A Father’s Protection

Whenever Dad would start on one of his tirades, we would try to find closets and hide under the beds. We would either be under the bed alone, or there might be two or three of us children. And Dad had these humongous hands with stovepipes for fingers and big forearms. So, when we scampered under the bed, we held hands and prayed. Sometimes we’d be under different beds praying, asking God to make it stop. And then while we’re under the bed and Dad’s in the room, and we start look at each wondering who he was going to get this time cause he always got somebody. Dad would do this thing where his arm and his hand would be reaching trying to grab onto someone. This huge hairy hand and forearm would grab at the air like a bad horror movie. He’d find somebody’s arm or leg and slowly drag that child out while we children were screaming. It was just as terrifying watching your brother or sister being dragged from under the safety of the bed, as it was to be the person to receive the beating. What’s really fascinating is that when we’re praying under the bed, I do remember this kind of calm presence. I do attribute it to the presence of God. It was not ego-syntonic. It was something outside of myself. I don’t think I was disassociating. But it was like this calmness, and his hand would come under the bed, and you’re like “Oh my gosh, God, please…”

I contrast those experiences from what I wanted from my Dad. Mom could con him sometimes, to take one of the kids to go pick up his paycheck when he was driving the big rig. I couldn’t have been more than seven years old at the time. It must have been August because it was hot and humid. The reason I remember was my dad commented on the heat when he was driving and sweat was beading on his forehead and up and down his arms. We rode in the 18-wheeler cab section and bobtailed from Mount Pleasant to Greensburg on Route 30. There was a bridge there and I think it is still there. And a Sinclair Gas Station just down in the hollow as you got off the exit by the bridge. I still remember this gas station because it had the green brontosaurus for its logo on the sign. As we head into this Sinclair Gas Station dad pulls the rig to the pumps for diesel fuel. The gas station has two mechanic bays and a separate area for the customers to walk in and pay for their gas. Dad gives me a nickel and motions to the soda machine for a bottle of pop. This was a real treat, because first of all we didn’t get out often being on the farm and the idea of a bottle of pop was like heaven. I begin to walk toward the pop machine while dad gases up the truck. As I’m getting my pop, I notice two rather large German Shepherds. And one of them is chained, the other one isn’t. And as a farm kid, the only experience I’ve had with dogs is our beagle, Bootsie. She was just as friendly as could be. I didn’t really think of dogs being a threat or dangerous. These were big dogs and I get my pop and walk over, and start to pet one of them. Just then there’s a semi-truck coming into the station. I heard this rumbling sound, and I just assumed it was the truck. And when I went to turn back around, the dog springs towards me. I think I mistook the dog’s growl for a semi coming into one of the diesel bays to refuel. As I reflect on it now, no one told me that you don’t pet dogs in that kind of weather. In that one leap, the dog knocks me to the ground. I can still see that pop flying out of my hand, kind of in slow motion. As a child we didn’t get pop very often except at Christmas. Funny the things you think about in the midst of a crisis. And the dog is trying to scratch at my eyes and go for my throat. As this is happening, I am trying to protect my face with my hands and arms, opening and closing my eyes to see where the German Shepherd is trying to bite me. At a moment when my eyes were open I can see the shape of a large hand moving just above the neck of the dog. I know that hand. That’s my dad’s hand, the same hand that came after us when we were hiding under the bed! I’ve never seen anything more beautiful in all my life. My dad’s hand grabs onto the scruff of the German Shepherd’s neck and he picks the dog up like a rag doll with one hand. He starts to shake it, still with one hand. And through my scratched face, dog saliva and sweat and tears I can see the dog is concerned for its own welfare. The dog starts yelping and my dad throws it off to the side. The gas station owner comes out asking my dad, “What are you doing to my dog?” And if there was ever a time I wanted my dad to swear at someone it was this clueless man. My Dad says, “What the hell do you mean, what am I doing to your dog? Look what your dog did to my son!” I’m layin’ there, all scratched and bleeding. I managed to protect my throat, but had my dad not intervened, I don’t think I would have been able to prevent much more serious injury. But when I think of my Dad, it is one of the best memories I have. He showed me he was capable of taking the power of who he was as a man, and use it for what I think it was intended. I don’t have a whole lot of recollections like that, but in that one experience I realized that male strength could bring health and life through protection and not just death and destruction.