The Great Hunt



Posted: Tuesday, August 30, 2011

by Chris Cole
George Cole

The China Berry tree limbs would sway with occasional March wind gusts. Sometimes the wind gusts were so strong it caused the tree limbs to bend down, as if the tree was picking up its lost berries; like a distraught mother finding her wayward toddler. I can still smell the freshly mowed lawn intermixed with the sweet smell of the China Berry tree blossoms being interrupted by the rich pungent smell of a Travis Club Senator Cigar; a smell I associated with with love and security. An aroma of malodorousness that erupted from my father's stogie, and a smell that I longed for as a child (even to this very day).

As a child, I came to relish the times when my father was home. I knew he spent a lot of time away at work and I knew that my mother would become joyful and more animated once dad came home. I was too young to realize that we lived in a (lower) middle-class neighborhood in the desolate oil-rich town of Odessa, Texas, and that my father was an alcoholic. All I knew is when I inhaled that Travis Club Senator aroma, the world became a fun, wonderful, and safer place.

My father's hands were large and well manicured like his build. During his prime, my father was six foot two inches tall and weighed approximately 250lbs. He was an imposing figure while bearing a child-like humility and heart. He had a peculiar sense of humor intertwined with OCD-like mannerisms. Dear old Dad had certain rituals he had to complete every morning before going to work; three cups of Folgers Instant Coffee, "towel time' (washing the towels with bleach...did not matter if they were colored or not), and of course having to feed his beloved Sammy and Red (cats) while I impatiently waited for a ride to school.

I remember how secure I felt with him when I finally saw him after work. He would reach down for my hand and totally engulf my seven year old fist and give it a big squeeze like an orange. He enjoyed playing the "Squeezing Game." This is where he would take my hand and totally crush it with all his strength and then it would be my turn to try to return the favor. It was like trying to press a watermelon with tweezers; no way. Afterwards, he would let out chuckle and call me "Little Shoo Shoo." Dont' ask.

Dad relished reading the newspaper from cover to cover while devouring each article and column as if it was a full course meal. He knew enough about world politics to become a renegade CNN Broadcast reporter way before the network was ever imagined. He had subscriptions to The Dallas Morning times, The San Angelo Standard and as an appetizer, the Odessa American . I recall the mountainous stacks of newspapers that I could never dispose of. And if I did tidy up and throw away a few papers, I would hear, "Chris do you know what happened to my Dallas Morning Times from six months ago? It had an article on President Carter's cabinet members that I needed." My father could recall just about every fact and figure that he read from a book or newspaper. And like I previously stated, he was very OCD-like when it came to his belongings/possessions.

My father was very methodical about placing his keys in his chest of drawers (just to the right of his cigars), and his wallet and checkbook underneath his keys. The breath mints went into the tie tack holder, his shoes were shined and placed in a shoe rack, and you never moved the blue plastic cup from the second shelf in the kitchen...you get my point. It was this way day in and day out. Nothing would change this habit and of course, he knew exactly where everything of his was located. So, if we ever borrowed his pen or needed his car keys, it was almost like the beginning of a Quentin Tarantino movie; horrific or should I say psychologically defeating to say the least.

We didn't get the calm Previews showing before the movie, we would go straight into the fray into Tarantino-action-mode, "Do you know where my Cross pen is?" or "I know I placed my coupon for Little Friskies cat food on the nightstand two days ago, do you know where it might be?, " my father would ask in a deep tone. "OH NO!" My older brother, Pat would cry out, "Dad is looking for his Cross pen." Pat would look at me with pleading eyes, "Chris, think. Think hard! Think quick! Dad is searching for his pen, do you know where you put it when you were finished using it?" If I answered negatively, then this would start the tedious and most stressful event the Cole household would know (at that time)..."The Great Hunt." Great Hunts sometimes lasted only for a few minutes, but then there were days that the hunt would last for hours until we found the missing pen, coupon, or newspaper. Dad would not leave the house, and we (Pat, mother, and I) would not hear the end of it until the particular "hunted" item was located. No joke.

I was privy to numerous "Great Hunts" throughout my childhood and eventually like an Indian, I became an expert hunter...a master hunter. I learned not to touch or borrow any of my father's personal effects, and if I did, they were returned post haste. I don't want to color my father as callous or uncaring, for he would literally hand you the shirt off of his back if you needed it. He was very giving and had a wonderful and loving heart, but this was intertwined with a bullish-like manner that most would view as rude. I just knew I never wanted my father angry, so I participated cheerfully in "The Great Hunts" while squelching my disdain.

You and I have alarm clocks. Dad's world revolved around "Pat Time." He arrived to work when it was his time and he left when it was his time. This would have been great if he had owned his own business, but...he did not. Once he got to work, he worked very hard and excelled in the sales arena actually being on the cover of Time Magazine as one of the top salesmen for Ford Motor Co. He would work long evening hours to make up for being late to work in the morning. Of course this caused some concern with his employers, but once they observed his selling skills, he was provided with some leniency regarding his working hours.

As I mentioned earlier (briefly), my dad was an alcoholic. He would stay out late drinking and would come home during the early morning hours and would wake up and go back to work and repeat the cycle. I did not get to see my father as much as I wanted while growing up because he was always gone. Holidays were spent with him taking all of us to visit his mother and father's home which I enjoyed to some degree.

The alcoholism eventually caught up with him where he was no longer able to work and he suffered a stroke on a (still) humid day in October of 1997. Mother and I lived at his nursing home while dad was there. Dad was confined to a bed and was unable to walk. It was always sad to have to leave him and take mother home because I knew my father wanted to be with us; his eyes conveyed this with our every departure. He wanted to be in his own home with his papers, cigars, and cats.

He lived up until April 13th, 2007 and passed while in the hospital with my mother, brother, and daughter at his side. I still carry a burden of guilt for not being at his side when he passed. I tell myself I could not stand to see him go, and that my father understands why his "Little Shoo Shoo" was not there. I like to imagine him asking me "Do you know where my (insert object of choice) is,?" to promote another Great Hunt before leaving this planet. I know his passing effected all members of my family gravely and they love dad as much as I do.

I miss feeling his big (veined) hands squeezing mine and you know what...I am going to buy a box of Travis Club Senators not to smoke, but to just smell that sweet loving aroma and allow it hold me and the memories of my father.

Dad, I love you and miss you.

 
George "Chris" Cole experienced life as a law enforcement officer with a tour of duty lasting over ten years in law enforcement. He is the survivor of two marriages, and continues to meet new people that provide inspiration for many of his articles and short stories. Many of his articles have appeared in national and local publications.

In 2008, Chris abandoned West Texas and its' "Wal-Mart Trees" (Mesquite bushes that grow plastic bags) to move to the green pastures and real trees of Fredericksburg, Texas. Chris continues to work and hone his writing skills while breathing the fresh air of the hill country.

Mr. Cole can be contacted at kriskohl333@gmail.com.

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