Dear Tiger

 It was a special thing—seeing my dad with a cat. He was an animal lover. My dad had a great deal of respect and admiration for all animals, plants, and even insects. He had a very Zen-like way of looking at the world, even though he may not have been familiar with that term.

Shortly after my dad retired from Dobbins Air Reserve Base, he took up several projects in his tiny house. I think he would have called it his shop, but it was—and is—much more like a small cottage than a shop. He had a radio and a small TV out there. He also had his favorite rocker. It was the same rocker his mother rocked him in in 1928, when he was a baby boy, living out on Lowery Road in Rockmart, Georgia.

Daddy had acquired an old iron stove from somewhere—likely a teardown—and he would keep a fire going throughout the winter. If you were fortunate enough to know him well, you could step into his shop and have something like a religious experience. On the radio, Música Mexicana would fill the room. That was his favorite music, even though he rarely understood the words. It was the way it made him feel. Only when he spoke of his choice in music did it occur to me that one could “feel” a certain way in response to expression as it was intended. When I joined him in his shop, I could feel it too.

Adding to the ambiance, the stove would be going, with the slightest hiss and the most delightful wooden fragrance you can imagine. He’d rock in his chair occasionally, always with his right leg over his left knee. He would have a book, a letter, or a news article in his hands, and he would be happy to share the details with a great deal of passion.

Perhaps more unique than his choice of music or his interests in poetry and paintings was his deep love for all sentient life. I don’t think I could ever fully convey his respect for life the way I witnessed it. Without giving you all the details, I will tell you one story I have never forgotten—and included here, I think it will make sense when I introduce my protagonist:

We had rabbits. They were the most interesting creatures we had growing up. They were soft and cuddly, and they were always a big part of our little family. Daddy built really nice cages for them. They had rooms for living, rooms for sleeping, rooms for eating, and so on. It was as if he had designed a rabbit hotel, with a rabbit as his architect. Their comfort was his main concern, while we made pets of them.

The story I recall now concerns an expectant mother rabbit. Without warning, she passed just prior to giving birth to her brood. With the precision you might expect from a fine surgeon, I watched my dad attempt to save the unborn litter. It was too late. Daddy was quiet for a few days afterward. It was my first memory of seeing him deeply saddened.

Many years later, when it was time to retire, as I have mentioned, Daddy settled into his tiny house. At that time, he had no dog, and our rabbit family was but a memory. There were still some chickens on the old farm, but the remaining roosters were going blind and slowly losing their battle with time and coyotes. The last rooster was completely blind, except for the ability to see bright light. He would find a reflection and go to it and stare for hours.

One cool spring day, when all the animals were gone and all the children had moved into homes of their own, my dad noticed movement in the woods near his shop. It was a small yellow creature—a cat. The cat stood near the edge of the woods, looking at my dad with matching curiosity. Day by day, the yellow cat would inch closer to the man who was, by then, leaving treats near the spot where he had first seen him.

Over several weeks, the yellow tiger (as Daddy called the cat) came closer and closer. Daddy had too much respect for the tiger to call it a pet. He somehow knew the cat preferred to think of himself as the Great Tiger of the Woods, so while that may not have been his name, my dad honored him with that title: Tiger Woods.

Tiger and my dad were inseparable. Never a pet in any traditional sense, the cat enjoyed his time around the shop, inside and out. They ruled together. They walked in the woods together. It was the deepest love between an animal and a human that I have ever witnessed. It was perfectly mutual. Tiger was a reflection of my father. He shared the same respect for the woods, for privacy, and for the beautiful music playing on the radio.

My dad passed in 2009. Tiger had passed about two years prior. The old shop is still standing, almost exactly as my dad left it. The rocker is still there, having now survived for 100 years. The radio is still playing. It is on right now and has always been on. The stove is cool, but ready for a fire.

This morning, I woke up thinking about my dad. I was thinking about the many Easters when we were all together. I can still see Tiger there in the middle of the celebration, walking near my dad, still ruling with him as usual.

It will be a day for hiding eggs—at least once more. And it will be a day when people think about Easter and the resurrection it represents. Some people will even think about rabbits and their role in modern celebrations.

I looked outside, with these thoughts flooding over me, filling my head and heart with wonderful memories.

There, where Peter Rabbit will be placing eggs later today, stood a perfect replica of Tiger Woods. In the background, my neighbors were playing their lovely Música Mexicana. In the seventeen years since my dad’s departure, I have never felt more assured of his presence than in that moment.

Happy Easter.

The Wish Book

 

Well, let me take you all the way back. Way, way back. I was a tiny little boy, and I had The Wish Book. There were certain items I still actually want. There was a Red Ryder BB gun, a blue dune buggy, Dingo boots, a sleeping bag, and a lantern.

