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Dad, Let’s Go Camping One Last Time
He died two years ago. We still need to talk.
It seemed like a normal Saturday morning.
I was 13, playing a joyful song called Ship Ahoy on the piano, windsurfing in the living room.
My dad came in, clicked on his electric organ and started playing his favorite hymn over me.
Years I spent in vanity and pride / knowing not my Lord was crucified / knowing not it was for me He died / at calvary.
Like other times, I was supposed to stop playing mine and join him.
Still, I wanted to surf fifteen more minutes before the crucifixion.
I kept playing. Ship Ahoy went ninety miles an hour.
My dad turned his organ up and sang louder.
Who’d crack first?
Not me. He lost his marbles. He shut off the organ, picked up his prized guitar from the couch, held it up and slammed it on the ground at my feet. It screeched. Strings broke.
That was the last time I didn’t play with him when beckoned.
He was a truck driver — smart, funny, well-read — but had quit college on the GI bill with one class left in Hotel and Restaurant Management. One class.
