The Dad Files
My dad was sitting at home enjoying a quiet afternoon one summer when I returned from a neighbor's birthday party and begged him to come try a tire swing. See, the dad across the street was an engineer, so he'd built the best tire swing ever, all advanced with a big platform. I told my dad about it, about how much fun we'd had on the swing at the party. The deal was, you get up on the platform, swing, then come back, and the dad grabs the rope and you get off on the platform. The tire swing is obviously held up on a giant tree branch. I thought this was the coolest thing ever. Dad wasn't so impressed. He wasn't coming. I distinctly remember his tone. My dad gets this whiny tone sometimes when you annoy him, so he lets you know that you're being annoying. "Elana," he kept saying, "I'm happy HERE. I don't want to go on a tire swing."
Too bad for Dad, I was as stubborn then as I am now, if not more so, and it was pretty much not up for discussion. So we went across the street.
I thought this was so cool, because my dad was the only dad who came out to try out the swing. My dad got on the tire swing, went once, and loved it. This was great. I felt like I had really brought my dad out for something worthwhile. The real vindication came next: he wanted to go again.
So he got on the swing, lifted off the platform, and on the way back to the platform, his foot tapped it, but he missed getting off. He swung back towards the tree from where the tire hung. He later told everyone that he figured he would just swing back and get off the platform on the second trip. But my father's no engineer, and I guess what he didn't realize in that moment was that he'd thrown off the set course of the swing, and all of a sudden, with a pretty loud thwack, my dad's back slammed into the giant tree.
I stood there, watching in horror, as my father fell straight back onto the ground, face up, and didn't move. In that second, I was sure I killed my father. And if that were the case, I was in a lot of trouble.
I didn't go up to my dad. I stood there and waited as my neighbor's mom came outside and took me and the rest of the kids back to my house, where my mom was getting ready to go out with my dad and some friends. I don't remember exactly what my neighbor's mom said, but I do remember her just going nuts, saying over and over again in her Southern drawl that they had insurance, they would pay for it, her husband was an idiot, and Richard was paralyzed. In perhaps an eerie foreshadowing of later events, my mother finished buttering all the toast she was making before heading across the street. Don't ask me why, but I remember that.
My dad went to the emergency room with his friend Aaron, one half of the couple they were supposed to go out with. They told him he broke his back, and as he had Aaron call home to tell my mom and Barbara (Aaron's wife) that they were going to stop for Chinese food (signature dad move: Chinese food. When I was born, my dad famously left the hospital that night in time to get to the Chinese restaurant), my dad felt like he couldn't breathe and ended up in the intensive care unit. Turns out, he'd cracked a few ribs as well. Sheesh.
I don't remember much of the recovery of all of this, but for a good long time, I felt like it was totally my fault that I got my dad into the whole mess of the tire swing. My mom would tell people, when they'd ask how he was, "Who goes on a tire swing? I mean, you didn't see the other dads out there!"
And the truth was, you didn't. What I appreciated so much about my father - that he got up off the couch, went outside and did it, whether because he wanted to go or because he wanted to shut me up - ended up getting him in a lot of trouble. I don't have much else to say about the whole event, except that I'm glad he isn't paralyzed or anything. I'd have some serious issues to get through.
I don't really know why I define a lot of my dad stories with the tire swing story, but I do. It might be because it combines a lot of the details that I find amusing about my father. He tried to use his logic to outsmart the system, with the whole, "Next time, I'll just get back on the platform," rather than just abandoning ship or flipping out (my dad is notorious for using logic for everything). He also was hypochondriac-ish in the emergency room, but I guess you have to give him a break because if your back and ribs were broken, you might be feeling pretty lousy about life and thinking you might die. And, through it all, my dad was thinking about Chinese food. Probably Schezuan Spicy Beef, knowing my dad.
There are two other stories I really like about my father. The first he told me one time when we were driving to Boston one time. He told me about the time he visited his father in the hospital when his father was pretty sick. He and his dad were playing cards when the doctor came in. My dad followed the doctor out into the hallway. "Level with me," he asked the doctor. The doctor told him that it wasn't good. His father was dying. And I don't know how he did it, but this next part is the part that really gets me about the whole story. "What'd he say?" my grandfather asked his son as he came back into the room. My dad shrugged, said to his father, "Who knows. Doctors, so complicated," and went on playing.
