I spent the summer of 1979 in a rundown trailer with my Dad in Lincoln, Nebraska. He was a commercial painter and he’d landed a gig painting a new nursing home (as in, no residents had moved in yet). I’ve been thinking about that summer a lot lately. Maybe it’s because it’s been twenty-plus years since Dad’s passing. Or maybe it’s just because I want a simpler lifestyle.
I “helped” Dad paint during the day that summer. More than anything, I carried a few supplies around the complex and taped up door frames so we could paint the doors. He did show me how the “airless” paint sprayer worked. After he applied a perfect layer of paint, he taught me to go behind him with the roller — to give it texture, I guess?
This was the summer I learned the vernacular of painters. Dad would smash his cheek against a wall and look for “holidays,” which meant one of us had missed a spot (certainly, it was me). And when I used a roller, it had a long handle (think broom handle). Dad called that an “idiot stick.” Don’t think I didn’t use that term on my sister when she did something I didn’t like. I mean, I was twelve years old, so don’t be too hard on me. The “mud” on the walls gave the place a specific aroma that reeked like an armpit that hadn’t experienced a stroke of deodorant in days. I once walked into a church that was being remodeled and that same aroma hit me, drawing me back to the summer of 1979 with my dad. It’s funny how the sense of smell can do that.
When Dad needed his vehicle moved around the complex, I did that for him. Yes, I drove a vehicle at the age of twelve in an empty parking lot from one side of the property to the other side. It was a different time.
The trailer had a musty smell. The floorboards by the door had water damage, so the trailer probably had some form of mold growing under our feet. The trailer had two beds, one that ran crosswise in the back and one near the front that doubled as a seating area. I got the back bed, while Dad took the front one.
During the evenings, Dad played a transistor radio in the background while we ate something simple, then played cards. Gin Rummy was Dad’s game. Or maybe it was just called Rummy. I can’t remember. But having cards in our hands kept us busy while we talked about sports, music and girls. I was always pining over one girl or another — all of whom were unattainable for this shy, overweight, insecure guy.
I have a specific memory of listening to the Major League Baseball All-Star Game on the radio in that little trailer that summer and hearing the announcer call the action as Lee Mazzilli hit the game-tying home run for the National League (which bummed me out as an American League fan). The NL went on to win (double bummer).
Even so, I remember thinking it couldn’t get any better than to eat dinner with my dad, play cards with him, and then go to bed listening to the All-Star Game without being told to take a shower, clean up my room, or do my homework. Remember, I was twelve, and it was summertime. And nobody else was around to smell me. But still, it was the best time I could imagine having.
I’ve forgotten most of the other summers I experienced as a child. But not that one. As I look back on that one, I’m reminded of how little we need. Presence is important. No matter how busy I get, I want to keep that simple truth in mind as an adult.
