It had happened before, but it was a work in progress and some adjustments would happen, many times over again. The sculpture was not nearly finished and the untrained artist would make many changes before he allowed it to dry and set. The work was still leaning, still shifting and was just not right yet. Finally though, at some point he would have to be done. He’d finally stand rubbing his hands on a wet towel, back up to look at his creation with a critical eye and announce to himself reluctantly that he was finished. He would always question his creation, thinking that there was more he could have done, more to smooth, more to massage into place. The stance would still be off a little, the head just not quite set at the right angle, but he would realize that at some point he would have to stop, that he would need to walk away……
****
I saw him coming around the corner and ran excitedly to meet him as he drove up to the house. My small group of rag tag friends took off after me like dogs after a fox. It seems like we ran to everything and everywhere back then. The old Ford Galaxy that rolled to a stop was dusty and hot. When I rested my hand on it without thinking, I got a quick burning sensation that I was fast to react to. The hood was like an oven partly because of the old engine and partly due to the late July weather we were having. It was sunny, cloudless and blistering hot with the temperature close to a hundred, even at this time in the afternoon.“You could fry an egg on there Jimmy” my Dad said with a tired smile as he slowly stuck his stiff legs out the door, grabbing his lunch pail on the way out.He shut the car door, and then like so many times before, opened it back up and then shut it again so it would catch this time. Exhausted, he stood there, still grinning at me.“Yes sir! I sure could!” I grinned back, rubbing my hand casually and acting like it didn’t hurt. “Dad, dad! Guess What?” I all but shouted to him, barely able to hold it in any longer. I was positively bursting at the seams with pride.
“Well, let’s see….I dunno….what?” he said while looking around at the sea of faces that had run panting up the driveway behind me. “Looks like something big though …… something exciting” he smiled.As he waited for my answer he sat his aluminum lunch pail down with a clank, leaned his hip against the car and crossed his arms. At 40 or so, my dad was still in great physical shape. He was a former Marine and was now a brick mason by trade. Big arms, wide shoulders, not an ounce of fat and just plain strong. He was damn impressive, especially so, for a boy who wanted more than anything in the world to impress him. Decades later, the knees would not work anymore and the back would betray him, but those days were a long ways off for the man who leaned against that car, on that day. Dressed in worn khaki pants with a threadbare work shirt and work boots, he was dusty, sweaty, bone tired and no doubt hungry as a horse.
“Yep, we’ve been racin’ all day and I won every race, everyone of ‘em! Long races and short races, all of us at once and head to head races. And I won every one of them! I beat everybody!” I blurted out without taking a breath.
While I was describing my glorious victories, several boys had looked down or sideways quickly. Something my dad saw without looking at them, something he saw while never breaking his eye contact with me, and his tired smile never changed or faltered.
“Well, sounds like you guys have been busy today,” he said still grinning and looking away from me finally to scan the crew cut boys gaggled around in a small scruffy bunch.We all looked stamped out of the same machine, white t-shirts, blue jeans and converse tennis shoes. The only difference being a few who always, always, had one of their shoestrings untied. Occasionally, on a particularly hot day, there might be a few of us who took their shirts off showing either the beginings of a washboard stomach or a few too many cookies and ice cream cones.It was true that some were a little older, some a little younger, some skinny as a rail and some starting to fill out but for the most part we were peas in a pod.
I was about 11 or 12 on that summer day and I had begun to exhibit some real strength and physical ability lately. I was also, literally, full of myself that late afternoon. This wasn’t about just being proud of winning and telling my Dad. No, I’m very sure that there was a glimmer of cockiness in my eye.
“Also sounds like we have an unbeatable champion here, huh?” he winked this at me and then glanced around at the boys gathered in a semicircle, his eyebrows raised dramatically for effect.My grin had to have faded, or at least frozen a little into a stiff smile, when my dad said that. I felt a little sting from his light hearted mocking and maybe the feeling of a little betrayal too.
