Ricochet

Well, Question 4 is only possible to answer because of Question 3, and vice versa. It takes two to tango, ugh I hate clichés, why did I write that? Anyway, the other half of Chasafrass is her daddio, Ricochet.

Again, if you’re new here, to kick my butt into trailblazing my writing journey, I decided to answer a personal question a week for 52 weeks, 52 questions, 52 stories of me. Why? Because I decided to, not because I’m that interesting, but I’d like to develop a more consistent and purposeful writing schedule for myself, which means direction with a deadline, and an understanding that each blog entry doesn’t have to be perfect, just heartfelt and fun.

Question 4:MY PAPA BEAR, WHO IS HE?

“Ricochet, you gotta copy? Thisiz lil’ lil’ Ricochet here. Over and out.”

I loved playing on my dad’s CB, sometimes too willingly to mess with other drivers in ways I should not admit. Shame befalls me with all apologies. From the time I can remember, my dad has been a truck driver, different companies, different trucks, and I can recall most, left my mark on one in particular, literally, peed on the doghouse, drove some, backed up one, and loved them all. I love my dad’s trucks, and I love my dad.

Last night, after visiting with a friend about her dad, I decided to call mine. We quick caught up and laughed as we always do, made stupid jokes, burped, laughed some more, talked to someone else as if no one was on the other line, we laughed some more, he asked about the weather, I asked about his latest trip, and he tells me the best scenario of a story I never want to hear, about a coworker whose truck tipped over from the wind. My dad was behind his fellow trucker from a ways, but on the phone with him through the accident, while still driving.

My dad’s job is dangerous and he’s been doing it for as long as I can remember. He’s a legend in his world, obvious each year I attend Wheel Jam, a car/truck/motorcycle show now entering its 15th year of which my daddio became involved with from the beginning, entering and winning show and shine prizes before word got out and Trip my Truck started showing up.

It’s fun to watch him in that world, listen to the lingo of those who truck themselves from state to state delivering our food and drink and wares. My favorite stories are how they maneuver their big rigs through tight streets in older parts of big cities not built for an 18-wheeler Peterbilt.

Before he was a trucker, or my dad, or a husband, he was Danny Wilde from Bancroft, the guy who showed up to a high school basketball game in a gold leisure suit with matching gold shoes, off the living of a farming father. But who wouldn’t accentuate his already good looks? I can’t lie, looking at pictures from back in the day, my dad was attractive. I totally see why my mom eventually, and I say eventually to summarize a whole other story, fell in love with him.

My dad has this pinch hole on his right-side rib cage where I used to stick my finger into. I know, ewww, gross, but as a kid, I thought it was the coolest thing in the world. Like he had his own plug, or was it a mystery hole? I was fascinated. Later I learned a tube had once penetrated that hole leading to his lungs to save his life after a horrific car accident where the car landed on top of him, broke his back and paralyzed him, at the age of 17, before his Senior year, in a new school in a nearby town, not watching any of his previous five siblings go beyond 10th grade, told he would never have children.

Maybe 20 years ago, my dad and I were watching a 60 Minutes episode covering Out of Body Experiences, and he turns and says, that’s what happened to me. “What, Dad?” He hadn’t been able to explain it until that day 30-some years later. While in surgery, he recalls rising above his body on the operating table and seeing the doctors perform their skill. After surgery, in the hospital, on a halo bed on his back, he puked one day and choked until a nurse happened to walk by and hear him gurgling and turned him. He almost died three times during the beginning of his ordeal that miraculously lasted three months, lucky number shining on the sunny side because within three months, he was walking, and clearly he could procreate. When he was 8 or 9, he was almost rammed into the side of a fence by a big-horned steer, no more seconds for that close call. Don’t get me started on his youthful escapade stories or driving in tornadoes.

My dad escapes tragedy because he lives with little fear. He doesn’t focus on what could happen as much as he enjoys the now, which I believe is the new way of thinking that this old fart figured out a long time ago.

He can find humor in anything and is quick to the draw. He keeps it fresh while holding on to the oldies. “Here’s your spoon, <insert grandchild name>” as he hands child a large scoop spoon with a straight face for barely a few seconds before he cracks himself up again, and the kid, and everyone, again! Scary movies, you can count on a sneak attack at least once. Don’t ask for a drink of water cuz you’ll only get a dribble. My dad is silly. My kids love him as much as I do.

My parents divorced when I was a young teen, forcing me to spend whole weekends with my dad which was pretty cool because he wasn’t around much before that, or at least I don’t remember because we didn’t make a deal of it. I can easily recall taking trips with him in the semi and those are my main memories. I wouldn’t rest because I wanted to see everything and even when my mind tired, my heart would not, I didn’t like leaving my dad alone to drive while I snuggled in the sleeper with my sister who never awoke until the rumble of the truck stopped. It truly is the best vibrator.

Our relationship was easy and loving and fun. He yelled at me when necessary but let me get away with a lot of shit, too. I think he knew how he was as a young teen and that maybe I was going to be okay. He had favored my odds with his reckless accident, not his fault but kind of. What else do you do when your buddy turns to you and says, “Whaddya say man, do we pull over or outrun ‘em?”

“You’re the one driving, man.”

My dad graduated high school in 1969.

After I floated my way through several years of college smoking weed and listening to the Grateful Dead, I asked him why he never went to Woodstuck for his graduation present, not really thinking how this poor Midwestern farm boy had been fighting for his life and his legs the year prior. Yeah. Priorities. Life. Situations. Twists. Turns. Tires. Trucks.

I’m fortunate to have a Papa Bear and a Mama Bear alive and healthy and sharing a relationship with them we enjoy and look forward to each moment we’re together. It’s a blessed feeling I realize conversing with friends and neighbors, that not everyone experiences.

My dad and I share a lovely trait, one I used to allow others to berate me for but no more. Procrastination can serve me, means I’m patient, means maybe it’s time to ask why?

Dad and I found ourselves itching to do something other than paint the exterior wall of his double-wide trailer facing east, can’t remember which of us commented first how it would be a good day to ride the motorcycle but the second it came up, painting that forsaken wall wasn’t happening.

“We could drive over to Poinsett, eat lunch at that bar-b-que place.”

“I haven’t been to Poinsett in years, let’s go!”

And so we went and enjoyed the most perfect summer day, procrastinating with bellies full of finger-lickin’ ribs with a summer breeze blowing away no worries.

Question 4, done.

Preview, Question 5: MY SIBLINGS, WHO ARE THEY?

Do you have a dad as cool as mine?