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Aug. 14th, 2009
All the good cowboys have daddy issues
Aug. 14th, 2009 05:13 pmBefore running off to join the circus at the impressoinable age of 47, the Old Man used to have a peculair saying, one often shared with me exclusive after he had had a few - "God bless a husky-voiced woman, Son... one smart enough to buy her own drinks and honest enough to tell you she ain't lookin' for a nice guy!"
He'd conclude this prayer with a wink of an 'amen', followed by a quick check of both shoulders, just in case he should find either the Devil or Mom waiting there. I was twelve when he finally left us to pursue his life long dream of becoming a carnival strong man. For a few years there the only word I got from him were the occasional post card. Snapshots of pickled two-headed babies in jars, a chess playing monkey smoking a cigarette, a man in a top hat and goggles climbing down the barrel of a massive cannon - ominously pointing towards the moon. On the back were drunken messages so poorly scrawled in their haste that to this day each remain indecipherable.
All except for one that is.
A photo of my dad I received when I was 17. In it his receding hairline was shaved to a shine and the academic beard he often left untended was now sheared into a respectfully waxed handle bar mustache. Though the gut that had haunted him since my birth remained, he had beefed up consideribly around it and his physique was only amplified by the ridiculous leopard skin tunic he wore. In his bulging arms he hugged what appeared to be the Tattooed Lady. Bikini clad and combat booted, unapologetically wide hipped and broad chested, with a gallery of sea greens and cherry red monsters dancing along her pale skin. She wore wing tipped sunglasses and a self-conscious smirk, her head rested along the black wool jungle of Dad's painfully obvious puffed out chest. In the background the silhouettes of tents rose and fell creating the illusion of waves, a skeletal ferris wheel rose behind them like a mechanical sunset.
Naturally Dad was giving that notorious sermon wink of his.
On the back, neatly typed across a page that was cut out and glued to the postcard, the familiar catch phrase prayer ~ "God bless a husky-voiced woman, Son... one smart enough to buy her own drinks and honest enough to tell you she ain't lookin' for a nice guy!"
That was the last word I ever got from him.
Don't know what happened to the Old Man after that. Maybe that was his way of saying goodbye for real this time. Maybe something bad happened or something good. Don't really care to be honest - (though I am obliged to confess a passing curiosity whenever I hear word that the circus is back in town). The truth is that all I ever really needed to learn from the man is written right there on that last card of his.
He'd conclude this prayer with a wink of an 'amen', followed by a quick check of both shoulders, just in case he should find either the Devil or Mom waiting there. I was twelve when he finally left us to pursue his life long dream of becoming a carnival strong man. For a few years there the only word I got from him were the occasional post card. Snapshots of pickled two-headed babies in jars, a chess playing monkey smoking a cigarette, a man in a top hat and goggles climbing down the barrel of a massive cannon - ominously pointing towards the moon. On the back were drunken messages so poorly scrawled in their haste that to this day each remain indecipherable.
All except for one that is.
A photo of my dad I received when I was 17. In it his receding hairline was shaved to a shine and the academic beard he often left untended was now sheared into a respectfully waxed handle bar mustache. Though the gut that had haunted him since my birth remained, he had beefed up consideribly around it and his physique was only amplified by the ridiculous leopard skin tunic he wore. In his bulging arms he hugged what appeared to be the Tattooed Lady. Bikini clad and combat booted, unapologetically wide hipped and broad chested, with a gallery of sea greens and cherry red monsters dancing along her pale skin. She wore wing tipped sunglasses and a self-conscious smirk, her head rested along the black wool jungle of Dad's painfully obvious puffed out chest. In the background the silhouettes of tents rose and fell creating the illusion of waves, a skeletal ferris wheel rose behind them like a mechanical sunset.
Naturally Dad was giving that notorious sermon wink of his.
On the back, neatly typed across a page that was cut out and glued to the postcard, the familiar catch phrase prayer ~ "God bless a husky-voiced woman, Son... one smart enough to buy her own drinks and honest enough to tell you she ain't lookin' for a nice guy!"
That was the last word I ever got from him.
Don't know what happened to the Old Man after that. Maybe that was his way of saying goodbye for real this time. Maybe something bad happened or something good. Don't really care to be honest - (though I am obliged to confess a passing curiosity whenever I hear word that the circus is back in town). The truth is that all I ever really needed to learn from the man is written right there on that last card of his.