My Fathers Who Art in Memory

Everything on this blog, from now on, will be fictional. Unless it's poetry. But it will be literature and, while it may take root in reality, these stories do not abide there.

I have, inside my mind, a million or more memories that have never come to pass. An attic of undusted reality. Something like that. Like my father. My dad. The best at everything and the worst son of a bitch that ever was. It's been so long that I don't remember which memories belong to him or to some other male figure in my life. Better yet, I can't recall the differences between my life or the ones I have read so often about. Inside my conscience, there resembles a kaleidoscope of father figures.

The first thing I see when I think about my father, though, are his hands. He had hands like a bear. They fit his body. He could tie a knot on a leader so quickly, beautifully, gracefully... effortlessly. He'd row the boat hard with his scarred-like-Christ and sun-spotted hands, beach it with two oars and smile a thin-lipped toothy grin as the sweat dripped from his brow and he wiped it away with the back of his arm. Strength in those hands, but love, too. Discipline, hugs and tickles for us mixed with the hard caresses for my mother -- all in those flesh-covered weapons we called hands. He taught us manhood, respect, fear, all through those potent limbs, those frightening forces of nature.

It's easy to see the hands, but takes work to picture the gray-blue Irish eyes, the high cheekbones, strong arms, wild hair. The Roman nose, sun-freckled skin and reddened shoulders -- the hands are always the easy part.

It didn't take long to realize he wanted to live through me. Learning how the quail flies, when to shoot, how to fish, how to fight and so on. Being taught so he could live, even after he's dead and buried. Selfish, really, but I didn't mind. the expectations never changed; he would always teach and I would always learn. And he was so good at it. Teaching. Doing. Everything. Gave me my first rifle at 12. It was an old Rossi pack rifle where the stock and split when you pull and twist a knob. A rifle for backpacking trips and camping with his fellowship of men. A beautiful gun, really. I still have it.

He taught me in such a way that you knew he was imparting wisdom -- hard truths about society to be figured out later, on your own. The lesson was never over. I learned to track and shoot at the same time, so that it made me feel hollow and happy inside. For my birthday in August, I received a copy of the SAS Guide to Tracking. I read it furiously. Never tracked a thing for three weeks, though. We lived in the city and are lucky to see pigeons.

We went to Lake Mojave, sitting on the cusp between Arizona and Nevada. Walking the mesas near Hoover Dam as a boy, I learned the necessity of water. My father taught me those other two things.

"Do you see those, kiddo?" He pointed with his index finger, sitting on his haunches and squinting at the ground ahead.
"What?," I asked.
"The torn brush, the over-turned rocks, the coyote tracks?"
"No." I was scared I was going blind. He came adjacent to me and painted a picture with hand signs and low murmured words. Showing me where the coyote went and how to follow him. Painting with those big hands. And smiling with his eyes. Teaching me how to discern the unclear.
"Do you understand now?," he pressed.
"Yes."
"OK. Good. Good." We walked on then, nearer to camp and around the sage-brush and over the red-clay road that had just been put in the year before.
"Where are we going, Dad?"
"To a canyon."
"Are we shooting?" I could feel my heart begin to beat heavily in my chest, anxiety and enchantment building in me.
"Yep." His eyes sparkled as he said it to me, happy that I was happy.
"I get dibs on the shotgun!"
"You get dibs on the surprise waiting for you. You're 12. The shotgun is meant for when your shoulders get stronger and your eyes more crisp. Radio your uncle and tell him we're scouting a canyon. Tell him to bring the cases. We'll meet him at Big Horn Crest where the bay is glassy and the sand turns black if he wants to swim before-hand. Can you remember all that?"
"Uh-huh. No problem."
"Good."
And that's how it was.