A Few Words for a Man of Few Words
by Karen Williams - June 7, 2007 - Seminole Chronicle
Well, here I go, waxing poetic when I should be waxing the kitchen floor.
As Father’s Day approaches, I’ve chosen to remember my dad, Dale Money of Portland, Indiana, with these lines. He was a man of few words, and for once, I’ll try to follow his example.
Dad, your tastes were less than gourmet:
Peanuts in a bottle of Coke,
Chopped onions on everything,
"Quickie potato salad,” as you called it,
Using mayo, mustard, and instant potatoes.
And there were the white paper bags
Full of candy from the dime store.
And your coup de grâce: Chicken gravy
That you spooned on butterscotch cake.
(“Don’t ever do that if we have company,”
Why couldn’t you have preferred prime rib,
Rice pilaf, sautéed veggies,
And the forerunner of tofu, whatever that was?
And Cabernet Sauvignon instead of
Instant coffee in a stained plastic cup?
You had to be quirky, plebeian.
The only thing refined about your taste was sugar.
Why couldn’t you have graduated from Yale
Why didn’t you discipline me with Dr. Spock
Instead of that wooden yardstick that hung,
Ever menacing, on the back porch?
Why did you care less about stress reduction
Or dealing with your issues
Than about the Chicago “Cubbies” on TV?
Why didn’t you ever visit what you called a “libary?”
Why didn’t you accept the phone company office job
When they wanted to advance you,
Instead of driving ’round town
In their jolly green giant of a truck
And wearing Dickies work clothes?
Why on earth did you think that Shakespeare
Why were you content to let your greatest compliment be:
“You always have the best garden in town,”
Spoken by the garbage truck guys
As they went down the alley?
You predictable, unpretentious dear dad, you:
I wouldn’t have traded you.
Copyright 2007, Karen Williams
