proverbial
slate has been wiped, and I’m pleasantly tired out. I down a
few big glasses of water at the kitchen sink, and find a very
gourmet-looking sandwich that Chris has made waiting on our little
breakfast table. The sticky note reading ‘TRY THIS
DAD’—comically adhered to the sandwich itself—leaves
no worry that I’m going to consume something not intended for
me.
Chris’s fabrication is pretty good. There’s arugula,
dried cherries and some pungent melted cheese in a sliced baguette,
all stuff from the farmers’ market, I’m guessing. I
remain standing to eat it out of the concern that my post-run legs
will stiffen up if I have a seat.
Over the table, on the corkboard on our kitchen wall, there’s a
picture of my father and Dick Olsson. They’re laughing in the
picture, probably over the fact that they’ve swapped hats: my
father’s Greek fisherman’s cap is too tight on Dick’s
head, and Dick’s safety-orange hunting hat is so big that it’s
nearly covering my father’s eyes. This was Wendy’s
favorite picture of her dad; she always said she didn’t really
know of any others where he was smiling. I’d have to say it’s
one of my favorites too.
My father, a diminutive, prematurely balding, wisecracking hippy
economics professor who had been part of the 1968 protests in
Chicago, and Dick Olsson, a towering autodidact who could
persuasively argue that Nixon had received a bum deal and kept a
portrait of Ronald Reagan over his workbench, formed a most unlikely
friendship. Even after all of us kids went to college, before Wendy
and I were married and my parents had retired and moved to Florida,
my mother and father would still come up to visit the Olssons a
couple times a year.The four of them even took a cruise
through the Caribbean back when I was in school; by all accounts it
was a fantastic time. Carol and my mother always got along well, but
it was the peculiar friendship between Theodore Kazenzakis and Dick
Olsson that really cemented things.
They remained close up until the end. There are two times in my life
I recall ever seeing my father cry: the night the Detroit Tigers won
the 1984 World Series, and seventeen years later at Dick Olsson’s
funeral.
Dick’s passing was the great sorrow of my father’s life.
I guess he was lucky to have just that one.
I finish up Christopher’s sandwich and dust my hands over the
sink. I consider taking a shower, but through the kitchen window I
see Chris shooting hoops on the barn slab court, so I head outside
instead.
“Want to play?” Chris asks me, and I laugh.
“Maybe something like ‘horse,’” I say. He
passes me the ball and I take a shot that misses off the backboard
with a loud clunk.
“We’ll play to twenty. I’ll give you five points.”
“You’ll still kill me.”
“I’ll keep my right hand behind my back. You’ll
beat me if I play left handed.”
I say fine, and he lets me have the ball first. We dance around; he
goes easy on me. It’s fun to watch him move so well, so
confidently, even when he’s blowing past and stealing the ball
right out of my hands. I manage to hang on, barely, keeping one point
ahead of him until it’s 15-14. Then in a blur Chris dunks on
me, twice, before sinking an unbelievable three-pointer from the
middle of the court to finish me off.
“Nice game, Dad.”
Panting, doubled over with my hands on my knees, I manage to say:
“Nice game.”
I spend the early afternoon grading papers out on the back deck. The work is from my
morning physics class and nothing too mentally strenuous: check yes,
check no. 100%, A+, great work, and so on. The kids made an effort.
Christopher ducks his head out the door to say goodbye, and I tell
him to be careful and say hi to everyone at the rec center for me.
When I ask him if he needs any money he shakes his head and says he’s
all set.
It’s a date night, of sorts, so I take a long shower and spiff
myself up in a dark gray button down shirt and
slate has been wiped, and I’m pleasantly tired out. I down a
few big glasses of water at the kitchen sink, and find a very
gourmet-looking sandwich that Chris has made waiting on our little
breakfast table. The sticky note reading ‘TRY THIS
DAD’—comically adhered to the sandwich itself—leaves
no worry that I’m going to consume something not intended for
me.
Chris’s fabrication is pretty good. There’s arugula,
dried cherries and some pungent melted cheese in a sliced baguette,
all stuff from the farmers’ market, I’m guessing. I
remain standing to eat it out of the concern that my post-run legs
will stiffen up if I have a seat.
Over the table, on the corkboard on our kitchen wall, there’s a
picture of my father and Dick Olsson. They’re laughing in the
picture, probably over the fact that they’ve swapped hats: my
father’s Greek fisherman’s cap is too tight on Dick’s
head, and Dick’s safety-orange hunting hat is so big that it’s
nearly covering my father’s eyes. This was Wendy’s
favorite picture of her dad; she always said she didn’t really
know of any others where he was smiling. I’d have to say it’s
one of my favorites too.
My father, a diminutive, prematurely balding, wisecracking hippy
economics professor who had been part of the 1968 protests in
Chicago, and Dick Olsson, a towering autodidact who could
persuasively argue that Nixon had received a bum deal and kept a
portrait of Ronald Reagan over his workbench, formed a most unlikely
friendship. Even after all of us kids went to college, before Wendy
and I were married and my parents had retired and moved to Florida,
my mother and father would still come up to visit the Olssons a
couple times a year.The four of them even took a cruise
through the Caribbean back when I was in school; by all accounts it
was a fantastic time. Carol and my mother always got along well, but
it was the peculiar friendship between Theodore Kazenzakis and Dick
Olsson that really cemented things.
They remained close up until the end. There are two times in my life
I recall ever seeing my father cry: the night the Detroit Tigers won
the 1984 World Series, and seventeen years later at Dick Olsson’s
funeral.
Dick’s passing was the great sorrow of my father’s life.
I guess he was lucky to have just that one.
I finish up Christopher’s sandwich and dust my hands over the
sink. I consider taking a shower, but through the kitchen window I
see Chris shooting hoops on the barn slab court, so I head outside
instead.
“Want to play?” Chris asks me, and I laugh.
“Maybe something like ‘horse,’” I say. He
passes me the ball and I take a shot that misses off the backboard
with a loud clunk.
“We’ll play to twenty. I’ll give you five points.”
“You’ll still kill me.”
“I’ll keep my right hand behind my back. You’ll
beat me if I play left handed.”
I say fine, and he lets me have the ball first. We dance around; he
goes easy on me. It’s fun to watch him move so well, so
confidently, even when he’s blowing past and stealing the ball
right out of my hands. I manage to hang on, barely, keeping one point
ahead of him until it’s 15-14. Then in a blur Chris dunks on
me, twice, before sinking an unbelievable three-pointer from the
middle of the court to finish me off.
“Nice game, Dad.”
Panting, doubled over with my hands on my knees, I manage to say:
“Nice game.”
I spend the early afternoon grading papers out on the back deck. The work is from my
morning physics class and nothing too mentally strenuous: check yes,
check no. 100%, A+, great work, and so on. The kids made an effort.
Christopher ducks his head out the door to say goodbye, and I tell
him to be careful and say hi to everyone at the rec center for me.
When I ask him if he needs any money he shakes his head and says he’s
all set.
It’s a date night, of sorts, so I take a long shower and spiff
myself up in a dark gray button down shirt and
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