I'm seven years old, and Dad takes me aside while Mom keeps my little brothers occupied with s'more-making at a pond-side fire. He asks if I have anything important in my pockets, and then he tells me the plan. He's going to pretend to get angry at me, and I need to run away to the dock. Then he'll run out to the edge of the dock (pretending to be angry) and throw me into the pond with all my clothes in. My little brothers will have no idea that we were just pretending. Dad is my buddy.
I'm eleven, and I just brought in a load of firewood from the hedgerow behind the house. I led Pax and Calvus back there with a sled, and we hauled it through the snow (sometimes Calvus was riding instead of pushing) up to the house. We made a fort with it, and then stacked it in the wood pile. Dad comes up to me afterwards and tells me that he noticed I did some work without being asked. He says that was a really good thing to do, and it means I'm growing up. Dad's impressed with me.
I'm fourteen, hiding out in the barn, and I just cracked my Dad's ribs. I was lying around on the couch, putting off cleaning the room that I was supposed to be moving into downstairs since I've been complaining so much about sleeping in the hall. I was provocative on purpose, just looking for any excuse to argue and say something dramatic. I managed to get him angry enough to grab me, and when I scuffled back I legitimately hurt him. I'm so ashamed of myself I can't imagine ever coming back into the house again.
I'm six, and Dad tells me to get into the car for a surprise, but not to tell any of my brothers. I ask him what the surprise is as we drive towards Medina. He defers the answer a few times, and I look out the window as we drive by my cousin's house and out of town. I wonder if we're going to the hardware store. We take a turn that I'm not used to, and he suddenly turns towards me and declares that he and I are going to see a Buffalo Bills game at Rich Stadium! It's a preseason game, and the Bills beat the Atlanta Falcons. I even get to see Jim Kelly warming up. But best of all, I get to sit with my Dad all alone at a Bills game.
I'm nine, and Dad has been sick for three days. I can tell Mom is worried, but most of what she says about insurance and the doctor is right over my head. I haven't seen Dad come out of his room the whole time, but he's real busy with the new business right now anyway, so I don't think much of it. When he comes out he hasn't shaved, and he can hardly stand up. He has trouble walking, and he looks real thin. Mom's putting out toast and soup for him, but he doesn't really eat any. I ask him some questions, but he doesn't answer. Dad isn't supposed to be vulnerable.
I'm fifteen, and I'm about to play my first trumpet audition. We're driving down to Houghton College, where I'm hoping to get early admission so that I can leave high school early. I feel dreadfully sick, and I think it's the hills. But really it's the nerves. I want to suggest that we turn back, and then I want to suggest that we stop the car. Mom asks me how I'm doing, and I say that I'm not feeling well. Dad tells to look at it this way: that I get to skip school, and that I get to go play the trumpet, which is something I love to do anyway.
I'm five years old, and I'm storming around the downstairs of the house furiously. I know that the bus will be coming any moment now, and I can't find my backpack. I need my backpack. I accuse all of my brothers of stealing it, and I'm getting even angrier because my Dad is laughing at me. Finally he has mercy and points out that my backpack is already on my back. He tells me I take myself too seriously.
I'm twelve, and my parents ask me to come into the kitchen. They say that we need to have a talk. I guess what the talk is going to be about from their tone. I've been sent to the library during health for the past few weeks of 6th grade, and I suddenly panic, knowing that they're going to want to talk about sex. They ask me what I know about...about..sex. I lie spectacularly, telling them that I know about what men and women do and how it can make pregnancies if they don't use contraception. (Contraception is the most important sounding word I know about sex.) They look immensely relieved, although a little puzzled, and conclude the conversation quickly, to everyone's relief.
I'm four, and my Dad brings me to work with him at Photos by Bruce. He has all kinds of fun sports equipment for me to hold, and I get my picture taken with a tennis racket and a basketball and a football. We even bounce the basketball back and forth a little bit afterwards, although it's a little big so I'm kind of scared of it. Dad tells me that he will develop the pictures in a dark room and I'll get to see myself looking like an athlete, which is what I want to be when I grow up.
I'm thirteen, and I know everything there is to know about music. I've been reading my Mom's old music theory textbooks that I found in her closet, and I've even taught myself how to read bass clef. My Dad is practicing his bass guitar down in his bedroom and I listen to him outside his door. I knock, and then I go in. There's a pipe lying on his woodstove, and he's been practicing a jazz song I recognize. I ask him how he knew what to play, and he says he was playing it by ear. My pride is wounded, but I more admire him.
I'm six years old, and I'm begging my Dad to put on the Star Wars record again. My brothers hear and join in as well. We all want to sing along with the main theme. Dad says the record player is broken, but he goes into his closet and gets out his old trumpet. He plays a scale or two to warm up, and then he plays the main theme from Star Wars on the trumpet. We all can't believe that he's playing Star Wars!
I'm ten, and Dad tells me that I need to come out back and help stack the woodpile that was delivered yesterday. The pile is enormous, and I'm sure that we'll never get through it all. And if we need to stack it, I'd rather make forts with it with my younger brothers. Sam and Pax start out helping, but each of them fade away pretty soon and need to go back in the house. Just Dad and I are left working, and although we don't get it all stacked, I can see the progress that we made. He tells me some funny stories about him and his friend Doug, and once we're finished we throw the football back and forth, just the two of us.
I'm eight years old, and my Dad has driven the minivan up on his two metal auto-ramps to change the oil. He's telling me about his high school chemistry teacher. He says "you'll pay for everything you don't know how to do." I crawl around under the car with him and blink as soot gets in my eyes. I see how grimy his hands are from wrestling with the drain to the oil pan.
I'm thirteen years old, and Sam is gone for a few weeks this summer. We all load into the van, and baby Martha is buckled in. Before Mom turns the van on, Dad looks back at me, Pax, Calvus, and little Lux. He says "We want you boys to know that we got your report cards last week, and we haven't talked about grades or about your concerts in a long time, because we didn't want Sam to feel bad. But we talked it over, and we want you to know how proud we are of you..." He keeps talking, but I've slid down the seat and am squeezing my eyes shut so my brothers won't see that I'm crying. I didn't realize until he talked about it how long I'd wanted to hear that.
I'm seven years old. Dad turned the game off because the Bills were losing so bad. He turns it back on to check the score, and it turns out the Bills have scored a touchdown. He calls me back into the exercise room, and we listen on the radio as they all of a sudden score again and again. I'm tired from being up early at church that morning, but I stay awake even as things slow down in the fourth quarter. The game goes to overtime, and the phone rings with Dad's friends. He won't talk anymore, because the game is back on, and Nate Odomes made an interception. When Steve Christie makes the game winning kick we pump our fists and jump up and down and scream louder than ever before and jump around the exercise room dancing and hugging.
I'm twenty six years old, and I've been a father for one day. Mom and Dad came and brought me dinner while J was still in labor, and then Mom was able to see James (but not hold him) for a few minutes on her way to work the next morning. I hold my newborn son to offer him to my Dad for the first time.
It's my eighth birthday. My Dad gives me a brown plastic case with only one working latch. It's a musical instrument. I open up the case upside down, and then turn the tarnished brass over, and look at the new instrument I'm holding in my hands. It's a cornet.
As a matter of fact, pretty much every good thing in my life came from Tom Smith.
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