Every time a distant locomotive sounds from the twin steel rails of the Kansas City Southern lines, I see my dad engineering death’s diesel from everlasting to everlasting — railroad cars of shared experiences rattling along behind.
Makes no difference, in the 4 a.m. mornings of Venus rising in the east, or the 4 p.m. afternoons of the hot sun star passing overhead, he calls out the manifest — our shared cargo of people and places, departures and destinations.
This past week, while emptying shelves crammed with bric-a-brac, keepsakes and assorted “stuff” to make room for basement repairmen out at the home place in Frontenac, I’ve been exploring boxcars full of father memories.
Came upon a tarnished trophy depicting a basketball player going up for a shot that brought up “coach” dad — saw him calling to the Sacred Heart Boscos to execute the full court press in the old sunken gym and, in the dusty twilight of JayCee Ballpark, touch his black cap’s bill to signal Frank Cukjati to hit away.
A tangle of fishing rods set off visions of monofilament line following a plastic worm in a graceful arc over the stillness of a 6 a.m. strip pit. “Let it settle a little, then reel slowly stopping to jerk the rod tip every two or three cranks,” dad says as he lights an unfiltered Lucky Strike.
“You kids leave that antennae box alone!” I hear him yell angrily from the yard as I move the old upright, blond TV with carved double doors and brass handles. Our first television, it had a controller with a dial on top to change the direction of the motorized antennae that rose along the north side of the house in an effort to bring in snowy Kansas City and Tulsa stations.
A golf bag brings visions of blissful hours at the Four Oaks or Girard golf courses, miserable shots and all. Sometimes just us two, sometimes accompanied by Father O’Shea, who was not only a heartfelt friend of our family, but also a perfect golf, poker, and TV football viewing buddy for my Dad, not in the least because he had an opinion on everything and never shied away from a good argument. O’Shea also had a propensity to angrily hit his golf ball into slower players who didn’t wave us through, which made for some interesting drama on the links.
When I came upon a fusee (red flare used as warning device on the railroad), I remembered how each 4th of July dad would ignite one for us to light our sparklers from and fill the warm summer night with acrid smoke and dreamy, cherry-colored light.
Most everyone reading this has similar objects or experiences that trigger father memories and, like me, have reached a point in their life where they can embrace the importance of their father in their psyche.
I’m a father now, too. It has, of course, changed quite a bit over the years. In my dad’s day, fathers did little more than go to work, cut the grass, fish, and coach Little League. These days, more often than not, they’re staying up all night with sick kids, handling the grocery shopping, and arriving at work a little late because they had to drop the kids off at day care just like their “working mother” wives.
Judging by the newspaper, radio, and TV, the stores haven’t quite caught on. Most of the “Perfect Gift For Father’s Day” ads are for hardware and sporting goods stores. Truth is, there’s quite a few men out there who’d rather have a gift certificate for a full body massage than a matching screwdriver set.
One day, when I am gone to the grave, my sons will return to my house to clean out the basement and attic. No doubt, like me with my dad, they’ll have plenty of stories to tell about the objects that will draw me into their psyches and childhood on Euclid Street.
But will they also have a sound, like the locomotive’s call for me, that says dad’s still out there somewhere on the road to infinity?
J.T. Knoll is a writer, speaker and prevention and wellness coordinator at Pittsburg State University. He also operates Knoll Training, Consulting & Counseling Services in Pittsburg. He can be reached at 620- 231-0499 or jtknoll@swbell.net.
FRONTENAC —
