my chickadee

some of my earliest memories take me back to visiting with my grandparents -- my nan and pop-pop's house. during the afternoons, my brother and cousins and i would quietly play for fear of waking my pop-pop from his nap or sleep when he was working the nightshift.

we would know instantly when we would cross the threshold and wake him. we would hear him stir upstairs and occassionally, his booming voice would bellow to us kids playing downstairs "whad-darrrr-ya doin' down there?"

quickly, we'd join my grandmother, chainsmoking in the kitchen watching her soaps on the small "tellervision". taking our assigned seats around the kitchen table, my grandmother would scramble to put away her "mess" - shoving her coupons and unread national inquirer-type magazines with one hand under her placemat, the one with the brown cigarette burns melted into the plastic left behind from the dropped hot ash. the other hand would meticulously scrape up imaginary crumbs from the table to throw out.

not moving, us kids would sit, waiting for him to join us at the table. i would sit at the seat under the window on the backside of the table, the chosen seat -- the one closest to him and i think the only one without fear of his arrival. slowly, he'd make his descent from the front air-conditioned bedroom, smelling freshly showered and full of old spice aftershave. each step he took coming down the stairs was exaggerated, deliberate and full of warning. my brother and cousins would fidget in their seats as he drew closer wanting him to end their agony with his full presence.

steady and rhythmic, he drew closer, coming around the turned wooden staircase at the bottom of the stairs, over the brown-and-orange carved carpeting, through painted white wood paneled walls yellowed from the many cigarettes smoked in there.

and then he would stop. voices hushed in the kitchen, the drama playing out on television hushed along with us, waiting to hear what came next. in a slow, deliberate way, the bear would bend towards the carpet, one-leg extended outward, bending like an overweight ballerina, as the top half lowered itself to the ground to capture what has caught its eye.

to us, it was minuscule. it was a fuzzy. a speck of dirt. to him, it was as if we had left behind pounds of dirt in a carpet that could conceal much if it ever was allowed. after grunting in disgust, he would finish cutting his path through the dining room into the kitchen, stopping under its doorway for emphasis making his arrival known as if we hadn't already sought shelter from him. he showed the speck or fuzzy to my grandmother accusingly. she would wave him away with one arm and towards the trash can tucked in corner with an "ehh, go fug yourself" way that sized up their relationship. the other hand would be grasping a cigarette.

a big man, he imposed himself in our worlds an unshifting, unwielding force to not reckon with but to obey. to this day, i know his legacy lives greater and is strongest in my memory than in real life. i miss what used to come next.

his bear of a man standing in the doorway, harsh and foreboding. lines cut in his forehead, scowl across his face. we'd say "hello pop-pop" and watch the transformation take shape in this man compared to whom mountains seemed more easily moved.

he'd smile this big engaging smile. he slide into his chair at the head of the table and slide in closer. then he's sing - shrill, is more like it - "my chickadee" and smile in my direction. i would just beam, feeling so high that i was his chosen one. he lean in close to ask me about my day, how was school, sports, whatever. it didn't matter.

to my brother, he was the enforcer, reprimanding him as he sat across from him at the table viewing his reflection in the shiny new black microwave.

"are you makin' faces at yourself again?" he'd ask and my brother would sheepishly say yeah under his breath. "sorry, pop" would be the audible response to follow. "don't say you're sorry. just don't do it again."

to me, he was what a father should be.