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I love my father? No. I love my father. (?) I can’t even say it without questioning myself. You see, my father was a cold man. He was bearded to the hilt and as tough as an iron bag of railroad spikes. When I say bearded I mean it was like his hair just became his beard. I think he had head hair for facial hair. Some kind of small genetic error that would have made him a God among Vikings. In fact that is where I think he belonged. A man born in the wrong time in the wrong place. He was poor growing up. A child in the great depression. He worked in a coal mine to help feed his family but when he was 8 his mother forced him to find other work as she felt 3 years without sunlight was damaging his body. He worked as a lumberjack for a few years but then after the bombing of Pearl Harbor he felt his duty was to fight in the war. He lied about his age and joined the Army. When he was 11. He was already about 6 feet tall and could grow full mutton chops and a mustache. After the war he got a job at the steel mill and worked there his entire life making an honest living for his wife and kids.
I was the oldest of 4 children. Born in 1950, I was at the perfect age for the counter culture movement in the 60’s. This is something my father didn’t understand or care about. I don’t even think he knew about it. We were in an argument one time when I was 18. My hair was getting long, I was smoking weed daily and was active in war protest about the growing conflict in Vietnam. The argument started with the length of my hair. I insisted that times were changing and was going into a tirade about how I am my own man when he effectively stopped my speech with a punch to the gut.
“You know. I think you have a point.” He said as I was doubled over in pain. “You do have a right to make your own choice about the war.” I don’t know what he meant by that because he grabbed me by the back of the shirt and dragged me down to the local recruiting office. There were a group of a dozen or so protesters out front chanting the typical slogans at the time. He plopped me down in the office as I was still recovering from the punch. He went outside and I heard the strangest thing. Imagine the sound of someone singing but then being choked. Now imagine that happening to 12 people all at the same time. It is a strange, gurgling chorus sound. He came back inside and shoved the papers in front of my face. The recruiter spoke up.
“Um, sir you can’t force your son to…” He stopped talking as my father stared at him with those cold eyes. Eyes that had been repeatedly burnt by hot steel because of his refusal to where any type of eye protection at them mill. I heard another strange sound as the recruiter’s pants made a rustling sound as his penis shrank between his quivering legs. I signed the papers as my father’s beard flowed on the desk.
In all honesty the military was a breeze. My father had instilled great discipline in his children. Even the toughest drill sergeant has nothing on my towering father with his deep gravelly voice telling me to get my shit together. Hints of smoke left over from his job at the mill, which he left hours ago, coming out of his nose like a dragon but with far more anger. I distinctly remember the day he picked me up after I got out of the military. It was 1975. His beard had a bit more grey in it. There were more scars on his face, hands, neck, shoulders, and arms than when I left. “Your mother has missed you.” Were his first words as he greeted me with a hearty handshake. I knew he did too. He was cold but he was still a human. I knew this because he was picking me up instead of telling me to “toughen up my feet” by walking home the 5 miles from the bus station. As we drove he attempted to change lanes but there was a sizable blind spot in his truck. He never was one for using mirrors either. The car he cut off beeped and he quickly corrected himself and waved to indicate he was sorry. However, at the next stop light the guy pulled up next to us. He began to shout at my father with colorful language. My father rolled down his window. “I apologize sir, I didn’t see you I hope you weren’t startled.”
“Fuck you old man! Open your fucking eyes and watch where you are going!” shouted the man in the car. I could see two others in the car with them. They were not small men either. They looked like the kind of people you wouldn’t want mad at you. I could see empty beer cans in the car. Surely starting a night of partying a little early. My father was confused.
“I apologized. I made a mistake. This incident is over.” My father said sternly. He turned back facing the light preparing to drive as it changed when a beer can hit in the head.
“Bullshit this is over! I tell you when it is over!” yelled the other driver. My father didn’t flinch as he put the car in park and got out. As the three men who were looking for a fight did the same. The light had turned green but no car behind us had dared move except for the few that recognized my father and had quickly pulled out of line to drive the other way. Impressively, there was very little trash talking from the three men as almost immediately one of them threw a punch hitting my father on his cheek right below his eye. My father didn’t even blink as the man’s hand shattered and the skin was ripped off his knuckles. I imagine it would be like punching a brick covered in rock salt.
Thinking about it now I there are a number of sounds I associate with my father that I haven’t heard anywhere else. There was the incident at the recruiting office for sure and this was another one. You see, he never had much respect for men who couldn’t control themselves or their drinking. After the first man threw a punch I had turned away. Even with everything I had seen in ‘Nam I didn’t want to see my father’s reaction to being punched. But I heard everything. I heard the trunk open. I heard the head honcho swing a bat. I heard the bat being caught mid swing by my father and then snapped in half along with a few of the man’s fingers. I heard the screaming. I heard the pleading. I heard my father tell them to shut up. And they did. Then the silence broken by the sound of empty beer cans being shoved up the rear ends of the three men. The sickening sound of metal crinkling and grunting men. A loud slap would be heard as he would remind them to shut up. Then just the crinkling and shoving. I guess you could say their punishment was equal to their drinking. They had made the mistake of having about 6 beers each. The whole process took a good 8 minutes or so. He had put the keys to their car in the first can telling them that they were allowed to drive again when they could get to the keys. He got back in the car and we continued on. I was queasy but tried not to show it. “Your mother has missed you” he said. I mentioned he said that when he picked me up.
“Sorry son, the old man sometimes forgets what he says I guess. Look at me rambling on. I guess I am just excited to see you. Tell me about the east. Tell me about oriental whores and war.” We drove on with me telling him about Vietnam. He just laughed the entire ride home. Nothing I said was funny.
John Kilmore
August 1983