Embarrassing Dad

At first I wasn't sure if I had enough material to produce an entire Hub on this topic. Had I actually embarrassed my father enough times in our years together (before he passed on in 1997)?

In the end, the few times I did recall clearly were just too delightful (from my viewpoint, not his) to pass up. There was the KOPR Radio incident, live on the air in Butte, Montana. There was the doggie bag fiasco at a restaurant in Drummond. Those two alone were clearly worth a Hub.

So...here we go.

The reader should understand that Dad claimed to care nothing about public opinion. In truth, he was indeed his own man...but he did not deal well with anything outside of his own view of the Universe. Cattle, horses, ranching in general, hard work, the U.S. Military, those were well within his comfort zone.

But...astrology? No way. Soul travel? You gotta be kidding. Multiple divorces? Anathema! Reincarnation? What you been smoking, kid? Mom didn't like these topics, either, but she covered her distress a bit better. With Dad, it stuck out through every pore. He would even rag on me about shaving if I showed up with a beard, a moustache, or even a few days worth of stubble.

For decades, I walked a razor's edge when we visited. I can talk easily about any topic in existence, although if anyone expresses an appreciation for cruelty in my hearing, I will either remove myself or "shut 'em down".

Let's say, for the sake of comparison, that I could navigate 360 degrees of conversation, the far extreme at one end of our family spectrum. Dad was at the opposite end, comfortable with maybe an arc of, oh, maybe...20 degrees.

The first time I realized I had embarrassed him to an unforgiveable degree was when I was ten years old. KOPR Radio hosted both District and Regional Spelling Bee contests. I had won the first of these against a fine, rugged opponent. The second was different: My opposition was a girl...who simply failed to show up, forfeiting the match.

That didn't bother me at all. I'll take a win any way it comes. Like, for example, the kid in the following video. A win is a win.

The DJ hosting the Spelling Bee was stunned. Now he had to fill many minutes of otherwise dead air. Desperately casting around for material, he pointed to the prize for that day's contest, which happened to be a beautiful, miniature cedar chest from Lane Furniture.

I'm guessing the powers that be had picked the missing girl to win it. Certainly it was no prize to thrill the heart of a ten year old boy. Even so, the DJ had to do something. In a confiding tone, he asked me,

"So, what do you think about our prize from our sponsor here today?"

With all the instantaneous disappointment a young boy can pour through his voice, I responded:

"I was HOPING for somethin' ELSE...."

My dad could have gone through the floor. I was still bummed out, since the earlier contest had gained me a cool bedlamp I'd already let get destroyed by a lightning strike (true story). It didn't bother me that my father was mortified; those people should have given me a good prize....

Today, having become a bit more attuned to other people's upsets, I am far less likely to humiliate folks by accident. What the experience did do, however, was show me once and for all that Dad cared a lot more about public opinion than he would ever admit.

Now, fast forwarding to the doggie bag incident.....

Vicky and I were married on June 12, 1965 and divorced eight years later. Along the way, we had many adventures. One such took place on a fine, balmy September evening. I don't recall exactly how many years Elvin M and Lucy Howe Baker had been married at that point, but it was a bunch. We treated them to steak dinners in town.

This was a big thing. It happened that one time, and that time only. We ate at the D Bar M Restaurant at the west end of Drummond. T-bone steaks were had by all, and they were very, very good. Toward the end of the meal, I mentioned to our waittress that we would like a doggie bag for the bones. We did have a fine young pure white German Shepherd pup, Silver, waiting for us at home.

The waittress immediately agreed...but apparently she forgot rather quickly. Minutes had passed when suddenly I realized she (the waittress) was nearly back to the kitchen with an armload of our bone laden plates.

"HEY!" I bellowed in a voice fit to raise the dead, "COME BACK WITH MY DOG FOOD!!!"

Dad looked like he wanted to crawl under the table. In my days on the rodeo circuit, stone cold sober, I had been known to dance on the table...but this was, apparently, more than bad enough. Without question, I had ruined his entire evening.

Since Dad has been on The Other Side (he left this world in 1997), we have gotten along much better. I don't have to walk on eggshells, and he doesn't have to fight stomach acid worrying about the next thing that might come flying out of his son's mouth. When we see each other in dreams (and we do sometimes), we exchange a few useful words and go our separate ways.

I would never go so far as to think that my father ever considered me an embarrassment as such. That I was capable of saying something embarrassing in front of him, however, became a more than established fact.

Thanks for reading,

Ghost32