Two Dreamers

Today is my father's birthday. Or it would be if he were alive. I wanted to make some kind of tribute to him, share some special story to commemorate his life. Where was that story about the night we talked on the porch in the dark? I could envision it on its yellowed paper with half-faded words. But I couldn't find it! Where could it be? I pulled out a stack of manila folders and started to rifle through the many papers. Gotcha! There, stuck smack in the middle of last year's Spanish handouts lay the coveted paper. What was I thinking? This valuable, sentimental journal could have been lost!

I reread my words. Ugh! My writing is definitely lacking. I feel very critical of it. And yet...even with the lack of style and it being mostly prose, it's a part of my journey, both in writing and of the time I spent with my dad. So I decided to present it exactly as I wrote it way back then. All I want to convey is the special moments I shared with my father that night.

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I talked with my father tonight. It seemed like magic. I was a little girl again listening to my hero dream. The night was still, almost stagnant. There weren't even any mosquitoes buzzing. I felt we were given a tribute of silence. It didn't even matter what we said when we did speak as long as we kept talking. His voice, with his reserve broken down, sounded dreamy, slow with intermittent silences accenting his speech. At first I felt anxious to say "the right thing," to keep the conversation alive, but I ran out of things to say. I ached for this mood-this rapport-to continue. that night we talked about trees, his business and his life.

"Dad, how long did it take you to build up your business."

"All my life...it ain't much, but it's all mine." Slow, ponderous the words came. All at once, I saw his soul!

I remembered back to when I was a young girl. It was a long trip home from Brockway. It was just beginning to get dark. Dad was driving and Mom was dozing on the passenger's side. The two boys--my brothers--were both sleeping, and my sister feigned sleep. (I knew because she rapped me when I bumped her). I sat in the middle of the back seat, scooting up on the hump, hands resting on the front seat cushion. The radio was tuned to a scary horror story. I loved this radio station and listened in rapt attention. Why did the sailor murder old Mrs. Hampton? Dad listened too. The story lasted another hour...and finally the conclusion-so unexpected it took my breath away! Dad flipped the station to a country and western and the mood lightened.Everyone began to stir. I regarded them jealously. It had been so peaceful with just Dad and me.

Then, with martyr-like calm, I decided it was my duty to keep Dad awake for the rest of the trip (I laugh now but back then, I took this self-appointed task very seriously). Happily, I watched the others drop back off to sleep again, but not me! Even if I felt really tired, I wouldn't be disloyal to him! Dad was very patient, although now I think he might have preferred my silence. He never told me to be quiet. These private moments between father and daughter were very special to me. No one could intrude. Of course, in spite of all my good intentions, I fell asleep. After all, I was only a little girl.

Tonight I felt the same bond as when I listened to the radio in the car. I still want to please him. We're both "dreamers" of sorts. I think Dad knows that deep down, it's the dreamer in us that links us together. I don't think he'd ever admit to something that sentimental, just as I'd never voice it aloud.

Man has always held sacred ideals--keeping them pure and untouched. But like glass, ideals easily shatter, leaving man to pick at the marred pieces of perfection. That fragile bond is my ideal between my dad and I. Rather than have my illusion destroyed, I hug my secret close within myself - that we are both dreamers - the best kind of people to be. Our silence allows our bond to continue long after I've gone inside.

Just before I go to sleep I think "Wow, my dad is so cool! How many fathers have spent a lifetime building their business and seem so content?" And how many daughters dream that their father's business will last for the rest of their lifetime because it makes him that happy?

Dad and His Deer Hunting

This photo does not do my father justice. But it's the only photo we have of him with deer antlers. I don't know why...Here he looks like he recently returned home from a hunting expedition. He's a bit disheveled and smoking his pipe. But he's holding the rack he probably got that year and standing in front of the woodstove showing off his trophy. I remember that style of shirt. That was his "under hunting gear" shirt. Well, it was a "work shirt," come to think of it. Being a deer hunter combined lots of his favorite skills--tramping through the woods, climbing trees, hanging out with the guys, his eagle eye, and leaving with meat to eat through the winter and a trophy for his time!

There seems to be something that happens to men when deer season comes along. They seem happier and more independent; they have already gone to "their camp" long before they actually step foot outside the door. They are mentally preparing for their hot stews (or whatever it is they eat out at the camp), card playing, lots of stories, and early mornings as they crunch through the crusted over snow to find the first tale-tell sign of a deer...

