Tag Archives: Father


“Goat! Daddy, a goat! There! THEEEEEERE!” A girl with chestnut brown, braided hair squealed in the air on the edge of the knoll. The clasps on her overalls clinked as she bounced incessantly. She was full of spirit, that one.

“Very good, Mercedes. It’s a goat.” It was really a Capricornus, but “goat” was good enough for three years of age. “What’s that look like over there?” He pointed to a plus-shaped cloud following the goat up.

Mercedes stood blank at the foreign shape. She wasn’t all that comfortable with challenge yet, but she wanted to impress her father. Turning to the kind, yet imposing giant, she said “face?”

Otto knelt to her eye level and smiled. He rubbed his hand on top of her head and replied, “I’m sorry, munchkin. That’s an anchor. Do you know what an anchor is?”

The little girl tucked chin in her shirt and shook her head. “Oh, OK,” he laughed, “I’ll tell on the way back home.”

He knew it meant a garbage freighter was signalling to dock at port not too far from the barracks. The method of cloud communication had evolved into an art, and it was the easiest way to send general bulletins to the watchful eyes of the townsfolk. Every family had a communications liaison, who would spend their time keeping abreast of current events.

All in all, she was doing very well. It pleased him very much. Before the age of 10, she would most likely be a spotter. By 18, she would probable be recon, maybe even elevated recon (abbreviated to LCON in the league) if she knew how to bridle her own Griffoid. If she stuck with it, and didn’t go for a “flyout” (AWOL) like he did, she’d almost certainly make colonel. Then again, had he not flown his Überadler to the peppered shores of Auaotio, he would have not met her mother.

Most people would have been demoted and sent to the brig for desertion, but many knew why General Hillensdaugh forgave and forgot: the Battle of the Lava Caves. Had the Major not been there to scout, navigate, command, fight, and single-handedly close the passage successfully, there would be no Sky League cooler to throw him in. “Calamity” Jane Hillensdaugh would never forget that.

On the porch of the house, Mercedes began crying. “Too hard!” She was quick to notice another cloud in the sky. “Too hard, daddy!” Tears streamed down her face for getting two out of three clouds wrong. She had to work on her discipline in the future.

Otto peered into the sky once again to see one large dot over four smaller dots with an “X” following.

“You’re tired, Mercy. Let’s get you some rest.”

After tucking the little child in for the night. Otto walked calmly to the basement. Out of a well-oiled, steel locker came his spotless battle dress uniform. Skull and crossbones meant a skirmish was imminent. Hopefully it would all be cleared up before sunrise, and he could get his daughter motivated enough to get to school on time.

© 2013 by Corvidae in the Fields, all rights reserved

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Peanut Brittle Family

Yesterday was Father’s Day, and accordingly, there were several meditative posts on people’s fathers. I had to think long and hard if I wanted to post anything on the subject. On a life’s scale, it could be far worse. He could be absent, unavailable, incapacitated with drink or other drugs, in jail, physically abusive, deceased, but he is not. He can be very hard to handle at times, though. I was concerned yesterday evening would be such a case. My muscles were tight and on stand by for the typical family meltdown, but I put on my best happy face and tried to make the best of it.

We made it off a rocky week. My father thinks acting like an ass to upset me is wildly amusing. Maybe private-time me would only be irritated, but to be difficult during business hours is unacceptable. Dragging feet or pretending to drag feet and being obstinate is out of the question. Saying afterwards, “I’m only joking,” is not enough. In fact, I’ve never found apologies meaningful. It’s true they may be sincere and valuable to the speaker, but I don’t find meaning in them. If you would like to apologize, help me out.

Sunday I made it out with only having my meal ruined, and when compared to other times in my life, I’ll take what I can get. My family set out for Port Columbus Int’l (CMH) to pick up my sister. She’s 38, but takes to driving in larger cities like cats do to baths. Something I take pride in is being able to drive, fly, or otherwise commute on my own. Independence has been my bride for years, and I have loved her as tenderly as I ever could love a woman. It makes me grouchy when I get whiffs of fecklessness in my peers. In turn, I get very sore with myself if I find it in me.

