Dad Stories

by Peter J Barbour

As the Jeep made its way up Route 402 just above Marshall’s Creek on the way to our grandparents’ home in the Pocono Mountains, we’d pass Resica Falls, the Boy Scout reservation. You could predict Dad would point this out to us as we passed. He always did.

As the oldest of my brothers, I got to sit up front; Nathan and Ross sat in the back. On these trips, our mother stayed behind. Fishing was for the guys. As frequently as we could each summer, we’d make the trip to Grandma and Grandpa’s house to fish in their lake. 

Our grandparents understood what serious business fishing was, so we kept the visiting part to a minimum. I liked fishing, but better than that, we loved Dad’s stories. They were the best because Mom never liked him telling them to us. I think she feared that we’d think it was okay to do some of the things he did; or, maybe, he’d give us ideas we wouldn’t have had otherwise.

He had lots of tales. There were ones about how he met Mom. Of course, his version about her chasing him was in direct contradiction to her memory of how he pursued her. Those stories were good; so were the ones about college. I think students in the late 1960s must’ve been crazy.

The ones we liked best, though, were about his high school friends, Nick, Don, Pat, Tom, Jon, and a host of others. Mom forbade them the most.

By sitting in the front seat of the Jeep, I controlled the entertainment. I chose what we listened to on the radio. That day, I picked a rap station that I anticipated would agitate Dad with the hope he would tell us a story instead. As anticipated, Dad was well bugged by the song halfway into the first number. With my off-key chanting along, it hadn’t taken long to prime him. When we hit that magic spot on Route 402, he perked up.

“Hey, guys, Resica Falls,” he started, as if having some type of epiphany.

We shouted in unison before he could continue, “That’s where I went to camp!”

“I guess you knew that,” Dad said.  

Dad sounded a little disappointed, as if we’d robbed him of something. Of course, we knew this was Resica Falls, where he’d gone to camp. After that pronouncement, he’d go into how when he was a boy, he lived in the city without a real place to play except for the street. He’d told us all about stoop ball, box ball, wire ball, and half ball when the pinkie ball split in two. These weren’t Nick stories.

It was up to me, given my job as entertainment director, to get him onto a more interesting subject. Dad fished with Nick in the past. We were going fishing, so, I thought, maybe I could set a hook.

“Dad, did you ever go fishing with Nick?” I asked, knowing full well he had.

Nathan and Ross aroused.

“Nick, Nick, Nick . . .,” they shouted.

Dad smiled as he thought for a moment. “You know, Mom wouldn’t want me telling you any Nick stories.”

I joined the chant with my brothers. Dad’s smile and the sparkle in his eye told me that he was reflecting on his warm feelings for that part of his life and those dear old friends. We’d soon be on a roll.

***

I met Nick only once, although contraband tales of his exploits made him a legend in our house. I was ten at the time; we were on our way home. Nick’s restaurant, the Hungry Cow, happened to be on the way. On a whim, Dad decided to stop, hoping Nick was around.

We pulled into the parking lot. The building, painted red like a barn with a bigger-than-life cow on the roof, stood before us. Why not a bigger-than-life cow? Nick was bigger than life. Dad always told us Nick was huge, as big as any lineman in the NFL. He was just as strong but twice as nice. Dad said that after high school whenever he and Nick got together, instead of shaking hands, Nick would pick Dad up and hold him against the ceiling. I suspect that was when they were younger, and Dad was lighter.

I was little scared when we walked into the restaurant, not knowing how gigantic Nick really was. Dad was right. Nick was tall, with massive arms and a neck like a tree trunk. I was a little disappointed when he didn’t hoist Dad over his head, but it was clear he could have if he wanted to.

Nick gave us a big hello and then started to feed us. Dad, Mom, and Nick talked while we filled our bellies.

“Would you like to see some pictures of your dad from high school?” Nick said as we finished our burgers and fries. “I have an old program from the Marple Newtown football game. Your dad’s picture is in it.” 

“Not necessary,” Dad said and looked away as his face turned red. We followed as Nick led us to a building behind the restaurant where he said he kept some old memorabilia.

The structure looked like a garage, but the front appeared to have been fixed shut, and a smaller door had been set into it off to one side. The building was weathered, paint all but stripped bare. Windows, the few that remained, were streaked, smoky, and hazy with age. Wood or cardboard, covered by plastic to keep out the wind, appeared to have replaced broken ones. Nick stopped in front of the door.

“Just wait here. I want to check if Leroy’s around,” he said. “He lives here. When I bought the restaurant, this building came with it. It turns out Leroy had been living here for fifty years, maybe more. He didn’t want to move, and the county social workers couldn’t convince him to leave. He keeps an eye on things for me, and I let him stay here. I offered to fix the place up for him, but he likes things as they are. He was the groundskeeper at the golf club nearby; got arthritis and couldn’t work anymore. I wasn’t going to make him go. He had nowhere else.” Nick knocked on the door.

