Conversations with My Dad

Becoming the keeper of the stories and knowledge

Photo by Jason Bass on Unsplash

I lost my mother in my early twenties, but I am blessed beyond measure to still have my dad. This weekend, he spent the night camping with us. We stayed up until after 11:00 pm just sitting, reminiscing, and listening to his tales of growing up.

My dad grew up deep in the heart of East Texas on family land on the Attoyac River. It wasn’t until they moved in 1958 that they had electricity. One of 11 brothers and sisters, it was a hardscrabble existence, to say the least.

I could listen to him talk forever and the stories never get old. On this clear night, deep in the forest where we camp, my husband and I listened, laughed and learned. What struck me deep in my soul was the wealth of knowledge that will one day pass from our world.

In this age of constant connectivity where we worship at the altar of every new convenience, a life like the one my dad lived is already hard to imagine. When we hear the stories of what life was like a mere 60 years ago it is as alien as it would be listening to the tales of someone who grew up on the plains of Africa.

This is my heritage, and I am the bridge. The generation between someone who hauled water by hand for over a mile to cook, wash and drink and the generation who carries around phones more powerful than all the computers combined that put the first shuttle on the moon.

The bridge between a world without electricity and the world where we speak to devices to tell them what we want to watch on TV. Sadly, it is my kids and not my dad that I am sad for.

My dad and his family were migrant farmers. He remembers changing schools six times in one year. He remembers the truck made in the 1930s with the wood panels on the side. When it was time to move locations, their worldly possessions would be piled inside and so would his parents and all 11 kids. Kids were tucked into every available nook and cranny or anywhere they could find to not be thrown out.

We laughed until our sides hurt as he described their swimming hole in the days before bathing suits. On one particular long hot day, he and his brothers hit the swimming hole shedding clothes as they went.

They laughed, splashed, and tried to see who could hold the other under the longest. An uncle showed up and without making a sound gathered up all their clothes. Five naked boys made their way back through the woods to home.

Met with an angry mom (clothes were an expensive item not easily replaced) they were at a loss to explain how they had managed to lose them. The uncle showed up a few hours later to return the clothing and to enjoy a good laugh at their expense.

Rabbit hunting was part entertainment and part necessity. Only a few were allowed to go at once so it was a coveted honor. My grandpa drove, Uncle Frank straddled the right front fender with a gun, and the chosen kids hung on in the back.

The lights would send the rabbits fleeing across the pasture with Grandpa in hot pursuit. When they got close enough, Uncle Frank would shoot and the kids would take turns jumping off to grab the bounty.

It was great fun until the night Grandpa was chasing two rabbits at once. Suddenly, one rabbit broke left and the other broke right. What Grandpa forgot in the thrill of the chase was the lake in the middle of the pasture.

Laughing until our sides ached, my husband asked: “did your dad ever left off?” My dad responded, “Yeah, once we were floating.” Everyone swam back to shore and a borrowed tractor retrieved the old vehicle.

The stories continued to flow over me like a warm stream that continues forever. They worked from daybreak until sundown most days to eek a living out of the land. Attending school was a necessity but didn’t excuse them from the backbreaking work of planting, harvesting, hunting, fishing and the other unrelenting work of keeping a family of that size fed.

Yet, the overall texture of the stories he wove that night was of a good life. One filled with memories of a tight family bond and spirited adventures. He and my Uncle Jessie learned how to dump drainage pipes at night landing skunks into gunny sacks. They took them home and stored them in an abandoned cistern near their house.

Grandpa tore their butts up with a belt and then made them climb in and free the skunks. After that, it was stripping down and having their clothes burned then bathing in tomato juice to try to cut the smell. Is this a tragic story of abuse? No! It is a funny story told about a lesson well learned.

As generations pass one to another, there is always a bridge. The Grandparents are one end of the bridge and the grandchildren are the other, with the generation in the middle serving as a bridge.

Has there ever been a bridge this long? No generation in history has had to span an expanse this wide.

My dad is Kerosene lanterns and hauling water and my children are iPhones and game systems that allow you to play with people all over the globe. I feel a burden to keep more than just the stories.

My dad is the last generation to know from experience how to pull survival form the land. I feel a need to etch as much of that knowledge as possible into words and my mind and soul.

He learned those skills from his parents, who learned from theirs. Unfortunately, it stopped with me. I didn’t have a childhood that even vaguely resembled his and my knowledge came from books, education and the culture around me. I am thankful, but also a little afraid. When the stories and the knowledge this generation carries are completely gone then we will become infinitely more fragile than we already are.

I hope you continue to join me on this journey of learning all my Dad still has to teach us all. He has a lot to say and I still have a lot to learn.