The Man, The Legend, and the Smell

In which I watch my Hero standing in the middle of the yard and think of words for the grin on his face

When Christine Gentry tells her story of the things she learned from her father about animals and nature, she shares his pearls of wisdom in the quiet, flat drawl of a man who isn’t given to speaking much: “Ain’t no use cryin’ about things you can’t do nothin’ about.” It’s from the Story Collider podcast, and her story is funny and personable and the joy of this glimpse of a young her and her father is sweet and poignant and left me wondering what wisdom I could attribute to my father telling me the kinds of truths that make the world ring with their profoundness.

And the strange thing is that among the billion things he’s told me a billion times and I’ve never heard, I can certainly point to other times where he told me something once, quietly, where other’s might not hear. So many things he has taught me in that way. But if I were to turn to you, Gentle Reader, and say, this is my father’s signature, I wouldn’t be sharing a quote.

I’d probably be telling you about something he did, something from the long list of incomprehensible somethings that are silently generous, unmarked by bragging or pride, just done, because they were the right things to do. Picking up people from the airport, or taking visitors on yet another tour of the city or just sitting on the phone and letting his wife’s niece babble at him for an hour because she’s the chatty kind and needs the connection. That’d be the signature that would probably stand out.

But really, the more I thought of it, the more I tried to think of what came to my mind, the more I thought of his smile and how happy I feel when I see it. I made a quip as I was talking to my parents and my dad smiled and I was conscious of the pleasure I get when I make either of them laugh.

And that’s the moment of discovery too. I’ve always enjoyed his grins, but it’s only now that I realize that, somehow, this is what stands out for me. Over heroic patience. Over love that issues with all the constancy of a continent. Over generosity and kindness, and any number of other things. Over respect that existed, I see in adulthood, even when he was disciplining his misbehaving son.

He smiles and my world is better. He smiles and his joy warms me.

He smiles, as Hollywood and I realize that the strangely dressed workman at the edge of the lot shoveling at the mound of dirt is my father, amused and welcoming me home, greeting my old friend. He smiles as I step out of the car, and Hollywood rolls down the window, and we both catch the rolling wave of *smell* that hits like a force of nature.

Because the pile of dirt that’s been dumped on the lawn isn’t soil. Or rather it’s soil of a particularly bovine variety. And as we both look at my dad in confusion and a little bit of amusement mixed with a little bit of horror at the inexplicable circumstance, the first thing my father says about the manure is this:

“It’s not from me!”

And he’s grinning like he’s been saving that joke all day and suddenly the thought that’s been drifting through my mind for most of the last week, since I heard that podcast, has crystallized and I know how to tell it, this story of moments, this moment of lifetimes.

Ms Gentry tells her stories of her father, from when she was child and then later, and then in the now, and even in the midst of the loving sendup of the man, her voice breaks, not at the loss but the idea that the loss will come some day. Her voice breaks, overwhelmed with love for her father.

My father smiles, and sends me off on a manureless errand. And I can hear the echo of the tears in Ms Gentry’s voice, and I know what she means, and what she feels, and I am so grateful for today, and for all the todays leading up to this one, and for the tomorrows I get too.

I could tell you about how the pungent green smell of cow shit takes me to the house where my father grew up, oceans away. I could tell you about standing with my mother for a moment and just watching him work. But I don’t really have an ending to this entry, just a middle, and then, thanks to the cows, a beginning. And some damply salted cheeks from a few wiped tears.

And a smile.

It’ll do.