“Come on in,” Leroy called.

We entered a big room with the table in one corner. Leroy sat on one of three unmatched chairs that surrounded it. Along the back wall, an old, frayed blanket covered an old, tired mattress that lay on an old, tired bed frame that sagged in the middle. Clutter was everywhere; layers of junk, like strata at an archaeological dig that correlated with the periods of his life. Well-worn groundskeeping tools, the implements of his trade, inhabited every nook and cranny of the room.

News clippings festooned the walls. I managed to read a few. Some referred to sports; many had yellowed and torn with age. Some of the older pieces fascinated me. One was about Dr. Martin Luther King’s assassination, and another was about Hank Aaron breaking Ruth’s home-run record. Leroy had underlined a story about a surgeon in South Africa who had transplanted an African man’s heart into a white man’s body.  This man was then the longest surviving heart transplant recipient to date.

“Hey Nick, what do you want from old Leroy tonight?” he said in a soft clear voice and waited for Nick to respond.

“Leroy, these are old friends of mine,” Nick said and preceded to introduce us. We each took turns shaking his hand. Leroy’s face was old and wrinkled. He was thin yet strong, his muscles still well-defined, toned by the many years of hard labor, but his grip was gentle, no doubt modified by the arthritis that gnarled his joints. His eyes were bright, friendly, inviting, and clear.

Nick continued, “I have some old photos and programs from our high school days in the storage room. I wanted to show them to Doc here. Do you mind if we look through the boxes in the back?”

“Of course not,” Leroy answered.

Dad, Mom, and my two brothers followed Nick into the back room. I was still reading the clippings on the wall and hadn’t noticed they left the room. Leroy picked up on my interest in the article from South Africa.

“Yes, sir, that’s an important one,” he said as he flicked the article with the back of his hand. “Yes, indeed.”

My stomach flipped. I felt my face blush as if I’d been caught violating Leroy’s privacy. He chuckled, I guessed he sensed my discomfort, and began to talk again, setting me at ease.

“I figure this man’s living so long is a message from God, I do. You see, I take it as proof. Different people aren’t different at all. We should all be able to get along together. I guess there can’t be any closer getting along together than that.” He paused, his chin trembled, as he prepared to speak again. “You promise me you’ll think about that. Now, run along, and go catch up with the others.”

Nick found what he was looking for without problem. He and Dad chuckled over the pictures. Mom looked at the stats in the program where Dad was listed is 5’11”.  “Please,” she said and touched Dad’s arm. “You were never that tall.”

“Here, you keep them,” Nick said, as he handed the pictures and programs to Dad.

We returned to the restaurant, where Nick gave us each a tub of ice cream. “Churned on site,” he stated with pride. When we finished, he patted us on the head before we said our thank-yous and goodbyes. He wouldn’t let Dad pay for a thing.

Our parents spoke softly on the way home. 

“Nick told me the Hungry Cow isn’t doing too well,” Dad said. “From the sound of things, he may to have to close it.” By the tenor of his voice, I could tell that he was concerned. “Nick said with sadness that family-style restaurants are dinosaurs destined for extinction at the hands of the fast-food chains.”

I wanted to know what was going to become of Leroy but didn’t dare ask. If they thought I was listening, I was afraid the grownups would stop talking.

***

As the Jeep continued up Route 402 to the lake, my brothers still shouting, “Nick, Nick . . .,” I touched Dad’s arm and whispered, “Story, please?”

Dad shouted, “Quiet!  Enough chanting.” Ross and Nathan stopped shouting; big smiles donned their faces in anticipation of what was to follow.

“Okay, I’ll tell you a story. Mom will not be happy,” he said, as if apologizing to her in advance for his transgression. Dad made us promise not to tell her and swore us to secrecy; of course, he knew Nathan, our youngest brother, would probably tell her as soon as we got home. Then, that was all part of the fun, wasn’t it?

Neurologist Peter J Barbour, M.D. retired his reflex hammer to become a full-time writer and illustrator. His works include a memoir, LOOSE ENDS, three illustrated children’s books: GUS AT WORK, OSCAR AND GUS, and TANYA AND THE BABY ELEPHANT, and over forty short stories that have appeared in e-journals and magazines. One of them, “The Fate, of Dicky Paponovitch,” earned him Raconteur of the Month from Susan Carol Publishing Company. He belongs to the Bethlehem Writers Group, LLC, and the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators.

He lives in Oregon with his photographer wife. They enjoy traveling and the outdoors. He is actively involved in Mussar, an ancient study of Jewish ethics, virtues, and mindfulness leading to character development. He participates in the process as a group facilitator and brings Mussar’s timeless wisdom to the writing his latest project,  FIFTEEN KEYS, an action-adventure, coming-of-age story for middle grade and young teens.