The Texas Bohemian

Word artist. Jack of all Trades.

All Those Yesterdays…

A cool front passed through today.  It’s a hell of a nice day today outside.  Fall is arriving and with it my usual melancholy mood.  I got it bad today.

When my dad died, on the day I knew he would, I went to the liquor store and stocked up.  Before I left him to make the trip to the liquor store, on the way out the door of his hospital room, he looked at me with that look of his, kind and loving, and said, “I love you twice!”  My cousins thought it was a weird thing to say but it was classic Dad and it meant the world.  He drifted away a couple hours later.  I went straight for the bottles.  My best friend was gone.  I was so pissed at god and the world and even him for just giving up.

Some time in the early morning before sunrise, after I’d been lying in bed a few hours totally fucked up and trying to figure out how I would live any longer, I thought of my little hydroponics garden attached to the side of our cabin.  Tomato vines were growing very well, and blooming.  I built the thing as much for Dad’s appreciation than for tomatoes.  Suddenly I rose up, went down the stairs, outside, and tore that thing all to hell.  What was the fucking use, Dad was gone?  My wife and brother who was staying with us thought I had gone stark raving nuts.  They tried to stop me but I shoved them all away and demolished the whole thing.  I  had to.

For the next few days I stayed totally fucked up.  I was drunk at the planning of the funeral and pretty smashed at the funeral itself.  We dressed the old fart in overalls and a white shirt, the clothes he wore all the time.   Somebody stuck a pen in his bib pocket to make it all the way it should be.

When they put that box in the ground I went with it.  I  have never been the same.  My life has always been one of confusion.  I’m weird, different, fucked up, screwy, strange, you insert the adjectives.  I was, and am, that to every fucking person on the planet, even the rest of my family and my wife.  My mom loved me but my dad was there, always there, and I was too goddamn busy in the world to be there when I should have been.  I will never forgive myself for not sending him something for the last father’s day.  I was such a goddamn dick.  But he was there, always, loving me without question.  He actually turned to me for advice and information.  There’s been nobody like him in my life.  Not ever.

Today, with the fall wind blowing through my shop I’ve been wandering around, lost, looking at stuff I have.  We, my Dad, brother and I, used to dream about a real shop, a place with every tool we need at hand.  I have it.   A lot of the tools I have were his or my brother’s.  I have so much shit of his here.  Up on the wall are his hand saws, a tube checker for old electron tubes, his soldering iron.   It still pisses me off I can’t show it off to him.  He’d have been here with me building something, just anything, fucking around with wood or whatever.

My family limped along without him for years.  We were never the same.  I live a couple miles from where Mom lived.  I saw her often.  She visited and I could show her the shit I was working on.  I saw my siblings now and then though they never visited.  I visited them sometimes.  Then Mom got really sick.  She got cancer.  When she was reaching the end and was all totally fucked up from what the idiotic doctors did to  her they flaked out.  I stayed with her, kept her company, was there ’till she was gone too.  When she died I knew in my guts that we buried our family with her.  The last time we were ever all together was at her house after she died.

Dad died what, some thirteen years ago.  Mom died three years ago.  Now I am totally fucking alone.  Yeah, my wife and kids are here but it’s not the same.  My family are all wrapped up in their religious bullshit.  I’m the reprobate.  My wife loves me and my kids adore me but I’m lousy to them because it’s just not in me to be happy.  Happy won’t come.  Happy got cancer when Dad died and it died with Mom.

I picked up my old hard hat I wore when I was hauling sand and put it on my head today.  Got sawdust and dirt in my hair.  It’s been  hanging on the wall of this shop.  This shop is so Dad.  It’s so yesterday.  It’s my refuge but it’s a melancholy refuge where purpose does not have a home.  Sometimes I make shit.  I tinker.  The other day I made a 12 volt power supply from a scrap tranformer and rectifier.  Dad taught me how to do that shit.  He taught me all the skills I  use out here.  He was the ultimate tinkerer.  But what the fuck, why make anything if it’s just going to sit in the goddamn shop and he don’t see it?  Nobody else is  interested.  Nothing I make is pretty.  Sometimes it don’t work but sometimes it does.  What difference does it make?

Religion.  Goddamn religion has cut away my family.  Their fucking god is all they see or know.  I am a reminder to them that it’s all bullshit.  I don’t even know why I’m writing this shit.  It’s do this or lay in the floor and scream or just sit here and cry.  Everything is so fucked up.

Now I’ve run out of words.  I’d really rather be fucked up but I have to go get the kids and besides, I ain’t got much to drink.  I lit my pipe but I can never keep that goddamn thing lit.  I gave up and got another cigar.

I have a shelf with Dad’s stuff on it in the house.  I call it my shrine.  He was a “radio man,” an engineer who worked for radio stations for fifty years or so.  I have his ancient headphones and a tube out of an old RCA transmitter.  When I was a kid I spent a lot of time with him at the radio station, the transmitter building where huge AM transmitters hummed and buzzed, massive 303’s in the RCA glowed like candles.  I have one of those 303’s.  I’ve held on to it since I was a kid, over forty  years.  It’s a most prized possession.  I have the Scotch bottle that I emptied the day he died, too.  Sure wish I had a new one!  Full.

Fall always fucks me up.  Always has.  The forties music on the player probably doesn’t help.  I love everything about the forties.  And my dad lived through them.  I miss his stories.  He used to tell such great stories.  Once I recorded him and wrote them down.  I’ve lost the tapes and most of the writing.  That sucks.  I remember some of them.  I wish my memory wasn’t so fucked up.

Frank Sinatra and Tommy Dorsey is playing now.  “Polkadots and Moonbeams.”  Just a slow tune with smooth a vocal and lots of brass.  And now it ends.  Another Frankie tune, “My One and Only.”  Sinatra was such a selfish prick but he knew how to croon.  I miss those sixties variety shows with the crooners, fading into the past by then.  KTRE radio, dad’s station for eighteen years… well not his but where he worked… played this stuff.  Hamp and Eggs, that was the morning show.  Hampton Kiethly.  I remember the studio, the smell of smoke and hot tubes.  Massive turn tables and a board with huge knobs.  …

All my yesterdays.  Song now is “Pennies from Heaven.”  That is a great song.

Shit, my cigar is done.  I need to pee.  Guess I’ll go.


September 30, 2011 - Posted by | Blather | , , , , , ,

1 Comment »

  1. Ted,
    I remember that you were a friend to me when my Dad died, over ten years ago. Still recall the period of time we worked together for the state; in particular, the day our unit was at some fancy Holiday Inn for a state meeting. We stayed up late – me drinking coffee, and you drinking whatever. Good conversations that night.
    Mark Cummins

    Comment by Mark Cummins | November 29, 2011

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