My father was a kind and normally gentle man, with solid values and a sense of justice for everyone. Which, unlike me, he never violated or skimped on. He was the kind of man who would be quick to jump into a fight, but not to join in. To break it up and negotiate a peace.
He wasn’t that way out of fear or necessity. All through his youth and into his World War 2 Naval stint, Dad was a competitive boxer. In the Navy, he boxed Golden Gloves.
His favorite sport was two guys jumping around and punching each other in the face as hard as possible. For a long time. On top of that, his day job consisted of climbing onto burning aircraft to rescue pilots.
Presenting yourself as a physical threat might not get you the response you might have wanted.
Although he had given up with my two younger brothers by then, his dream would be for me to take up that ancient art and sport. Even into teenhood, every so often he would pull the gloves out of the closet and it would be lesson time.
It was never to be. All was fine until the first glove landed on my cheek. I found it quite unpleasant. Put the gloves away. Dad sighed.
During one period, we lived in Panama City very near the bay, and Dad had a small 24-foot motorboat. He had a very effective method for teaching us boys to swim, quite unlike the $100 an hour swimming teacher my own son had years later.
Heading out about 1,000 feet, Dad anchored the boat. Then threw us in. Letting us flop around for a while. Then jumped in to get us. Simple but elegant.
Had to pump a little water out of one of us every now and then though.
Dad enjoyed spending time with us and would take us to the beach a lot during the summer … that kind of thing. We played plenty. But he taught us that each person must learn to put their own weight. At least some.
My cousin Joe was visiting for the summer. We were both about 13. Having a great time. Dad told us that our project for the day was to paint the outside of the house. For the day (He must have snickered to himself as he spoke that).
And he was going to give each of us $5 if we finished before dark.
We were so bewitched by the image of a $5 bill floating in our brain that reality never had a chance. And add to two wired out 13-year-olds, bored and desperate for something to do. Joe and I were pumped.
About 5 hours out in the blazing sun, with more paint covering us than the wall…we gave up the ghost. You could barely make out the painted part from the road.
Dad walked up, looked at our bodies splayed on the grass. Half human. Half paint.
No shirts or shoes.
He laughed his butt off. Took him a couple of minutes to regain composure.
“Go get cleaned up and get outta here!” The laughter took him again. He paid us our $5 anyway. Lessons learned.
In another column quite sometime back, I tell the story of how and why I had to get my drivers license at 14. You could get your learners in Florida back then, and I kept it when we moved back to Mississippi.
I did not want it. Not the slightest desire to drive then. Those hormones hadn’t kicked in yet.
The reason Dad made me get the learner permit was that it allowed a 14-year-old, with an adult in the passenger’s seat…to drive a car.
When they created that, I think what they envisioned was you driving little spurts around town with Mom or Dad supervising. I think mine misinterpreted the law. A wee bit.
My father was a “road trip” kinda guy. However, he was not one to casually cruise the highway and smell the roses. His job was not the type where you could just take a few days off whenever you wanted, so he wanted to get there…now.
He usually drove nonstop no matter the distance. My mother was often not well and was not a candidate for co-pilot or relief driver. That became my job. One that I was not all that happy to fill. “It’ll make a man out of you!”
I would fill in so Dad could take a nap in the passenger seat, usually during the daytime part of the run. We would sometimes drive to New York City from Mississippi to visit my other grandparents. Without stopping except for gassing up, eating or bathroom breaks. And that’s a long, long, long ride. And no interstate highways in those days. Little two-lane roads for the most part.
Leaving home, we had a big cooler with sandwiches, other food and drinks. He would find a park or similar place, and we would…without realizing it…invent the art of tailgating.
It was a marathon, but I would be an adult before I realized this wasn’t normal. We thought that everyone did it that way.
My Dad was far from a “normal” father, but I still miss that. And I sure miss him.
Thom Caraccio ([email protected]) is a retired musician and retired motion picture scenic artist living in West Palm Beach, Florida who hails from Columbus. He graduated from S.D. Lee High in 1968 and still considers Columbus his real hometown.
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