Wednesday, January 8, 2003
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Wednesday, January 8, 2003 |
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Remembering my dad . . . By
BILLY MURPHY This past week was the sixth anniversary of the passing of my dad. Normally this would be a totally sad remembrance but, I choose to see it more as bittersweet. Enough time has passed that I can look back and remember first the goodness of even having a father in the home. Enough time has passed too that I can look back at all the good things (and a few bad) that I grew up with, and laugh. For some reason as soon as I try to remember some "past" concerning my father, I remember our house being built in Macedonia, S.C., a suburb of Moncks Corner, S.C. With my mom still living there today, it is small house with 7-foot ceilings and with bedrooms that number less than members of the household, something unheard of in these "civilized" times. My dad was a carpenter and practically built the house or drove the builders crazy with his eye for detail and perfection. I think the first time I was in awe was when I realized my dad would build something with the lumber dimensions in mind and when the project was done, there would not be one scrap of wood left. He was probably a great mathematician in the practical sense of the word. I know he never lost count when he was wacking us with his skinny belt. No, don't call a therapist for me; I deserved every wack I got and more than I got, too. My dad was a teacher too. He loved showing us the point to everything. He loved making us endure what we thought were silly and sometimes downright wacky exercises, because we just "need to know." In the grand tradition of Southern men, it was important that he made us three boys tough. He once got a little piglet that we promptly raised as a pet, only to reach the inevitable fate of our breakfast, lunch and dinner table. To make us tough, when it was time to turn our pet into bacon, he took my twin and me outside to watch him "put the pig down." This bears little explanation other than it involved a rifle. Speaking of rifles, my dad was an avid squirrel hunter and didn't believe in shooting squirrels with the aid of the scatter of a shotgun. Watching my dad hunt with his trained squirrel dog was true Americana art. We probably had squirrel meet once a week, and my father always ate his with the head on. He believed the brain made him a better hunter. You grow up tough eating a plate of squirrel, watching those bug-eyes staring up at you. My father also taught me the "why pay someone to do it, when you can do it yourself" ideal. He taught us never to be afraid to try it yourself. This could be why I grew up knowing how to sew, knit, crochet, weld, mechanic, carpenter, fish, hunt, juggle and do stupid magic tricks. I have random recollections of such quirky things about my father, like when my twin, who was faster than me, would hit me and run. My dad would make him stand still after I couldn't catch him, so I could hit him back. My dad didn't like microwave ovens because he didn't believe it was right eating food that was hot while the container stayed cool. He resisted color television for years too, feeling it was just a fad. He read the paper every day and had to always watch "Gunsmoke" on Monday nights. He thought Archie Bunker was a genius. All in all it was great growing up with my father. And I just got a craving for some squirrel meat. [Visit Billy Murphy on the Internet at http://ebilly.net.]
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