I Bet Mr. Browning Never Cried Either
My dad has an impressive collection of guns stored in the downstairs guest bedroom closet. When mildly coaxed, he’s happy to escort you down there and take each piece out one by one, show it to you and explain what year it’s from and what the significance behind it is. Mostly, he collects rifles and shotguns but he also has a small handgun collection in the nearby chest-of-drawers. His favorites are the old west pieces, but he also has a modern day sniper rifle and a Luger, so it’s a fairly varied collection.
Now, my dad isn’t a hunter. In fact, as far as I know, he’s never even shot a gun. It’s the history and iconography of firearms he enjoys. The best part about getting him to show you his collection is the way he talks about each piece. He’ll slide an old Browning out of its case and say, “Now I thought this was a real pretty gun.” He might as well be talking about a car or a credenza. But in his eyes you can see him slip away into this other place. He looks down the barrel of a Winchester Model 1887 and imagines himself the sheriff of some dusty town with a tumultuous past and uneasy future.
In reality, he was the mayor of my hometown of Tarrant, AL. But there his duties pretty much consisted of balancing the budget, keeping fireworks sales outside the city lines and removing a huge box of glass from a constituent’s curb when the garbage men refused to pick it up. Rarely, if ever, was he awoken in the middle of the night to confront the ne’er-do-wells who had just burned down the local saloon that for years had been owned and operated by the sweetest, most truehearted call girl this side of the Mississippi. Still, to this day, whenever he walks into the Tarrant High School football stadium on a Friday night to catch the game (even though he moved to a golf community on the other side of Birmingham when his term ended) there’s an air of respect that follows him, even without the hat, horse and firearm.
On a few occasions, I’ve asked him when he plans to get some kind of rack or display case for his guns and his answer is never specific, “Ehhhh…I don’t know. I don’t even know if I’m gonna keep all of these.” I used to think that my dad’s reticence to share his thoughts on his own interests meant that he either didn’t put a lot of thought into them or he just didn’t feel like opening up to me. I’ve since come to the conclusion that my dad and I are just too much alike.
In one sense, we’re both ashamed of our obsessions and fear that they are signs of weakness, or at the very least, that they create an opportunity for others to laugh at us. I learned a valuable lesson when I wallpapered my entire room with pictures of Corey Haim at age 13. Two older brothers and an older sister don’t let that kind of thing go by uncommented. If my dad lovingly displays those guns where anyone can see them, who’s to stop his friends and family from constantly cracking wise about what he really plans to do with his retirement, and in the same breath, reminding him that he’s 65, it’s 2006 and he lives in a gated community with no villains or houses of ill-repute anywhere to be found.
But on a more subconscious level, I think my dad and I also fancy ourselves secret superheroes who simply haven’t been called to duty yet. And as such, we can’t let the outside world know too much about what our hearts and minds truly hold dear, for fear that it could one day be used against us.
Unfortunately, I’m not as strong or as internal as my dad. Plenty of people have seen me cry, and each time it happens it’s as though another chain of kryptonite has been dropped around my neck. However, I’ve never seen my dad cry — not even when his father passed away — and up until recently, I had never even heard of him crying.
That is, until my brother Chris disappeared for about 12 hours a couple of years ago. The last time anyone had seen him was at about midnight at a bar in Tarrant following the high school football game. He’d had a couple of beers with friends but didn’t feel well so he drove home. His wife was already in Athens, GA for the Auburn/Georgia football game the following day and he was supposed to meet up with my dad early the next morning to head to the game as well. He never showed up or called.
Now, you have to understand, my family is extremely wired. Everyone has a cell phone and they’re constantly on them: “I’m headed your way, I’ll be there in five minutes...” “What did you have for lunch? How was that? Oh, I had Wendy’s. No, the one on Southside…” etc. My brother can always be found via his cell or his Blackberry, so it was very unusual for him to be out of contact. My entire family was mobilized within a couple of hours trying to find him: they called hospitals, called all of his friends, retraced his steps, but nothing. The later it got, the more panicked everyone became. My dad was holding it all together, always thinking of the next thing they could do to try to find him. But by noon it was clear that something was seriously wrong. My dad drove along the main highway route that connected Tarrant to Crestwood where my brother lived, looking along the side of the road for his car, or something else.
