cold turkey

When speaking about Dad with some of my brothers, we reminisced about the period of our lives when Dad was higher than a kite on pain killers. I'd bet good money just about all of my and my brothers' friends have the most off the wall stories about the bizarre and maladjusted garbage Dad would say and do. However, this story isn't about any of that, this story is about how Dad took control when everything about life was completely out of control.

There were some really hard times leading up to Dad kicking the pain killer habit no one blamed him for having. The man was completely broken from his work accident and in constant, grueling pain. But the hard times weren't just saying and doing some mean and stupid stuff. I'll never forget the night our bishop and home teacher (a friend from church) intervened in the middle of the night.

My parents were yelling at each other—like crazy. I don't know what it was about, but all of a sudden, right there in the living room, my dad had a gun to my mom, and I was freaking out. And then next thing I know, Jack Eggington is at the house and talking with my parents. The next thing that happened was the bishop coming over to haul off all of our guns until Dad could figure things out, I think. Mom had taken charge, leading the intervention, getting help, and working through very serious problems. She amazed me.

I'm not sure the span between the gun incident and when Dad realized what was going on with him, but my brother, Joseph, said there was a 60-Minutes segment on the addictive nature of painkillers or something of that nature, and that's when Dad realized that was his reality. He needed to get off his pain meds as soon as possible. He was in pain still, and the bit of relief from the pain wasn't worth the cost of his sanity and the safety of everyone around him.

Dad didn't go to the doctor to get help, no. He went into the medicine cabinet, got those bottles out, and dumped their contents 100% into the toilet, and flushed them all. And never looked back.

I recall there being a few days where my mom wouldn't let us go into their room, and I was encouraged to "go have fun" with friends. They needed some quiet, so Dad could get through the withdrawals. It wasn't easy—he was sick and in incredible amounts of pain—but he did it. Cold turkey.

I don't know many people who are that brave.

overcoming

I wonder if he was afraid. I never saw him showing fear, but that doesn't mean he wasn't feeling it. I'm pretty sure I get my sense of fearlessness and lack of ability to get fully embarrassed from him (maybe we should call it self-assurance?), so I wonder where he got it from.

My father grew up not really knowing his father. He told me once that the only real memory he had of his father was at the funeral where he was taught the lesson of how not to treat each other after the death of a family member by his father's family. They fought over possessions. My dad was the youngest of his family and he was given his father's shoeshine kit to remember him by.

But also, maybe the stories about his father from his older sister, Mona, helped give him some lessons on how to be. But maybe he inherited some of it—or all—from the West Texas towns of Ballinger and San Angelo.

Can the land we live in teach us things about ourselves? About what we are made of? The summer heat and the brutal societal upbringing taught Dad a few things. He learned how to starve and survive on Campbell's tomato soup and saltine crackers. As he got older, he learned to bow hunt from bows and arrows of his own making, shooting rabbits and other creatures to help feed his family. He learned about survival from the land he inhabited.

He faced challenges and troubles and sin. He battled against his upbringing and anger and lack of self-control. I am sure he struggled, as we all do, with feelings of great inadequacy. With every apology after an angry outburst, with every admission of his guilt and terrible side of himself, he showed his weakness and severe imperfection. Nevertheless, he didn't ever seem to be afraid.

I never saw a fearful look on my father's face—ever—until the night he lost my mother. I saw how much he loved her and feared being left without her companionship, her good influence, her calming and caring friendship and love. The poor boy from West Texas who had to fend for himself sat crying in his chair in the home they fought to establish for their family.

In his grieving time before he passed away, I saw how weak things become strong. I got to see him overcome many of his worst traits in his final days. He needed to have his life's comfort removed to know true courage. It takes a big man to face his sins, claim them, and work to make things right. He felt small and helpless and hurt in his final days, but I saw him as a warrior overcoming his worst self and someone I wanted to be like. He taught us all to not be afraid of saying we are sorry no matter if the person will forgive us. He taught us to not be afraid to keep trying even after the thousandth time repeating the same mistake. He taught us that anyone can overcome their circumstances and be their best self.

banana nut ice cream

Writing prompts are funny things. They can dredge up the old and new all in one giant scoop of metaphorical ice cream.

