The Measure of a Dad

The Measure of a Dad

H.E. Palmer

Pelican Publishers, Jamaica 2015,

© 2015 H.E. Palmer

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise or stored in any retrieval system of any nature without the written permission of the copyright holder or publisher.

Book design and layout by Pelican Graphics

Cover Illustration by Georgiann Cowan

Smashwords Edition

Dedicated to

Neville Palmer whose life, journey and faithfulness as a dad inspired this story

Acknowledgement

My utmost gratitude goes to the Almighty; without Him this would not be possible.

There are many whose direct and indirect contributions have helped to shape this publication. I thank you all. Special mention must be made, however, of Dr. Kenred Christian and Lilieth Christian who assisted in the early stages of editing. Thank you very much.

Special appreciation is also extended to the editorial and graphic design teams at Pelican Publishers Limited. Your sacrifices have not gone unnoticed.

I will always be deeply grateful to my family and friends who guided and motivated me and even more so- believed in me.

"Great men reach for the bar of success but even greater men become that bar, pulling up everyone in their circle and beyond."

H.E. Palmer

Prologue

I stand in bewilderment as I watch the man I once knew make his last step as if he is in a hurry to go home. Though many did not come to visit before this time, there are now a few more looking and giving a hand as he makes his journey. As we walk side by side, I remember once when he was in the hospital how my love faded. As his illness progressed, sometimes I felt like I never really knew him; a change I was not prepared for.

Now here we are looking at the well-manicured landscape and the beautiful flowers that he now owns; beauties that I can’t afford. Birds sing; expressing reverence at a hero’s welcome. Beautiful women are now his friends and none would be jealous... all minds are at peace.

I beg my heart to be happy for him, not letting time wasted, or the time that should have been, be an angry noose around my neck.

So this is where the journey ends. It was a long fight, but now he lives on these streets of gold.

Chapter I

It was a Thursday afternoon and I had just awakened from another short, restless nap after a long night at work. I stretched and forced myself to yawn as if I had just gotten a good night’s rest, but my back still ached from the gravel filled mattress and my eyes felt like they were bleeding blood.

The sun was at its peak as it had been for a few months now. Every day the heat milked the green from the grass and shrubs turning them grey and dusty. The air was stiff and vexed with the chill that was once its friend and the few birds that flew never sang a tune. That did not matter to me anymore. Since I began working the night shift, work was all I now knew. My stomach growled as if it were not a part of me, but a hungry predator seeing my body as a prey.

I made my way to the most popular right angle of the little square shack of the makeshift kitchen where Father seemed to have cooked while I was sleeping.

Father was a man who never left his home without a hot meal no matter how early it was or even if he had been invited for breakfast. He would always cook or warm up some overnight food that survived the thieving attempts of our hairy, four legged roommates; sometimes, it would be the rats, or croaking lizards, or the dangerous red ants.

Each time we complained (from our eyes were at our knees)

Father would say, Maasta you don’t si is bush wi live, is fi dem home enuh.

I quickly opened the large pot that was dyed black by the wood fire or the coughing and ever smoking kerosene stove. The pot contained my favorite, cornmeal dumplings. What it was being served with never really mattered to me as long as it was dumplings, but nevertheless, this time it was with curried chicken back. I placed four of Father’s cartwheel dumplings (they were more like truck wheels to me) in a bowl. Many grown men could maybe eat two. Father’s usual amount was three; but I love dumplings.

The dumplings were not just big in circumference; they were thick and when they got cold they were so hard that whenever I chewed it was like I was getting a root canal without anesthetics in my jaw bone- and when it was finally sufficiently masticated and I swallowed, the movement of the dumpling could be felt along my esophagus and all the way down in my back. Still, it was starch and fiber that made us strong. Father would say that he was sorry for the woman that I marry because every evening she would have to knead a sand heap of flour to make dumplings.

I sat down on Father’s bed where I could see the small colour television that I had recently bought. I was about to turn it on when I realized that there was no light on the extension.

Those damn police, I thought, must have disconnected the electricity again.

I didn’t like the fact that Father was stealing light but years of Home Sweet Home and a battery radio could wear anyone down; especially now that it was the 21st century.

A few months after he was baptized he resented the illegal connection and was no longer interested in hooking up an addition to the many webs that sprawled the Public Service electric wires. Danny was now the man hooking up the wires. Being without television was not hard for me so I took my bowl of dumplings out under the mango tree and ate until the predator within me was satisfied.

My movement slowed as my belly tightened. I burped about six times and had almost fallen asleep under the mango tree when I saw Father making his usual smooth, slow steps up the steep, narrow path way.

