Father -Extract from my unfinished novel

My father always felt that people simply wanted to be acknowledged and recognized in this life. Mostly that meant calling them by their given name as they passed each other on the street or making a great big deal of their arrival when they entered the lobby of our hotel. Or he would tenderly grab the hand of a church lady to congratulate her on a blue-ribbon victory for the Sunbonnet quilt she entered in the fair, making sure to especially point out that the competition was fierce, and the judges had especially high standards for recognizing perfection. I’ve seen him slap a gentleman on the arm with one hand and offer him a cigar with the other hand all for the exchange of genuine fellowship and sharing stories that promoted gut aching laughter.

Known to most in the town, my father was Doc. Not because he was a doctor. O heaven’s no! He couldn’t stand the sight of blood or the talk of pain issues and the thought of bodily fluids would send him soaring to the back porch with the dry heaves while cupping his hands beneath his mouth just in case he didn’t make it outside. He was Doc because he was smart like a doctor. He read a lot. Books were always piled chin high on every corner of his desk and he would sneak away at any neglected moment in order to wrap his face in amongst the pages. I always saw him with a book or a local paper in his hand. Head buried and with glasses on hanging off the end of his nose, interruptions never upended him. He would rise from his reading and tuck it up under his arm pit until said interruptions would quiet.

Father would recount his readings to me as I shoveled vegetables past the liver, or whatever the meat of choice happened to be that evening, onto the pile of mashed potatoes on my plate. There were two certainties in my young life: mashed potatoes and my father’s conversations. I had both every night. Until I didn’t.