Profile Post Re-Revised

**My post is similar to Stephanie's. I have revised it, but there are still some things I will probably revise again before class tomorrow.**

 

"Well, look what the cat drug in!" This is the type of thing my dad would say whenever I would get home from school. What does this mean? I didn't have a cat attached to me and nothing was dragging me in except for the car. He usually used these sayings when he had been sitting in his garage and was bored out of his mind. He's really just looking for someone to talk to and was excited to see someone pull in the driveway. Visiting with my dad usually consisted of sitting in the garage in silence. It might have been silence to my ears but in my dad's world it was a whole other ball game. I could sit there and stare at him for hours and he wouldn't know because memories of the past were eluding his mind.

Dad is a man of few words. The only words that really trigger a good conversation with him are "tractor, John Deere, beagle, and beer." If you want to talk about anything else it's a one sided conversation with you doing all the talking. He might add the occasional "huh" and shake his head back and forth.

While still living at home I took my first airplane ride and had my first visit to Washington, D.C. I came home exhausted, but excited to tell my dad all about my trip. I went to the garage (because he wouldn't be in the house unless he was eating or sleeping) and gave him a big hug.

"Hey dad!"

"Hey Shell"

"I had a really great time in D.C."

"I saw the White House, the Capitol Building, and the World War II Memorial…"

"huh"

    This was the perfect example of having a one sided conversation with him. Seeing that this was not going anywhere I immediately decided to change the topic to see if I could get him talking a little bit.

"There were lots of people out walking their dogs. One person had two little beagle pups. They were so-

"Really what color were they? Were they male? Female? Tricolor? Yellow? How big were they? You know that if you can straighten out their ears and they come down to almost touch their noses they are really good hunting dogs…"

    I look back and remember how annoyed I was that he didn't want to hear the interesting parts of my story. He didn't want to hear about the amazing pictures I took of the monuments. I wanted to know the details of some stranger's beagle pups. Once he got done questioning me about the dogs I left the garage while I could because I knew he wouldn't come into the house.

You will never see him in the house either. His house is the garage. It's fully equipped with DirectTV, wood burning stove, and two full size refrigerators (one of them holds all of the soda and the other his Michelob Ultra).

His wardrobe consists of white t-shirts and handkerchiefs, blue jeans, tube socks, his work boots, and his flannel shirts in the winter. Oh yeah, and don't forget his John Deere hat regardless of what season it is. Because of his refusal to buy new clothes my sister and I always end up getting him something to add to his wardrobe at Christmas time.

The summer time was my favorite growing up with my dad. Because I was out of school, dad would be the first one home from work. He smelled of asphalt and cigarette smoke from working construction outside. Usually he would want to sit in his garage for a little bit to cool off and then hang around outside with my older sister and me. After a few days of heat we would get a huge thunderstorm come through the town. My dad and I were the only ones that liked to sit on the front porch and watch the storm come in. We would watch it without a word being said, but you could see them as he would stare into space and smile. After the thirty minutes of silence he proceeded to tell me what he's thinking about,

"once there was a storm that caused a tornado that came through here. I remember having to get into the cellar with mom and dad."

We sat a few more minutes in silence and the smile faded from his face as he looked in the direction of the storm. "We better get on in the house," he would say. "Okay dad." As we headed towards the house he would remember, "I forgot to put the tractor in the garage, go ahead I'll be in in a minute Shell."

    As the storm moved closer my sister and I hurried to get our baths in case the electricity would go out. My dad and I would end up watching the rest of the storm from inside after being cleaned up and then I headed to bed after a hug from his tired but muscular arms and a kiss with his scruffy beard scratching my face.

Most of my fondest memories of my dad are sitting on the front porch or in his garage. He is reminded of his childhood by things surrounding him. There would be a truck coming down the road and immediately he would be reminded of home. "My dad used'ta have a truck like that," he would say. I would then see his eyes start to glisten as he would remember the special times he spent with his dad in that truck.

Spending all of these times with my dad and looking back on them really makes me realize how lucky I am to have such caring and structure in my life. Even though we are separated by seven hours worth of driving now, I still manage a grin when I hear the voice on the other end of the phone, "Hello?"

"Hi dad!"

"Hi sugars how ya doin! How are things goin over there?"

"Fine. How are things at home with Mandy and the kids?"

"Things are gettin better, how's work?"

"Same ole, same ole, dad."

"That's good; I'll let ya talk to your mom, Love you sugars!"

"Love you too dad."

    These conversations remind me of the good old days of sitting on the porch with nothing being said, but a million things to listen to.

 

Word Count: 850