Father's Day
Father’s Day approaches once again, and Dad comes fresh to my mind. He’s been gone almost eight years now, but I can still hear his deep voice. When he called he always opened with, “Russ, this is your Dad.” Even if I hadn’t had a form of caller ID, he didn’t need to go any further than my name for me to know who was calling. His voice was distinctive.
We always attributed it to his years in radio. After “the war” (World War II, as if there had only been one war ever) Dad pursued a career as a radio announcer. That is what they were called in those days. The term DJ (disc jockey) hadn’t yet come into use because radio shows were mostly live. The broadcasting industry specifically looked for people like Dad, not so much for his gender, rather for his voice. It was deep, distinct, and clear. It was the kind of voice that could carry over AM (amplitude modulation) frequencies, which tended to be plagued by high pitched crackly static and interference. In those days he broadcasted from KMUS in Muskogee, Oklahoma.
I imagine those KOOL mentholated cigarettes contributed to lowering his voice. Dad was a chain smoker, four packs a day. He often lit the next one off the butt end of the last one just before it went out. I have a photograph of him at his desk at the radio station, smoke wafting up from a cigarette wedged between his fore and middle fingers while another still burned in the ash tray in front of him. I also imagine that it was those cigarettes that spawned the lung cancer that killed him.
By the time I came along Dad had left the radio industry for hotel management. He had taken a job as the general manager at Western Hills Lodge in eastern Oklahoma. For that period at the end of the 1950s and early 1960s my family lived a Camelot existence. Western Hills Lodge (now the Sequoyah Lodge) was located on Lake Fort Gibson. It was a destination resort. It had everything a family could want including, a pool, lakefront views, marina, and riding stables.
Though we lived a privileged and comfortable middle class existence, Dad was determined to teach me to be “man” at the earliest age. I remember him teaching me to swim at about age two. It was in the pool at the lodge. The pool is huge, large enough to accommodate the hundreds of guests at the resort. Dad would take me out into the middle of the shallow end, let me go (no water wings or flotation device) and tell me to swim to him. He would take a few steps back, “just a little further, Russ.” I would frantically swim, all the while he slowly walked backwards. I hated him for making me work so hard, but I learned to swim.
Sometime that same summer, he took me to the riding stables to learn how to handle a horse. He intended to set me upon a horse and lead me around the corral a bit. He sat me in the saddle, and, lovingly, took my tiny hands, cupping them around the horn, and said, “Russ, hang on tight.” I held a death grip on that horn. J. B., the stable manager, distracted Dad and they engaged in some kind of serious discussion. My horse had no patience for adult conversation and took off. I held onto the saddle horn while my horse took me on an adventure through the woods, along a well-worn path that led right back to the corral. By that time Dad and J. B. had realized that I was gone and were frantically rounding up a posse to track me down. I learned how to ride a horse.
A few years later it was time for me to learn how to ride a bicycle. Dad would have no son of his peddling around the neighborhood with training wheels. He took me down the driveway and onto the sidewalk. It was the same story as learning to swim, “Russ, you just peddle, and I’ll hold you up by the seat behind you. Don’t be afraid, I’ll be right here behind you the whole time.” We took off slowly. I looked back and Dad was right there, holding the seat so I wouldn’t lose my balance. “Keep your eyes in front of you,” he barked. “Peddle a little faster.”
I moved my legs faster. “Dad, am I doing okay?”
“You’re doing fine, Russ, just keep peddling.” His voice seemed distant. I started to turn around, “Keep your eyes on the road.” His voice sounded further away. I finally turned around to see him walking about five feet behind me, his hands nowhere near the back of my seat. I had learned to ride a bicycle.
Dad taught me a great many things. Whether I was in trouble or needed to learn something new, he always explained things as though he were broadcasting a story on the radio. It was slow, plodding, clear, and deliberate. I never had to ask for clarification. There was never any static to interfere with the delivery of his message. I would give anything to hear Dad’s voice just one more time.
https://www.bluewatertales.com
We always attributed it to his years in radio. After “the war” (World War II, as if there had only been one war ever) Dad pursued a career as a radio announcer. That is what they were called in those days. The term DJ (disc jockey) hadn’t yet come into use because radio shows were mostly live. The broadcasting industry specifically looked for people like Dad, not so much for his gender, rather for his voice. It was deep, distinct, and clear. It was the kind of voice that could carry over AM (amplitude modulation) frequencies, which tended to be plagued by high pitched crackly static and interference. In those days he broadcasted from KMUS in Muskogee, Oklahoma.
I imagine those KOOL mentholated cigarettes contributed to lowering his voice. Dad was a chain smoker, four packs a day. He often lit the next one off the butt end of the last one just before it went out. I have a photograph of him at his desk at the radio station, smoke wafting up from a cigarette wedged between his fore and middle fingers while another still burned in the ash tray in front of him. I also imagine that it was those cigarettes that spawned the lung cancer that killed him.
By the time I came along Dad had left the radio industry for hotel management. He had taken a job as the general manager at Western Hills Lodge in eastern Oklahoma. For that period at the end of the 1950s and early 1960s my family lived a Camelot existence. Western Hills Lodge (now the Sequoyah Lodge) was located on Lake Fort Gibson. It was a destination resort. It had everything a family could want including, a pool, lakefront views, marina, and riding stables.
Though we lived a privileged and comfortable middle class existence, Dad was determined to teach me to be “man” at the earliest age. I remember him teaching me to swim at about age two. It was in the pool at the lodge. The pool is huge, large enough to accommodate the hundreds of guests at the resort. Dad would take me out into the middle of the shallow end, let me go (no water wings or flotation device) and tell me to swim to him. He would take a few steps back, “just a little further, Russ.” I would frantically swim, all the while he slowly walked backwards. I hated him for making me work so hard, but I learned to swim.
Sometime that same summer, he took me to the riding stables to learn how to handle a horse. He intended to set me upon a horse and lead me around the corral a bit. He sat me in the saddle, and, lovingly, took my tiny hands, cupping them around the horn, and said, “Russ, hang on tight.” I held a death grip on that horn. J. B., the stable manager, distracted Dad and they engaged in some kind of serious discussion. My horse had no patience for adult conversation and took off. I held onto the saddle horn while my horse took me on an adventure through the woods, along a well-worn path that led right back to the corral. By that time Dad and J. B. had realized that I was gone and were frantically rounding up a posse to track me down. I learned how to ride a horse.
A few years later it was time for me to learn how to ride a bicycle. Dad would have no son of his peddling around the neighborhood with training wheels. He took me down the driveway and onto the sidewalk. It was the same story as learning to swim, “Russ, you just peddle, and I’ll hold you up by the seat behind you. Don’t be afraid, I’ll be right here behind you the whole time.” We took off slowly. I looked back and Dad was right there, holding the seat so I wouldn’t lose my balance. “Keep your eyes in front of you,” he barked. “Peddle a little faster.”
I moved my legs faster. “Dad, am I doing okay?”
“You’re doing fine, Russ, just keep peddling.” His voice seemed distant. I started to turn around, “Keep your eyes on the road.” His voice sounded further away. I finally turned around to see him walking about five feet behind me, his hands nowhere near the back of my seat. I had learned to ride a bicycle.
Dad taught me a great many things. Whether I was in trouble or needed to learn something new, he always explained things as though he were broadcasting a story on the radio. It was slow, plodding, clear, and deliberate. I never had to ask for clarification. There was never any static to interfere with the delivery of his message. I would give anything to hear Dad’s voice just one more time.
https://www.bluewatertales.com
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