Band-Aids on his hands.
Loosely wrapped around various fingers. Covering the back of
his hands. That might be the most vivid memory of my father.
Band-Aids were always on his hands.
He was a mechanic. I never took much interest in what he
did. Not because I didn’t respect him or the trade. It was just something I
never wished to learn. He was always tired. Always dirty. His hands and face
always covered with grease. Oil embedded in his nails. Band-Aids always on his
hands.
I noted this the last time we were together, or the last
time he was lucid. He had been retired over a decade yet his hand, his retired
hands, were still cut and bandaged.
He still tinkered, just now for free. Possibly for the
enjoyment. I don’t know.
He possibly was the hardest working man I’ve ever known. A
trait inherited from him into my younger twin brothers. Both excelling in their
blue-collar jobs, maintaining their collection of muscle cars and keeping up
with the ever-mounting list of honey-dos required with each of their several
acre homes. Their hands mirroring my father’s.
What he lacked in connections with us as children, me made
up for as we became adults. He never judged us, betrayed us, lied to us, failed
us. His life was ours anyway he could. I knew if I ever needed his help, he’d
be there any way he could. No guilt, just help and his giant heart.
His puns were horrible. His jokes told in mass repetition.
He loved bad movies. Bacon was in every meal. Thrift stores were gold mines. He
was addicted to 10 year old technology as if it was just presented at CES. Each
year he seems a little more elderly but with the strength of 10 men. The day he
died I’m sure he still could have taken me in a fight.
His laugh was magic. The day we poured his ashes in his
favorite lake we emulated it through stories of him which brought us to tears.
Tears of laughter which we knew he’d want.
His ashes reside in the lake we grew up visiting. Many of
our stories come from that exact spot. It’s his quiet memorial only known
to us.
He has no gravestone. No plaque. No jar with his name.
His legacy is only with us, his children who all loved him
dearly.
His grandchildren who can pull various stories out of vague
memories.
The few great grandchildren who might have the one or two
snap shots of him in their heads.
His name was Robert Lee Doty.
He was my father.
Though he passed away several years ago, I love and respect
him more every day. I’m half the man he was but I still try to be like him. Not
because he wanted me to, because he was my role model.
He didn’t want me to be anything other than me. Because he
loved me as well.
I found my great great aunts short snorter. There is a signature from a bill doty signed in peru in 1943-1944. Could it be your father's signature?
ReplyDeleteMy name is Bill... his was Robert. So unfortunately... that's not him.
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