by Kevin Lamb

Created on: August 29, 2008   Last Updated: March 24, 2010

"You want a beer?" My dad always asked the moment we walked in the door.

"Yeah, I guess I'll drink one," was my usual response back then. As I walked towards the refrigerator he always came back with: "Well, you might as well grab me one while you're over there." This was always what he said as he stuck his hand out with his empty beer can.

"You want a beer Lisa?" He always asked my wife, knowing exactly what her answer always was. I think he just liked getting a rise out of her.

"You know I don't drink beer Roy," my wife always replied every time. He just sat back on the couch and grinned while she told him again how nasty she thought beer was. This same scenario went on every time we visited.

I can still see him sitting on the couch with his blue jeans, Kentucky Wildcat hat and shirt, and one hand lightly holding unto his old wooden cane which he always kept resting against his left leg. Although it's been over seventeen years since his death, the mental images of him are still very vivid in my mind.

"Can you take the garbage out to the dumpster while you're over there?" Was his usual next response. "And can you grab that stack of newspapers and take them out to the trash also, he usually added. My wife and I just usually smiled back at each other.

Sometimes we went over and played cards, and some times we just sat back and talked. After a few beers his talk usually ended up with him getting choked up talking about old dogs which we had that had died. The stroke that he had survived three years before his death had left him more in touch with his inner feelings.

This stroke also left him with a leg brace, and a cane that he would take to his grave. He tried to muddle on after a divorce from a marriage that lasted over thirty one years. But after his retirement as a machinist at International Harvester his passion for life had seem to die.

This man that cried about dogs from the past was not the same man I knew growing up as a child. Back in those years he never showed his feelings; always keeping everything pent up inside of him. He was usually emotionally unable to communicate with the family about anything personal, but he never met a stranger on the street.

He could talk to anyone about anything. Daddy could stand and talk for hours to his buddies at the body shops which we visited, and always managed to hold up the newspaper boy while they talked back in our garage. His life was filled with one story after the other. He loved playing practical jokes on

• 1
• 2
• 3
• Next Page >>