Asparagus and the Stick

Each of us kids didn’t get to spend a lot of alone time with Dad. Looking at it mathematically, if you divide any small number by 12, you get an even smaller quotient.

Looking back after all these years, though, the amount of time doesn’t seem small. It feels like enough, and I suspect most of my sibs would agree. When Dad was with you, he was with you.

The longest period of alone time Dad regularly spent with any of us (boys) was when he was cutting our hair. He was meticulous with everything he did, and it took almost an hour for a haircut. The irony here is that most of us hated how long it took and couldn’t wait to get back to playing. What I wouldn’t give for one of his haircuts now. And he never just gave us a buzz cut (except when we were very young); he always left something in front to comb.
 

My look during junior high was the flat top. (C’mon…it was the ‘50s!) This was challenging, but Dad never tried to talk me out of it. He would take his time – walk around me, snip, pause, snip. Another look, another snip… Patience was his strong suit, not mine.

The most cherished alone time I had with Dad was when we hunted wild asparagus along the railroad tracks near our house. Mostly it was just the two of us. Why no one else wanted to go always puzzled me. Maybe they preferred hunting strawberries or black raspberries with him, which also grew wild along the track. Picking something sweet had to be more appealing than hunting for something most of us didn’t like. Sometimes Mom would fry the asparagus, which was tolerable, but creamed asparagus made me gag. 

I liked hunting asparagus with dad. He had a slow and steady gait and didn’t miss much. We were silent most of the time, but when I would ask a question, he would answer. It’s a memory I cherish.

“Cherish” is the point here. Memories of Dad bring up words like that, cherish, warmth, gentleness, emotions about Dad that I share with my siblings. Memories of Mom bring up thoughts of admiration, respect, even awe. I can’t speak for the rest of my sibs, especially my sisters, but Mom was more complex. (No doubt you’ll hear more about this in a later post.)

Other memories of Dad bring up different emotions, though. I feared his anger, which could boil up suddenly, over milk spilled at the supper table or an insolent child. At times he whacked us on the butt with a stick, a 30-inch piece of plaster lath that he kept above the kitchen counter. His spankings touched all of us, except the two girls. And there was anger in his whacks, never an empathetic comment like “This will hurt me more than it hurts you.” The spankings hurt! But they weren’t hard enough to leave any marks.

As serious and emotionally laden as the spankings were, my fear of them and of his anger didn’t linger after childhood. With Dad’s anger, it was quick and furious, and then gone. That was just how he was.

Even as kids, the harshness of his actions didn’t linger after the spanking. I remember how my younger brothers made up a skit and song about the “stick,” which they performed for the family, even when Dad was around. As adults, we still joke about the stick. I wish that I could carry my anger so lightly.

—Bob