Brad Deskins from over on Coronado Drive, the next street over, took a half step forward out of the crowd. Brad , who was a little overweight and constantly beet red in the face, snorted “He’s not that good Mr. Wilson!”
“Beat you didn’t I….Beat everybody” I asked and answered myself very matter of factly. My dad’s teasing remark was still burning me a little under the skin and it was me against the world now.
“Yeah well, you won, but our race was right down to the wire” Brett Parker announced. He was a small kid whose furry little burr haircut always had a little wax on it to make it stand straight up in front. “It was really close”, he reaffirmed, while looking up at my dad with his sincere and serious eyes.
“I won by at least 10 yards Brett.” I said with an almost bored confidence.
“Yeah, but you jumped the gun in our race…..” mumbled Dave, a quiet kid who never had much to say about anything. His voice started out excited but trailed off quickly and he quickly began studying his shoes like he had never seen anything quite so interesting.
“Ha! he did not Davey!” laughed my best friend Rick. “But, Mr. Wilson, he actually did cheat when he and I raced” he laughed good naturedly, poking me in the ribs.
“Aww heck, I beat all of you!” I said triumphantly. “Beat everybody here. Heck I even beat my dad a week ago, didn’t I dad?!” driving the point home that I was indeed the champion, but still wanting his testimony to the fact.
“Yeahhh…..yeah, you know now that I think about it, I guess you did” he thought out loud to himself, staring at me now and seemingly trying to remember.Although I didn’t appreciate it at the time, he understood human nature well and was sensitive to the need for subtlety at times. He was a complex man made of many different angles and textures, a man who defied any simple description. Many people had preconceived notions or perceptions of him and they could not have been more wrong. He was a prodigious reader of many kinds of books, a sketch artist, a painter, a sculptor and potter.On the other hand, he was macho way before that became a popular and overused word. He could be sensitive when the situation dictated and he could be damn near heartless when that was required. He had dexterity and presence, both physically and mentally.
In total, he was many things, some good and some bad, some constructive and some destructive. But above all, he had humility and he was genuine. Two things that he put a very high value on.The ongoing battle for him of course was controlling this little kid in front of him. This kid he had helped to create, this boy who wanted to please and impress him, and who so much resembled himself at that same age. These characteristics of his son would always be a double edged sword, making him both proud and scared at the same time. He would tell me years later that the never ending battle he had fought was when to let me run and when to reign me in. When to bolster my confidence and when to curb it or, when to feed the fire and when to let it burn down a little. It was a fine balancing act and one that demanded a deft touch.
“Well, listen here you little troublemakers, I have to get cleaned up……you too Jimmy……it’ll be suppertime soon” he said as he picked up his lunch pail. About four steps away though he stopped and looking back at me said, “Hey Jimmy….before we go in….how ‘bout a quick rematch? We’ll just go down to the corner, around the big tree, and back. Deal?”
I grinned back at him and said, “Sure! I’m ready if you are dad.
The small crowd of boys looked at each other wide eyed, then erupted with hoots and yells. It’s a scene that I’ll never forget really. Me, crouching on a chalk line we had drawn on the road earlier. My dad, who was hitching his dusty work pants up and toeing the line in his work boots. My best friend Rick, who would call the start, standing off to the side and looking very official. Mr. Simmons, who had just gotten home from work was next door, standing by his car watching it all unfold, mouth slightly open and looking very confused. My little group of friends who were all fidgety and waiting anxiously for the start, lined up like it was an event at the 1964 Summer Olympics.
'Down to the corner and back, down to the corner and back,' I chanted to myself. I’ve never wanted to win a race so badly in my life, before or since. One other thing I’ll never forget. I looked over at my dad and he wasn’t smiling anymore, he was just looking straight ahead with no expression. I distinctly remember the gravelly sound of me digging my back toe in to get a good start and seeing a drop of sweat running slowly down from dad’s sideburn to his cheek as I snuck another look. A dog barked from somewhere a long way off, stopped and barked once more. Then a tense silence.
One of the boys couldn’t help himself and said quietly, almost whispered it in fact, “Beat him, Mr. Wilson….beat him”. It seems like yesterday when I think about it now.
