The Talk

When I was growing up we spent alot of time in the kitchen. We had an eight-person table and my dad sat at the end, next to a built-in desk. When he got home from work that is where he first plopped down. That is where he watched the news. That is where he ate his dinner. And after dinner, that is where he did his thinking, always with a glass of Rebel Yell in his hand.  

One evening after our meal he asked me, “Son, do you know anything about BREEDING?” Even today, that seems like an odd way to word a question to an eleven-year-old whose family had nothing to do with either the ranching of cattle or the banking of sperm. So naturally I answered that NO, in fact I did NOT know anything about breeding.  He said, "well come on down here, you’re about the right age for this." And with that, he got out a pencil and paper. 

Breeding? What on earth are you talking about?

No matter what my father was a trying to explain, he always used some sort of graphic representation, usually a self-drawn sketch.  He was good at this. He could take a complicated subject, isolate the central thesis, and then illustrate it with what were essentially stick figures. What happens during a solar eclipse? How does a manual transmission work? What exactly is fractional reserve banking? The subject didn't matter, he always brought out a notepad and a number 2. Tonight was no exception.

But for some reason this approach wasn't working. Maybe it was the subject didn't lend itself to the medium. Or maybe he was frustrated because he felt that, on this occasion, his skills of illustration and narration were not equivalent to one another. Whatever the cause, he went through many iterations, eventually scribbling through each one because they didn't convey what he wanted to communicate. He finally scratched out his last effort and crumpled up the paper. That was probably for the best, because all he was able to render looked like bridge graffiti

This was just a momentary set-back, however. Then he said, “I think I could show this more easily if we got the dog.” 

Wait, show the dog's WHAT???

We lived in the country at the end of a long gravel driveway that finished in a loop. In the center of the circle were a about dozen pine trees and the house where our dog, Cindy, lived. We opened the backdoor and called her, but got no response.

Under most circumstances she would be there within 3 seconds or so. She always wanted some attention or a treat. But there must have been something in my dad’s voice that warned her, because it took numerous calls and whistles before she slinked up with her tail between her legs. This presented an obstruction to his planned-on visual aid. He tried to pick her tail up, but it wouldn’t budge. So he cajoled her using the ole tried-and-true double-ear scratch: “Whoooosagoodgirl?! Whooosagoodgirl?! WHO. IS. A. GOOD. GIRL??” But, no...that tail was locked down tighter than a token-less subway turnstile. Since this wasn't working out, with a kindly pat to her head, she was dismissed from her display duties. I must confess I was relieved that these technical difficulties meant that the dog's cooter show was removed from the evening's agenda.

Leave my lady business alone!

This presented a conundrum for my dad. Here we were, ten minutes into an all-important father-son talk, and he had already been thwarted twice. He knew he could do this.  It was thinking cap time. With his hand on his chin and his forefinger across lips he thought about it for a couple of seconds. Then, palm slap to forehead, OF COURSE! He would let his hands represent the sex organs. So he embarked upon a pornographic pantomime. One hand formed a "zero", and the other formed a "one", which as we all know is the binary code of genitalia.

Universally understood.

Just as that "one" was about lance the center of that "zero" I had a flash of recognition. OK, I get it now. The sixth graders in the hall bathroom made this same gesture like every single day. Just to make sure I wasn't mistaken I interrupted him mid-sentence and asked "Daddy, are you talking about _____?"

Yeah, I did it.  I used the f-word as a gerund. 

God said: I gotta hear this.

At that exact second God slapped his hand on the great cosmic mute button in the sky. The crickets quit chirping, the frogs quit croaking, and it became as quiet as a cave. It was just me and my father looking at each other, and wondering who was going to speak first. I couldn’t really tell from the expression on his face if he was angry, shocked, or relieved, but I did know this: it definitely meant the lesson was over.

That’s right son, school - is - out! I WILL MAIL YOU YOUR GRADE!! He spun on his heel like Michael Jackson and bolted back to the house.

But when he got there he found out the door had locked behind us.

Located just 4 feet away.

My dad was a pretty smart guy, and under ordinary circumstances a locked door on an occupied house would not present a major obstacle. He could have knocked or rung the bell. He could have used the hidden key, or even gone to another entrance. But he was flustered. So instead, he repeatedly tried the knob and kicked the foot plate, each time with an increasing degree of vigor. Just as I got there, my step mother, who was obviously irritated from all the commotion, yanked open the door and said, “WHAT ARE YOU DOING OUT HERE??” He brushed past her and said “Where’s my drink!” That left her staring at me like I was the one who took it. I just shrugged and said, “Well, it’s not out here.” As if my dad and I had formed a two-man search party to scour the yard for the missing cocktail.

Let's just think about this.

By the time I got in he had returned to his place at the table, and he was now thinking heavily. I figured that I would leave him alone and we would possibly revisit this subject of breeding at a more opportune time.

That time turned out to be NEVER IN MY LIFE.