As the teacher read the book excerpt, I thought of how I'm trying to break the ice cream habit at our house—to no avail. I thought about how much I have always loved ice cream. And I also thought about the banana nut ice cream my parents used to make in our old wooden ice cream maker on random occasions.

It was always at nighttime for some reason, like we couldn't ever go on a whim of ice cream making until the sun went down or something. It probably added to the excitement though. Dark outside, the rock salt being placed on the countertop, then the ice cream maker pulled out from the pantry or under the sink or wherever it got left from the last time we made ice cream—all of these things meant we would be making banana nut ice cream. I am not sure, but I think we may have done strawberry ice cream once or twice when we had a mother lode of leftover Santa Maria strawberries from a summer haul. But seriously, most of the time, if that ice cream maker was cranking out something, it was going to crank out the best banana nut ice cream on the planet.

Mom went through a phase where we bought raw milk from a neighbor instead of from the store, so she'd take off the cream skimmings and save them up in the freezer. And once we had enough to make ice cream, we made ice cream. I have to say I sort of hated how the raw milk had swirls of cream in it, but I'm thinking it was probably the best tasting milk I ever had. And that ice cream. Just wow.

So back to the whole banana nut part. I'm pretty sure we always had banana nut ice cream because it was Dad's favorite. There were little things here and there my mother would do to make life happy for him, and steak dinners from time to time, homemade divinity and peanut brittle at Christmas, and that banana nut ice cream were a few of them.

Since he grew up so poor, food was a big deal to him. Good food. Fresh food. LOTS of food. And even lots of junk food and treats. We went through a time, several years actually, when we were without much money at all, but he always made sure we had food to eat.

gambling lessons

Growing up in Las Vegas and having a dad who used to gamble and drink before marrying Mom, we played a lot of card games. We played Poker, Blackjack or 21, Speed, Tonk, all sorts of games, but these were the ones I remember most.

I remember learning how to play Speed with a friend from fifth grade while sitting in her perfectly carpeted and furnished living room in half dark since the heat was brutal that day/week/month. I don't remember learning how to play 21 since it happened probably as soon as I learned how to count to 21 by age 5. And then Poker was another family classic we'd resort to for old-fashioned, wholesome recreation around the dining room table.

But let's talk about Tonk. That's a whole other ballgame. Dad used to work endless days sometimes in the tunnels out at the Nevada Test Site, and that meant he spent a lot of time with his work crew, working their butts off, eating, sleeping, and playing Tonk. So of course, as any good dad would do, he came home and taught all of us how to play Tonk too. We had to have a full and proper Las Vegas education, you know. This new game caught on like wildfire at our house. Not sure if it was to my mother's chagrin or what, but that's all we wanted to do half the time when we weren't outside baking in the hot summer sun with our friends.

One thing led to another, and we all started betting. Gambling with trinkets of our own, and pennies, nickels, dimes, and quarters. And next thing you know, we were running gambling tabs. Looking back, I think the tabs were Dad's idea. These gambling tabs were for 99-cent breakfasts at the Skyline Casino in Henderson. The abstractness of it being a breakfast and not dollar amounts seemed to make the practice a little less shady. Tally marks on a page. That's all. I mean breakfasts are a good thing. You could order one with biscuits and gravy and eggs, pancakes and eggs, toast and eggs, and then you had your choice of ham, bacon, or sausage. They were delicious and decent sized breakfasts for not quite a dollar.

The last game before the big lesson came when I fell into a losing streak. Tonk was kicking my butt. Actually, my dad was. Hindsight tells me he probably just stopped letting me win to teach me a lesson. I remember the tally marks on my tab were insane. Then we played for double or nothing. High stakes business right there—and I lost. I told Dad I had just enough babysitting money leftover to buy us a breakfast, and I'd begin the process of weekly breakfasts as soon as I got a babysitting job to pay for them. And we went out for the first payment.

