By Bob Chrisman
The idea of spring cleaning stayed with me through the night, but vanished this morning, when outside, sleet peppered the streets. My tax appointment required me to catch the bus to go downtown. I rushed around and all thoughts about the meaning of spring cleaning disappeared.
As I pulled the front door closed behind me. The sound of sleet hitting the grass and trees sounded like the dry, clacking bones of dancing skeletons. What an odd association. I played with that idea as I walked.
Monday, February 28, would have been my father’s 97th birthday (and the third anniversary of my mother’s death). Perhaps they returned as dancing skeletons to remind me.
My relationship with my father has troubled me for years. I’ve written about it and published the pieces on red Ravine. The troubled times between us and the difficult life he lived aren’t all I remember about him. Perhaps the idea of the skeleton came to me as a spring cleaning of sorts, a chance to pull out the good memories I hold of him and air them.
From my dad I received a curiosity about the world and the people who inhabit the planet. My father observed the goings on around him. He liked to see how people acted in different situations and could predict what they would do. He frustrated me with that ability when he would say, “I can read you like a book.” And he could too, which made me mad.
My father read voraciously: books, magazines, newspapers, whatever printed words he could find. When he attended family gatherings he would collect reading material and retire to a chair where he would spend the time reading.
His greatest pleasure came when he found a box of books for sale. He bought it, carried it home and searched for reading treasures. The contents of those boxes rarely disappointed him because he liked books about any subject. Really he just liked books in general. He passed on that love to me.
He instilled in me the importance of questioning everything, especially religion. We had the Bible in various editions, which the late 1950’s required in the fight against godless communism, but we also had The Book of Mormon and the Quran. Although a Presbyterian, he didn’t believe that one denomination, or Christianity itself, had an inside edge over other religions or spiritual practices.
He knew how to fix cars and kept our used cars in working order. We never owned a new car, only different ones. He bought odd cars like the brown, streamlined Hudson with the plush interior when the cars of the time favored extravagant fins over aerodynamic design.
He brought home a Simca, a tiny French car, and probably the only French car in the entire city. Unlike most American cars, the gearshift stuck up out of the floor rather than off the steering column. When the shaft broke off one afternoon, Dad welded a metal bar in place and would have driven the car forever had the giant hole in the rusted floor board on my mother’s side not allowed water from a giant puddle to gush up and soak my mother’s favorite pair of Sunday shoes.
The last car he purchased before his stroke was a Corvair, the Nader deathtrap. I learned to drive in that car.
He loved the outdoors and took us on long drives through the countryside to see how the land was doing. Despite my hatred of those drives and my frequently voiced wish for Indians to scalp us, I learned to love the landscape around me. Seemingly pointless drives in the countryside bring me peace nowadays.
He helped out the neighbors. The elderly man next door spent a lot of time at a bar. He sang and shouted as staggered up the sidewalk. He fell. My mother would say, “Len, go help him. He won’t make it up those stairs to his house without hurting himself.”
Although Dad left for work at 5:30 a.m. and the neighbor returned home well after midnight, my father pulled on his pants and went outside to help the man home. Frequently my father assisted the wife in putting her drunk husband to bed. He never judged the man and never complained about the loss of sleep.
My funniest memory of Dad involves a Sunday morning church service. As an elder, he introduced applicants who, as a part of the hiring process for ministers, preached a sermon. During the weeks prior to that Sunday, Dad had worked many long hours and not had much sleep. He introduced the minister and then sat down in one of the plush, red velvet cushioned chairs on the platform and promptly fell asleep. My father snored like an approaching tornado.
Aunt Annie, director of the adult choir, motioned for someone to wake him up. Despite a variety of hand signals, no one moved. My father snored his way through a rather lengthy sermon. When the guest minister finished, he waited for Dad to announce the final hymn, but my dad had died to the world.
My aunt asked the choir and congregation to stand and sing. Dad slept on. When the ministerial candidate realized that my father wouldn’t say any final words, the young man approached the podium. “I hope I’m not responsible for Mr. Chrisman’s sound sleep.” My father remained oblivious to the world and to the congregation’s laughter. The minister shrugged his shoulders and walked down the aisle alone to the main door to shake hands with members of the congregation. That incident became a church and a family legend.
As I write, sleet continues to fall. The skeletons dance outside my window. In my mind spring cleaning reveals fond memories of the man I called my father. Happy Birthday, Dad!
About Bob: Bob Chrisman is a Kansas City, Missouri writer who frequently writes memoir about his family. His last pieces for red Ravine were Exit The Telephone, Desecration Day, and Uncle Howard At The Cemetery.
