was my dad. And in the void of traditional manliness and split-second decision under action, his strong moral values of treating people fairly, quirky and odd sense of humor, grasp and command of the English language, and just basic human decency were imprinted on me. These are things that are not flashy, and they don't allow you to hit fastballs, slam dunk a basketball, or ride a motorcycle over a canyon full of flaming rabid rattlesnakes.
But what they do is make you a good person. It took me years to realize who i was, and even more to realize how much of that was due to my dad. I’ve been the recipient of some amazing gifts in my life, and one of the greatest was my dad's quest to try and remain decent in the face of what the world had to offer. As a human being, he stumbled often, and wandered down some... less than stellar paths. But it was always to provide, always with love, and always because of who he was at a fundamental level. The part of me that believes in these same things has much to do with him quietly imprinting that upon me.
And as it turned out, that was a really damned good sausage.
I love you dad - you're just the best, and I’m always going to miss you - and try and do right by what you instilled in me.
*he did build me a tree house. He tried, he really did - but it was more of a tiny platform on top of what turned out to be a severely spider-infested tree)
**that i made it past my teenage years without being chained to a tree in the remote wilderness by my parents is a testament to their love for me
***for that matter, why aren't MORE teenagers left chained to trees in the woods?