It was nighttime as we walked in, and the casino was extra smoky. If you have been to the Skyline Casino in Henderson during the 80s, you'd probably ask if it ever was not extra smoky. I noticed this atmosphere as we got seated in the half-lit, extra smoky booth with dark red vinyl upholstery. We ordered our food and talked and ate and talked, even though now, I cannot recall what we talked about except what came up when the bill got dropped on the table and I sat there counting out my coins to pay for our food. I had it all counted out, piled on top of the ticket, and I felt so broke. I had to spend all of my money but a few pennies on our two 99-cent breakfasts. I did feel a morsel of satisfaction about trying to make good on my bets though. It was this strange sense of being glad I had a spoon to dig myself out of a 6-foot grave. Then Dad started talking.

I don't remember exactly what he told me, but I remember the gist of it all. I haven't and won't ever forget it. He told me to put my money away because he was going to pay for our breakfasts if I promised to remember what it felt like to be in so much debt to someone over nothing but a game. My first and long-lasting lesson about the evils of gambling, and I was around twelve years old at the time.

My dad's lesson taught me more than just not to gamble though. He taught me about mercy and love and how to handle the money you do have. Because 99-cent breakfasts aren't just tally marks on a page.

ladders

Up and down and all around
They don't just go in one direction
For work and play, everything in between
If you find yourself at the top rung hanging on for dear life
Unhappy, frantic, and/or afraid
Head back down and start again

Ladders should take you places
To the roof to patch the holes
To the treehouse that was never in a tree
To the job you always wanted (or didn't know you wanted)
Out of the window to grand adventures
Out of the hellhole you once were living in

What of life's ladders do you climb?
Should you climb them or
Should you get down?
Use a litmus test to know the answers
Become the judge and jury of your future
Knowing not all ladders are good

Splintering fiberglass gets in your palms
When climbing the wrong one—whether up or down
But get down now, pay the price, and start again
Regardless of cost, don't be afraid to start again

Find the ladders meant for you
Find a top rung that makes you sing

the mustang

Learning how to drive is no small feat, but throw in a classic muscle car, and you've got a recipe for disaster. I mean, who even lets someone who only has a learner's permit to even touch the steering wheel of their baby?!

The answer is my dad.

I'd been showing great skill as a new driver is the only explanation I can give for his lapse in judgment. I mean, I hit the ball out of the park right off; I'd been able to make it to school clear across town from the DMV directly after passing my written exam without killing or injuring anyone. Mom just handed me the keys, and said, "You're driving," as if she didn't realize her life was now in my hands.

Fast forward a few weeks of being this dazzlingly safe driver not hitting anyone or anything. I was on top of the world. This driving thing was not such a big deal. I even survived driving on the road to the mall AKA the freeway without dying (although I did get close to hyperventilating and may or may not have been yelling in fear of how crazy it was and hated driving to the mall now). So of course, Dad would be proud of me. And I imagine to show that pride, he decided to invite me to drive his pride and joy, his powder yellow 1966 Mustang.

My initial reaction was something like, "Dad, are you sure you want me to drive that thing?" but translated that thought to saying aloud, "Sure, let's go."

Next thing I know, I am scooting the seat up as far as it will go in order to reach the pedals and looking at the shifter and wondering how you get through the gears without a clutch. Dad explained how to push in the little side button as you go up or down on the shifter, and I was amazed. I practiced, sitting there with my foot on the brake, just shifting. It seemed like a good preparation for this grand occasion of driving Dad's before then untouchable car. I was nervous at this point. Just pressing the gas pedal was telling me this car was way different than my mom's Volkswagen Golf I'd been driving. Eventually, Dad said it was time to get going. I think we were heading to pick up fountain drinks or a little groceries. I can't remember.

I claimed the courage to put that car in reverse and let off the brake and onto the gas, and BOOM! We went from 0 to what felt like 60 to 0 in what felt like two seconds flat—right into the side gate fencing that stuck out about three feet into our long and wide driveway.

Immediate eruption of yelling and cussing from Dad about how could I run into the fence like that, I would never drive his Mustang again, blah, blah, blah led to the first time I remember yelling right back. I told him loudly and logically, "How could I know the car would go so fast?" and "I've never driven an automatic before" and "You should have warned me" and "This is only the second car I've ever driven; Give me a break!" And you know what happened? Dad stopped in his tracks, looked around assessing the situation, and told me I was right, handed me the keys again, and said to try again but SLOWLY.

