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THE PRESENCE OF YOUR ABSENCE – DALE C. GARSIDE Dad made indelible marks, instilled values, lives on in me... He often had time for you when he didn’t have time for you, didn’t he? You were more important than some very important activities in his life, I’m sure. Do you remember that Fall day in the driveway? Mike and you were passing football while Dad was seeing a patient in the office. Mike was a great neighbor and my best friend. You sure miss him, don’t you? When Dad came out, he watched his patient drive off around the big semi-circle. The dust settled quickly, and he stayed to watch you two running, throwing, catching … You played your best then; so did Mike. Dad was so proud; I could tell. Mike had the idea before you. “Here Doc, catch!” The ball spiraled through the air. Dad ran out from under the porch and caught it, his tie flying as he lunged forward. Then he set, looked at you; you took off and pulled it in on the run. He was over forty, but he must have been a good quarterback in high school; it still showed. Mike and you tossed a couple more, and Dad still kept watching, but from the driveway, not the porch. You threw him the next one. This time he came onto the grass and sent Mike out long, almost to the street. Neither of you had asked Dad to play, but somehow he knew you were mentally inviting him. You loved him for that. After fifteen minutes or so of back and forth sending and receiving, Dad had a second patient: Red came driving in. He was that big, strong, muscle-bound kind-hearted hulk of a man with rust-colored hair; he paid Dad with wood. I recall how he cried when Dad told him we were moving in ’68. And he was the one who sold me my first car for forty dollars in ’65, paid for in silver halves you collected on your paper route. When he arrived, you thought the three-some was over, didn’t you? Red smiled coming in the dirt road: “Hey Doc, playin’ ball with the boys in a white shirt and tie!” He reminded Dad of his profession as well as of their appointment: “I’ll be right there, Red; just give me time to wash up.” You hit Dad with one last, short pass to end the game. He returned the football and started heading in. Then Red shouted from the car window: “Keep playin’, Doc; I got plenty a’ time.” You were already kicking one to Mike when you heard Dad’s answer: “Thanks, Red, I’ll only be a few more minutes.” Dad turned his back on Red’s car, on his profession, on his office, on his appointment; he turned his face toward his boys, neighbor and son, clapping his hands. Mike smiled and sent him another long one. Were you ever more proud of your father? Red watched Dad, Mike, and you set up plays, run patterns, and sweat for maybe ten more minutes that day. The time didn’t matter; the communication was clear. When Dad left the second time, he didn’t look back. He didn’t have to. He’d already shown Mike and you that you were more important than his job. Years later, Dad died in the car while taking you to college for finals. During our days together, it was rare to hear him say he loved me…, with his mouth, that is. |