Going home

My father lives about 10 miles from us, at the end of a county-maintained dirt road and at the bottom of a dad-maintained driveway that is sometimes muddy and always rocky and steep. It is also eight-tenths-of-a-mile long and is among the few things that he always describes with precision, like the depth of the pond (16 feet), the length of its longest fish (24 inches), the price of milk or lettuce or whole chickens at ALDI (variable but always noted).

For many years when my siblings and I were kids, all five of us got off the bus together at the top of the driveway and walked home. When it wasn’t too cold and he was in a teaching mood, Dad would make us walk up to our ride in the morning, too. (It was uphill only one way.)

One day last weekend while D was working, Jack and I parked at the top and walked in to spend the day. It was his first trip down as a toddler interested in walking it by himself.

The morning was chilly and gray, and it rained on us, but inside Dad had a fire going.

I have a burn scar on my hand from a long-ago collision with this stove, but I hold no grudges. I grew up with it as our sole source of heat, and I still love to warm up by standing scorchingly close. Luckily, Jack has better sense and circulation. It was a record-setting day for him and the word “hot.”

And for stairs. At my dad’s house, for each one climbed, you feel like you skipped one.

He cooked us a big breakfast and a big Sunday dinner. For Jack’s entertainment he brought out a wooden mallet, four tambourines, our old wooden marble shoot set, and at least 10 chocolate chip cookies. He sent him home with the Radio Flyer tricycle he bought me when I was just big enough to ride it through Wal-Mart to the checkout. After a couple of decades outside, there’s no more shiny red lustre – but no less appeal for my son, who just sees it as a new set of wheels.

We should visit more often.