During my work day, I would make a mental checklist of things to do when I got home, and I would ponder wistfully over what was, going to be the celebrated “activity of the day” with my sons that we all looked forward to with anticipation. After work I drove to the school, always arriving early so that my sons would not have to wait, and joined the queue on the front entrance side. I always kept a watchful eye on the door and the minute Tris and Nate walked through, they would scour the long line of vehicles and once having spotted my Ford pickup, break out into a smile and run simultaneously, at which point the assistant principal would admonish them to “walk don’t run.” I would help them climb into the cavernous interior of the truck, take off their backpacks, buckle them up and kissing them on the forehead, proceed to ask them how their day went. I would just sit contentedly, enjoying listening to their “bad day at school” stories. Johnny pulled Susie’s pigtail, peanut butter and honey sandwiches, a favorite, was served for lunch, fascination at learning that if sodium touches water it causes an explosion, playing dodge ball in P.E. and coming in second place. Just hearing them chanting their daily litany was soothing, calming, peaceful, fulfilling. Afterwards we would listen to music together, mostly hard rock which the boys enjoyed, singing the words to our favorite songs with all our hearts, but not much talent. More often than not, the boys and I would stop by my mother’s house, or Nana, as the boys called her. She would always greet them with a “There’s my babies!” She would always have some homemade delicious snack waiting for them. I must admit, I usually “sampled” some of the snacks myself. We would sit around the dining room table, Ma talking to Tris and Nate about their day at school and when they were done with snacking, they would play in the living room, while Ma and I talked grown-up matters enjoying watching the boys play. It was a good riposte before the start of the second half of the day. Begrudgingly, we would have to leave, but being only 15 minutes from each other lessened the impact of parting.
Finally arriving home the boys and I would start our daily routine. It was very habitual and required little thought as we repeated it day after day after day. I would let the boys change into their comfortable play clothes and watch a few minutes of cartoons in the process. Afterwards, I would sit the boys at the kitchen table and start them on their homework, helping them as needed in between doing various, sundry chores. I would start the laundry. The laundry room was at an angle off of the kitchen beside the carport. I could put a load of clothes in the washer and still be able to listen out for the boys. After loading the washer, I would go back into the kitchen and begin preparing supper. I normally tried to fix something quick and easy, yet nutritional as possible. Hamburger Helper and any of its sister varieties, a fresh salad consisting of lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers and carrots, maybe, sweet peas or rice or potatoes and gravy. While a load was washing, supper was cooking, I would pick-up around the living room and bedrooms, vacuum if needed and rotate more cycles of clothes: wash, dry, fold, while keeping an eye on the boys and supper. Tris and Nate always had a knack for finishing their homework right about the time supper was ready. I liked to eat early, between five and six. Most of the time we waited to eat until my ex-wife got home. But as she was often late from “meetings” and “working a little over,” we would more often than not just go ahead and eat. We would take turns saying Grace and then dig in. I usually made the boys plates beforehand, as I knew by then what their tastes were. Over dinner we would have open-ended discussions about anything and everything. “How come we can’t see God, but we pray to Him anyway?” “Dad, why do you have a mustache and we don’t?” “How does a peach grow from a seed?” It was an open forum. Some topics were on the light side while some concerned the deeper meanings of life. I was their teacher, and the boys were my students.
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Except there were no notes to take down, no tests to pass. No, these occasions were my chance to try at least to be sagacious and pass on some little nuggets of my lessons learned from life’s experiences, so that my sons could learn and hopefully not have to make the same mistakes I did. These conversations were a time of bonding between Tristan, Nathan, and I. The best quality family time one could ever ask for. Looking back on those times, I will never view or experience meals quite the same ever again. After dinner came the most anticipated time of the day: play time. There were two main games we played on a regular basis. The first was good old-fashioned playing rough. We would clean out an area in the family room or living room. Next would commence a great free-for-all. I would get down on my hands and knees and pretend to be an animal. I would growl and chase after the boys. Just as soon as I had one cornered, the other would come up behind me and jump up on my back. I would rear up on my legs, grasping one son turning him upside down, tickling him in one of my favorite spots: the stomach, ribs or inner thighs, while the other son on my back would be clutching on for dear life. Accessories could also be used to hit on a take down, or thrown at each other. This could and usually did go on for up to an hour or until exhaustion hit whichever came first. Then we would sit against the wall, me in the middle with a son on each side, drinking refreshing water and recalling our favorite highlights from the previous match. The other game Tris and Nate enjoyed playing involved bicycles. Tristan and Nathan being eight and six years old respectively at the time, had new bicycles and dad had an old fixer-upper, chain barely on track, tires half flat, rust colored. This was my handicap that helped take away my size advantage. Our house at the time was very conducive for a bike track. The house sat down in a valley the blacktop being on a hill above and the back yard sloped away from the rear of the house. We would position our bikes at the top of the driveway where the drive met the blacktop.
We lived in a quiet residential neighborhood in the middle of a hairpin curve, so safety was never an issue. Nathan, being the youngest was in front, followed by Tristan a little behind and me, dad, dead last. I would herald the start of the race with a “Ready, set go!”
We would pedal furiously down the drive building up as much momentum as we could. As we left the driveway and entered the front yard we coasted along and rounded the side of the house down into the back yard and pedaled furiously to be the first to make it to the large oak tree in the back yard. Sometimes, I would let the boys win purposefully, but sometimes I would wipe-out or crash into the oak tree for the boys’ amusement and often my pain. We would play this well into the dusk and twilight of evening until even the fireflies could not provide us with enough light to see.
After playing so boisterously a bath was definitely in order. I would often bathe both boys simultaneously to save time and water. They loved for me to place the small portable boom box on the sink and play classical music. Beethoven’s Fifth symphony was their favorite; with every blare of the horn they would splash their hands on the top of the bath water, conducting the masterpiece in their own puerile way. In between movements, I would scrub the dirt of the day from under arm pits, behind ears and all their “2000” parts. Such play worked up a little hunger, so a snack was in order after bathing. I would fix their favorite, chocolate milk and animal crackers. Sitting, watching “Rocko’s Modern Life” or “Sponge Bob Squarepants” and eating their snacks, Nathan clutching the ubiquitous Thomas the Tank engine and Tristan twirling and curling his blond locks with his free hand. I would help them brush their teeth and escort them into their bedroom. Prayers were always the final act of every day. Tristan was preparing for his first communion at this time, so he had to memorize certain prayers and catechisms. We practiced a little every night until he finally achieved mastery. The night always ended the same way. Telling each son I loved him, I would kiss them on the forehead making the sign of the cross and whisper sweet dreams as I turned off the lights.
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This selection comes from a chapter of William Brooks’ book, My Life in Exile.
—Photo Caitlinator/Flickr