The Repairman

Though a physician by profession, my dad spent much of his spare time fixing things. Things like cars, gadgets, and furnaces. To a man, his 9 grandchildren will all tell you that Papa could repair anything. And they mean it. And he could. The remainder of his time was spent jogging, walking, or riding his bike (although he would read any chance he got and often tried to combine that with other activities, such as driving).

In fact, when driving on long roadtrips, he chafed at the slow pace required by our rig, consisting as it did of a Buick LeSabre towing a travel trailer pulling an outboard motor boat. When someone would pass at a frustrating rate of speed, he would say, "Go get 'em, chickenheart!" quoting his favorite comedian, Bill Cosby. It became something of an inside joke to us, and "Go get 'em" frequented the family lexicon.

Dad was a living study on incongruity. A brilliant mind from a simple, impoverished upbringing. A generous, compassionate soul with a wickedly competitive streak. A conservative, religious belief coupled with a progressive, forgiving heart. Though he desperately desired for me to "find a nice man", when I chose to go to law school he said, "Go get 'em."


***


Not long ago, Mr. Eclectic and I were on a bike ride with our buddy, when Brian's bike frame unexpectedly snapped and broke early in the ride. It was a Saturday morning. The boys elected to stay and try to fix the bike while I rode the five or so miles back home for the car. I was pushing the pace a bit, anxious about my stranded cohorts as I pedaled up the street toward the house. About 25 feet ahead, there was a retirement-aged couple walking briskly on the sidewalk. The familiar-looking man made eye-contact, began cycling his arms and dancing his body from side to side in concert with the motion, intended to imitate my accelerated cadence. Then he smiled and spoke to me: "Go get 'em!" he said.

I nodded and kept riding, but my eyes stung with the escaping tears that blinded me as they poured beneath my sunglasses. Dad!

He didn't stay, he couldn't. When I passed the couple again in the car a few minutes later, there was no resemblance at all. But he had been there. And he reached for me through the fog that separates us now.

I said it was a Saturday, and so it was. Insignificant? Perhaps, except that Dad was an ardent Seventh Day Adventist. He found a way to tell me it's okay with him now that I don't share his particular belief in that regard, to encourage me in the path I'm on. In keeping with his lifetime penchant, he fixed it. Just like that.

I was strangely energized for several hours afterward, infused with a peace and energy unlike any I'd ever experienced before. I don't know if I'll see him again or where he is when I can't. But now I know he's around, and the knowledge comforts me. Go get 'em, Dad. I love you, too.

Oh, but next time could you show up to fix the bike as well? ;)