“On your Marrrrk……Get settttt…….GO!” Rick said loudly, delivering the start perfectly.As we both came blasting off the starting line, another wild cheer went up from the boys. Down the road we went, father and son, oblivious to everything and everyone but the hot road in front of us and each other. No Olympic event has ever had more effort put into it, or run with more desire to win. I remember listening to the sound our shoes made on the road as we went and the special exhilarating feeling that competition always gives you. In all terms but pure physical stature, we were almost identical.
I pulled ahead about two thirds of the way to the turn and I can remember my hand scraping around the bark of that big maple tree that represented halfway. I used the spin around the tree as a sort of slingshot motion and legs pumping, arms working like a machine, I was catapulted forward on my way back to the finish.I never heard him coming, didn’t know he was even that close actually.
He was just there suddenly, just off my right shoulder. As he pulled even with me, I looked over quickly, but he just kept looking straight ahead. Emotionless, relentless and driven, he pounded forward like a freight train at full throttle. As we got closer to the finish though we both had naturally started to tire and slow down from our blazing start. He was still stronger though and continued to inch ahead of me. With only forty yards or so left to the house and the ragged little crowd yelling us on back at the start line, he was at least 5 feet in front of me.I remember digging down and reaching inside myself, pushing hard to finish strong, but also knowing I couldn’t possibly run any faster.
Then like a switch had been thrown, by some miracle, I was now gaining on him and pulling up even with him. With twenty yards to go we were just for a split second shoulder to shoulder. Only then, did he look over at me. Only then, when I met his glance, did I know.
When it was all over there were claps on the back all around, while we caught our breaths and were bent over at the waist with hands on our knees. It had been a heck of a race, everybody agreed. Eventually, the boys had finally started to say the familiar summertime “see ya tomorrows” to each other as they slowly drifted away, one by one, heading for their own houses and suppers waiting.
It was just dad and I now, still sweating heavily but much more relaxed and once again we were leaning on the car. I was chewing on piece of grass and he was lost in some thought, watching the end of a beautiful plum and orange sunset.
“Dad?” I asked quietly, matching the peaceful dusk sounds around us. An early cricket or two, some cicadas in our backyard trees and a lonesome robin were about the only noises. It was very still, a summer evening of heavy air and warm quiet.
“Yes?” he answered, breaking away from the spell the sunset had held him in and cocking his head around to look over at me.”Why did you do that......let me win like that?” I asked in a deeper voice that I didn’t really even have yet.“Because I knew you’d get the message anyway, without me rubbing your nose in it” he said looking at me evenly. “Because I knew you could figure out who won, without having to prove it in front of your friends and then listen to me crowing about it afterward” he added with a certain hardness.He looked away again, this time only pretending to look back at the sky where the sun had been a moment ago.
Dark purple hues were deepening and turning to black with each passing moment now. A few early stars could be seen.I looked up at him, understanding both his meaning and message. I also scooted over a little closer to him, not feeling like I was twelve anymore. I didn’t want to be older or stronger or faster right then. I wanted him to pick me up and carry me around the yard on his shoulders, once more, like he used to……just once more.
“Well, c’mon boy, let’s go get washed up. I don’t know about you, but I’m starving” he smiled, loosening the reigns again. “You know, you are gettin' pretty fast, but still not faster than your old man” he grinned again, ruffled my hair and slung a strong arm over my shoulder. I put my arm around his waist and ended up hooking my thumb on one of his side belt loops, like I had so many times before. We walked like that to the house as that day was about to end and another one was just around the corner.
****
.......The sculptor still had a long way to go, but he had made some progress on the day that had just ended. The angle of the head was a little better now. The shoulders a bit more square. It would never be perfect, far from it, but he’d continue to shape and smooth, prod and pull, push and mold. Someday, he would stand back and look at me, this boy of his and he’d realize that he was done, or as done as he could be. A sculpture with many imperfections to be sure, but one that he’d helped to create and give meaning to.