Being the considerate, I drove most of the trip. Being it Father’s Day, we decided to have dinner at Schmidt’s Sausage Haus. As a gift, I paid for the four of us. I thought it better than a stupid gift card to a home improvement store. Maybe I was mistaken?

After the arrival at CMH, spirits were rather high. While we waited for the Frontier gorillas to mash the luggage a bit more, I was entertaining myself by riding up and down the escalators like a simpleton. My sister had her little escapade in Pennsylvania, and was being pleasant. My parents seemed happy. We tried to take our luck to the restaurant and ride the fumes out through the night.

Here’s where it started to unravel. With my mother a might peckish, she became irritable. The 45 minute wait was not well received by her, but I was firmly against going to something like Bucca Di Beppo.  We patiently waited, and I decided to anesthetize myself with a 22 oz. beer. Not only did it do the trick, it made me louder. I was told to keep it down more than once by my mother.

After seated, we headed for the dinner buffet. I generally dislike buffets for the clientele it attracts, but will always make an exception for this place. Filling a couple of plates with delightful food, such as bratwurst and German potato salad, I overhear the light squawking of my mother about two pans being empty. Tuning out the first-world problem I went to the red cabbage.

By the time I reached my table, I witnessed the tail end of a “discussion” between my mother and the server. It wasn’t an amiable discussion either. From what I gather, my mother said something about food not being available and assume the server said  it wasn’t her problem in a round about way. In truth, it wasn’t. Those trays are the problem of the line cooks in back. They are the ones to be nagged. She was less than impressed and entered her icy, withdrawn, silent treatment mode with the waitress. Things got ugly after the server left. When we were alone, she turned to me and said, “don’t you dare tip her.”

She couldn’t have struck me harder if she used a monkey wrench. What balls she had telling the person buying her dinner how to pay for a meal. I am her son, yes, but this damn near broke my heart. My willingness to eschew the small irritations of having a good meal for the family went disregarded. My parents are the type of people to stiff the help, if they got a bug up their ass. I am not. I am firmly not. My father chimed in with, “she’s not getting any money from me.” Does anyone truly pay attention in my family? I was… uh… I was picking up the tab for this, Dad.

We made more small talk. All the while, I began to plot. I plotted on how to get them out of the building in order to pay for the meal. The more I thought, the less I tasted my dinner. What a waste. I finally settled on trying to pay at the cash register. A few minutes passed, and I thought we were out in the clear.

My sister, in the stupidest move of the night, unexpectedly cut in with “I wonder at what point she realized she was screwed.” In a very, very hurt fury by now I kicked the leg of her chair and barked, “eat your food!” The usual heavy blanket of silence fell upon the table. A fuse was lit, and I waited for the explosion. My father started in with his usual old man bitching with, “this wasn’t a good idea.” Fuck youFuck all of you miserable assholes. My insides were torn apart. I wanted to be anywhere but there at that point.

Looking at my phone, I found out how much time had passed between our seating and our departure: 30 minutes. 30 minutes. That’s how much time I was given for a family dinner, on my dime, and with nothing but pissy attitudes with it. Everyone was so cross, I couldn’t finish my second beer. It had to be left behind to get these assholes on the road. Fortunately for me, I was feeling some of the beer and it didn’t hurt as much.

I got everyone out of the building to the best of my ability and found the server. With my speech a little on heavy side, I explained to the young waitress I didn’t care what was said, but it really pissed my mother off. It was also stated there was a healthy tip with my payment, because I don’t believe in stiffing people. Ever. Not being able to process English, the girl tried to tell me her side of the story. I ignored her. What part of “I don’t care what happened” do you not understand? Take the fucking grace, dipshit.

On the way home, I kept everything to myself. That’s my only recourse. Do not add fuel. Be courteous. Be brief. I wanted to escape in the worst way. Reflecting in a bar that night, the problem came to light. I’m not an adult in their eyes. I’m nothing but the small boy with the He-Man figures. I’m their little boy… to control, dismiss, and scold. I may never have an adult dinner with my parents for as long as they live, and that’s painful.

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