I remember dad used to be downstairs, rifling through the drawers of his homemade workbench, pulling out boxes of bullets, and odds and ends. He would gather up "snow pants" (but I don't suppose that is the name men use for them; maybe that goes under the category of 'hunting gear) and heavy jackets, plus he'd always have a hat of some kind. He'd clean out his rifle (which he always kept in his very nice, homemade gun cabinet). Dad used to go hunting with Bud Matson mostly, and whoever happened to be with Bud. That would vary from year to year, but Bud was his hunting sidekick.

Life was good for dad during those hunting trips. He'd never be gone more than three or four days, but he would come back with a buck without fail. "I get 'em from the same tree every year" he'd grin, "eighteen years in a row." I take it that he liked climbin' that tree. I guess it was his lucky tree. I'm sure that he owned a good pair of binoculars as well. Dad always combined his skills to get what he wanted accomplished so none of us were surprised, and I think we were really quite proud of him when he came back.

I'd say, "Dad caught another deer this year." and one of my brothers would respond disgustedly,"You don't catch deers. You shoot them!" (Well, I don't do either). I would glare, and my mother would tell us to 'settle down.' I always felt sorry for the deer and had to prepare myself mentally because dad hung them from the treehouse upside down. I forget why he did that but I am sure you hunters can tell me exactly why that is necessary - maybe to let the blood drain out...?

Mom hated venison with a passion, but I loved it (though I hated the thought of the poor deer being killed). She cooked it dutifully, and we all happily ate it for months. Meatballs. Meatloaf. Deer roast. Dad was also quite generous and would give quite a bit away to his friends who were not quite so lucky to bag a deer. I'm sure my mother did not say anything on the contrary as that was less venison for her to prepare.

Once my brothers became of age, they joined him at the hunting camp each year. Well, my older brother was like me, very gentle-spirited, and did not like shooting deer so the year he went, he really didn't put his heart into it. I think he liked the camaraderie of the men though so he would go for that. My younger brother hunts to this day so I am sure that he waited for those cabin experiences with my dad with a fervor.

Looking back on my memories, I did like to hear about his skills in the woods. But I liked to see him unpack his gear more, and get ready for the winter ahead. Dad would be around a whole lot more in the cold months ahead!

Bovaird wit - made to fit Model-T at Car Show

My dad loved his car shows! He found it the most relaxing way to pass a Saturday or Sunday afternoon. He and my brother, Mike often went together. It was a good time for them to bond. He and Mom went sometimes but she would get a bit bored after awhile. But she did enjoy talking with some of the wives while dad and the antique owner would "talk shop" about their vehicles. The car shows consisted of (usually) old-timers who inspected each other's cars and gabbed a lot. Dad seemed right at home in the cloth seat he'd set up near the the cars he brought to show off. He was in his element and he always had a story to tell. He also always had a way to make his vehicles stand out in the crowd.

Five or six summers back I found my dad making a sign to place in the window of his Model-T Ford during a local car show - just to generate conversation, I gather. I volunteered to type it up for him. He seemed pretty pleased about the result and taped it to the inside of his window.

This is an example of his humor on the day he showed his Model-T Ford off at the Shriner's Hospital Car Show...If you know my dad, you will appreciate its humor!

~ ~ ~ ~

This 1925 Model-T was custom built by Henry Forge for his good friend, the Shaw of Platea, who used it as a brothel.

At the beginning of the Prohibition, it was sold to wealthy Lake City industrialist, J. Pierpont Snodgrass, who added wheels and remodeled it as a gin mill and floating poker game.

With the repeal of Prohibition, it was sold to the Reverend Martin Luther Jones, who added a woodstove to the car and used it for a hotdog stand and winter revivalist meetings.

After December 7, 1941, General Dwight D. Loosenbauer conscripted the car into the army as his personal command post in Paris and South Africa. It was flown in by boat; sands were removed and a crystal ball and ouijii board were installed, whereby it is rumored he successfully predicted the end of the war and the death of Elvis Presley.

It was later purchased by a consortium of Fairview businessmen who are presently using it to transport Politicians and other Criminals to and from the Girard McDonalds.

(Please wipe feet before kicking tires!)

~ ~ ~ ~

Just a greenhorn networker!

Today I was very busy preparing for a networking session I had just learned about aimed at business strategists, writers and inventors. I gotta start getting serious about my goal of becoming a published writer. No time like the present!