And finally, the last story I just happen to like for no good reason at all, except that it personifies how my father deals with people. When my sister refused to floss her teeth (probably at age seven), as a punishment, my father made her look up gingivitis in the dictionary.
I love it (slash him).
Too bad for Dad, I was as stubborn then as I am now, if not more so, and it was pretty much not up for discussion. So we went across the street.
I thought this was so cool, because my dad was the only dad who came out to try out the swing. My dad got on the tire swing, went once, and loved it. This was great. I felt like I had really brought my dad out for something worthwhile. The real vindication came next: he wanted to go again.
So he got on the swing, lifted off the platform, and on the way back to the platform, his foot tapped it, but he missed getting off. He swung back towards the tree from where the tire hung. He later told everyone that he figured he would just swing back and get off the platform on the second trip. But my father's no engineer, and I guess what he didn't realize in that moment was that he'd thrown off the set course of the swing, and all of a sudden, with a pretty loud thwack, my dad's back slammed into the giant tree.
I stood there, watching in horror, as my father fell straight back onto the ground, face up, and didn't move. In that second, I was sure I killed my father. And if that were the case, I was in a lot of trouble.
I didn't go up to my dad. I stood there and waited as my neighbor's mom came outside and took me and the rest of the kids back to my house, where my mom was getting ready to go out with my dad and some friends. I don't remember exactly what my neighbor's mom said, but I do remember her just going nuts, saying over and over again in her Southern drawl that they had insurance, they would pay for it, her husband was an idiot, and Richard was paralyzed. In perhaps an eerie foreshadowing of later events, my mother finished buttering all the toast she was making before heading across the street. Don't ask me why, but I remember that.
My dad went to the emergency room with his friend Aaron, one half of the couple they were supposed to go out with. They told him he broke his back, and as he had Aaron call home to tell my mom and Barbara (Aaron's wife) that they were going to stop for Chinese food (signature dad move: Chinese food. When I was born, my dad famously left the hospital that night in time to get to the Chinese restaurant), my dad felt like he couldn't breathe and ended up in the intensive care unit. Turns out, he'd cracked a few ribs as well. Sheesh.
I don't remember much of the recovery of all of this, but for a good long time, I felt like it was totally my fault that I got my dad into the whole mess of the tire swing. My mom would tell people, when they'd ask how he was, "Who goes on a tire swing? I mean, you didn't see the other dads out there!"
And the truth was, you didn't. What I appreciated so much about my father - that he got up off the couch, went outside and did it, whether because he wanted to go or because he wanted to shut me up - ended up getting him in a lot of trouble. I don't have much else to say about the whole event, except that I'm glad he isn't paralyzed or anything. I'd have some serious issues to get through.
I don't really know why I define a lot of my dad stories with the tire swing story, but I do. It might be because it combines a lot of the details that I find amusing about my father. He tried to use his logic to outsmart the system, with the whole, "Next time, I'll just get back on the platform," rather than just abandoning ship or flipping out (my dad is notorious for using logic for everything). He also was hypochondriac-ish in the emergency room, but I guess you have to give him a break because if your back and ribs were broken, you might be feeling pretty lousy about life and thinking you might die. And, through it all, my dad was thinking about Chinese food. Probably Schezuan Spicy Beef, knowing my dad.
There are two other stories I really like about my father. The first he told me one time when we were driving to Boston one time. He told me about the time he visited his father in the hospital when his father was pretty sick. He and his dad were playing cards when the doctor came in. My dad followed the doctor out into the hallway. "Level with me," he asked the doctor. The doctor told him that it wasn't good. His father was dying. And I don't know how he did it, but this next part is the part that really gets me about the whole story. "What'd he say?" my grandfather asked his son as he came back into the room. My dad shrugged, said to his father, "Who knows. Doctors, so complicated," and went on playing.
And finally, the last story I just happen to like for no good reason at all, except that it personifies how my father deals with people. When my sister refused to floss her teeth (probably at age seven), as a punishment, my father made her look up gingivitis in the dictionary.
I love it (slash him).
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