As a man, I hammered nails on a job-site overlooking Base Lake. An east wind rose off the waves, off the beach, rocks, trees, and birds rode it in a circling flock. As I prepared to leave work, I wiped down each tool.
I remember Dad finding his hammer in the mud by our fence. He believed I dropped it in the snow. “Hammers don't grow legs and walk,” he said, and hands that built decks also tossed me around like a scrap two-by-four.
He had me clean it with steel wool and WD 40. As he inspected my work, he spoke of one Thanksgiving in 1938. His college band played at a Lion’s football game. It was so cold the reed in his mouthpiece split, and he worried his lips would crack and bleed.
Once, he opened his case, removed his horn, and cradled …show more content…
Men laughed because he couldn't read music. Laughed at his Polish accent, and the way his undersized suit pinched at his shoulders. He learned to read music, to speak without remembering his native tongue.
Holding my hammer at Base Lake, I looked at the curved metal claw. It resembled the mouthpiece of dad's clarinet. I remember his lips pressed in the center, the corners limp, as if he forced himself to imagine the route his breath would take through his horn.
How did he learn it was easier to teach his son to take a punch than to teach him music or Polish? I pretended to be free from fear as we worked. When he practiced, I watched his eyes follow the last note like a carpenter checking his cut.
Before I was drafted, he accused me of being weak because I didn't live through ‘The Great Depression,’ unload sacks of grain at thirteen, or postpone marriage to fight. "You will not run to Canada," he said as we walked Sandy Point. We stopped and faced each other.
There we stood, eye to eye with our anger a fine line of heat between us. Abruptly, a marsh bird flapped and flew from its cattail perch, a red blaze on its wings. We turned our heads and watched the red wing as it vanished behind the juncture of pine shadows and
I remember Dad finding his hammer in the mud by our fence. He believed I dropped it in the snow. “Hammers don't grow legs and walk,” he said, and hands that built decks also tossed me around like a scrap two-by-four.
He had me clean it with steel wool and WD 40. As he inspected my work, he spoke of one Thanksgiving in 1938. His college band played at a Lion’s football game. It was so cold the reed in his mouthpiece split, and he worried his lips would crack and bleed.
Once, he opened his case, removed his horn, and cradled …show more content…
Men laughed because he couldn't read music. Laughed at his Polish accent, and the way his undersized suit pinched at his shoulders. He learned to read music, to speak without remembering his native tongue.
Holding my hammer at Base Lake, I looked at the curved metal claw. It resembled the mouthpiece of dad's clarinet. I remember his lips pressed in the center, the corners limp, as if he forced himself to imagine the route his breath would take through his horn.
How did he learn it was easier to teach his son to take a punch than to teach him music or Polish? I pretended to be free from fear as we worked. When he practiced, I watched his eyes follow the last note like a carpenter checking his cut.
Before I was drafted, he accused me of being weak because I didn't live through ‘The Great Depression,’ unload sacks of grain at thirteen, or postpone marriage to fight. "You will not run to Canada," he said as we walked Sandy Point. We stopped and faced each other.
There we stood, eye to eye with our anger a fine line of heat between us. Abruptly, a marsh bird flapped and flew from its cattail perch, a red blaze on its wings. We turned our heads and watched the red wing as it vanished behind the juncture of pine shadows and