It’s June and in my house that can mean one thing: time in put in the air conditioners.
Our ancient house (built in 1864) does not have central air and frankly at this point I’m not sure it would be worth it. We’ve been told whoever installed the duct work decades ago didn’t do it properly.
The ritual for me is to see if we can last until Father’s Day before I undertake the installation. One reason I started going to a gym was to increase my upper body strength so moving these things didn’t kill me.
Another goal, of course, is to try not to swear as I hoist the units and place them in the window sill. I will admit that’s not always achieved.
Of course, June is also the month in which Father’s Day comes. It’s time to honor the memory of your father, if he has passed, or an opportunity to tell the old boy what he means to you.
Getting him a tie doesn’t count as much as spending a little time with him.
My dad died in 1996 and I think of him frequently. He was, as many of us are, complicated.
Born in 1922 in rural Alabama, the youngest of two boys, he grew up in poverty before the Great Depression hit in 1929.
He used to tell me he and his brother would receive a single orange a year at Christmas. He would consume it eagerly, including the peel.
His father came from a family of school teachers and ministers. My grandfather Joe was an iconoclast to his kin as he was a custom furniture builder, a skill he passed onto my father.
He was also plagued with poor health, which led to an early death when my dad was still in high school. His health made my dad’s childhood even more challenging.
Ironically it was World War II that pushed my dad into new opportunities. He became a pilot, commanding a B-17 in Europe.
After the war he returned to Alabama with my mother to start his own furniture business. He was called back into the Air Force with the start of the Korean conflict.
He stayed in until 1968. He served in three wars – he was stationed outside of Saigon – and when he retired he started a second career as an industrial arts school teacher.
His accomplishments daunted me growing up. How could I measure up to what he had done? This is a guy who managed to endure three wars. He was so talented a furniture maker he could reproduce antiques just from looking at them and making a rough sketch for himself. He knew a lot about farming, as our time living in Granby, MA, showed me.
Although like many fathers and sons there were moments of conflict between us, I always knew he cared deeply for my brother and me – even if we didn’t follow the path he hoped we would follow.
I was to be a school teacher like he had been under his plan. He was often perplexed why I wanted to be a writer.
He loved history and art. A constant reader and an avid museum visitor, education both formal and informal was very important to him.
The three wars in which he served left a deep mark, as one would imagine. He seldom spoke about his experiences with us, but now years after his death, I’ve gone through his service records and photos and that part of his life is now much more illuminated.
Like many of his generation, he undertook the task of fighting for his nation without question. I recently found a newspaper clipping from the Chattanooga daily showing him heading off to boot camp. He was just a kid.
He accomplished a great deal before dementia robbed him of his senses and his life.
So this Father’s Day, I will smoke a cigar – yes, he enjoyed cigars a very long time ago – in his honor.
G. Michael Dobbs is the managing editor of Reminder Publishing LLC, and Prime’s local columnist.