Other pieces of Bob’s in which he writes with humor and compassion about his family members include: Aunt Annie’s Scalloped Oysters and The Law Of Threes. He also published these pieces about the life and death of his mother: Hands and In Memoriam. And he produced a trilogy about his father: My Father’s Witness, Bearing Witness, and My Life With Dad. Spring Cleaning In The Attic Of My Mind was inspired by the birthday anniversary of Bob’s father and Writing Topic — Spring Cleaning.
Wanted to clarify something in the piece after I read it in print. The line about wanting the Indians to scalp us.
I watched too many Saturday afternoon westerns from the local TV station. The typical western of the late 1950’s always showed a wagon train, a gunfight, and the stereotypical Indian attack. That’s all I knew about Indians at the time…stereotypes. It was the worst thing I could think of happening on one of those road trips and, at the same time, I would sit in the car and whine and wish for such an attack. Interesting how my child’s mind worked.
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“The sound of sleet hitting the grass and trees sounded like the dry, clacking bones of dancing skeletons. What an odd association.”
An odd association perhaps, but a beautiful, evocative metaphor that draws the reader right into this tribute to your father.
Also, I don’t think I’ve ever read such a vivid, alive account of someone snoring; someone who had “died to the world.”
Keep going, Bob. Keep those skeletons dancing.
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Thanks for stopping by, Flann. My father snored so loudly that you could hear him outside the house with all the windows and doors closed. I have wondered if he had sleep apnea which led to his stroke and bizarre behavior…all signs of sleep deprivation. I found all this out when I sleep apnea tests for my snoring and was put on a C-pap machine as a result.
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This is really a lovely piece, Bob. It’s so nice to honor yourself and your father this way. The sounds of the sleet and skelton are so evocative and I like the positive assocation with the skeltons and your dad.
The book reading section is really rich with detail and you’ve added great humor with your dad’s snoring.
Great job, Bob.
Warmly,
Deborah
http://deborahshousewrites.wordpress.com/
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Thanks, Deborah. You’ve helped me a great deal in my writing life.
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Loved this celebration of your Dad, dancing skeletons and all. If our parent’s don’t drive us crazy, they make us stronger.
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And sometimes they do both.
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What a wonderful story! I loved what people mentioned above, but want to add another favorite part – when your dad got up in the middle of the night to help the neighbor home. This one scene tells volumes about your father.
Great job and I can’t wait to read more from you!
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I love this piece. I loved the part about wanting to be scalped – such a great line, and tells us so much about how much you hated it even while it was laying down a track that you would enjoy following later.
Its just awesome. So descriptive and alive about your father and subtly revealing yourself. You’re an amazing writer, Bob. I am your biggest fan.
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Susyc, correct on both counts. I’m stronger and crazier as a result of my relationship with my parents. They might say the same thing about what I did to them if they weren’t dead.
Teresa, thanks. We lived in a neighborhood where people knew each other and helped out in a variety of ways. The woman next door was my playmate when I was very little. She got me hooked on Ritz Crackers and I can’t have one without thinking of her…a long-suffering wife. Her husband was a very nice man who couldn’t stop drinking.
Neola, thanks for stopping by. You are the president of my fan club in your city by my executive order.
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I had never heard that story. I did remember Unlce Len reading at Christmas and Thanksgivings. I do remember being at your house and we found a mushroom, he was a very smart man. Didn’t really get to know him before he became sick.
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You weren’t born when he fell asleep in the chair on the platform. That occurred in the old church before Hugh Berry became the minister. It may even have been during the search process which resulted in Hugh coming to the church.
As I remember it, Sharon (Karen’s sister) and Lenda (my sister) got into trouble because they wouldn’t get up from their seats in the choir and wake Dad up. Lenda’s excuse was that he would make more noise if she woke him up and she was afraid he would swear which he did on occasion.
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Knowing how painful some of your other memories about your dad are, I loved seeing these other parts of him. What a kind and intelligent man! I also liked the sound of the sleet (bony fingers against a pane of glass – wonderful!) and the sound of the snoring, like a tornado. Also liked that your family did those rides in the country. Mine did, too, so I knew exactly what you meant when you said you wished for a scalping. It would have ended the car ride – and, would have been exciting as well. Yeah, I get that.
I loved the image of your father helping the drunken neighbor up the stairs. Makes me think of you, Bob. I bet you would do that, too.
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Thanks, Jude. My father possessed many good qualities as did my mother, but sometimes those have gotten lost in the painful memories I have of them. Lately I’ve taken time to “round them out” as characters and as human beings. Very few of us lack depth including “good” and “bad” characteristics that make us the people we are today.
