Dear Ol' Dar

{SNI(long inhale, through the nose)FF!}

{HAA(slow, exhaled sigh through the mouth)AH!}

That’s my dad. Long, measured inhalation of breath through the nose. Hold it. Slow, breathy sigh out the mouth. This was usually followed by him placing his hand over his mouth, thumb on one cheekbone, index finger on the other, then slowly moving his hand downward, stroking his salt and paprika beard.

I always considered it a thoughtful gesture, a momentous gesture. A gesture meant to take a moment’s thought before responding to whatever his child just said. A moment to really digest his progeny’s statement with all its delicious repercussions.

{SNI(long inhale, through the nose)FF!}

{HAA(slow, exhaled sigh, through the mouth)AH!}

The first time I remember my dad doing it was in July of 1992. I was 15 and eating breakfast at our kitchen table. Unlike our dining room table that had matching chairs, to sit at our kitchen table meant plopping down on one of two benches. On this particular morning, I sat with my cereal on one end of a bench while my father read the newspaper at the other. Then my brother walked in.

I feel it germane to give a little background. My brother is nearly five years older than me. During high school, I only remember him ever having but one girlfriend, whom he went to prom with his junior year. He had a cadre of friends that he ran around with and they all wanted to go to prom together their senior year. A group of girls, some of whom were dating his friends, all wanted to attend the dance as a group. Among the young women was a junior who couldn’t take her actual boyfriend to the dance because he was a freshman. Since my brother was single that year, he was paired with her for the evening.

Having never been to a prom, I’m uniquely unaware of any kind of magic that storied dance may provoke in its revelers. The 1991 prom at our school, though, must have inspired something in my brother. He matriculated at The University of Iowa in the fall, a drive of more than two hours from our hometown. Yet, he drove home every weekend, resisting the libertine distractions of Iowa City, to spend as many minutes as he could with his new girlfriend.

It should come as no surprise, then, that my brother rented a tuxedo, bought a corsage, and went to his third prom in as many years. The next morning, nearly the whole family was in the kitchen. I sat on one bench, across the table from my sister. My brother sat next to her and across from my dad while my mom puttered around the sink. My sister peppered our sibling with questions.

“Did you get her a ring?”

“When did you ask her?”

But I digress. If it’s not apparent by now, my brother proposed to his girlfriend on prom night. He also informed us that he would be going on a family vacation with her family in July. Which brings us back to the kitchen the morning I sat on one end of the bench eating cereal and my dad anchored the other end reading the paper. My mother was rinsing dishes in the sink. My brother walked into the kitchen, stood at the end of the table, and told us the latest developments regarding his fiancé.

“She’s pregnant.”

{SNI(long inhale, through the nose)FF!}

{HAA(slow, exhaled sigh through the mouth)AH!}

I know memory doesn’t work as neatly as that story. It’s likely I heard my father give a sigh like that many times, but only marked it’s occasion that day because of my brother’s announcement. That sigh spoke of many things: pride, disappointment, self-doubt, resignation. It would become a sound I would hear frequently in the coming years.

I moved to Iowa City in May of 1996. Unlike my brother half a decade earlier, I readily lapped up the vices offered by this college town. I would wander the streets with my friends on a weekend, walking into rented homes where student parties were going on. A number of the bars were music venues or had dance floors, so most of them allowed in 19 and 20 year olds. And the downtown pedestrian plaza was where I could buy weed from the resident gutter punk.

On a Friday night in August, with a bag of pot in my pocket, I stalked across town trying to find a party. After a number of beers and a number of bowls, it was still early in the evening, so I made my way to the pedestrian plaza to see if I would run into anyone I knew.

Passing through, I walked to Burlington Street on my way back to the area of town affectionately called the student ghetto where I would likely find another party. The light had just turned against me, but in my inebriated state, I said, “Fuck it” and crossed anyway. Unfortunately, I had stepped in front of a police cruiser. I was cuffed, booked, and put in a cell. Worst of all, the cop confiscated my weed.

The next day, I called my parents to let them know I’d been arrested.

{SNI(long inhale, through the nose)FF!}

{HAA(slow, exhaled sigh through the mouth)AH!}

Well, it wasn’t like that exactly. Over the phone, I couldn’t hear the long inhale. After admitting my transgression, there was a pregnant, silent pause, followed by a long, breathy sigh through the mouth. I had to imagine my dad putting his hand over his mouth and slowly stroking his salt and paprika beard.

All things told, I was quite fortunate growing up in the family I did. My father worked hard so he could send his three kids to college. And even though that wouldn’t be the first time I saw the inside of a jail cell, my parents continued to support me during my early adult years. To make me feel better about receiving money to pay for my tuition and books, my dad would often tell me about the expectations placed on me.

“Now, when I went to college, my dad paid for my tuition. And now, I’m helping you get through college. The way you pay me back is to pay it forward. When you have a kid of your own, you’ll give them the start in life I gave you.”

So, now I catch myself buying roller skates and basketballs and track spikes and thinking how many years of school it will take to make an orthopedic surgeon. I’ve already talked to my daughter about how she pays me back for the things I provide for her now and why she shouldn’t feel bad for the amounts I spend. Even so, I still find ways to upset her. For example, a couple of weeks ago, she had to prioritize one of her activities over another.

“Dad, I won’t be able to participate in roller derby on Saturday. I have a basketball tournament.”

{SNI(long inhale, through the nose)FF!}

{HAA(slow, exhaled sigh through the mouth)AH!}