The Truck.

Today is my Dad's 60th Birthday.  There are lots of things I'd like to say about him, and so many stories I recount and remember.  I like to think of him in hat-back hot-dogging on a bot, or telling "stories from 'Nam" while smacking the dinner table, or swinging me in dance to "Rodeo" around the Sunday kitchen table...  But the story that gets retold the most, but one he knows the least of, was his best parenting moment ever... and one I will never forget.

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The day was coming to a close.  Hot summer night twinkled in with fireflies and crickets chirping.  The waves slowed down to a murmur of lapping peace against the shore.  Quiet and calm, hugs to mom in her nightgown, standing at the swinging white screen door.  Work tomorrow, dad was already at home, the end of another good lake day.

I threw my backpack and purse into the side of his new, white, heavy-duty Ford truck.  Tough and strong, it towered over me, surging with strength and energy in its size.  I felt proud, cool, as my sixteen year old self started the deep, throaty, hardy roar of the engine.

Pulling the side lever, I lurched it into gear, propped up high on the new leather seat.  Darkness surrounded me, just dim lights inside the row of cottages on the other side of the street.  Stillness, calm, nightfall at the lake.

Scrape!  

The long, drawn out scratching sound slid down the side of the truck.  Like shaving off metal, it razored through the side panel, ripping and denting the doorframe along the way.   Loud and dynamic, a scream breaking through silence.  Terror.  Destroying.

I scrambled to lurch the beast out of reverse.  What had I done?!

My mom came back outside, startled and wondering, walking out the same cottage-white doorframe as moments before.  "Are you okay?"  She slippered out towards me in robe and nightgown.

It was too dark to see the damage.  Just the haunting of sound to remember something had gone a-rye.  I stood there, terrified and perplexed.  "I don't know what happen!  I must have put it in reverse and not known there was a anything there!"

But there was something there. The culprit: a titanic telephone pole, straight and stiff, a silhouette of strength and stubbornness etched in the sky.

My soul sank, embarrassed and horrified, shocked and dismayed.  His brand new glossy truck completely clawed and dented down the whole side panel, tire to tire.  White paint turned gray metal. Pride turned pain.

Dreading the conversation and confession that was to come, I sunk into the drivers seat again and roared the engine, misery on my mind as I drove the truck home to Homerich.

I walked in the garage door. Swallowing hard, I found my humbled courage to walk into his office door.  It was the front room of the house, gray architect walls and maroon thick curtains, large black leather chair, two windows facing acres of manicured lawn.  He was working quietly, sitting at the large wood desk, plans and blueprints and 10-Key clicking away.

"Dad?"  I shyly squeezed the word out, standing at the end of his desk.

He had his black ink in hand, Wever Concrete logo on papers.

"Um, Dad..."  I gulped again, finding words to say.  "I wrecked your truck."

He looked up, relaxed and calm. "Are you okay?"

"Yes, but Dad, I wrecked your truck." I repeated, making sure he heard me.

"Okay. But are you okay?"  He looked up at me again, at ease and nonchalant about the whole confession.

"Yes, but I scrapped the whole thing down the side.  I hit a telephone pole.  It's pretty bad." I waited for him to respond with something more dramatic.  "I parked it in the barn."

"But your okay?" He lifted his brows and shrugged my way.

"Yes."

"Okay.  Thanks for telling me.  I'll go check it out in a bit."

And that was it.

It was nearly 10:30 at night, darkness filled the sky and I was in the midst of one of the overt mistakes of my life.  I felt horrible!  Yet watching and hearing my dads response changed and magnified his character in my mind that night.

I crept up the stairs and got dressed for bed, listening keenly for his footsteps, or his reaction, or his worry.  Nothing.  He was unfazed.  Just kept working away in the office as if nothing had happened at all.  Just caring about me, and making sure I was okay.

I laid awake in the twilight, my peach bedroom turned black with night, my attention fully awake, waiting still for his response.

A full half hour passed before I heard the sound of the backdoor open, him making way to the brick barn to survey my damage.  The darkness of my room felt sharply still, pensive to his observation.

He came back in a few minutes later.  I waited for him to approach my door and deliver his thoughts or what I owed or some sort of reaction.

Nothing.  I never heard another thing about it.  He simply walked up the stairs and crawled into his bed and the next day started like all the rest.  That was it.

That was it: clear love for me and care with concern for my heart and well-being and safety.

The treasures of this world will pass away, the things we own or care for will someday ruin or be wrecked along a telephone pole.  But this relationship that night changed forever, as I saw a character and love for me in my dad that I could never rationalize, but have been enamored and awed by ever since.

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Happy 60th Birthday to the man who keeps driving trucks and Cadillacs and Corvettes and quads all in perspective.  Love you Dad.

♡ Christina Jill