From a distance, his face was a mirror of sweat that reflected his pearly white teeth as the rays of the sun kissed him with an invisible burn. I watched until he came right up to the door and made his usual long sigh woosshh, a burden lifted having made it home.

The walk from the main road was a very long, tedious journey that I hated. Our house wrote the final chapter of the journey to Canaan. It rested on top of the hill overlooking the more attractive homes in our community. O how I wished every day when I came off the bus that my journey would end at one of those houses.

Evening Maasta, Father said.

Evening, I replied. It was not yet evening but I could not recall anyone of us saying Good afternoon.

Father stepped inside to change his clothes. I followed behind him curious to know what story he had for me. He had mentioned going to the doctor. We never sought medical attention, except once in a blue moon...at the local clinic. Maybe it was the dumplings, but we rarely got sick.

I watched and waited until he changed his clothes in the same thirteen-inches-wide passage between his bed and the old dresser that had now become an antique.

In our home it was all men so privacy was never on anyone’s mind. I was preparing to laugh upon hearing why he had gone to the doctor as I remembered the time when he had a stomach problem and the doctor told him to stay away from fried food. Father was bent on following the doctor’s order but all of a sudden one morning I saw him frying ripe plantains and fritters. I asked him if the doctor didn’t tell him not to eat anything fried; he glanced at me and said

Maasta, if yuh follow what doctor seh sometimes, yuh dead fi hungry.

I laughed that day until my belly ached and tears fell from my eyes. I thought to myself It must have been those same plantains that required him to go to the doctor.

Di doctor dem seh mi have a large prosteite Father blurted. What, how you mean large prosteite? A what dem mean? I replied; curious.

Bwoy mi nuh know. Dem seh mi have fi come next week…. to do some test.

I wondered what Father was talking about; I even thought it must have been a joke. I never heard of a thing named ‘prosteite’ before. Anyway, that was where the story ended...

Father shared a few dumplings for himself and poured some water from the overused pickled mackerel bucket that now stored our drinking water. In the nights and early mornings it was cool as though stored in an icebox, but in the afternoon it was like drinking a cup of hot water with your food. Sometimes I thought to myself jokingly that if I just put the food in the mug of water then I would have a perfect cup of soup. Maybe that was why we never had gas...

Sometimes when the worthless pipe had water we would take our mugs to fill them. The water was a little cooler coming directly from the pipe. I went back under the mango tree to relax while Father ate for a second time.

I then saw my brother Danny hustling up the pathway as if someone was chasing him. He was working at a small block factory in the community and must have been hungry, which would explain why he was coming to the house.

There was a mystery in the family. It seems Father had done something bad to Danny and whatever it was caused great pain. The rebellions which started long ago stopped only for bad light, rain or half time. Now the only things father did not refuse his son were food and a place to sleep... whenever Danny saw the need to come calling for those.

Danny looked at me and waved while I walked over to the door. He said nothing; but his presence was announced by his huge footsteps which startled Father before Danny could say good evening. I could hardly hear Father’s reply but Danny didn’t care. I went back under the mango tree feeling lost while making little movies in my head; movies that had neither beginnings nor endings.

After a while I heard the pot covers rattling and before long, I saw Danny coming out with his plate, heading to his little box of a room that Father had put together for him. At one point, I thought we would be sharing the same bed even as old men, but as usual, Father did more than his best and a space was created for Danny so we could have some privacy.

Within five minutes or so, Danny returned from his room with an empty plate. The next thing I heard was the crashing of the plate landing in the dented and bruised pudding pan (as it was called) which was our makeshift kitchen sink. After that, Danny went for his bathing rag and soap. He checked the pipe for water, but as was now the norm, there was no water coming from it and the containers that we had in the front yard were all empty.

The semi-rusted drum at the back was almost dry, leaving the little black tank which I had begged and pleaded with Father to buy as the only water source. Years of carrying water for miles was something I never wanted to do again and neither did Father.

Danny and I used to make regular trips to the river about five miles from the house to carry water. The journey was so long that our palms would become creased in the middle by the pressure of the handle of the buckets... resembling a deep red valley. It never bled but it burned with every unavoidable curl of the hand.

One fateful day, Danny and I were almost home with the buckets of water and at that point the buckets seemed a thousand times heavier than they were at the beginning. The valley in Danny’s palm must have gotten worse so he tried to put the bucket on his head; but the weight was too much. The bucket of water went right to the ground, splaaash!...

We stood aghast and looked at the marks left by the water which quickly vanished into the bowels of the thirsty ground. We wept as if someone had died. Danny had to start the journey all over again.

