In the southwest corner of our linoleum floored family room, rested a brown Naugahyde fabric Lazy Boy recliner. Overhead light was provided from a 70’s style swag lamp casting a “just bright enough to read” warmth. It was a comfortable throne for my Dad ( Bud Thomas) to do his crossword puzzles. Under that lamp, he would consistently read three full newspapers a day. Family court was presided over by him on current events or the latest ball games involving any of his three sons. Answers to questions were often uttered from behind that newspaper. The words, “No, that’s not necessary” were more commonly spoken than the alternative of: “Sure son, go ahead and take the car. And by the way, here’s a five-spot to spend. Have fun!”
I remember he had a specific way of holding that newspaper at an angle hiding his face from view. His middle fingers of both hands were positioned on the side of the paper facing the room as if to appear he was giving you ‘the bird’. An interesting thing about his crossword endeavors was that he always completed them in pen, not with a pencil as I choose to do. His vocabulary was extensive although he did not often use that knowledge in casual conversation. He was a plain-spoken, no-nonsense, dry farmer from the younger edge of the greatest generation.
Mom would occasionally ask me to help her move that chair out into the middle of the room so she could sweep, mop, and wipe the baseboards clean. Most 10-year-old boys would duck and dodge any chore requests from their mother, but this request for my ‘muscles’ was a compliment and an opportunity for profit. I was full of anticipatory zeal because of what was certain to be discovered beneath that throne of my father.
The style of pants my father wore for farm work was not the snug Wrangler jeans many farmers donned. They were rather a baggy sort of cut with a wide mouth front pocket that opened in a lateral direction on his hip. When he reclined and shifted his weight, searching for the sweet spot of comfort for his aching back, coins would quietly trickle out. They would fall through the slit between the cushion and armrest and collect on that linoleum floor beneath the chair. Out of sight, waiting to be discovered by my eager hands.
I am sure Mom was giggling in her mind as I tripped over myself scrambling to gather up the treasure of nickels, dimes, and if I was lucky…. quarters. Less than a dollar most times but those coins were real currency. It was penny candy money at Polar Bear or creamies at Premium Oil gas station after Little League baseball practice.
Now, over 50 years later, that chair is no longer there. The swag lamp is no longer there and my Dad is no longer there. But that does not stop me from looking over into that same empty corner of the room as I walk through, envisioning the memory. As a father of three and a grandpa of five, I am still finding “coins from my father’s pockets” to share with my offspring. Only these are coins of words and wisdom straight from my father’s heart and mind. His teachings, his advice, and his example that I find myself repeating sometimes word for word. He is my favorite person in the whole world. His parenting was firm but became more flexible as he aged. He was full of quips and folksy farmer sayings I call Bud-isms. Humor was commonly used to drive home the point. I hope to share some of these Bud-isms and “coins” in future articles.
The last time I spoke with my Dad was a day or so before he passed away in March of 1999. I was living in West Virginia and my older brother handed him the phone as he lay in his hospital bed here in Preston. He was not always a giver of hugs but showed adoration via other actions instead of words. His love for his family was practical and responsible yet palpable. With a quivering voice, I told him how much I loved him. I had already lost my “moon” and now I reluctantly realized I was about to lose my “sun” that warmed my life and shone light on my every move and thought. His response was simply one of the Bud-isms. “Ditto, “ he said in a weak but audible and sincere voice. His love language was different from mine… simple and minimal but effective. This was the final “coin” I was to receive from him while on this earth.
He was far more valuable to me than quarters, nickels and dimes. They say a dollar is not worth as much as it used to be and you cannot buy penny candy anymore. But the “coins from my father’s pockets” have outgrown the rate of inflation, to me and to whomever I share them. To all you Fathers, Dads and Papas out there, I wish you a Happy Father’s Day! To my own father, I shout: “Thanks Dad, job well done!”
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