As little people do, I had it all figured out. Daddy worked for Dobbins and came home with C-rations sometimes. I can still taste that doughy bread that held the shape of the can it was in until it was consumed. There was some seriously strong instant coffee, two pieces of chewing gum, three cigarettes, some pot roast or something akin to it. There were even mashed potatoes. All in all, it was not terrible. I think there was even canned cake.

When Daddy would bring rations home, I took them out and pretended to be a survivalist. I might not be hungry, but I’d eat a bite of that bread anyway. It was survival. I even lit a cigarette or two. I drank that coffee like a grown soldier.

Mom got me a BB gun and a little, plastic, red lantern. Another year I got the Dingo boots and the sleeping bag. Those were not toys to me; they were gear. Daddy built me a dune-buggy-like go-cart, complete with big, deep-lug tires. That thing was a beast. Why there are no pictures of that prized machine, I shall never know. He gave it away after I moved out and got married. I wish I had it today.

The frame was made out of an old cast-iron bed frame. Uncle Fletcher cut those rails and welded them together in the shape of my buggy. Fletcher also welded a platform on the back; that’s where Daddy bolted the engine. The seat had a crude metal frame made of angle iron and bolted to the bed rails. But plywood boards, foam, and vinyl worked for upholstery.

The steering wheel was exactly half of a steering wheel from an old car. It had an actual transmission, too—off an older mower. It did have a clutch, but the shifter was only for engaging the clutch or freeing it. The transmission was connected to the engine via a drive belt. It was wonderful. It had only one forward gear and no reverse.

Can you imagine? There I was, on my powerful, all-terrain machine, carrying a gun, rations, a lantern, and a sleeping bag. I thought I could probably get as far as California. I usually made it down to the creek and camped there until it got dark. I’d turn on my lantern, and then I would hear a noise coming from just beyond its range. That’s when I’d start packing it all in.

 I was escaping.

Back inside the house, my mom and dad would be fighting. That was something I never got used to. It was not at all lost on me that we had plenty of food and comfortable beds, but I dreamed of sleeping on pine straw instead. I was glad the old gas heaters kept us warm, but I would have gladly traded that warmth for a night of shivering under the stars.

 Above all of the creature comforts combined, I wanted peace and calm at any cost.

 As I grew older, the desire for peace and calm only got stronger. By the time I got to high school, I was discovering several ways to accomplish this goal. I got a job at a grocery store, I bought a truck, and got a girlfriend—in that order. The grocery store was not a job to me; it was an escape. Buying gas for my truck was an escape. Hanging out with my girlfriend, or calling her on the phone, was an escape too.

Some of my methods were not very effective. School felt like another version of home life. I had no desire to sit in a chair and study for hours. That felt like punishment, so I started looking for ways to escape that as well. I looked for, and found, many ways to skip school. Everyone would suppose I was studying, and I would be up at Lake Acworth, sitting beside it, listening to the ripples as they crested near me. Once I experienced that, I could see no reason to buckle down the way everyone was suggesting.

Then my girlfriend had ideas about us being together and having our own home life. I tried it. But there were bills to pay and groceries to buy. I was supposed to make sure her car ran. I had to make sure my truck ran. And I needed to make more money because my wife wanted more than what we had. I did not like the arrangement from the very beginning.

 The rest has been summarized in many ways. But the truth is, I did not do the necessary things. I kept looking for, and finding, ways to escape anything that did not bring me joy.

 Of course, as I got older, I wanted a house, and I had to work for it. I finally buckled down. I wanted a truck. I worked hard for that too. I wanted guitars, and those cost money as well. So I’ve been doing my time for several years. My parents died, and I had to be even more responsible to help them transition.

 But now there is real talk of parole. Some people call it retirement. I’ve got about seven years left, and I am hoping I might be pardoned—or perhaps released on good behavior.

 I got a new wife ten years ago, and I learned that if you will be responsible for the sort of home life those creatures want, you can keep a wife indefinitely. This one is very adventurous, and she knew more about escaping than I did. In fact, she showed me how you can actually get to California.

 I’ve done more escaping since marrying this second wife than I ever did before.

 Mom died in November, and since then things have been dramatically different. Most of all, I’ve discovered that I am not needed as often as I once was. I find myself resuming the direction of a survivalist. I’ve been looking for lanterns, sleeping bags, rations, guns, and fire starters. To me, my four-wheel-drive Tacoma is exactly what I circled in that Sears Wish Book over half a century ago. It is not a dune buggy—no, it’s much better than a dune buggy. It has reverse.

 I am gearing up to escape.

What will I be escaping now? There is tremendous calm in my home. It is a safe, sweet, comfortable place. There is nothing there I want to escape.

 My job is literally at a park, and that is exactly what it feels like every day.

I am just now learning that I am not trying to escape at all. I am trying to hold forever in the palm of my hand, and to see eternity in a grain of sand.