"How can I attend? I don't even have any name cards! What if...?"

Whether it was to show that my excuses for not attending or worries about being prepared once I got there were unfounded, my friend designed a simple but effective name card for me to pass out at the session. It contained only my name, profession, the link to my blog and my email address. My immediate goal was to promote my blog, since both my two books are very much works-in-progress. I made photocopies on card stock and cut them with a paper cutter so they would look fairly professional.

I had never networked before but I psyched myself up. Gone was the under confident, do-you-think-I-can-really-make-it-as-a-writer Amy. This new me had to believe that I already was one in order to sell myself! Apparently, there was to be a famous speaker at this event, and we had only half an hour to network. I would have to be efficient. The speaker seemed incidental to my goal of networking.

I arranged for transport to get to the event, then hurried to be ready to leave after a quick dinner. As I waited, thoughts assailed me. What if people avoid networking with me cause they think I can't see? What should I do? Maybe I shouldn't go after all.

"Of course you should go!" My friend sounded exasperated. "It's up to you to make others feel comfortable. Make small talk. That's how conversations open up."

My ride arrived and off I went.

Countdown to network: twenty minutes. Ten minutes. five minutes. 6:30! Time to mingle!

One glance around said that might be a challenge. There were so few people! I saw only five or six, total. The attendant offered to sign in for me but I assured her that I could see well enough to do that myself. I then proceeded to prove that I could by doing it.

Afterwards. the blond-haired woman guided me over to the water table and asked me kindly, "How can I help you? What do you need?"

I felt puzzled; I didn't 'need' anything, except to pour water from the pitcher and to begin networking.

"You will hear many people saying that to you tonight," she added.

My first thought was "I am perfectly capable of navigating myself through this networking session on my own, no worries."

It has only been two months since I have been using my cane. As a result, I am sensitive about my independence and what I can accomplish even though I have vision limitations. People don't know how much I can still see, and they don't ask. They often assume that I am completely blind and can do little or nothing by myself. This irks me.

But after the woman spoke to me a little bit more, I realized that the "How can I help you? What do you need?" are catch phrases designed to help people network more effectively and had nothing to do with my vision issues whatsoever! I smiled. I felt energized once more.

I have so much to learn! I'm just a greenhorn!

"Uh, I am a-a writer." I must attempt to sound more polished! Oh no, I even forgot to offer my name card-- though she promised to send me some information for copywriters. Next time, I'll get it right! As the woman sauntered off to ask another how she could help and what was needed, I prepared myself.

Networking, here I come! I squared my shoulders and set off for a group of three that I saw talking.I listened for awhile but then jumped in. "So you invented a game--?" I asked one of the women. She nodded and launched into a how-great-this-organization-is spiel. "And what about you two?" I asked warmly as I turned to the other two.

"I have a cleaning business." the other woman said.

"I'm just here to cart her purse," joked a silver-haired gentleman with a moustache.

"Do you have a card?" There! I got the words out just as I had been coached. As soon as I got hers, I could go ahead and offer the first of my own thirty-two cards. I could hardly wait!

The woman raised an eyebrow, "Do you need someone to clean your home?"

No! This is not the way it is supposed to work! You are supposed to offer it kindly with a smile on your face and ask for mine in return, or at least give me a chance to offer it!

She motioned to the silver-haired gentleman who stepped away from the group to fetch her coat. She fished into a pocket before returning the coat to her friend. "As a matter of a fact, I do." She handed it to me casually.

"Oh! I have one, too." I almost felt like I should present it in the Japanese way since this was a big deal for me. But I caught myself in time. Get a grip! You're not in Japan anymore!

The words were barely out of my mouth when the woman with the cleaning company suddenly left me standing alone. She rushed off to meet someone who I surmised would benefit her more. A few feet away, she turned as if just remembering our conversation "Excuse me, I see someone I know."

"Oh, have you been here--?" I was going to say before but she was long gone.

"Keep smiling, Amy!" I desperately tried to scope out someone--anyone else--to continue networking off my remaining thirty-one cards. Unfortunately, my time ran out. The regional director stepped up to the microphone. Everyone quickly took their seats. After a couple of minutes, she introduced the keynote speaker, a famous entrepreneur.

He was exciting and motivating - though some of his speech went over my head; the personal stories and entrepreneurial stuff seemed to blend together in one continuous blurb that everyone found very funny. I found myself missing key points. He did have a commanding presence, however.

