Behind The Tailgate

My dad lived almost 94 years. He packed a lot into that life. The adopted son of a successful contractor and his wife, he was so tiny they brought him home in a shoebox that cold winter day in 1922. He loved music and played the mandolin. He loved Fords, and with one exception, always owned at least one. Moving to NYC at 17, just after graduating from high school, he was there when his country needed him for WWII. His skills as a machinist meant he was more valuable working on planes than on the front lines. So, he lived and trained and worked all over the US and in Guam before the war ended. Then he returned home and put his poet and musician’s soul on the shelf to work and provide for the dreams of his child. He was my dad and every day I love him more. The following poem does not come close to capturing that but it’s a start…..

Its not as common these days
To see a child behind the tailgate,
Riding free in the truck bed
Laughter flying from her head.
Her long brown hair waving wildly,
Her energy joyful and lively.
Her dog alongside
Enjoying the ride
Safe, because the driver
Was many years wiser
Than his rider;
His daughter.
They were both authors
In their own way;
Always wanting their say
To be heard,
To have the last word.
They were so much alike
They sometimes disliked
One another;
Not wanting to admit the other
Might have a valid point.
They knew they were free
To disagree,
To argue and curse
And even get irate
Because, at the end of every day,
They would look at each other and say
I love you.
They had each other’s back
This daughter and her dad.
“I miss him every day”
She often hears herself say.
The sadness when he departed
Has been replaced for the most part
With gladness and gratitude
For just who
He was,
Because,
He taught her to be
Wild and free.