Things I Loved About My Father

Things I loved about my father…

His Greco-Roman profile, pleasing physical proportions, strong hands, and his creativity. He was an artist, oil painter, photographer, and musician. I’m not sure I remember him playing clarinet, but heard him tell of playing in Fred MacMurray’s band in the 1930s.

He built a play house for me when I turned five. At least that’s when the cement threshold is dated: October 6, 1953.

He was game to hold and feed the Betsy Wetsy Doll I was given that Christmas I was five… until it peed on his lap and he stood up yelling, “Jesus H. Christ!” It scared me when he yelled.

When he shaved his moustache, he was less scary looking.

When he was sober, he drove well.

He never actually struck Mike the Irish Setter that I can recall. He only threatened with an angry face, cursing in Spanish and an arm drawn back as if to hit the dog - probably for barking when he had a headache.

He let brother Mel and me help with the 1890s printing press. You had to turn the five foot diameter spoked iron wheel. He lifted me so I could reach high enough to pull it down and make the mechanism move. We printed Christmas cards one year.

Once he found and collected from the bottom of a canyon in Elysian Park a whirligig merry-go-round thing-a-ma-jig. He set it up in the back yard, saying someone had thrown it away. He fixed the gear box and we kids would spin around and around - getting strong muscles in the bargain - until one of us had to puke on account of the spinning world going by too fast.

He was forward thinking and bought a modern house by a now famous architect in a wonderful part of Los Angeles called Echo Park. It was raw land and naturally beautiful.

He became friends with the Weston family and picked the best dance teacher around Los Angeles for me to study with because Edward Weston had photographed Carmelita Maracci for the Encyclopedia Britannica and Dad thought her to be the best teacher. I did love to dance.

He loved his Jaguar Mark IV with its walnut dash, gray leather bucket seats and split bench in the back with a pull-down arm rest. I liked riding in it and the smell of the leather.

I’m glad I got to ride on his shoulders at the circus when I was three. I was too little for the huge crowds and the gigantic elephant poop.

I loved the scent of his drawer in the dining room table that smelled of art gum, pencil leads, and charcoal blenders made of felt. He kept Kodak aluminum film cans - yellow with green screw-on lids. Some were filled with mercury and he taught us how to coat pennies with it and smash it to bits and watch it reassemble when we tipped the shoe-box lid to see it move. It really earned its name: quick-silver. He also kept ball bearings in one of the film cans - such a pervasive metallic smell.

I loved the smell of turpentine and linseed, oil paints, and cray-pas drawing implements.

I loved the sound of his huaraches squeaking as he walked, and the scent of saddle soap he put on the leather to keep it soft. The rubber tire-tread soles lost their smell when they got old.

He used to read out loud the Burma Shave signs along Highway One while we drove to Garapata Creek in Big Sur at the beginning of the summer and again at the end of the summer when we went to pick up brother Mel where he worked at the Weston’s trout farm.

He made the best poached egg on toast with lots of butter and just the right sprinkle of paprika.

He took us camping in Death Valley and to Malaga Cove on weekends to stay all day by the tide pools and rocky shore.

The last Halloween he lived with us, he made me up to look like a Gypsy. Even though my face was a completely different color, with high cheek bones and a straight nose, everybody said, “Hello, Melinda,” because I was unmistakably the skinniest person in the whole fourth grade.