June 18, 1981

Fathers are rarely remembered for what they really are. Rather, youthful memories of ol' dad are an amalgam of nuances, of seemingly insignificant traits, of personal habits. Being a generation apart while simultaneously being so physically close, makes it impossible for children to clearly see fathers. Expectations, hopes, and demands cloud vision.
My father impaled himself on my memory when I was a lad not by being the able breadwinner, the concerned parent, nor the sagacious elder. Instead, he was the shirtless guy who mowed the yard, the band of his undershorts protruding from his jeans, making a gleaming white ring about his midriff. He'd get to the end of the first pass across the lawn and, while turning the mower around, he'd grab the back of his jeans and pull them up. The band disappeared. But after a few steps his pants would begin to inch down and there it was again, that elastic ring, easing out like the first rays of dawn.
My father will always be the man who displayed his underwear waistband to the neighborhood every Saturday afternoon.
He will also live forever in my mind as the man who piled his green beans, mashed potatoes, corn and roast beef into one vast mound before forking it into his mouth. We siblings would exchange slow looks of repulsion, our eyes narrowing, our upper lips rising in disgust. Between mouthfuls he spoke words which to this day ring clearly in my ears, "It all goes to the same place." With such logic we could not argue.
My father is the guy who used his middle finger for discipline. The side of my head is a lumpy tribute to the strength of his stout digit. He was not one for spanking, he merely confined his bent middle finger with his thumb, holding it there like a set mouse trap, before loosing it smack against my crew-cut head. The thump of discipline continues to reverb.
Dad was also the guy who pinned my arms above my head on Sunday morning before he shaved, and scraped his course stubble chin on my stomach, making me crazy with laughter. It tickled and it hurt at the same time. It was wonderful. And he always knew when I had had enough.
I do not know my father as a businessman, or an official in the church. It never dawned on me that he worried about paying bills, that he had personal failings as well as successes. He was not a man with definite opinions about politics, or morality, or social change.
To me he was the blue-eyed, slightly balding man with the white elastic waistband, who ate his beans with his mashed potatoes, and alternately tickled me and thumped me.
His effect on me is only now becoming apparent. Last weekend as I walked the yard shirtless behind the lawnmower, I found myself periodically hitching up my pants. It struck me there was a white band showing.
For dinner my beans were piled close to the mashed potatoes. As I scooped them up together, there was a collective gasp of revulsion from the short people, their faces contorted in disgust. I couldn't help myself, the words simply fell out, "It all goes to the same place." Aaron smirked. I reached over and thumped him with my middle finger.
To all those fathers, they who deserve more credit than we ever give them, we wish Sunday to be a worthy day.... ~T.Stucky