My dad died when I was a senior in high school, fall of 1994.
A theme of my life is using the things he used and, in some cases, wearing the things he wore. In my novel Highway Bleeding, “Old Blue” is a kind of character. It’s the protagonist’s old Ford F-250 leftover from his father. Old Blue is real. It’s sitting in my garage, 100 feet from me now.
Another thing of my dad’s that I use is a particular flannel. Specifically at Thanksgiving and Christmas. The flannel is–realizing I have no grasp of color schemes or even remembrance of primary colors–plaid teal, fuchsia, maybe a little blue and perhaps some mustard. It coagulates to form a holiday spectacle, but I wear it every Christmas day. It is my dad’s.
The power of symbol will forever transcend utility. Those who say men are not sensitive do not understand that a man has a soft spot for meaning.
When all else is done–the wood-cutting, the bird hunting, the straight shaving and the lawn–a man will sit and weep in his den, remembering his father, alive or dead, and his father’s power that still is or once was.
