Today I Heard My Father Laugh

The night before last I totally lost it. 

I. Lost. It. 

I came home from the gym to discover a little plastic bag with my son’s name on it sitting on the kitchen counter.  I asked what it was and I was told that it was for the kid’s pinewood derby race at the church this Saturday.  

This Saturday.  The announcement was made six weeks ago.  The kids are to do the work.  We get the kit four days before the event, the boy is spending Thursday evening and Friday at a friend’s house, and the event is this Saturday. 

A few of the dads that might be reading this are probably saying “Dude…” in the most commiserating tone they can muster.  Everyone else, though, is saying “What’s the big deal?”  

And you know what?  “Everyone else” is unequivocally, 100%, absolutely, on the nose correct. There is simply no argument there.  They are right.  There is no prize.  There is no penalty.  Even if there were, there isn’t even anyone to blame because it took a village - a freaking village - to make this particular cascade failure line up exactly so.

So why do I care?  I do have a wood shop, after all.  Zip, zap, you’re done. 

Because, damn it,  I want to teach my son the pains and rewards of successfully working with one’s hands in the CTRL-Z world in which we live.  Because I want him to know that working wood and making bread and casting a line and cutting metal with fire are real and lasting and good and are things to be cherished.

And now there is so little time.

This morning, still ticked, I was pulling into the parking lot at work when I suddenly flashed back to third grade.  

My father was lying on the sofa reading a crummy spy novel of some kind.  It was night.  A school night.  A project was due the next day.  I needed to explain the construction of an Iroquois dugout canoe and bring a little model of one into school.  I asked my dad to help me and I filled him in on the details.  He looked annoyed and asked when they assigned the project.  I told him about a month ago and he lost it.

He. Lost. It.

We went down into the basement and we got some scrap wood and some hand tools and he vented and fumed and raved.  And worked.  

And worked.  And worked.  

And I watched, quietly.  Solemnly.  After a while there was just silence punctuated by the scraping sound of his jackknife whittling a block of spruce into magic.

After an unknown period of time “we” had an awesome little rough-hewn pine canoe complete with authentic-looking char marks from his Zippo.  He handed it to me, clearly still angry but with a smile of… something (pride?) on his face.  I can’t remember what he said, but I thanked him and he went upstairs.  I kept that boat until I graduated high school.

And so, today, I heard the ghost of my father, laughing.  

“Payback is hell, ain’t it?”