My dad didn’t take me out driving often, and when he did it was for short jaunts to the store to pick up odds and ends.
Ye Olde Black Powder Shop was a staple in my small town, where you could go buy leather pieces, pins, buttons, iron prints, tools, you name it. I would just go look at all the small pieces of craftsmanship while my dad examined strips of leather for one of his various hobbies.
You could hear him at night in his workroom with a hammer and an iron leather stamper.
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
Letters, designs, and all sorts of stuff.
But we would go to the Black Powder Shop sometimes, and sometimes we would go to Ben Franklin, another one of those local stores that could never exist in the modern era. An odds and ends store–at least that’s the best I can figure now–that had a little bit of everything. Less craftsman shop, and more soft-hobby accessories. They had a killer toy section, and I remember analyzing all of the toys we could never afford until I truly believed I owned them and could leave in peace.
One morning in November, though, we traveled to the city and drove around the lake, as my father was an avid hunter and fisherman for years, and I think he liked to scope things out for the spring/summer to set expectations. He stopped the truck and motioned toward the lake. A walk, he said. As we ventured out toward the lake along the rock trail from the parking lot, it began to snow, and yet we walked out toward the water, my father remarking that it was too early for a heavy snow.
There was an overlook we went to that stood above the lake and we wandered from the platforms examining the lake itself and the wildlife in and around the woods. The animals must have been hibernating or quietly preparing because I don’t recall seeing many of them, but it was still early November, so they were probably hiding out of earshot.
My father was a quiet man, not saying much for years, and could hunker down and not make a noise for a long time. Which he did, often smoking a cigarette. As an overactive kid, I could sit for about one minute before I had to cough, sneeze, or pee. As far as appropriate company for my father, I was probably low on the totem.
“Do you want some cocoa?” he asked me, kneeling on grass right before the beach.
I nodded happily and uttered a short, nervous, “Yes.”
I had five brothers and one sister, and we all lived on a minus budget. Affording that much hot cocoa would be impossible, so the offer to me was surprising.
The snow fell fast and hard, however, and we left from the beach as flowing flakes of snow chased us down the rock trail and to his old Ford truck. You couldn’t always tell he was nervous, but he walked faster when he was on the move. We left from there, me bundled up to the gills in a little red coat with blue shoulders and a brown stripe across the chest, giant puffy gloves, and a mismatched hat.
We got coffee and cocoa respectively at a local restaurant that was torn down some years ago. The sign outside was literally a giant man with a Texas bucket hat, and his chaps were the color of skin, so he looked pants-less. Years later, I remember watching the bulldozer take the entire building down. I swear I saw rats duck out of the rubble. It wasn’t exactly a classy place, but I remember the cocoa was pretty good.
By the time we got home, we could barely get into the driveway as the snow had piled up in feet, but that good ole Ford truck plowed right through with barely any fishtailing. Maybe the heart barely worked, maybe it ate up gas by the gallon, but boy could it drive when put to it.
Afterward, I warmed my feet on our heating vent in the kitchen, my little feet next to my drying socks, and my parents talked quietly about the drive and the snow in the next room. My dad never mentioned the coffee or the cocoa, and neither did I because it felt secret in a way, and that was okay. I stared out the kitchen window and watched the snow against the darkening day.
It was an early snow–earliest I can remember–and while my father never talked much when I was growing up, I knew there was love there.
