Son of a Biscuit Eater

Dad just spent five days of home time with my sister on the coast.  While he was there he sat down and read the blog for the first time.  He said he’s really glad to be doing it, though the quick summary of his life (The Best Feeling, posted Sunday, October 16) caused a little sting.  Aside from noting some historical facts I got wrong he said reading it made him feel like “a weak-willed son of a biscuit eater” and “a heartbroken little dork.”

Olivia: Should we change it?

Mike: There you go everyone.  There’s Mike Dugan, naked.  Let’s take a look at the big fella!

O: Tell me what you want to add or take away and I’ll do it.

M: No, don’t change it.  It’s exactly the truth.  That’s exactly how the slope into the toilet was angled.

O: This is your deal, too.  We never have to post anything you don’t want.

M: You know, with your own paintbrush you never paint yourself completely accurately.  You take out that big dent in your forehead.  Straighten out the crooked nose or the lopsided chin.

And really, how would I like it if my life story were condensed to a series of blunt summaries covering all my weak spots and misadventures? 

My face was badly scarred in a car accident when I was five years old.  At school I struggled, with hand-me-down clothes and a number of ticks.  My parents divorced, and my siblings and I were left alone all the time.  I crash-landed into my own adolescence with a bottle of Southern Comfort, a pack of Marlboro Lights and my pants yanked firmly down around my ankles.  And this feeble little person?  This wretched wreck of a girl? It isn’t me at all.  It’s just a collection of sad stories that stirs up a lot of drama.  I also think of it as rugged terrain—dangerous land that I have traveled and survived. 

Dad told a story once about coming down out of the woods having run out water.  He was dirty and grubby and raced into a convenience store to fill up his water jug.  Outside he gulped furiously, spilling little rivulets from the corners of his mouth.  He laughed later when he thought of himself, because he said, to observers, he must have looked like some “wild-eyed mountain man.” 

And that’s what he is, really.  Consider the metaphorical rocky peaks and treacherous trails he has walked, often without basic necessities such as water, and always he has survived.  Dad is a hero in his own epic tale, and he has stored treasure more valuable than a cellar full of food or a suitcase full of gold.  He’s got humor and story which, in terms of the heart’s wilderness, make shelter and a feast.

For years now, any time I talk to him on the phone, I can’t resist taking notes because I don’t want to waste the things he’s saying.  He’s like a rare plant that drops a handful of valuable seeds with every bloom.  I’ve been hoarding them, though, not knowing what to do with the stacks of scribbled pages.  So, in all my efforts to record, it has still been wasted.  Writing this blog is the only way I can think of to plant the seeds and let them grow.  Someone has got to tend the garden.  It doesn’t matter if no one ever reads it.  The seeds will grow just the same.

A few years ago I had a dream that I traveled to the ocean to see my dad, though he has never actually lived at the beach.  In this dream I arrived at a little house with cool, gray waves rolling and roaring just beyond.  I had with me a ragged young woman, bent at the waste and vomiting onto the yard.  She was just ridiculously drunk and deeply sad.  I knew, quite clearly, that the girl was me as I once was, and I had brought her there to be healed.  My dad didn’t answer the door when I knocked.  Instead, he appeared from around back, from the direction of the water.  He was young and thin and had the most calm and peaceful look about him.  At first I mistook him for my brother.  He didn’t say a word (which is unlike him).  He just smiled, and I knew this girl would get the help she needed.

That dream has always been an important one for me for a number of reasons.  But today I’m thinking about how, even at his worst, and even if he can’t always find it, Dad contains this strong, peaceful presence.  Even when he is feeling angry or helpless, like a weak-willed son of a biscuit eater and a heartbroken little dork, he still has a healing force strong as the ocean behind him.  We all do.  And that’s the point.