I can't describe how painfully slow I inched my way out of that driveway, but when I finally got out onto the blacktop and put that Mustang in drive, I never felt such satisfaction—until I got to go forward. Man alive, there's nothing quite like speeding down the road in a big hunk of roaring metal.

hitchhikers

The other day, I was talking with my oldest son about hitchhikers because we were watching a movie where the main character was hitchhiking, and we began commenting on how people just don't pick up hitchhikers anymore. It's just so dangerous. And it got me thinking about how it has probably always been pretty dangerous, but my dad didn't care about that kind of stuff. He was over six feet tall, leathery tan skin, and strong from being a carpenter. Maybe that helped him to not be afraid.

From a young age, I learned that Dad was just the type of guy who picked up hitchhikers. Well, maybe that's not completely accurate—he'd mostly stop for hitchhikers. Only sometimes did he risk his entire family's lives for the sake of those walking along streets and highways.

I remember clear as day us driving around town and driving to or from Mt. Charleston and driving to or from California and driving to or from anywhere, and if there was someone my dad saw walking or stranded, we'd stop. He'd ask where they were from and where they were headed, what they needed and how we could help. Sometimes, he'd help tinker with a broken down car or bicycle. Sometimes, they just needed someone to talk to, to check up on them, I think. One time, I remember on our way to Canada, we drove to the next town to pick up a part or something for a couple's car, and we drove back to drop it off. My mom was so irritated by this one. It put a serious delay in our trip's progress. It makes me laugh just thinking about her grumbling. She was so ancy on the way to our destinations and reluctant to leave on the way back home. But back to the point.

Sometimes, we'd actually pick the person (or people) up.

There was one time, we picked up a young adult couple. This one was fun to me for some reason. I was mystified by the young woman. She was just so tan and cool to me. On a side note, I actually have a cousin and her husband who remind me all the time of that couple we picked up and gave a ride to. They live in their van and mountain climb and travel all over. Maybe those two were just in between adventures when we picked them up.

The two people Dad picked up who I remember the most though are a father and daughter. My memory tells me that it was just me and Dad driving when we saw them walking along the blazing hot sidewalk on Nellis during one relentless Las Vegas summer.

Dad pulled over next to the little family walking and asked them if they needed a ride or a cool drink or some money. And next thing I know, they were getting into the van. The little girl sat next to me, and the dad was in the front passenger seat with my dad. I don't remember what they were saying exactly, but I think our next stop was to the Arco station to get giant 44-ouncers of soda pop with a ton of ice. That's something that could be from another memory, but it feels typical and probable. The next thing I remember is Dad driving us home and me taking the little girl to my room to play and her dad being welcomed into my parents' room to "cuss and discuss" as Dad would often call a discussion he was trying to lighten up.

The only other memory I have of the situation is how I shared my room with the girl for about two weeks (or so) while her father went back to where they were from and gathered their things and Dad helping line up a job for him when he got back to get his daughter. My parents gave the man money to get back home and back to Las Vegas to help him get on his feet.

I wish I knew the man's story, but I was truly too young to really comprehend it all. I just know I have a temporary sister out there somewhere that made my sisterless heart happy for a few weeks. And that my parents were amazing people who changed lives one person at time. And even more so that my dad was one brave dude picking up people and even bringing them home. What a way to be the Savior's hands.

peek-a-boo movies

I remember when I was little, when life seemed simpler and I didn't understand what was going on, how Dad would invite all of us little kids to scramble under my parents bedspread while he held up the covers, then he would begin the Peek-a-boo Movies. He'd tell us stories—very short stories as I recall—and he would build up our anticipation to always end with him shaking the covers wildly and saying boisterously, "Peek-a-boo, peek-a-boo, peek-a-boo!" thus sending us wildly screaming and even more wildly acting like were trying to escape, totally mesmerized and paralyzed and laughing with slight fear because it was just so completely scary and silly for our tiny selves.

