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May 02, 2005
very auspicious
If he had lived, today would have been my dad's 75th birthday.
As it happened, he passed away 14 years ago tomorrow.
He is buried in Davenport, Iowa, next to his father, who died before I was born. As far as I know, he and his father weren't especially close. From what I know of my grandfather, he was something of a character, a tough nut who was admired but also feared. He was a labor leader, organizing workers at an Iowa foundry, and writing for a union newspaper. At some point, according to the fragments of family history that I know, his activities so threatened the foundry bosses that he received death threats. My grandparents left their home in Iowa in the middle of the night with their family and went to the last place anyone might look for them in those days, Oklahoma. My knowledge of family history is vague, but at some point they returned home. My dad grew up, joined the Navy, played jazz, was a writer and an artist, met my mom in Chicago. The way I remember him my dad was smart, funny, moody, musical, quirky, intense, mercurial, slightly odd, always struggling against who knows what internal demons. Later in his life he had a salt-and-pepper beard and a slow, distracted walk. He was a creature of habit who kept literally millions of pens at the ready in every pocket, every room, every corner of his car at all times. I remember him propping his sketchbook on the steering wheel and sketching at red lights while driving. Pens were also drumsticks for him, having been a drummer, and frequently he played along to jazz on the radio or some internal music. My dad was a graphic designer before computers replaced pens and t-squares, and the sound of a squeaking marker is inextricably linked with him in my head, alongside the sound of a typewriter and The Modern Jazz Quartet. My hands are his hands, feminized but with the same slightly squared-off fingertips. I remember the side of his left pinky finger was perpetually ink smudged. When I draw, the smudgy side of my hand is a reminder. Sometimes I look at my hand when I am furiously sketching and think I have become him.
Happy Birthday, Dooey B, wherever you are! I miss you very much!
Posted by at May 2, 2005 08:53 AM
Comments
*hug*
Posted by: cari at May 2, 2005 12:13 PM
you are beautiful
Posted by: nick danger at May 3, 2005 12:36 AM
Beautifully written. Thanks for that.
Posted by: Your Brother at May 3, 2005 08:04 AM
That was very vivid, and very sweet.
Posted by: David at May 3, 2005 02:00 PM