Reflections on my father (2002)

Reflections on My Father

November 2002

James E. McGuire

            Frank is now 83.  He is probably legally blind.  He still drives and he stills cuts wood in the national forests which he sells as firewood.  Occasionally, he gives it away to old ladies who need it and can’t afford it.  His mind and his body are still intact.  He is, in his words, “a tough old bird.”

            Every trip or visit in the last twenty years creates new stories and memories.  Family and friends always say, “You really must write these things down.”  I will try.

            Frank knew about this trip more than one month ago.  As I always do, I let him know that I was coming to town to see him, if it was convenient and if he would be in town.  As always, he said, “Sure. That would work.” 

I said, “I am coming to town the week of my birthday.  “We should celebrate by playing golf.  Since it will be my birthday, I should win.”  

“Well, golf would be great,” he said.

            On the East Coast, Frank is legendary for his sayings and his stories.  My wife Claire remembers him from their first meeting at Frank’s home with Ann in Springfield.  His first words to his new daughter-in-law:   “Well . . . welcome.  If you spit on the floor at home, spit on the floor here.”  My son Josh remembers him for the three rules of drinking.  “Never play catch-up.  Never drink because it is free.  Never feel obliged to finish a drink.”  My daughter Julie remembers him because he always tells stories about fishing and golf.

Julie’s high school boyfriend earned legendary fame in the family by asking Frank, in the middle of a golf story, “Excuse me sir, how many games of golf do you think you have played in a lifetime?  Frank thought about it and answered.  Not missing a beat, he continued with his golf story, telling us about a game played earlier that year, why his second shot on the eighth hole went awry.  “I was a trifle too forward in my stance.”  David interrupted him again, “Excuse me sir, how many games do you think you played during the Reagan administration?”  This time Pop knew that some one was pulling his leg.  He laughed. We all laughed.  I laughed so hard I had to pull our van to the side of the road.

Dreaming Golf

On this trip, I met Pop at my sister JoAn’s home.  JoAn and her husband John and I had agreed to meet there and to go out to dinner.  Pop wrangled an invitation to join us.  With good grace, JoAn understood that when it comes to golf and seeing his boys, Pop gets quite excited and is likely to stay up past his usual bedtime. 

Shortly after Pop was served his martini, he interrupted the conversation to observe that he had dreamed about playing golf last night. 

“It was a challenging par five.  When I looked down the fairway, I saw that it was totally blocked by trees and blown-downs.  It must have been a helluva storm.  I was about to give up on the hole when a course ranger signaled that I should hit up toward the highway.  I hit a serviceable drive up to the road, but it rolled past and down the ditch.  I kicked it out of the ditch and hit my second shot down the hill, near where the ladies were at the picnic table.  I remember thinking it was strange that they would allow picnicking on the golf course, but they were very nice about it and let me play through.  I was as surprised as you are when my third shot hit green.  It was a tough lie, just at the far end of table underneath the sitting bench.” 

Knowing that he was left-handed, I could visualize the shot.  It would be hard to swing with the ball under the bench; harder to maintain your composure with old ladies in lawn dresses and straw hats watching this curious game.  Even though I could figure that the distance to the green was 150 yards, after allowing for the detour up to the road and the second shot downhill to the picnic table, it was hard to visualize Frank’s four iron actually making the green from that lie.

He told me, however, that it did make the green and he finished the hole with a fairly standard two putt.  “My first putt didn’t even come close to the lip, but I made the second putt fairly handily and was happy to get away with a par.”

I listened to the story and thought about the hole.  I then said, “Did you count a stroke for the foot wedgie?”  Frank thought about it for a bit and then said, “Well actually, I hadn’t.  But a six was still a good score on that hole considering the blown-downs!” 

I agreed and then I realized we had reached a new event horizon.  For all who enjoy hearing Frank’s golfing stories, it is now not enough to remember the games he played in the 70’s or in the Reagan administration or even in a lifetime, you now need to know and remember (or at least listen to) the games he has played in his dreams.

Playing pool

We went to dinner at a local sport bar. JoAn immediately challenged Pop to a game of pool.  He graciously agreed.  He played gamely and I watched out of the corner of my eye. I wondered how painful it would be to play the game at his age with his vision when we could both remember how he shot when he was younger. 

I first played pool with Frank in 1962, forty years ago, when Dave was at the University of Oregon.  Pop had played pool in his youth and still had the same stroke that he had learned thirty years earlier.  He shot hard, harder than he needed to, but most the time, he shot true.  He had given up the game after he was married.  He had also given up smoking and drinking and poker. Those games of his youth were a closed chapter when he married a Norwegian Lutheran and became a family man, father of six.

I asked JoAn, “Who was ahead?”  She answered, “We don’t keep score.  It is just a game and he is on his feet, willing to play.” Though I did not doubt her thoughts, I doubted that they were shared by Pop.  “Just a game?  We don’t keep score?”

Later, I asked Pop, “How was pool?”  He said, “It was alright, but I don’t understand JoAn.”  “She just hits the cue ball, doesn’t watch where it goes and doesn’t seem to care who wins.”

Playing Golf

We had agreed to play golf in Sutherlin, Oregon, more than an hour south of Eugene and near my sister Jan’s home, where Lillian, my mother and Frank’s first wife, now lived.

Frank made the tee time for 8:20 am and figured that if I picked him up at 6:00 am, we would have time to have breakfast before golf.

Though he had been logging on just two days earlier, had been home late from that trip (six hours of work; two hours up; two hours back from the Oregon Cascades), had his golfing dream that night, was up late with Jo and John shooting pool past his bedtime, I knew when I pulled into his driveway at 6:00 am, he would be at the door, dressed for the day, with his golf clubs, ready to go.  He was.

We drove to Sutherlin in the fog.  I suggested stopping for breakfast just south of Eugene.  Frank demurred.  He said, “Well, we do have my thermos of coffee, fresh made this morning and we would not want to miss our tee time.” 

On the way, we talked.  He said, “It looks like you will winter well.”  I agreed and told him that I was intent on losing weight. [For family on the East Coast and others not familiar with farming, one of the great dangers for cattle was starvation in the winter.  Even with proper hay and good silage, there was always the risk that by March or April some thinner weaker cows, calves, sheep or lambs would succumb to winter conditions. In the Spring, Pop would change his comment to me to observe, “It looks like you have wintered well.”]  I asked, “What do you weigh?”  He answered, “Well, it varies.  About 192, some times 193.”  On his six foot frame, that sounded pretty good to me.

I asked, “What songs do you sing when you are driving?  Do you remember the songs of your youth?”  He looked at me a little quizzically and said, “Of course, I remember songs.”  “How could anyone forget?”  “What songs?” I asked.   “Some sad, some glad.”  “Generally, I don’t sing much anymore because the songs make me sad, but when I am tired and driving down the mountain, I will sing to stay awake.  Gilbert and Sullivan, I think it was the Pirates of Pinzance.  ‘Oh, polish up the handle of the big brass door and never go to sea and you will be an Admiral of the King’s navy.’  “I performed in those plays when I was in high school.” [HMS Pinafore, “I polished up that handle so carefullee; That now I am the ruler of the Queen's Navee!”]

We had breakfast.  As usual, Pop flirted with the waitress a little. We played golf.

It was very foggy and a bit on the cool side.  Pop had on long johns, added an extra layer of shirt and a jacket.  He lamented that he had forgotten his gloves. 

Even without the fog, I was accustomed to spotting Pop’s golf ball since he could never (in last several years) see where his ball had landed.  He played all 18 holes, in the fog, though it lifted by the time we were done.