Those days are long gone and many, too many, hard things since have crowded out some of that innocent joy with Dad, but I want to capture the feeling and hold onto it. I want to forgive and let go of the sad, bad, and hard things in life that seem to try to erase any good. I want to love my father for all he tried to do right and accomplished. I want to remember how forgiveness works, and give him all I have and all I want for myself. 

treasured relics

At great personal sacrifice
Though humbly borne
Most utterly humbly borne
Breaking down the man
Chipping away at all vice
To mould him into something more
Something so different and more
We had to get to know him again

The pain, the suffering, the inexplainable
Carving out the wicked temper
As it tempered his soul
Tempered it with pain and anguish
Regret, remorse, and repentance
Standing still—sitting still—lying still
In order to move forward
Enabled to stand taller than before

Clothespins and baskets to hold instead of hammers
Hope and a promise of purpose
And being needed more than ever
Still needed though his place
Seemed precarious after the many
Many years always
Having to stand on his own two feet
Supporting the world with his bare hands

Holding onto clothespins
With those hands
As if the world depended on it
Religiously fighting the good fight
Against the piles of clothes
And lost socks for days on end
My father showed us all how
Clothespins can be treasure when you love someone

boulder city

A place to bring their children 

For floats and fries and the best of times

A story to tell their grandchildren

If they had made it out alive 

Tradition now closed down 

Time took over

But the thrill of romance—real romance 

Forever permeates the air

a west texas boy

Welling up from the dry West Texas dirt
Adventure was calling his name
From long before and ever since
That West Texas boy was born.

Arrowheads and rabbits
T-birds and the law
Soup cans and saltines
Living from meal to meal

Stories no one would ever believe
Except witnesses were there
Out in the West Texas desert
Out in the middle of nowhere

The sun has long since risen and set
On a lifetime of adventure
But the West Texas dirt won't ever forget
That West Texas boy and what he endured.

a carpenter's daughter

You wouldn't know it by how inept I am at fixing things around my house, but I am a carpenter's daughter. Or maybe you would know it because I can't use a drill to save my life. All I can think of right now is the irony of doctors' children always being sick and a certain English teacher's children hating writing and English. It's all so ironic!

All of these thoughts have been ruminating as I've been attempting to take care of my home and make arrangements for new flooring. I couldn't even make arrangements for the flooring without major frustration. I caught myself being impatient, so I tried to turn it around and be appreciative for the help I was receiving. I am very certain that the frustration with my ignorance and incompetence was being misconstrued for being upset with the customer service people. I just hope that guy was able to see I wasn't upset with him. I hate it when people take me wrong.

And all of this entire situation has me missing my dad. I was thinking about him on my way home from this flooring ordering fiasco, and I thought about how he worked so hard until he couldn't anymore, but even then he kept on trying. His imperfection was blaring quite often, yet his generosity and desire to make things right with people were truly hallmarks of his character.

Did I already say how I miss my dad? Well, I do. And I wish so very much I could have learned how to be more handy. But maybe it's good because my inability keeps me appreciating his talent.

rolling the dice

I started up asking for stories about my dad last year, so I could begin writing a book about him. I want to show the world how a significantly flawed individual can also make a significantly positive impact on the world. The lens I'm using is one of love and forgiveness, but it also is one of truth. I also bet a little too much on the idea that people would want to honor him like I do.

When the call for stories was circling, some of my family were quick to help. However, there were many who did not respond at all—people who my father helped out of major messes in their lives (or what could have turned out to be major messes anyway). There were also a couple of individuals who confided in me that they had such negative experiences with him that they couldn't think of any good thing to say. And so you know, I only called for positive stories or stories that ended up having a positive outcome no matter how far distant it was because I don't want to write out all of his failings. I don't believe his failings are actually his story, not in the least. Yes, they are part of his life and the way he interacted with and sometimes hurt people, but failings do not define anyone. NO ONE. And the lack of kindness and even gratitude for what my father did for some of these people who had nothing good to say so they aren't saying anything at all sort of makes me sick.

If I could, I'd like to have them recall every unkindness they ever did to someone else—especially the ones that they didn't mean to do or even realize—and see if they believe anyone should say nice things about them or offer any gratitude whatsoever ever. Would they judge themselves so harshly? Would they want everyone to just forget every good thing they ever did?

You probably can tell by now that this process has wounded me in a way. But I wouldn't change that I'm striving to really do a celebration of life for this amazing person who deserves to be remembered in a positive light just like most anyone on this planet. It is important that the memory of my father be put in a more generous light, a light to match his intention in life. It might be a crapshoot if anyone will read the book I'm writing for him, but at least I'll know there's a witness of his good heart, at the very least.