My Father's Waltz

The whiskey on your breath

Could make a small boy dizzy;

But I hung on like death:

Such waltzing was not easy.

Yes. I thought to myself.

We romped until the pans

Slid from the kitchen shelf;

My mother’s countenance

Could not unfrown itself.

Yes. Yet again.

The hand that held my wrist

Was battered on one knuckle;

At every step you missed

My right ear scraped a buckle.

Yes.

You beat time on my head

With a palm caked hard by dirt,

Then waltzed me off to bed

Still clinging to your shirt.

“My Papa’s Waltz” by Theodore Roethke

Yes. So much so, yes.

I am not a poet. When I can’t quite put words to the intensity of my emotions, I often, instead, tell my friend that my soul is full. In that classroom, in that very moment, my soul was so full that I feared it might actually make me burst. Death by poetry and spontaneous combustion. I couldn’t or maybe just feared breathing, so I sat in Literary Criticism in complete, silent awe. I had always struggled with poetry, both the reading and writing of it, but I knew exactly what Theodore Roethke meant. I had lived it. I was overwhelmed with love and admiration for both the poet and my father. My father who-

“The abuse and manipulation is heartbreaking.”

No. I froze.

“Such connotative words. Death. Battered. Scraped. Beat.”

No. Each word enunciated with such disdain was an assault upon my ears.

“The poor young boy living in such fear of his alcoholic father.”

No. I found myself fearing to breathe yet again. Had my peers just read the same poem?

Years later, I can now recognize the ambiguity of Roethke’s words. I even use the poem in my 10th grade literature course for that very reason. But, in my heart there is still just one story within those sixteen lines: the story of my father.

To be fully transparent, Busch beer would be more accurate than whiskey. His waltz? Carpentry. I didn’t stand upon his toes, but I pleaded for the privilege to hold his level or pull the button back on his drill. What he is able to still create even today with a few nails and wood could only be described as a beautiful dance of sorts. Those now arthritic fingers literally built our home around us as we slept in sleeping bags on unfinished floors and studded walls, a thrilling two year adventure of epic proportions to my six year old self.

Yes, my mother’s countenance was a frown at times. Who doesn’t frown? Life is hard sometimes. Marriage is hard sometimes. They chose love at 16. I often think of their younger years to the sound of Willie Nelson’s voice, “Through teardrops and laughter/ They'll pass through this world hand in hand/ A good-hearted woman lovin' a good timin' man.” 47 years and three daughters and three grandsons and countless teardrops and laughter later, they still choose love every single day.

I often enjoy picturing the face of my grandfather when my mother said, naively and irrevocably in love, “Let me marry him or we will run away and you will never see me again.” My mother, the nerdy square, and my father, the long-haired hippie, excitedly ripping open envelopes and unfolding dollars from the bridal dance on their way to their honeymoon in Wildwood, NJ.

Yes, my father’s hands were often caked hard by dirt and battered on one knuckle. Often the product of a hammer slip, the wear never made his hands any less capable of showing me how to tie a fishing hook or affectionately scratching my son’s back or holding my delicate hand when the doctor told me I had cancer.

I am certain that poet Luis Omar Salinas must have had a father just like mine: “The truth of it is, he's the scholar,/ and when the bitter-hard reality/ comes at me like a punishing evil stranger, I can always/ remember that here was a man/ who was a worker and provider,/ who learned the simple facts/ in life and lived by them,/ who held no pretense,/ And when he leaves without/ benefit of fanfare or applause/ I shall have learned what little/ there is about greatness.” He gets it. He was and still is rough around the edges. But, he is truly as close as I will ever come to being in the presence of greatness.

One night, when I had just started middle school, our waltz was to the tune of a shop class wood roadster racer. After a sub par toothpick bridge and a slightly crooked birdhouse, my straight A average was at stake. That night my roadster was far from A quality. We tried to fix it, but the more we tried, the more I cried. Around midnight, it was time to call it.

Then waltzed me off to bed

Still clinging to your shirt.

That night, I cried myself to sleep. I slept. But, he didn’t. Instead he sanded off all of the paint on the shop class wood roadster racer and then repainted it and then waited for it to dry and then disassembled one of his collector Dale Earnhardt cars- stickers and all- and then used all of the parts to transform my mess into a masterpiece. I can’t even remember the grade I “earned,” but I still have the car.

Yes, he was rough around the edges. But, he also wore a suit and even tied back his hair to walk me across the football field for homecoming. He also spent his scratch off winnings to buy me a heavy enough gortex coat to go steelhead fishing with him in the snow. He also sat with me and counted Fed-Ex trucks driving down the Pennsylvania Turnpike out of my picture window for weeks on end when I struggled postpartum. He also defaced a prized “Intimidator” car, may he Rest In Peace, when my GPA was at risk.

“I see something completely different.” I found my voice as my college classroom grew quiet.

That day all I could see was the face of the man who I would eventually waltz the father-daughter dance with at my wedding, still clinging to, never wanting to let go.