Afterwards I had a chance to mentor with him briefly and he convinced me that I had the ability to not only write a book about my father but also a screenplay of his life! The speaker led another man to dream that he, too, could get published. After hearing about his talents, the speaker suggested that he write a practical book utilizing his psychological background. "Entitle it, 'We're All Nuts!' We are all nuts in one way or another. It's something we can all relate to. It'll be a best seller!" It was as if proclaiming made it true. Everyone clapped in delight.

To the fabulous baker in our midst, he gestured grandly, "Rename your business..." he looked in my direction as if to inspire himself, then snapped his fingers, "...to something like "The Gingerbread House." He then swept her off her feet with his enthusiastic marketing and branding possibilities. Our speaker encouraged the out-of-work business man who'd worked for big companies all his life only to be laid-off now just before retirement, "My company can get you networking with other companies. Tell them you want to be the chairman and demand five percent of the profits. We'll put your skills to good use!" The frown on the businessman's face turned to a smile and he began to nod in agreement as he saw himself in this new, much more positive role.

Our speaker was in the business of flaming our grandest hopes, much more so than we dared to envision on our own . He believed BIG. We each saw our dreams in vibrant technicolor as we entered the spotlight tonight. Very heady stuff!

But at the end of the night, my pocket still held thirty-one name cards and my pocketbook was void of the thousands of dollars I needed in order join this outfit to become the screenplay writer I was intended to be.

But it was a great experience! I'm one sweep of my cane closer to becoming the writer I want to be. Next time I won't be so green...maybe red in the face, but not green.

Oh Lord, I'm thankful that you showed me this opportunity and provided me with a friend that didn't allow me to back out when my fears threatened to overcome me.

The Start of a Working Man's Day

Don slipped on his faded blue jean jacket but made no effort to button it. Then he fished his cap off the hook and slapped it on his head, adjusting it against the thick shock of white hair underneath. He made his way up from the cellar to the garage where Elmo stood waiting in the back of the truck. With clumsy, arthritic fingers, he pulled the pin and lowered the tailgate so the dog could jump down. Thrusting himself at Don, Elmo, whose body weight exceeded that of his master, got pushed back. Years of hard work had given Don muscles that even old age and a bum knee could not weaken. He cursed his knee—doctors swore the operation would help—but that just made it worse. Now it always ached like the dickens.

Don slid the can of dog food under the can opener, then turned the can upside down, shaking it until the meat plopped into the dog dish. After gobbling it down, Elmo sprang back into the truck and Don slid the bolt into place, securing the tailgate. Don limped over to the cab of his ’39 Ford pick-up and opened the door. Holding his bad leg straight, he inched his way sideways into the small cab.

The truck started up with its peculiar snorts and huffs. The garage door, itself old, rattled into motion. He grinned. These old things sure lasted. As they got moving, he glanced into the rearview mirror and saw how Elmo leaned into the wind, his black ears flapping behind. Don shook his head, amused. With a smile perched on his face, he thought, My pals’ll get a kick out of that. Life is good.

Together, they headed into town. At the stoplight, he honked, Aaoogahh. Nothing like an old horn! His tanned, leathery face broke into an easy grin, as he waved. Everyone knew Don and his little Ford pick-up.

At McDonald’s, Don parked the truck, looking forward to a chat with his car pals. Highlight of my day. He gave the door a good slam to ensure it closed. Out of the corner of his eye, he observed a scowling woman march his way.

“That dog shouldn’t be in the back of the truck. He doesn’t even have any water!”

Don lifted a brow, “Neither do I and you don’t see me complaining.”

“That’s not funny” she bit out the words. “I’m gonna call the cops!”

He shook his head. He couldn’t believe such ridiculousness.

Inside, he ordered his usual—coffee, two creams, two hot apple pies—then slid into the booth where his cronies awaited. Between gulps of coffee, Don reported the exchange that had just taken place outside, drawing laughter and guffaws from the others. “Guess it’s time to go and make a buck,” he sighed.

Outside, he opened the box and tossed Elmo his daily pie ration. Elmo’s tail whipped back and forth in pure joy. “Dumb dog,” he mumbled, affectionately. “Let’s get a move-on.”

This is my father, Don Bovaird. He had a passion for old vehicles, Ford and GMC motors, his dog, McDonalds and the town where we lived. I'll post more about him as we go along.