There were many games and conversation my Father and I used to love. We loved the volley of any game or friendly debate: we loved to win; played to win; and he taught me with humor and grace what it meant to lose with a smile and happiness for your opponent. Always reminding me that losing was just as important as winning. He taught me how a man played a game, was telling of his nature. He also taught me that how a man lost or won, spoke of his integrity and heart. And as a result, Dad and I played a lot of Chess; Monopoly and oddly, he loved Old Maid… so he, Mama and I would play Old Maid. His theory was to forget how you were going to win, but watch how your opponent chose to navigate the board; how much joy did they take in throwing you in jail, or sticking it to you in property rent; or how they chided you because you might like a game as silly as Old Maid. I must admit, 61 years later: his points have reared up over and over again in my life; and he was right.
Another thing my Father and I shared in common was the love of mythology. He swiftly taught me how to make up my own stories; we would assume our own mythical names and in the blink of an eye, we could kill four hours pretending to live in a parallel universe. There were days he would out and out, have the edacity, to call himself Zeus. When I was young, I didn’t think much of it—kind of a “whatever Dad”—but I see now as an adult, it was how he saw himself often, and looking back, I probably would agree. We would also create new myths; building on real truths in our real lives; therapy really. Cheap therapy! Let’s take Mrs. Kent for example, my 7th grade Social Studies Teacher. Oh, Mrs. Kent: she didn’t like me one bit; and if I were to tell the truth, it was not lost on me for I didn’t care for her either. I named her Olga, the Goddess of Goats… and off the story would go. As long as I stayed true to mythology and wasn’t cruel or disrespectful, Dad would fancy in and join me (although I wouldn’t say naming an Educator–Olga the Goddess of Goats–was particularly respectful, now that I think about it.) Frankly, it was simple fun and I loved it.
My Father and I also shared a penchant for fables. Aesop’s Fables, my favorite as a youngster, was always by a chair or on a bedside table. We would share in them a couple of times a week… the moral was always our favorite, but he would never let me cut to it—the story always came first.
Childhood games; silly conversations; dreaming together—it never ceases to amaze me how my childhood prepared me for my adulthood. I grew up dreaming; I still do: I believe everyone should. And so decades later, my father long-journeyed to heaven by a score; I see his imprint on my life. I grew up curious; I am a writer; I’m a poet; I am dreamer. I took the stage for 20 years and found my way around the world. And with all of those passions solidly taking up their well-earned space in my soul, I thank my Father, may he rest in peace.
I actually wrote this poem a few years ago, but it demonstrates all the elements of Dad—delicately poured into my ink; my dreams; my unaware memories. He shaped me—and shared with me profound wisdom in the simplest way.
I read “Checkmate” and I see his humor; his wit. I see his keen sense of observation; I see his daring playfulness. I see Dad.
Checkmate
While strolling the vicinity,
She’d heard he liked virginity ;
Not expecting an affinity:
From the almighty Kraken.
They played a game with much to ride;
Like the Queen, she pushed the Knight aside;
Knowing she would not abide:
The wishes of the Kraken.
Their game is played with much delight;
And went into the dark of night.
In conversation, it came to light:
She was laughing with the Kraken.
They spoke of Neptune in the Sea,
Andy, Opie and Aunt Bea;
With much they found they did agree:
And a tear fell from the Kraken.
Then being King, he made a move,
And stormed her rook with disapprove:
Like Mona Lisa in the Louvre’,
She grinned up at the Kraken.
The Kraken killed the Queen in her;
She lost the game and felt unsure;
Their wager failing to allure.
‘Tis the moral of the Kraken:
Never play a game of chance;
Know the rhythm, ‘fore you dance.
A blossom picked is no romance,
While in the company of the Kraken.