Danny must have kept that experience in his mind all the time because now, Father and even I, had regular quarrels with him for using water that could be used for cooking hence preventing us from making that terrible journey again. After all, the river was next to where Danny worked.

I watched him carefully as a frantic look slowly came over his face revealing every line and made his face a vicious sight. He cursed the pipe, then shook and dragged it with his strong arms, almost uprooting it. He peered inside the house to see if Father was looking then got his bath bucket and started to fill it from our last resort. I was about to tell him a piece of my mind but I was afraid... then Father came out.

Maasta!!! How much time mi fi tell yuh stop use di drum wata. Yuh cyaa bathe a river?!

Danny got so angry he kicked over the bucket with the water still running from the drum. He stared at Father fuming like an unknown beast; then he went to his room. A few seconds later he emerged and the next thing I saw was his corn rows dancing angrily to the fast pace of his march down the pathway.

"Jesus Christ! Dat bwoy gwey mek mi sin mi self. Laad Jesus a wha mi duh him? Father shouted.

I looked at him, ashamed of the creature my brother had become and the pain that Father endured now that his son had failed him. I know he did not like the path Danny had taken; he hated the gangster he was on the corner. He hated that Danny had been expelled from school... but why did Danny seem to hate Father... a man that above all was prime servant for us. What was this mystery?

Sunday morning was swift upon us and Father must have gotten up early to prepare the fresh rice and peas which was almost done when I came in from work. I told him good morning, changed my clothes and dived into the bed which was separated from Father’s only by the dresser. I watched him hurry to put his clothes on while trying to tend to the food on the fire.

He was never late for church. He was a man committed to time. When I was going to school and was frequently late, Father would curse and preach, Bwoy mi sorry fi yuh when yuh start work cause yuh won’t even last a damn week!

When the food was finally ready, he shared the steaming hot food and sat down, leaning over it. With a broad smile like it was his first birthday cake, he got started slicing and parting the steaming rice in his usual expert style that showed years of practice. He did this so the rice which was still hot would cool enough to not burn his mouth while he devoured it.

He would muffle a short prayer simultaneously. The steam that came from the rice was like a magic trick. It was fast and thick and before you could count, it evaporated leaving the condensation on his face. Even from where I was, the warm coconut milk from the rice and peas streamed through my nostrils and the heat from the rice was making me sweat. The fact that he gave no attention to the heat was something that amazed me. I tried it once and my tongue was scorched and sore for days; even my gum was burned.

Whenever the food was fresh off the fire I would get the old pudding pan, fill it with water and place the plate of food in it – a trick that Father had showed me. He continued by circling the edge of the rice one fork full at a time. Before long he was done eating then he swallowed the water in one gulp, his esophagus moving effortlessly up and down as it dragged the water down.

Father grabbed his Bible which was older than both Danny and me and stepped out of the little sweat box that he had created.

Mi soon come back, he said; his usual words even when he was not going to be home for a long time. It was always the same.

Mi soon come back...

Now that I am an adult, my one and only desire is to make my father proud of me, but that is slow in coming. If it were not for the nightshift and weekend work I could be the one cooking for him again.

He did it for over two decades for us.

I won’t forget the first time I cooked. I decided to knead the flour, then I left it and went to the river so that by the time it was evening and Father was on his way home, dinner would have been easier to prepare.

I don’t know to this day what went wrong with the flour, but when the water in the pot was boiling I had put in the dumplings, having made them much smaller than Father’s. I then covered the pot. After a while I put the green bananas in then went outside to wash and chop a piece of liver.

Suddenly, I saw black smoke coming through the window and ran back in as quickly as I could. To my surprise, the water in the pot had floated over, putting out the flames and causing the smoke. I looked in the pot and oh my God! Something had gone wrong with the dumplings; they had swollen four times their original size; they looked huge even compared to Father’s.

I froze and time stood with me; I did not know what to do. The next thing I knew, Father was right before me.

Evening Maasta.

I thought he would have kicked me from one corner of the house to the next when he saw the mess. He must have been hungry coming from a hard day at work. But when he saw the dumplings he laughed and asked, What you put in the flour?

When I told him, he laughed even more but in the end helped me with the cleaning up. I had put baking soda in the flour by mistake; worse, I double dosed it thinking I had the salt in my hand. It was then I wondered if father had done the same thing before in his earlier days trying to cook. He cooked the liver and we ate it with the boiled bananas.

Every Sunday morning the feeling of guilt for the unknown was like the Holy Spirit moving through me. I wanted to go to church with Father, but I had to work as he was getting too old to work. Years of calluses and back aches from working hard were things I never wanted him to experience again. Not ever!

Father raised Danny and me on the straight and