One of my earliest clear memories of my father is of the time I decided, in first grade, that I didn't need to go to school.
I walked to school every morning - I know I'm dating myself when I say that I grew up in a time when a first-grader could safely walk to school but there it is - and just decided to stop and play behind the railroad tracks that ran between our house and the school. That's where Dad found me.
He was probably frustrated with his first-born and likely scared to death but I don't remember him being too angry or upset. We spent the rest of the day at his office where I played with the memo graph machine (one of my favorite pieces of old office equipment) and generally made a nuisance of myself trying to help him put out the church bulletin.
I don't know how I came to the erroneous conclusion that I didn't need to go to school. Skipping school was not really an option for other first-graders but I don't remember much cognitive dissonance over the event. Since I wasn't really a model student but was given to daydreaming and inattention to my schoolwork, I suspect I avoided school that morning out of a dread about my grades. In fact, I remember a very serious conversation with Mrs. Sessions, my principal, after that. She attended the church where my Dad preached and I think lived down the street from us. She was a nice woman but that visit was scary and I stopped having trouble with my grades.
But while that is the only clear memory of Mrs. Sessions, it is one of many I have of my father. Like how he tried to keep 20 or 30-cents in his pockets on Sunday mornings.
After church services were over, Dad waited in the Narthex to speak with members of the congregation as they exited. My brothers and I always showed up for money for the soda machine. We were sorely agitated those Sunday mornings when he forgot. I know he was often annoyed with us because we could be pretty bratty.
We drank Grape Nehi. Well, sometimes my younger brother would drink Orange Nehi but he was a nonconformist. I'd drink Orange only if the machine was out of Grape. Later, that particular brother rooted for the Redskins and the Vikings while the rest of us rooted for the Cowboys. I think he did it on purpose. He's still sort of contrary that way.
Dad was usually pretty tolerant of our mischief, until we got in the car. He tried very hard to be patient with us but he had three sons, four years apart and he and Mom liked to Go Places. Like Harlingen and Odessa and Kingsville and Shreveport and St. Louis.
We didn't make it very easy for him and he occasionally lost his cool when we sat in the back seat and taunted each other mile after mile after mile (Are we there yet? Stop touching me!).
I've been thinking about my Dad for the last couple of weeks. I now realize that I should have paid more attention to my memories of him. I'd have been a lot better prepared for my own children. As it is, I've recalled these memories a bit late. My oldest children already think they are adult and that teenage girl is generally hopeless (alas, she already loves puns).
But, it demonstrates that your parents have a lot to teach you, even when they re no longer around.
Monday, Jan. 31 was the second anniversary of his death. Last Friday, I took a detour coming home from Sealy so I could visit his grave in that little Czech cemetery near Dime Box. It's kind of odd - but not at all wrong - to see his strong Saxon name mixed in with the Kovars and the Mareks and the Hrnicrs. He spent nearly 20 years ministering to some of those people and that's where he wanted us to bury him so we did.
It's a pretty site, on the top of a low hill near the church. Even when the winter leaches all colors but brown out of the landscape, there's a beauty to that hillside.
He still has much to teach me, even though he's gone.
I miss him.
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