Finally, at around 1:30, Chris called. Apparently, by the time he got home the previous night he was doubling over with stomach pains. He didn’t want to call anyone due to the late hour, and instead of going to a hospital, he simply drove himself to the diagnostic clinic downtown where he was the administrator and knew there would be a small medical staff on duty. They gave him some medication that knocked him out until the next day, when he awoke to a flurry of messages, each more desperate than the last. Slightly annoyed, he called our brother Chuck and asked why everyone was freaking out. Chuck tried to explain, but finally gave up and just put my dad on the phone. As soon as he heard Chris’ voice, my dad started crying. No other explanation was needed. My dad had believed for a short time that his son might actually be dead, and that was it.
I was in New York by this time so I didn’t hear this story until I went home for Thanksgiving the next month. When Chris described it, he said that hearing my dad cry was one of the worst moments of his life. And to be honest, just hearing about it made it one of the worst of mine. It's still disturbing now. It's like being Lois Lane in Superman 2, watching the newly powerless Superman get beaten up by hillbillies in a greasy spoon. Superheroes aren't super simply because they can and do save people, it's because their mere presence is calming and makes you feel safe. My dad's role in my family is to be inpenetrable and unaffected. He's "The Wolf." He handles things. If he's shaken, anything can happen.
Is there more dignity in withholding your feelings and storing your passions away in the closet of a room where no one ever sleeps? Maybe not. But I would still trade my myriad indiscriminate tears for my dad’s specific, shattering ones. Because when you really look at it, who reveals more: the girl who cries twelve times a month over a variety of things, or the man who cries once in his life over something that could have destroyed him? In the end, I know I’ll never be as Clint Eastwood as my dad. Hell, I don't even like guns. But I am man enough to tip my hat to him and say, “It’s ok that we don’t really talk. I hear you.”
Now, my dad isn’t a hunter. In fact, as far as I know, he’s never even shot a gun. It’s the history and iconography of firearms he enjoys. The best part about getting him to show you his collection is the way he talks about each piece. He’ll slide an old Browning out of its case and say, “Now I thought this was a real pretty gun.” He might as well be talking about a car or a credenza. But in his eyes you can see him slip away into this other place. He looks down the barrel of a Winchester Model 1887 and imagines himself the sheriff of some dusty town with a tumultuous past and uneasy future.
In reality, he was the mayor of my hometown of Tarrant, AL. But there his duties pretty much consisted of balancing the budget, keeping fireworks sales outside the city lines and removing a huge box of glass from a constituent’s curb when the garbage men refused to pick it up. Rarely, if ever, was he awoken in the middle of the night to confront the ne’er-do-wells who had just burned down the local saloon that for years had been owned and operated by the sweetest, most truehearted call girl this side of the Mississippi. Still, to this day, whenever he walks into the Tarrant High School football stadium on a Friday night to catch the game (even though he moved to a golf community on the other side of Birmingham when his term ended) there’s an air of respect that follows him, even without the hat, horse and firearm.
On a few occasions, I’ve asked him when he plans to get some kind of rack or display case for his guns and his answer is never specific, “Ehhhh…I don’t know. I don’t even know if I’m gonna keep all of these.” I used to think that my dad’s reticence to share his thoughts on his own interests meant that he either didn’t put a lot of thought into them or he just didn’t feel like opening up to me. I’ve since come to the conclusion that my dad and I are just too much alike.
