Pa was a ruddy-faced farmer who I would always remember walking to the greenhouses, stopping to hork and spit a throat oyster onto the ground, then pinching one nostril and blowing a jet of snot out the other, stooping over so as not to hit his pants, though wiping his nose on the sleeve of his work jacket. I can remember how he would pick up a shovel and work at the soil, forceful and purposeful, unquestioningly at work. He would stop occasionally, straighten and stretch his back, heave a deep sigh then begin his work again. I remember the sounds of his exertion, always a breathy grunt to pair with each thrust of the spade. The sounds and smells of the greenhouses return to me, the earthy, humid warmth, but most of all there is the dominating impression of my father, hard at work, hard at life. With that always comes the echoing rings of a battery of slaps upside my head, the hails of judgement and disapproval, the constant storm I would incite for never working fast enough, often accented with an expectorated “Godverdomme!”, a gutteral religious curse whose first sound skids from a throat-clearing, angst-purging consonant. These are the things I think of when I remember my father.
