About thirty years ago my dad picked me up on a Saturday morning and we went to breakfast. Something was wrong with the Oldman; he wasn’t his jovial self.
I got in the Dadillac and the radio was off and the cabin wasn’t filled with Marlboro smoke. Usually, I’d get into the car with a greeting…
“Good morning you silly son of a bitch! Is Rachel Welch still asleep in your bed?” Or something just as goofy and stupid.
As the morning turned into the afternoon and we went from breakfast to errands to a ride into the city for lunch, I realized something I never knew about my dad.
He was scared.
He was in his fifties and some of his colleagues and older friends were passing away at a faster clip. He was scared of his own mortality and he was scared he’d be all alone when he died.
My dad told me that the next weekend when we get together, we were going to visit Mr. Dove after breakfast.
Mr. Dove was a mentor to my dad in the railroad industry. My dad said that Bill Dove was the best draftsman and engineer he ever met. I met Mr. Dove when I was a little boy and I’d visit my dad at work.
He was taller than my dad and always had a three-piece suit on with a watch chain hanging across his vest. Mr. Dove was a Canadian, but had a slight British accent. Hanging over his desk and draft table was a picture of him and several other Canuck soldiers holding a nazi flag. They all had victorious smiles on their faces.
“How many nazis did you kill Mr. Dove?”
“Well Master Shepley, I don’t look at it as killing nazis, I just put the poor bastards out of their misery.”
From that day on, Bill Dove was my hero.
My dad would often invite his railroad buddies and their wives over for cocktails and dinner. When I was in high school, Mr. Dove felt it was time for me to learn how to be the bartender for the railroad men.
I told you that Mr. Dove wore a three-piece suit at the office. When he walked into 220 South Lombard, he looked completely different. Pressed slacks, freshly shined penny loafers, a flamboyant sportscoat, a turtleneck that matched one of the colors in his flashy jacket and a medallion that hung several inches lower than his neck. He never wore the same chain or suit jacket when he visited, never.
Upon entry and after greeting the usual crowd, he would elegantly bark out, “Where is the younger Shepley with my gin martini?”
Did I mention Mr. Dove was my hero? My dad worked with James Fucking Bond.
Back to the next weekend and our visit to the nursing home to see Mr. Dove. Again that Saturday morning, my dad was very quiet. We finished breakfast and drove down to Tinley Park. Laying in an unkept bed with his hair askew was my hero.
“Well Don… you brought the younger Shepley this week as promised, but I don’t see a cocktail shaker in his grip…”
That was the last time that I saw Mr. Dove. No fancy threads, no war stories, no arguments over clean drawings and blueprints and no gin martinis. When we left the nursing home, my Oldman handed me the keys to the Dadillac…
“You’ve got to drive us home Moose!”
My dad cried several times on the way home. My dad was going through a sad period in his life. All of “his people” were going to heaven and he was full of fear.
That day I saw my hero like I never saw him before, helpless and lackadaisical. That day I saw my other hero, my dad, in a different light. It was the first time that I ever saw the mountain of a man scared.
Mr. Dove died a month later. He had a burgundy sportscoat and a burnt orange turtleneck on at the wake. Rosary in his hand, medallion on his sternum and a war metal pinned to his lapel.
I know how to make a proper gin martini because of Mr. Dove.
I’m at the age where my father was when he started to fear mortality. I’m not quite there yet, but I am starting to lose mentors, older friends and relatives. Though I don’t fear my mortality. I just want to get Hazel to eighteen and move to the forest or Edgewater Beach.
I will end today’s Morning Chalkboard with a fitting earworm.
“All our times have come
Here but now they're gone
Seasons don't fear the reaper
Nor do the wind, the sun or the rain
We can be like they are
Come on, baby (don't fear the reaper)
Baby, take my hand (don't fear the reaper)
We'll be able to fly (don't fear the reaper)….”
Have a glorious Sunday and a strong work week. If you are somewhere nice for spring break, blow me!
I’ll be at work balancing corn, soybeans and feeder cattle upon my shoulders…