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Bob, thanks for the head’s up on this story. It’s very sweet and evocative – never having known sleet, the analogy makes it sound positively creepy. I agree with the other commenters, you’ve written a very kind and well-illustrated story about your dad. Loved the bits about the cars, since my dad loves being a shade-tree mechanic as well (I could definitely see him welding a new shifter into place!). And yes, we are all a blend of the good and bad, and it’s an excellent reminder to call out those good aspects of those we love, not just the things that make us nuts. 😉
Love your writing too, can I be part of the Florida fan club?
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Bob, you have illustrated in a very beautiful way how your father’s kindness lives on in you by taking “a chance to pull out the good memories I hold of him and air them.”
It is shown most clearly in the story of the drunk neighbor. You wrote, “He never judged the man and never complained about the loss of sleep.” And in just that way you offer the “good” stories of your dad, without complaining or judgement … well, maybe just the “right” amount of complaining in order to portray the agony of the scenic car rides. My own children would bellow, “OH NO! NOT THE SCENIC ROUTE!!!!” For this always meant it would be a longer ride if their dad was driving.
I cannot think of a more perfect way to honor any person than to clean the mind’s attic on their birthday in order to pull out the good memories and air them. You preserved and stored them well. Many parents leave their children with conflicted emotions and often the good memories become totally polluted and stained by the bad ones. It’s a real gift that you can share these memories in such a pure and uncomplicated way. They are good stories, Bob, and you really honor your family by telling them well … and how lucky that you’ve shared them with the rest of us, too. Thank you.
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“When he attended family gatherings he would collect reading material and retire to a chair where he would spend the time reading.”
I *love* this. I know it isn’t the socially acceptable thing to do at family gatherings, but many-a-time I’ve wanted to do exactly that. Escape into a book and enjoy myself.
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Terri, I don’t think there is a Florida fan club so you might have to start one. For so many years I focused on the things about my mother and father that caused me pain, but lately I can look at and honor the things they did that had a positive influence on me. I’m who I am today because of what they did and I like who I am (for the most part). It is liberating in a way to see them as three-dimensional people.
breathepeace, thanks for your remarks. It has taken me a long time to come to this point. I felt secure and safe in my injured state for a long time. In my life the time arrived when I needed to see more clearly what things about my dad I liked.
Teri, my father loved to read more than he liked to socialize and he took every opportunity he could to read.
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Bob, thanks for sharing this piece on red Ravine. When I revisit the trilogy you previously wrote about your father, it feels like this piece adds a new corner, rounds out the picture. You seem like you are coming to some peace with him and his memory. Maybe over time, we try to learn to hold all of it — the painful, the joyful, the gray areas in between. If we don’t, it gnaws at us until we take action — or let go. I learned new things about your dad this time around. And those books and love for the printed word!
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I think I have reached a point where I can look at all aspects of my parents and maybe even myself to get the whole picture, not just what makes me feel justified or wronged.
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I often think about spring cleaning as shaking out the dirt and dust but your reminiscence, Bob, reminds me that it is also a time of bringing out the stored things and giving them air. The concept of airing out stored memories is a nice image. The Spring image prompts the airing of good things more than the unpleasant ones, doesn’t it. I guess the unpleasant ones can be put in storage for a while at this time of year.
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Bob, I laughed when I read about your dad falling asleep in the church. And I laughed again at learning why Lenda didn’t get up off her seat to wake him up 🙂 A wonderful story, told with much love and humour.
Sometimes, when my dad used to fall asleep in his chair, myself and my sisters would put baby scrunchies in his hair and paint his face with lipstick, blusher and eye shadow. He could sleep through anything! We always made sure we were well out of reach before he woke up!
Thank you for making me laugh and remember.
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Joyce, I agree that spring is a good time to bring things out and set them in the sunshine and fresh air.
annieoakcake, glad to remind you of some fun times involving your dad. He sounds like my father who could sleep through everything except pulling a hair out of his leg. You didn’t do that more than once as I found out.
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OUCH!
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As usual, funny but touching. And as always, I find myself right in the middle of the scenes that you’ve reproduced here in you piece. The church, So. 3rd street, family dinners, being with y’all on a few of those drives through the country…
Your stories always make me wish we could actually jet back in time and relive our memories. But the way you write really can make that wish seem like a reality. Thanks!
Love you!!
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Thanks, cousin. Will be glad to see you when you return.
Love you too.
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I have always found your father and the ways in which you reacted to him fascinating.
And as someone who has had several relationships with auto mechanics the welded on repair of a floor shift brrings back many memories of my own.
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