In one sense, we’re both ashamed of our obsessions and fear that they are signs of weakness, or at the very least, that they create an opportunity for others to laugh at us. I learned a valuable lesson when I wallpapered my entire room with pictures of Corey Haim at age 13. Two older brothers and an older sister don’t let that kind of thing go by uncommented. If my dad lovingly displays those guns where anyone can see them, who’s to stop his friends and family from constantly cracking wise about what he really plans to do with his retirement, and in the same breath, reminding him that he’s 65, it’s 2006 and he lives in a gated community with no villains or houses of ill-repute anywhere to be found.
But on a more subconscious level, I think my dad and I also fancy ourselves secret superheroes who simply haven’t been called to duty yet. And as such, we can’t let the outside world know too much about what our hearts and minds truly hold dear, for fear that it could one day be used against us.
Unfortunately, I’m not as strong or as internal as my dad. Plenty of people have seen me cry, and each time it happens it’s as though another chain of kryptonite has been dropped around my neck. However, I’ve never seen my dad cry — not even when his father passed away — and up until recently, I had never even heard of him crying.
That is, until my brother Chris disappeared for about 12 hours a couple of years ago. The last time anyone had seen him was at about midnight at a bar in Tarrant following the high school football game. He’d had a couple of beers with friends but didn’t feel well so he drove home. His wife was already in Athens, GA for the Auburn/Georgia football game the following day and he was supposed to meet up with my dad early the next morning to head to the game as well. He never showed up or called.
Now, you have to understand, my family is extremely wired. Everyone has a cell phone and they’re constantly on them: “I’m headed your way, I’ll be there in five minutes...” “What did you have for lunch? How was that? Oh, I had Wendy’s. No, the one on Southside…” etc. My brother can always be found via his cell or his Blackberry, so it was very unusual for him to be out of contact. My entire family was mobilized within a couple of hours trying to find him: they called hospitals, called all of his friends, retraced his steps, but nothing. The later it got, the more panicked everyone became. My dad was holding it all together, always thinking of the next thing they could do to try to find him. But by noon it was clear that something was seriously wrong. My dad drove along the main highway route that connected Tarrant to Crestwood where my brother lived, looking along the side of the road for his car, or something else.
Finally, at around 1:30, Chris called. Apparently, by the time he got home the previous night he was doubling over with stomach pains. He didn’t want to call anyone due to the late hour, and instead of going to a hospital, he simply drove himself to the diagnostic clinic downtown where he was the administrator and knew there would be a small medical staff on duty. They gave him some medication that knocked him out until the next day, when he awoke to a flurry of messages, each more desperate than the last. Slightly annoyed, he called our brother Chuck and asked why everyone was freaking out. Chuck tried to explain, but finally gave up and just put my dad on the phone. As soon as he heard Chris’ voice, my dad started crying. No other explanation was needed. My dad had believed for a short time that his son might actually be dead, and that was it.
I was in New York by this time so I didn’t hear this story until I went home for Thanksgiving the next month. When Chris described it, he said that hearing my dad cry was one of the worst moments of his life. And to be honest, just hearing about it made it one of the worst of mine. It's still disturbing now. It's like being Lois Lane in Superman 2, watching the newly powerless Superman get beaten up by hillbillies in a greasy spoon. Superheroes aren't super simply because they can and do save people, it's because their mere presence is calming and makes you feel safe. My dad's role in my family is to be inpenetrable and unaffected. He's "The Wolf." He handles things. If he's shaken, anything can happen.
Is there more dignity in withholding your feelings and storing your passions away in the closet of a room where no one ever sleeps? Maybe not. But I would still trade my myriad indiscriminate tears for my dad’s specific, shattering ones. Because when you really look at it, who reveals more: the girl who cries twelve times a month over a variety of things, or the man who cries once in his life over something that could have destroyed him? In the end, I know I’ll never be as Clint Eastwood as my dad. Hell, I don't even like guns. But I am man enough to tip my hat to him and say, “It’s ok that we don’t really talk. I hear you.”
posted by Carol at 4:05 PM
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